The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas part 4

part 4
Chapter 46

Unlimited Credit.

About two o’clock the following day a calash, drawn by a pair of magnificent English horses, stopped at the door of Monte Cristo and a person, dressed in a blue coat, with buttons of a similar color, a white waistcoat, over which was displayed a massive gold chain, brown trousers, and a quantity of black hair descending so
low over his eyebrows as to leave it doubtful whether it were not artificial so little did its jetty glossiness assimilate with the deep wrinkles stamped on his features — a person, in a word, who, although evidently past fifty, desired to be taken for not more than forty, bent forwards from the carriage door, on the panels of which were emblazoned the armorial bearings of a baron, and directed his groom to inquire at the porter’s lodge
whether the Count of Monte Cristo resided there, and if he were within. While waiting, the occupant of the carriage surveyed the house, the garden as far as he could distinguish it, and the livery of servants who passed
to and fro, with an attention so close as to be somewhat impertinent. His glance was keen but showed cunning rather than intelligence; his lips were straight, and so thin that, as they closed, they were drawn in over the
teeth; his cheek-bones were broad and projecting, a never-failing proof of audacity and craftiness; while the flatness of his forehead, and the enlargement of the back of his skull, which rose much higher than his large and coarsely shaped ears, combined to form a physiognomy anything but prepossessing, save in the eyes of such as considered that the owner of so splendid an equipage must needs be all that was admirable and enviable, more especially when they gazed on the enormous diamond that glittered in his shirt, and the red ribbon that depended from his button-hole.

The groom, in obedience to his orders, tapped at the window of the porter’s lodge, saying, “Pray, does not the
Count of Monte Cristo live here?”

“His excellency does reside here,” replied the concierge; “but” — added he, glancing an inquiring look at Ali. Ali returned a sign in the negative. “But what?” asked the groom.

“His excellency does not receive visitors to-day.”

“Then here is my master’s card, — the Baron Danglars. You will take it to the count, and say that, although in haste to attend the Chamber, my master came out of his way to have the honor of calling upon him.”

“I never speak to his excellency,” replied the concierge; “the valet de chambre will carry your message.” The groom returned to the carriage. “Well?” asked Danglars. The man, somewhat crest-fallen by the rebuke he had received, repeated what the concierge had said. “Bless me,” murmured Baron Danglars, “this must surely be a prince instead of a count by their styling him `excellency,’ and only venturing to address him by the medium
of his valet de chambre. However, it does not signify; he has a letter of credit on me, so I must see him when
he requires his money.”

Then, throwing himself back in his carriage, Danglars called out to his coachman, in a voice that might be heard across the road, “To the Chamber of Deputies.”

Apprised in time of the visit paid him, Monte Cristo had, from behind the blinds of his pavilion, as minutely observed the baron, by means of an excellent lorgnette, as Danglars himself had scrutinized the house, garden, and servants. “That fellow has a decidedly bad countenance,” said the count in a tone of disgust, as he shut up
his glass into its ivory case. “How comes it that all do not retreat in aversion at sight of that flat, receding, serpent-like forehead, round, vulture-shaped head, and sharp-hooked nose, like the beak of a buzzard? Ali,” cried he, striking at the same time on the brazen gong. Ali appeared. “Summon Bertuccio,” said the count.
Almost immediately Bertuccio entered the apartment. “Did your excellency desire to see me?” inquired he. “I
did,” replied the count. “You no doubt observed the horses standing a few minutes since at the door?”

“Certainly, your excellency. I noticed them for their remarkable beauty.”

“Then how comes it,” said Monte Cristo with a frown, “that, when I desired you to purchase for me the finest pair of horses to be found in Paris, there is another pair, fully as fine as mine, not in my stables?” At the look
of displeasure, added to the angry tone in which the count spoke, Ali turned pale and held down his head. “It
is not your fault, my good Ali,” said the count in the Arabic language, and with a gentleness none would have thought him capable of showing, either in voice or face — “it is not your fault. You do not understand the
points of English horses.” The countenance of poor Ali recovered its serenity. “Permit me to assure your excellency,” said Bertuccio, “that the horses you speak of were not to be sold when I purchased yours.” Monte Cristo shrugged his shoulders. “It seems, sir steward,” said he, “that you have yet to learn that all things are to
be sold to such as care to pay the price.”

“His excellency is not, perhaps, aware that M. Danglars gave 16,000 francs for his horses?”

“Very well. Then offer him double that sum; a banker never loses an opportunity of doubling his capital.”

“Is your excellency really in earnest?” inquired the steward. Monte Cristo regarded the person who durst presume to doubt his words with the look of one equally surprised and displeased. “I have to pay a visit this evening,” replied he. “I desire that these horses, with completely new harness, may be at the door with my carriage.” Bertuccio bowed, and was about to retire; but when he reached the door, he paused, and then said, “At what o’clock does your excellency wish the carriage and horses to be ready?”

“At five o’clock,” replied the count.

“I beg your excellency’s pardon,” interposed the steward in a deprecating manner, “for venturing to observe that it is already two o’clock.”

“I am perfectly aware of that fact,” answered Monte Cristo calmly. Then, turning towards Ali, he said, “Let all
the horses in my stables be led before the windows of your young lady, that she may select those she prefers
for her carriage. Request her also to oblige me by saying whether it is her pleasure to dine with me; if so, let dinner be served in her apartments. Now, leave me, and desire my valet de chambre to come hither.” Scarcely
had Ali disappeared when the valet entered the chamber. “Monsieur Baptistin,” said the count, “you have been
in my service one year, the time I generally give myself to judge of the merits or demerits of those about me. You suit me very well.” Baptistin bowed low. “It only remains for me to know whether I also suit you?”

“Oh, your excellency!” exclaimed Baptistin eagerly.

“Listen, if you please, till I have finished speaking,” replied Monte Cristo. “You receive 1,500 francs per annum for your services here — more than many a brave subaltern, who continually risks his life for his
country, obtains. You live in a manner far superior to many clerks who work ten times harder than you do for their money. Then, though yourself a servant, you have other servants to wait upon you, take care of your clothes, and see that your linen is duly prepared for you. Again, you make a profit upon each article you purchase for my toilet, amounting in the course of a year to a sum equalling your wages.”

“Nay, indeed, your excellency.”

“I am not condemning you for this, Monsieur Baptistin; but let your profits end here. It would be long indeed
ere you would find so lucrative a post as that you have now the good fortune to fill. I neither ill-use nor
ill-treat my servants by word or action. An error I readily forgive, but wilful negligence or forgetfulness, never. My commands are ordinarily short, clear, and precise; and I would rather be obliged to repeat my
words twice, or even three times, than they should be misunderstood. I am rich enough to know whatever I
desire to know, and I can promise you I am not wanting in curiosity. If, then, I should learn that you had taken

upon yourself to speak of me to any one favorably or unfavorably, to comment on my actions, or watch my
conduct, that very instant you would quit my service. You may now retire. I never caution my servants a
second time — remember that.” Baptistin bowed, and was proceeding towards the door. “I forgot to mention to you,” said the count, “that I lay yearly aside a certain sum for each servant in my establishment; those whom I
am compelled to dismiss lose (as a matter of course) all participation in this money, while their portion goes
to the fund accumulating for those domestics who remain with me, and among whom it will be divided at my death. You have been in my service a year, your fund has already begun to accumulate — let it continue to do so.”

This address, delivered in the presence of Ali, who, not understanding one word of the language in which it
was spoken, stood wholly unmoved, produced an effect on M. Baptistin only to be conceived by such as have occasion to study the character and disposition of French domestics. “I assure your excellency,” said he, “that
at least it shall be my study to merit your approbation in all things, and I will take M. Ali as my model.”

“By no means,” replied the count in the most frigid tones; “Ali has many faults mixed with most excellent qualities. He cannot possibly serve you as a pattern for your conduct, not being, as you are, a paid servant, but
a mere slave — a dog, who, should he fail in his duty towards me, I should not discharge from my service, but kill.” Baptistin opened his eyes with astonishment.

“You seem incredulous,” said Monte Cristo, who repeated to Ali in the Arabic language what he had just been saying to Baptistin in French. The Nubian smiled assentingly to his master’s words, then, kneeling on one
knee, respectfully kissed the hand of the count. This corroboration of the lesson he had just received put the finishing stroke to the wonder and stupefaction of M. Baptistin. The count then motioned the valet de chambre
to retire, and to Ali to follow to his study, where they conversed long and earnestly together. As the hand of
the clock pointed to five the count struck thrice upon his gong. When Ali was wanted one stroke was given, two summoned Baptistin, and three Bertuccio. The steward entered. “My horses,” said Monte Cristo.

“They are at the door harnessed to the carriage as your excellency desired. Does your excellency wish me to accompany him?”

“No, the coachman, Ali, and Baptistin will go.” The count descended to the door of his mansion, and beheld
his carriage drawn by the very pair of horses he had so much admired in the morning as the property of Danglars. As he passed them he said — “They are extremely handsome certainly, and you have done well to purchase them, although you were somewhat remiss not to have procured them sooner.”

“Indeed, your excellency, I had very considerable difficulty in obtaining them, and, as it is, they have cost an enormous price.”

“Does the sum you gave for them make the animals less beautiful,” inquired the count, shrugging his shoulders.

“Nay, if your excellency is satisfied, it is all that I could wish. Whither does your excellency desire to be driven?”

“To the residence of Baron Danglars, Rue de la Chaussee d’Antin.” This conversation had passed as they stood upon the terrace, from which a flight of stone steps led to the carriage-drive. As Bertuccio, with a respectful bow, was moving away, the count called him back. “I have another commission for you, M.
Bertuccio,” said he; “I am desirous of having an estate by the seaside in Normandy — for instance, between Havre and Boulogne. You see I give you a wide range. It will be absolutely necessary that the place you may select have a small harbor, creek, or bay, into which my corvette can enter and remain at anchor. She draws
only fifteen feet. She must be kept in constant readiness to sail immediately I think proper to give the signal. Make the requisite inquiries for a place of this description, and when you have met with an eligible spot, visit

it, and if it possess the advantages desired, purchase it at once in your own name. The corvette must now, I
think, be on her way to Fecamp, must she not?”

“Certainly, your excellency; I saw her put to sea the same evening we quitted Marseilles.” “And the yacht.”
“Was ordered to remain at Martigues.”

“‘Tis well. I wish you to write from time to time to the captains in charge of the two vessels so as to keep them
on the alert.”

“And the steamboat?” “She is at Chalons?” “Yes.”
“The same orders for her as for the two sailing vessels.” “Very good.”
“When you have purchased the estate I desire, I want constant relays of horses at ten leagues apart along the northern and southern road.”

“Your excellency may depend upon me.” The Count made a gesture of satisfaction, descended the terrace steps, and sprang into his carriage, which was whirled along swiftly to the banker’s house. Danglars was
engaged at that moment, presiding over a railroad committee. But the meeting was nearly concluded when the name of his visitor was announced. As the count’s title sounded on his ear he rose, and addressing his
colleagues, who were members of one or the other Chamber, he said, — “Gentlemen, pardon me for leaving you so abruptly; but a most ridiculous circumstance has occurred, which is this, — Thomson & French, the Roman bankers, have sent to me a certain person calling himself the Count of Monte Cristo, and have given him an unlimited credit with me. I confess this is the drollest thing I have ever met with in the course of my
extensive foreign transactions, and you may readily suppose it has greatly roused my curiosity. I took the trouble this morning to call on the pretended count — if he were a real count he wouldn’t be so rich. But,
would you believe it, `He was not receiving.’ So the master of Monte Cristo gives himself airs befitting a great millionaire or a capricious beauty. I made inquiries, and found that the house in the Champs Elysees is his
own property, and certainly it was very decently kept up. But,” pursued Danglars with one of his sinister
smiles, “an order for unlimited credit calls for something like caution on the part of the banker to whom that order is given. I am very anxious to see this man. I suspect a hoax is intended, but the instigators of it little knew whom they had to deal with. `They laugh best who laugh last!'”

Having delivered himself of this pompous address, uttered with a degree of energy that left the baron almost
out of breath, he bowed to the assembled party and withdrew to his drawing-room, whose sumptuous
furnishings of white and gold had caused a great sensation in the Chaussee d’Antin. It was to this apartment he had desired his guest to be shown, with the purpose of overwhelming him at the sight of so much luxury. He found the count standing before some copies of Albano and Fattore that had been passed off to the banker as originals; but which, mere copies as they were, seemed to feel their degradation in being brought into juxtaposition with the gaudy colors that covered the ceiling. The count turned round as he heard the entrance
of Danglars into the room. With a slight inclination of the head, Danglars signed to the count to be seated, pointing significantly to a gilded arm-chair, covered with white satin embroidered with gold. The count sat down. “I have the honor, I presume, of addressing M. de Monte Cristo.”

The count bowed. “And I of speaking to Baron Danglars, chevalier of the Legion of Honor, and member of
the Chamber of Deputies?”

Monte Cristo repeated all the titles he had read on the baron’s card.

Danglars felt the irony and compressed his lips. “You will, I trust, excuse me, monsieur, for not calling you by your title when I first addressed you,” he said, “but you are aware that we are living under a popular form of government, and that I am myself a representative of the liberties of the people.”

“So much so,” replied Monte Cristo, “that while you call yourself baron you are not willing to call anybody else count.”

“Upon my word, monsieur,” said Danglars with affected carelessness, “I attach no sort of value to such empty distinctions; but the fact is, I was made baron, and also chevalier of the Legion of Honor, in return for services rendered, but” —

“But you have discarded your titles after the example set you by Messrs. de Montmorency and Lafayette? That was a noble example to follow, monsieur.”

“Why,” replied Danglars, “not entirely so; with the servants, — you understand.”

“I see; to your domestics you are `my lord,’ the journalists style you `monsieur,’ while your constituents call you `citizen.’ These are distinctions very suitable under a constitutional government. I understand perfectly.” Again Danglars bit his lips; he saw that he was no match for Monte Cristo in an argument of this sort, and he
therefore hastened to turn to subjects more congenial.

“Permit me to inform you, Count,” said he, bowing, “that I have received a letter of advice from Thomson & French, of Rome.”

“I am glad to hear it, baron, — for I must claim the privilege of addressing you after the manner of your
servants. I have acquired the bad habit of calling persons by their titles from living in a country where barons
are still barons by right of birth. But as regards the letter of advice, I am charmed to find that it has reached
you; that will spare me the troublesome and disagreeable task of coming to you for money myself. You have received a regular letter of advice?”

“Yes,” said Danglars, “but I confess I didn’t quite comprehend its meaning.” “Indeed?”
“And for that reason I did myself the honor of calling upon you, in order to beg for an explanation.” “Go on, monsieur. Here I am, ready to give you any explanation you desire.”
“Why,” said Danglers, “in the letter — I believe I have it about me” — here he felt in his breast-pocket — “yes, here it is. Well, this letter gives the Count of Monte Cristo unlimited credit on our house.”

“Well, baron, what is there difficult to understand about that?” “Merely the term unlimited — nothing else, certainly.”
“Is not that word known in France? The people who wrote are Anglo-Germans, you know.”

“Oh, as for the composition of the letter, there is nothing to be said; but as regards the competency of the
document, I certainly have doubts.”

“Is it possible?” asked the count, assuming all air and tone of the utmost simplicity and candor. “Is it possible that Thomson & French are not looked upon as safe and solvent bankers? Pray tell me what you think, baron,
for I feel uneasy, I can assure you, having some considerable property in their hands.”

“Thomson & French are perfectly solvent,” replied Danglars, with an almost mocking smile: “but the word unlimited, in financial affairs, is so extremely vague.”

“Is, in fact, unlimited,” said Monte Cristo.

“Precisely what I was about to say,” cried Danglars. “Now what is vague is doubtful; and it was a wise man who said, `when in doubt, keep out.'”

“Meaning to say,” rejoined Monte Cristo, “that however Thomson & French may be inclined to commit acts
of imprudence and folly, the Baron Danglars is not disposed to follow their example.” “Not at all.”
“Plainly enough. Messrs. Thomson & French set no bounds to their engagements while those of M. Danglars have their limits; he is a wise man, according to his own showing.”

“Monsieur,” replied the banker, drawing himself up with a haughty air, “the extent of my resources has never
yet been questioned.”

“It seems, then, reserved for me,” said Monte Cristo coldly, “to be the first to do so.” “By what right, sir?”
“By right of the objections you have raised, and the explanations you have demanded, which certainly must have some motive.”

Once more Danglars bit his lips. It was the second time he had been worsted, and this time on his own ground.
His forced politeness sat awkwardly upon him, and approached almost to impertinence. Monte Cristo on the contrary, preserved a graceful suavity of demeanor, aided by a certain degree of simplicity he could assume at pleasure, and thus possessed the advantage.

“Well, sir,” resumed Danglars, after a brief silence, “I will endeavor to make myself understood, by requesting you to inform me for what sum you propose to draw upon me?”

“Why, truly,” replied Monte Cristo, determined not to lose an inch of the ground he had gained, “my reason
for desiring an `unlimited’ credit was precisely because I did not know how much money I might need.”

The banker thought the time had come for him to take the upper hand. So throwing himself back in his
arm-chair, he said, with an arrogant and purse-proud air, — “Let me beg of you not to hesitate in naming your wishes; you will then be convinced that the resources of the house of Danglars, however limited, are still
equal to meeting the largest demands; and were you even to require a million” —

“I beg your pardon,” interposed Monte Cristo.

“I said a million,” replied Danglars, with the confidence of ignorance.

“But could I do with a million?” retorted the count. “My dear sir, if a trifle like that could suffice me, I should
never have given myself the trouble of opening an account. A million? Excuse my smiling when you speak of
a sum I am in the habit of carrying in my pocket-book or dressing-case.” And with these words Monte Cristo took from his pocket a small case containing his visiting-cards, and drew forth two orders on the treasury for
500,000 francs each, payable at sight to the bearer. A man like Danglars was wholly inaccessible to any
gentler method of correction. The effect of the present revelation was stunning; he trembled and was on the verge of apoplexy. The pupils of his eyes, as he gazed at Monte Cristo dilated horribly.

“Come, come,” said Monte Cristo, “confess honestly that you have not perfect confidence in Thomson & French. I understand, and foreseeing that such might be the case, I took, in spite of my ignorance of affairs,
certain precautions. See, here are two similar letters to that you have yourself received; one from the house of
Arstein & Eskeles of Vienna, to Baron Rothschild, the other drawn by Baring of London, upon M. Laffitte.
Now, sir, you have but to say the word, and I will spare you all uneasiness by presenting my letter of credit to one or other of these two firms.” The blow had struck home, and Danglars was entirely vanquished; with a trembling hand he took the two letters from the count, who held them carelessly between finger and thumb,
and proceeded to scrutinize the signatures, with a minuteness that the count might have regarded as insulting, had it not suited his present purpose to mislead the banker. “Oh, sir,” said Danglars, after he had convinced
himself of the authenticity of the documents he held, and rising as if to salute the power of gold personified in
the man before him, — “three letters of unlimited credit! I can be no longer mistrustful, but you must pardon me, my dear count, for confessing to some degree of astonishment.”

“Nay,” answered Monte Cristo, with the most gentlemanly air, “’tis not for such trifling sums as these that your banking house is to be incommoded. Then, you can let me have some money, can you not?”

“Whatever you say, my dear count; I am at your orders.”

“Why,” replied Monte Cristo, “since we mutually understand each other — for such I presume is the case?” Danglars bowed assentingly. “You are quite sure that not a lurking doubt or suspicion lingers in your mind?”
“Oh, my dear count,” exclaimed Danglars, “I never for an instant entertained such a feeling towards you.” “No, you merely wished to be convinced, nothing more; but now that we have come to so clear an
understanding, and that all distrust and suspicion are laid at rest, we may as well fix a sum as the probable
expenditure of the first year, suppose we say six millions to” — “Six millions!” gasped Danglars — “so be it.”
“Then, if I should require more,” continued Monte Cristo in a careless manner, “why, of course, I should draw upon you; but my present intention is not to remain in France more than a year, and during that period I
scarcely think I shall exceed the sum I mentioned. However, we shall see. Be kind enough, then, to send me
500,000 francs to-morrow. I shall be at home till midday, or if not, I will leave a receipt with my steward.”

“The money you desire shall be at your house by ten o’clock to-morrow morning, my dear count,” replied
Danglars. “How would you like to have it? in gold, silver, or notes?”

“Half in gold, and the other half in bank-notes, if you please,” said the count, rising from his seat.

“I must confess to you, count,” said Danglars, “that I have hitherto imagined myself acquainted with the
degree of all the great fortunes of Europe, and still wealth such as yours has been wholly unknown to me. May
I presume to ask whether you have long possessed it?”

“It has been in the family a very long while,” returned Monte Cristo, “a sort of treasure expressly forbidden to

be touched for a certain period of years, during which the accumulated interest has doubled the capital. The
period appointed by the testator for the disposal of these riches occurred only a short time ago, and they have only been employed by me within the last few years. Your ignorance on the subject, therefore, is easily accounted for. However, you will be better informed as to me and my possessions ere long.” And the count, while pronouncing these latter words, accompanied them with one of those ghastly smiles that used to strike terror into poor Franz d’Epinay.

“With your tastes, and means of gratifying them,” continued Danglars, “you will exhibit a splendor that must effectually put us poor miserable millionaires quite in the shade. If I mistake not you are an admirer of
paintings, at least I judged so from the attention you appeared to be bestowing on mine when I entered the
room. If you will permit me, I shall be happy to show you my picture gallery, composed entirely of works by
the ancient masters — warranted as such. Not a modern picture among them. I cannot endure the modern school of painting.”

“You are perfectly right in objecting to them, for this one great fault — that they have not yet had time to become old.”

“Or will you allow me to show you several fine statues by Thorwaldsen, Bartoloni, and Canova? — all foreign artists, for, as you may perceive, I think but very indifferently of our French sculptors.”

“You have a right to be unjust to them, monsieur; they are your compatriots.”

“But all this may come later, when we shall be better known to each other. For the present, I will confine myself (if perfectly agreeable to you) to introducing you to the Baroness Danglars — excuse my impatience,
my dear count, but a client like you is almost like a member of the family.” Monte Cristo bowed, in sign that
he accepted the proffered honor; Danglars rang and was answered by a servant in a showy livery. “Is the baroness at home?” inquired Danglars.

“Yes, my lord,” answered the man. “And alone?”
“No, my lord, madame has visitors.”

“Have you any objection to meet any persons who may be with madame, or do you desire to preserve a strict incognito?”

“No, indeed,” replied Monte Cristo with a smile, “I do not arrogate to myself the right of so doing.”

“And who is with madame? — M. Debray?” inquired Danglars, with an air of indulgence and good-nature that made Monte Cristo smile, acquainted as he was with the secrets of the banker’s domestic life.

“Yes, my lord,” replied the servant, “M. Debray is with madame.” Danglars nodded his head; then, turning to Monte Cristo, said, “M. Lucien Debray is an old friend of ours, and private secretary to the Minister of the Interior. As for my wife, I must tell you, she lowered herself by marrying me, for she belongs to one of the
most ancient families in France. Her maiden name was De Servieres, and her first husband was Colonel the
Marquis of Nargonne.”

“I have not the honor of knowing Madame Danglars; but I have already met M. Lucien Debray.” “Ah, indeed?” said Danglars; “and where was that?”

“At the house of M. de Morcerf.”

“Ah, ha, you are acquainted with the young viscount, are you?” “We were together a good deal during the Carnival at Rome.”
“True, true,” cried Danglars. “Let me see; have I not heard talk of some strange adventure with bandits or
thieves hid in ruins, and of his having had a miraculous escape? I forget how, but I know he used to amuse my wife and daughter by telling them about it after his return from Italy.”

“Her ladyship is waiting to receive you, gentlemen,” said the servant, who had gone to inquire the pleasure of
his mistress. “With your permission,” said Danglars, bowing, “I will precede you, to show you the way.” “By all means,” replied Monte Cristo; “I follow you.”

Chapter 47

The Dappled Grays.

The baron, followed by the count, traversed a long series of apartments, in which the prevailing characteristics were heavy magnificence and the gaudiness of ostentatious wealth, until he reached the boudoir of Madame Danglars — a small octagonal-shaped room, hung with pink satin, covered with white Indian muslin. The
chairs were of ancient workmanship and materials; over the doors were painted sketches of shepherds and shepherdesses, after the style and manner of Boucher; and at each side pretty medallions in crayons,
harmonizing well with the furnishings of this charming apartment, the only one throughout the great mansion
in which any distinctive taste prevailed. The truth was, it had been entirely overlooked in the plan arranged
and followed out by M. Danglars and his architect, who had been selected to aid the baron in the great work of improvement solely because he was the most fashionable and celebrated decorator of the day. The decorations
of the boudoir had then been left entirely to Madame Danglars and Lucien Debray. M. Danglars, however, while possessing a great admiration for the antique, as it was understood during the time of the Directory,
entertained the most sovereign contempt for the simple elegance of his wife’s favorite sitting-room, where, by
the way, he was never permitted to intrude, unless, indeed, he excused his own appearance by ushering in
some more agreeable visitor than himself; and even then he had rather the air and manner of a person who was himself introduced, than that of being the presenter of another, his reception being cordial or frigid, in
proportion as the person who accompanied him chanced to please or displease the baroness.

Madame Danglars (who, although past the first bloom of youth, was still strikingly handsome) was now
seated at the piano, a most elaborate piece of cabinet and inlaid work, while Lucien Debray, standing before a small work-table, was turning over the pages of an album. Lucien had found time, preparatory to the count’s arrival, to relate many particulars respecting him to Madame Danglars. It will be remembered that Monte
Cristo had made a lively impression on the minds of all the party assembled at the breakfast given by Albert
de Morcerf; and although Debray was not in the habit of yielding to such feelings, he had never been able to shake off the powerful influence excited in his mind by the impressive look and manner of the count, consequently the description given by Lucien to the baroness bore the highly-colored tinge of his own heated imagination. Already excited by the wonderful stories related of the count by De Morcerf, it is no wonder that Madame Danglars eagerly listened to, and fully credited, all the additional circumstances detailed by Debray. This posing at the piano and over the album was only a little ruse adopted by way of precaution. A most
gracious welcome and unusual smile were bestowed on M. Danglars; the count, in return for his gentlemanly bow, received a formal though graceful courtesy, while Lucien exchanged with the count a sort of distant recognition, and with Danglars a free and easy nod.

“Baroness,” said Danglars, “give me leave to present to you the Count of Monte Cristo, who has been most warmly recommended to me by my correspondents at Rome. I need but mention one fact to make all the
ladies in Paris court his notice, and that is, that he has come to take up his abode in Paris for a year, during which brief period he proposes to spend six millions of money. That means balls, dinners, and lawn parties
without end, in all of which I trust the count will remember us, as he may depend upon it we shall him, in our own humble entertainments.” In spite of the gross flattery and coarseness of this address, Madame Danglars could not forbear gazing with considerable interest on a man capable of expending six millions in twelve
months, and who had selected Paris for the scene of his princely extravagance. “And when did you arrive here?” inquired she.

“Yesterday morning, madame.”

“Coming, as usual, I presume, from the extreme end of the globe? Pardon me — at least, such I have heard is your custom.”

“Nay, madame. This time I have merely come from Cadiz.”

“You have selected a most unfavorable moment for your first visit. Paris is a horrible place in summer. Balls,
parties, and fetes are over; the Italian opera is in London; the French opera everywhere except in Paris. As for
the Theatre Francais, you know, of course, that it is nowhere. The only amusements left us are the indifferent races at the Champ de Mars and Satory. Do you propose entering any horses at either of these races, count?”

“I shall do whatever they do at Paris, madame, if I have the good fortune to find some one who will initiate me into the prevalent ideas of amusement.”

“Are you fond of horses, count?”

“I have passed a considerable part of my life in the East, madame, and you are doubtless aware that the
Orientals value only two things — the fine breeding of their horses and the beauty of their women.”
“Nay, count,” said the baroness, “it would have been somewhat more gallant to have placed the ladies first.” “You see, madame, how rightly I spoke when I said I required a preceptor to guide me in all my sayings and
doings here.” At this instant the favorite attendant of Madame Danglars entered the boudoir; approaching her mistress, she spoke some words in an undertone. Madame Danglars turned very pale, then exclaimed, — “I cannot believe it; the thing is impossible.”

“I assure you, madame,” replied the woman, “it is as I have said.” Turning impatiently towards her husband, Madame Danglars demanded, “Is this true?”

“Is what true, madame?” inquired Danglars, visibly agitated. “What my maid tells me.”
“But what does she tell you?”

“That when my coachman was about to harness the horses to my carriage, he discovered that they had been removed from the stables without his knowledge. I desire to know what is the meaning of this?”

“Be kind enough, madame, to listen to me,” said Danglars.

“Oh, yes; I will listen, monsieur, for I am most curious to hear what explanation you will give. These two gentlemen shall decide between us; but, first, I will state the case to them. Gentlemen,” continued the
baroness, “among the ten horses in the stables of Baron Danglars, are two that belong exclusively to me — a
pair of the handsomest and most spirited creatures to be found in Paris. But to you, at least, M. Debray, I need
not give a further description, because to you my beautiful pair of dappled grays were well known. Well, I had promised Madame de Villefort the loan of my carriage to drive to-morrow to the Bois; but when my
coachman goes to fetch the grays from the stables they are gone — positively gone. No doubt M. Danglars has sacrificed them to the selfish consideration of gaining some thousands of paltry francs. Oh, what a detestable crew they are, these mercenary speculators!”

“Madame,” replied Danglars, “the horses were not sufficiently quiet for you; they were scarcely four years old, and they made me extremely uneasy on your account.”

“Nonsense,” retorted the baroness; “you could not have entertained any alarm on the subject, because you are perfectly well aware that I have had for a month in my service the very best coachman in Paris. But, perhaps, you have disposed of the coachman as well as the horses?”

“My dear love, pray do not say any more about them, and I promise you another pair exactly like them in

appearance, only more quiet and steady.” The baroness shrugged her shoulders with an air of ineffable
contempt, while her husband, affecting not to observe this unconjugal gesture, turned towards Monte Cristo and said, — “Upon my word, count, I am quite sorry not to have met you sooner. You are setting up an establishment, of course?”

“Why, yes,” replied the count.

“I should have liked to have made you the offer of these horses. I have almost given them away, as it is; but,
as I before said, I was anxious to get rid of them upon any terms. They were only fit for a young man.”

“I am much obliged by your kind intentions towards me,” said Monte Cristo; “but this morning I purchased a very excellent pair of carriage-horses, and I do not think they were dear. There they are. Come, M. Debray,
you are a connoisseur, I believe, let me have your opinion upon them.” As Debray walked towards the
window, Danglars approached his wife. “I could not tell you before others,” said he in a low tone, “the reason
of my parting with the horses; but a most enormous price was offered me this morning for them. Some
madman or fool, bent upon ruining himself as fast as he can, actually sent his steward to me to purchase them
at any cost; and the fact is, I have gained 16,000 francs by the sale of them. Come, don’t look so angry, and
you shall have 4,000 francs of the money to do what you like with, and Eugenie shall have 2,000. There, what
do you think now of the affair? Wasn’t I right to part with the horses?” Madame Danglars surveyed her husband with a look of withering contempt.

“Great heavens?” suddenly exclaimed Debray. “What is it?” asked the baroness.
“I cannot be mistaken; there are your horses! The very animals we were speaking of, harnessed to the count’s carriage!”

“My dappled grays?” demanded the baroness, springing to the window. “‘Tis indeed they!” said she. Danglars looked absolutely stupefied. “How very singular,” cried Monte Cristo with well-feigned astonishment.

“I cannot believe it,” murmured the banker. Madame Danglars whispered a few words in the ear of Debray, who approached Monte Cristo, saying, “The baroness wishes to know what you paid her husband for the horses.”

“I scarcely know,” replied the count; “it was a little surprise prepared for me by my steward, and cost me — well, somewhere about 30,000 francs.” Debray conveyed the count’s reply to the baroness. Poor Danglars looked so crest-fallen and discomfited that Monte Cristo assumed a pitying air towards him. “See,” said the count, “how very ungrateful women are. Your kind attention, in providing for the safety of the baroness by disposing of the horses, does not seem to have made the least impression on her. But so it is; a woman will often, from mere wilfulness, prefer that which is dangerous to that which is safe. Therefore, in my opinion,
my dear baron, the best and easiest way is to leave them to their fancies, and allow them to act as they please, and then, if any mischief follows, why, at least, they have no one to blame but themselves.” Danglars made no
reply; he was occupied in anticipations of the coming scene between himself and the baroness, whose
frowning brow, like that of Olympic Jove, predicted a storm. Debray, who perceived the gathering clouds, and
felt no desire to witness the explosion of Madame Danglars’ rage, suddenly recollected an appointment, which compelled him to take his leave; while Monte Cristo, unwilling by prolonging his stay to destroy the
advantages he hoped to obtain, made a farewell bow and departed, leaving Danglars to endure the angry reproaches of his wife.

“Excellent,” murmured Monte Cristo to himself, as he came away. “All has gone according to my wishes. The domestic peace of this family is henceforth in my hands. Now, then, to play another master-stroke, by which I

shall gain the heart of both husband and wife — delightful! Still,” added he, “amid all this, I have not yet been
presented to Mademoiselle Eugenie Danglars, whose acquaintance I should have been glad to make. But,” he went on with his peculiar smile, “I am here in Paris, and have plenty of time before me — by and by will do
for that.” With these reflections he entered his carriage and returned home. Two hours afterwards, Madame Danglars received a most flattering epistle from the count, in which he entreated her to receive back her favorite “dappled grays,” protesting that he could not endure the idea of making his entry into the Parisian world of fashion with the knowledge that his splendid equipage had been obtained at the price of a lovely
woman’s regrets. The horses were sent back wearing the same harness she had seen on them in the morning; only, by the count’s orders, in the centre of each rosette that adorned either side of their heads, had been fastened a large diamond.

To Danglars Monte Cristo also wrote, requesting him to excuse the whimsical gift of a capricious millionaire, and to beg the baroness to pardon the Eastern fashion adopted in the return of the horses.

During the evening, Monte Cristo quitted Paris for Auteuil, accompanied by Ali. The following day, about
three o’clock, a single blow struck on the gong summoned Ali to the presence of the count. “Ali,” observed his master, as the Nubian entered the chamber, “you have frequently explained to me how more than commonly skilful you are in throwing the lasso, have you not?” Ali drew himself up proudly, and then returned a sign in
the affirmative. “I thought I did not mistake. With your lasso you could stop an ox?” Again Ali repeated his affirmative gesture. “Or a tiger?” Ali bowed his head in token of assent. “A lion even?” Ali sprung forwards, imitating the action of one throwing the lasso, then of a strangled lion.

“I understand,” said Monte Cristo; “you wish to tell me you have hunted the lion?” Ali smiled with triumphant pride as he signified that he had indeed both chased and captured many lions. “But do you believe you could arrest the progress of two horses rushing forwards with ungovernable fury?” The Nubian smiled. “It is well,”
said Monte Cristo. “Then listen to me. Ere long a carriage will dash past here, drawn by the pair of dappled gray horses you saw me with yesterday; now, at the risk of your own life, you must manage to stop those horses before my door.”

Ali descended to the street, and marked a straight line on the pavement immediately at the entrance of the
house, and then pointed out the line he had traced to the count, who was watching him. The count patted him gently on the shoulder, his usual mode of praising Ali, who, pleased and gratified with the commission
assigned him, walked calmly towards a projecting stone forming the angle of the street and house, and, seating himself thereon, began to smoke his chibouque, while Monte Cristo re-entered his dwelling, perfectly assured
of the success of his plan. Still, as five o’clock approached, and the carriage was momentarily expected by the count, the indication of more than common impatience and uneasiness might be observed in his manner. He stationed himself in a room commanding a view of the street, pacing the chamber with restless steps, stopping merely to listen from time to time for the sound of approaching wheels, then to cast an anxious glance on Ali;
but the regularity with which the Nubian puffed forth the smoke of his chibouque proved that he at least was wholly absorbed in the enjoyment of his favorite occupation. Suddenly a distant sound of rapidly advancing wheels was heard, and almost immediately a carriage appeared, drawn by a pair of wild, ungovernable horses, while the terrified coachman strove in vain to restrain their furious speed.

In the vehicle was a young woman and a child of about seven or eight clasped in each other’s arms. Terror seemed to have deprived them even of the power of uttering a cry. The carriage creaked and rattled as it flew
over the rough stones, and the slightest obstacle under the wheels would have caused disaster; but it kept on in
the middle of the road, and those who saw it pass uttered cries of terror.

Ali suddenly cast aside his chibouque, drew the lasso from his pocket, threw it so skilfully as to catch the forelegs of the near horse in its triple fold, and suffered himself to be dragged on for a few steps by the
violence of the shock, then the animal fell over on the pole, which snapped, and therefore prevented the other horse from pursuing its way. Gladly availing himself of this opportunity, the coachman leaped from his box;

but Ali had promptly seized the nostrils of the second horse, and held them in his iron grasp, till the beast,
snorting with pain, sunk beside his companion. All this was achieved in much less time than is occupied in the recital. The brief space had, however, been sufficient for a man, followed by a number of servants, to rush
from the house before which the accident had occurred, and, as the coachman opened the door of the carriage,
to take from it a lady who was convulsively grasping the cushions with one hand, while with the other she pressed to her bosom the young boy, who had lost consciousness.

Monte Cristo carried them both to the salon, and deposited them on a sofa. “Compose yourself, madame,” said
he; “all danger is over.” The woman looked up at these words, and, with a glance far more expressive than any entreaties could have been, pointed to her child, who still continued insensible. “I understand the nature of
your alarms, madame,” said the count, carefully examining the child, “but I assure you there is not the
slightest occasion for uneasiness; your little charge has not received the least injury; his insensibility is merely
the effects of terror, and will soon pass.”

“Are you quite sure you do not say so to tranquillize my fears? See how deadly pale he is! My child, my
darling Edward; speak to your mother — open your dear eyes and look on me once again! Oh, sir, in pity send
for a physician; my whole fortune shall not be thought too much for the recovery of my boy.”

With a calm smile and a gentle wave of the hand, Monte Cristo signed to the distracted mother to lay aside her apprehensions; then, opening a casket that stood near, he drew forth a phial of Bohemian glass incrusted with gold, containing a liquid of the color of blood, of which he let fall a single drop on the child’s lips. Scarcely
had it reached them, ere the boy, though still pale as marble, opened his eyes, and eagerly gazed around him.
At this, the delight of the mother was almost frantic. “Where am I?” exclaimed she; “and to whom am I
indebted for so happy a termination to my late dreadful alarm?”

“Madame,” answered the count, “you are under the roof of one who esteems himself most fortunate in having been able to save you from a further continuance of your sufferings.”

“My wretched curiosity has brought all this about,” pursued the lady. “All Paris rung with the praises of
Madame Danglars’ beautiful horses, and I had the folly to desire to know whether they really merited the high praise given to them.”

“Is it possible,” exclaimed the count with well-feigned astonishment, “that these horses belong to the baroness?”

“They do, indeed. May I inquire if you are acquainted with Madame Danglars?”

“I have that honor; and my happiness at your escape from the danger that threatened you is redoubled by the consciousness that I have been the unwilling and the unintentional cause of all the peril you have incurred. I yesterday purchased these horses of the baron; but as the baroness evidently regretted parting with them, I ventured to send them back to her, with a request that she would gratify me by accepting them from my
hands.”

“You are, then, doubtless, the Count of Monte Cristo, of whom Hermine has talked to me so much?” “You have rightly guessed, madame,” replied the count.
“And I am Madame Heloise de Villefort.” The count bowed with the air of a person who hears a name for the first time. “How grateful will M. de Villefort be for all your goodness; how thankfully will he acknowledge
that to you alone he owes the existence of his wife and child! Most certainly, but for the prompt assistance of your intrepid servant, this dear child and myself must both have perished.”

“Indeed, I still shudder at the fearful danger you were placed in.”

“I trust you will allow me to recompense worthily the devotion of your man.”

“I beseech you, madame,” replied Monte Cristo “not to spoil Ali, either by too great praise or rewards. I
cannot allow him to acquire the habit of expecting to be recompensed for every trifling service he may render. Ali is my slave, and in saving your life he was but discharging his duty to me.”

“Nay,” interposed Madame de Villefort, on whom the authoritative style adopted by the count made a deep impression, “nay, but consider that to preserve my life he has risked his own.”

“His life, madame, belongs not to him; it is mine, in return for my having myself saved him from death.” Madame de Villefort made no further reply; her mind was utterly absorbed in the contemplation of the person who, from the first instant she saw him, had made so powerful an impression on her. During the evident preoccupation of Madame de Villefort, Monte Cristo scrutinized the features and appearance of the boy she
kept folded in her arms, lavishing on him the most tender endearments. The child was small for his age, and unnaturally pale. A mass of straight black hair, defying all attempts to train or curl it, fell over his projecting forehead, and hung down to his shoulders, giving increased vivacity to eyes already sparkling with a youthful love of mischief and fondness for every forbidden enjoyment. His mouth was large, and the lips, which had
not yet regained their color, were particularly thin; in fact, the deep and crafty look, giving a predominant expression to the child’s face, belonged rather to a boy of twelve or fourteen than to one so young. His first movement was to free himself by a violent push from the encircling arms of his mother, and to rush forward
to the casket from whence the count had taken the phial of elixir; then, without asking permission of any one,
he proceeded, in all the wilfulness of a spoiled child unaccustomed to restrain either whims or caprices, to pull
the corks out of all the bottles.

“Touch nothing, my little friend,” cried the count eagerly; “some of those liquids are not only dangerous to taste, but even to inhale.”

Madame de Villefort became very pale, and, seizing her son’s arm, drew him anxiously toward her; but, once satisfied of his safety, she also cast a brief but expressive glance on the casket, which was not lost upon the count. At this moment Ali entered. At sight of him Madame de Villefort uttered an expression of pleasure,
and, holding the child still closer towards her, she said, “Edward, dearest, do you see that good man? He has shown very great courage and resolution, for he exposed his own life to stop the horses that were running
away with us, and would certainly have dashed the carriage to pieces. Thank him, then, my child, in your very best manner; for, had he not come to our aid, neither you nor I would have been alive to speak our thanks.”
The child stuck out his lips and turned away his head in a disdainful manner, saying, “He’s too ugly.”

The count smiled as if the child bade fair to realize his hopes, while Madame de Villefort reprimanded her son with a gentleness and moderation very far from conveying the least idea of a fault having been committed.
“This lady,” said the Count, speaking to Ali in the Arabic language, “is desirous that her son should thank you
for saving both their lives; but the boy refuses, saying you are too ugly.” Ali turned his intelligent countenance towards the boy, on whom he gazed without any apparent emotion; but the spasmodic working of the nostrils showed to the practiced eye of Monte Cristo that the Arab had been wounded to the heart.

“Will you permit me to inquire,” said Madame de Villefort, as she arose to take her leave, “whether you usually reside here?”

“No, I do not,” replied Monte Cristo; “it is a small place I have purchased quite lately. My place of abode is No. 30, Avenue des Champs Elysees; but I see you have quite recovered from your fright, and are, no doubt, desirous of returning home. Anticipating your wishes, I have desired the same horses you came with to be put
to one of my carriages, and Ali, he whom you think so very ugly,” continued he, addressing the boy with a

smiling air, “will have the honor of driving you home, while your coachman remains here to attend to the
necessary repairs of your calash. As soon as that important business is concluded, I will have a pair of my own horses harnessed to convey it direct to Madame Danglars.”

“I dare not return with those dreadful horses,” said Madame de Villefort.

“You will see,” replied Monte Cristo, “that they will be as different as possible in the hands of Ali. With him they will be gentle and docile as lambs.” Ali had, indeed, given proof of this; for, approaching the animals,
who had been got upon their legs with considerable difficulty, he rubbed their foreheads and nostrils with a sponge soaked in aromatic vinegar, and wiped off the sweat and foam that covered their mouths. Then, commencing a loud whistling noise, he rubbed them well all over their bodies for several minutes; then, undisturbed by the noisy crowd collected round the broken carriage, Ali quietly harnessed the pacified
animals to the count’s chariot, took the reins in his hands, and mounted the box, when to the utter
astonishment of those who had witnessed the ungovernable spirit and maddened speed of the same horses, he was actually compelled to apply his whip in no very gentle manner before he could induce them to start; and even then all that could be obtained from the celebrated “dappled grays,” now changed into a couple of dull, sluggish, stupid brutes, was a slow, pottering pace, kept up with so much difficulty that Madame de Villefort
was more than two hours returning to her residence in the Faubourg St. Honore.

Scarcely had the first congratulations upon her marvellous escape been gone through when she wrote the following letter to Madame Danglars: —

Dear Hermine, — I have just had a wonderful escape from the most imminent danger, and I owe my safety to
the very Count of Monte Cristo we were talking about yesterday, but whom I little expected to see to-day. I
remember how unmercifully I laughed at what I considered your eulogistic and exaggerated praises of him;
but I have now ample cause to admit that your enthusiastic description of this wonderful man fell far short of
his merits. Your horses got as far as Ranelagh, when they darted forward like mad things, and galloped away
at so fearful a rate, that there seemed no other prospect for myself and my poor Edward but that of being
dashed to pieces against the first object that impeded their progress, when a strange-looking man, — an Arab, a negro, or a Nubian, at least a black of some nation or other — at a signal from the count, whose domestic he is, suddenly seized and stopped the infuriated animals, even at the risk of being trampled to death himself; and certainly he must have had a most wonderful escape. The count then hastened to us, and took us into his
house, where he speedily recalled my poor Edward to life. He sent us home in his own carriage. Yours will be returned to you to-morrow. You will find your horses in bad condition, from the results of this accident; they seem thoroughly stupefied, as if sulky and vexed at having been conquered by man. The count, however, his commissioned me to assure you that two or three days’ rest, with plenty of barley for their sole food during
that time, will bring them back to as fine, that is as terrifying, a condition as they were in yesterday. Adieu! I cannot return you many thanks for the drive of yesterday; but, after all, I ought not to blame you for the misconduct of your horses, more especially as it procured me the pleasure of an introduction to the Count of Monte Cristo, — and certainly that illustrious personage, apart from the millions he is said to be so very
anxious to dispose of, seemed to me one of those curiously interesting problems I, for one, delight in solving
at any risk, even if it were to necessitate another drive to the Bois behind your horses. Edward endured the accident with miraculous courage — he did not utter a single cry, but fell lifeless into my arms; nor did a tear
fall from his eyes after it was over. I doubt not you will consider these praises the result of blind maternal affection, but there is a soul of iron in that delicate, fragile body. Valentine sends many affectionate remembrances to your dear Eugenie. I embrace you with all my heart.

Heloise de Villefort.

P.S. — Do pray contrive some means for me to meet the Count of Monte Cristo at your house. I must and will
see him again. I have just made M. de Villefort promise to call on him, and I hope the visit will be returned.

That night the adventure at Auteuil was talked of everywhere. Albert related it to his mother; Chateau-Renaud
recounted it at the Jockey Club, and Debray detailed it at length in the salons of the minister; even Beauchamp accorded twenty lines in his journal to the relation of the count’s courage and gallantry, thereby celebrating
him as the greatest hero of the day in the eyes of all the feminine members of the aristocracy. Vast was the
crowd of visitors and inquiring friends who left their names at the residence of Madame de Villefort, with the design of renewing their visit at the right moment, of hearing from her lips all the interesting circumstances of this most romantic adventure. As for M. de Villefort, he fulfilled the predictions of Heloise to the letter, —
donned his dress suit, drew on a pair of white gloves, ordered the servants to attend the carriage dressed in their full livery, and drove that same night to No. 30 in the Avenue des Champs-Elysees.

Chapter 48

Ideology.

If the Count of Monte Cristo had been for a long time familiar with the ways of Parisian society, he would have appreciated better the significance of the step which M. de Villefort had taken. Standing well at court,
whether the king regnant was of the older or younger branch, whether the government was doctrinaire liberal,
or conservative; looked upon by all as a man of talent, since those who have never experienced a political check are generally so regarded; hated by many, but warmly supported by others, without being really liked
by anybody, M. de Villefort held a high position in the magistracy, and maintained his eminence like a Harlay
or a Mole. His drawing-room, under the regenerating influence of a young wife and a daughter by his first marriage, scarcely eighteen, was still one of the well-regulated Paris salons where the worship of traditional customs and the observance of rigid etiquette were carefully maintained. A freezing politeness, a strict fidelity
to government principles, a profound contempt for theories and theorists, a deep-seated hatred of ideality, — these were the elements of private and public life displayed by M. de Villefort.

He was not only a magistrate, he was almost a diplomatist. His relations with the former court, of which he always spoke with dignity and respect, made him respected by the new one, and he knew so many things, that
not only was he always carefully considered, but sometimes consulted. Perhaps this would not have been so had it been possible to get rid of M. de Villefort; but, like the feudal barons who rebelled against their
sovereign, he dwelt in an impregnable fortress. This fortress was his post as king’s attorney, all the advantages
of which he exploited with marvellous skill, and which he would not have resigned but to be made deputy,
and thus to replace neutrality by opposition. Ordinarily M. de Villefort made and returned very few visits. His wife visited for him, and this was the received thing in the world, where the weighty and multifarious occupations of the magistrate were accepted as an excuse for what was really only calculated pride, a manifestation of professed superiority — in fact, the application of the axiom, “Pretend to think well of
yourself, and the world will think well of you,” an axiom a hundred times more useful in society nowadays than that of the Greeks, “Know thyself,” a knowledge for which, in our days, we have substituted the less difficult and more advantageous science of knowing others.

To his friends M. de Villefort was a powerful protector; to his enemies, he was a silent, but bitter opponent;
for those who were neither the one nor the other, he was a statue of the law-made man. He had a haughty bearing, a look either steady and impenetrable or insolently piercing and inquisitorial. Four successive revolutions had built and cemented the pedestal upon which his fortune was based. M. de Villefort had the reputation of being the least curious and the least wearisome man in France. He gave a ball every year, at which he appeared for a quarter of an hour only, — that is to say, five and forty minutes less than the king is visible at his balls. He was never seen at the theatres, at concerts, or in any place of public resort.
Occasionally, but seldom, he played at whist, and then care was taken to select partners worthy of him — sometimes they were ambassadors, sometimes archbishops, or sometimes a prince, or a president, or some dowager duchess. Such was the man whose carriage had just now stopped before the Count of Monte Cristo’s door. The valet de chambre announced M. de Villefort at the moment when the count, leaning over a large
table, was tracing on a map the route from St. Petersburg to China.

The procureur entered with the same grave and measured step he would have employed in entering a court of justice. He was the same man, or rather the development of the same man, whom we have heretofore seen as assistant attorney at Marseilles. Nature, according to her way, had made no deviation in the path he had
marked out for himself. From being slender he had now become meagre; once pale, he was now yellow; his deep-set eyes were hollow, and the gold spectacles shielding his eyes seemed to be an integral portion of his face. He dressed entirely in black, with the exception of his white tie, and his funeral appearance was only mitigated by the slight line of red ribbon which passed almost imperceptibly through his button-hole, and appeared like a streak of blood traced with a delicate brush. Although master of himself, Monte Cristo,
scrutinized with irrepressible curiosity the magistrate whose salute he returned, and who, distrustful by habit,

and especially incredulous as to social prodigies, was much more despised to look upon “the noble stranger,”
as Monte Cristo was already called, as an adventurer in search of new fields, or an escaped criminal, rather than as a prince of the Holy See, or a sultan of the Thousand and One Nights.

“Sir,” said Villefort, in the squeaky tone assumed by magistrates in their oratorical periods, and of which they cannot, or will not, divest themselves in society, “sir, the signal service which you yesterday rendered to my
wife and son has made it a duty for me to offer you my thanks. I have come, therefore, to discharge this duty, and to express to you my overwhelming gratitude.” And as he said this, the “eye severe” of the magistrate had lost nothing of its habitual arrogance. He spoke in a voice of the procureur-general, with the rigid inflexibility
of neck and shoulders which caused his flatterers to say (as we have before observed) that he was the living statue of the law.

“Monsieur,” replied the count, with a chilling air, “I am very happy to have been the means of preserving a son to his mother, for they say that the sentiment of maternity is the most holy of all; and the good fortune which occurred to me, monsieur, might have enabled you to dispense with a duty which, in its discharge, confers an undoubtedly great honor; for I am aware that M. de Villefort is not usually lavish of the favor
which he now bestows on me, — a favor which, however estimable, is unequal to the satisfaction which I have
in my own consciousness.” Villefort, astonished at this reply, which he by no means expected, started like a soldier who feels the blow levelled at him over the armor he wears, and a curl of his disdainful lip indicated that from that moment he noted in the tablets of his brain that the Count of Monte Cristo was by no means a highly bred gentleman. He glanced around. in order to seize on something on which the conversation might turn, and seemed to fall easily on a topic. He saw the map which Monte Cristo had been examining when he
entered, and said, “You seem geographically engaged, sir? It is a rich study for you, who, as I learn, have seen
as many lands as are delineated on this map.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the count; “I have sought to make of the human race, taken in the mass, what you practice every day on individuals — a physiological study. I have believed it was much easier to descend from the
whole to a part than to ascend from a part to the whole. It is an algebraic axiom, which makes us proceed from
a known to an unknown quantity, and not from an unknown to a known; but sit down, sir, I beg of you.”

Monte Cristo pointed to a chair, which the procureur was obliged to take the trouble to move forwards himself, while the count merely fell back into his own, on which he had been kneeling when M. Villefort entered. Thus the count was halfway turned towards his visitor, having his back towards the window, his elbow resting on the geographical chart which furnished the theme of conversation for the moment, — a
conversation which assumed, as in the case of the interviews with Danglars and Morcerf, a turn analogous to
the persons, if not to the situation. “Ah, you philosophize,” replied Villefort, after a moment’s silence, during which, like a wrestler who encounters a powerful opponent, he took breath; “well, sir, really, if, like you, I had nothing else to do, I should seek a more amusing occupation.”

“Why, in truth, sir,” was Monte Cristo’s reply, “man is but an ugly caterpillar for him who studies him through
a solar microscope; but you said, I think, that I had nothing else to do. Now, really, let me ask, sir, have you?
— do you believe you have anything to do? or to speak in plain terms, do you really think that what you do deserves being called anything?”

Villefort’s astonishment redoubled at this second thrust so forcibly made by his strange adversary. It was a long time since the magistrate had heard a paradox so strong, or rather, to say the truth more exactly, it was
the first time he had ever heard of it. The procureur exerted himself to reply. “Sir,” he responded, “you are a stranger, and I believe you say yourself that a portion of your life has been spent in Oriental countries, so you
are not aware how human justice, so expeditions in barbarous countries, takes with us a prudent and well-studied course.”

“Oh, yes — yes, I do, sir; it is the pede claudo of the ancients. I know all that, for it is with the justice of all

countries especially that I have occupied myself — it is with the criminal procedure of all nations that I have
compared natural justice, and I must say, sir, that it is the law of primitive nations, that is, the law of retaliation, that I have most frequently found to be according to the law of God.”

“If this law were adopted, sir,” said the procureur, “it would greatly simplify our legal codes, and in that case the magistrates would not (as you just observed) have much to do.”

“It may, perhaps, come to this in time,” observed Monte Cristo; “you know that human inventions march from
the complex to the simple, and simplicity is always perfection.”

“In the meanwhile,” continued the magistrate, “our codes are in full force, with all their contradictory enactments derived from Gallic customs, Roman laws, and Frank usages; the knowledge of all which, you
will agree, is not to be acquired without extended labor; it needs tedious study to acquire this knowledge, and, when acquired, a strong power of brain to retain it.”

“I agree with you entirely, sir; but all that even you know with respect to the French code, I know, not only in reference to that code, but as regards the codes of all nations. The English, Turkish, Japanese, Hindu laws, are
as familiar to me as the French laws, and thus I was right, when I said to you, that relatively (you know that everything is relative, sir) — that relatively to what I have done, you have very little to do; but that relatively to
all I have learned, you have yet a great deal to learn.”

“But with what motive have you learned all this?” inquired Villefort, in astonishment. Monte Cristo smiled. “Really, sir,” he observed, “I see that in spite of the reputation which you have acquired as a superior man, you look at everything from the material and vulgar view of society, beginning with man, and ending with
man — that is to say, in the most restricted, most narrow view which it is possible for human understanding to embrace.”

“Pray, sir, explain yourself,” said Villefort, more and more astonished, “I really do — not — understand you — perfectly.”

“I say, sir, that with the eyes fixed on the social organization of nations, you see only the springs of the
machine, and lose sight of the sublime workman who makes them act; I say that you do not recognize before you and around you any but those office-holders whose commissions have been signed by a minister or king;
and that the men whom God has put above those office-holders, ministers, and kings, by giving them a mission to follow out, instead of a post to fill — I say that they escape your narrow, limited field of
observation. It is thus that human weakness fails, from its debilitated and imperfect organs. Tobias took the angel who restored him to light for an ordinary young man. The nations took Attila, who was doomed to destroy them, for a conqueror similar to other conquerors, and it was necessary for both to reveal their missions, that they might be known and acknowledged; one was compelled to say, `I am the angel of the
Lord’; and the other, `I am the hammer of God,’ in order that the divine essence in both might be revealed.”

“Then,” said Villefort, more and more amazed, and really supposing he was speaking to a mystic or a madman, “you consider yourself as one of those extraordinary beings whom you have mentioned?”

“And why not?” said Monte Cristo coldly.

“Your pardon, sir,” replied Villefort, quite astounded, “but you will excuse me if, when I presented myself to you, I was unaware that I should meet with a person whose knowledge and understanding so far surpass the usual knowledge and understanding of men. It is not usual with us corrupted wretches of civilization to find gentlemen like yourself, possessors, as you are, of immense fortune — at least, so it is said — and I beg you to observe that I do not inquire, I merely repeat; — it is not usual, I say, for such privileged and wealthy beings to
waste their time in speculations on the state of society, in philosophical reveries, intended at best to console

those whom fate has disinherited from the goods of this world.”

“Really, sir,” retorted the count, “have you attained the eminent situation in which you are, without having admitted, or even without having met with exceptions? and do you never use your eyes, which must have acquired so much finesse and certainty, to divine, at a glance, the kind of man by whom you are confronted? Should not a magistrate be not merely the best administrator of the law, but the most crafty expounder of the chicanery of his profession, a steel probe to search hearts, a touchstone to try the gold which in each soul is mingled with more or less of alloy?”
“Sir,” said Villefort, “upon my word, you overcome me. I really never heard a person speak as you do.” “Because you remain eternally encircled in a round of general conditions, and have never dared to raise your
wings into those upper spheres which God has peopled with invisible or exceptional beings.”
“And you allow then, sir, that spheres exist, and that these marked and invisible beings mingle amongst us?” “Why should they not? Can you see the air you breathe, and yet without which you could not for a moment
exist?”

“Then we do not see those beings to whom you allude?”

“Yes, we do; you see them whenever God pleases to allow them to assume a material form. You touch them, come in contact with them, speak to them, and they reply to you.”

“Ah,” said Villefort, smiling, “I confess I should like to be warned when one of these beings is in contact with me.”

“You have been served as you desire, monsieur, for you were warned just now, and I now again warn you.” “Then you yourself are one of these marked beings?”
“Yes, monsieur, I believe so; for until now, no man has found himself in a position similar to mine. The dominions of kings are limited either by mountains or rivers, or a change of manners, or an alteration of language. My kingdom is bounded only by the world, for I am not an Italian, or a Frenchman, or a Hindu, or
an American, or a Spaniard — I am a cosmopolite. No country can say it saw my birth. God alone knows what country will see me die. I adopt all customs, speak all languages. You believe me to be a Frenchman, for I
speak French with the same facility and purity as yourself. Well, Ali, my Nubian, believes me to be an Arab; Bertuccio, my steward, takes me for a Roman; Haidee, my slave, thinks me a Greek. You may, therefore, comprehend, that being of no country, asking no protection from any government, acknowledging no man as
my brother, not one of the scruples that arrest the powerful, or the obstacles which paralyze the weak,
paralyzes or arrests me. I have only two adversaries — I will not say two conquerors, for with perseverance I
subdue even them, — they are time and distance. There is a third, and the most terrible — that is my condition
as a mortal being. This alone can stop me in my onward career, before I have attained the goal at which I aim,
for all the rest I have reduced to mathematical terms. What men call the chances of fate — namely, ruin, change, circumstances — I have fully anticipated, and if any of these should overtake me, yet it will not overwhelm me. Unless I die, I shall always be what I am, and therefore it is that I utter the things you have never heard, even from the mouths of kings — for kings have need, and other persons have fear of you. For
who is there who does not say to himself, in a society as incongruously organized as ours, `Perhaps some day
I shall have to do with the king’s attorney’?”

“But can you not say that, sir? The moment you become an inhabitant of France, you are naturally subjected
to the French law.”

“I know it sir,” replied Monte Cristo; “but when I visit a country I begin to study, by all the means which are
available, the men from whom I may have anything to hope or to fear, till I know them as well as, perhaps better than, they know themselves. It follows from this, that the king’s attorney, be he who he may, with whom I should have to deal, would assuredly be more embarrassed than I should.”

“That is to say,” replied Villefort with hesitation, “that human nature being weak, every man, according to your creed, has committed faults.”

“Faults or crimes,” responded Monte Cristo with a negligent air.

“And that you alone, amongst the men whom you do not recognize as your brothers — for you have said so,”
observed Villefort in a tone that faltered somewhat — “you alone are perfect.”

“No, not perfect,” was the count’s reply; “only impenetrable, that’s all. But let us leave off this strain, sir, if the tone of it is displeasing to you; I am no more disturbed by your justice than are you by my second-sight.”

“No, no, — by no means,” said Villefort, who was afraid of seeming to abandon his ground. “No; by your brilliant and almost sublime conversation you have elevated me above the ordinary level; we no longer talk,
we rise to dissertation. But you know how the theologians in their collegiate chairs, and philosophers in their controversies, occasionally say cruel truths; let us suppose for the moment that we are theologizing in a social way, or even philosophically, and I will say to you, rude as it may seem, `My brother, you sacrifice greatly to pride; you may be above others, but above you there is God.'”

“Above us all, sir,” was Monte Cristo’s response, in a tone and with an emphasis so deep that Villefort involuntarily shuddered. “I have my pride for men — serpents always ready to threaten every one who would pass without crushing them under foot. But I lay aside that pride before God, who has taken me from nothing
to make me what I am.”

“Then, count, I admire you,” said Villefort, who, for the first time in this strange conversation, used the aristocratic form to the unknown personage, whom, until now, he had only called monsieur. “Yes, and I say to you, if you are really strong, really superior, really pious, or impenetrable, which you were right in saying amounts to the same thing — then be proud, sir, for that is the characteristic of predominance. Yet you have unquestionably some ambition.”

“I have, sir.”

“And what may it be?”

“I too, as happens to every man once in his life, have been taken by Satan into the highest mountain in the earth, and when there he showed me all the kingdoms of the world, and as he said before, so said he to me,
`Child of earth, what wouldst thou have to make thee adore me?’ I reflected long, for a gnawing ambition had long preyed upon me, and then I replied, `Listen, — I have always heard of providence, and yet I have never
seen him, or anything that resembles him, or which can make me believe that he exists. I wish to be providence myself, for I feel that the most beautiful, noblest, most sublime thing in the world, is to
recompense and punish.’ Satan bowed his head, and groaned. `You mistake,’ he said, `providence does exist, only you have never seen him, because the child of God is as invisible as the parent. You have seen nothing that resembles him, because he works by secret springs, and moves by hidden ways. All I can do for you is to make you one of the agents of that providence.’ The bargain was concluded. I may sacrifice my soul, but what matters it?” added Monte Cristo. “If the thing were to do again, I would again do it.” Villefort looked at Monte
Cristo with extreme amazement. “Count,” he inquired, “have you any relations?” “No, sir, I am alone in the world.”

“So much the worse.”

“Why?” asked Monte Cristo.

“Because then you might witness a spectacle calculated to break down your pride. You say you fear nothing but death?”

“I did not say that I feared it; I only said that death alone could check the execution of my plans.” “And old age?”
“My end will be achieved before I grow old.” “And madness?”
“I have been nearly mad; and you know the axiom, — non bis in idem. It is an axiom of criminal law, and, consequently, you understand its full application.”

“Sir,” continued Villefort, “there is something to fear besides death, old age, and madness. For instance, there
is apoplexy — that lightning-stroke which strikes but does not destroy you, and yet which brings everything to
an end. You are still yourself as now, and yet you are yourself no longer; you who, like Ariel, verge on the angelic, are but an inert mass, which, like Caliban, verges on the brutal; and this is called in human tongues,
as I tell you, neither more nor less than apoplexy. Come, if so you will, count, and continue this conversation
at my house, any day you may be willing to see an adversary capable of understanding and anxious to refute you, and I will show you my father, M. Noirtier de Villefort, one of the most fiery Jacobins of the French
Revolution; that is to say, he had the most remarkable audacity, seconded by a most powerful organization — a man who has not, perhaps, like yourself seen all the kingdoms of the earth, but who has helped to overturn
one of the greatest; in fact, a man who believed himself, like you, one of the envoys, not of God, but of a supreme being; not of providence, but of fate. Well, sir, the rupture of a blood-vessel on the lobe of the brain
has destroyed all this, not in a day, not in an hour, but in a second. M. Noirtier, who, on the previous night,
was the old Jacobin, the old senator, the old Carbonaro, laughing at the guillotine, the cannon, and the dagger
— M. Noirtier, playing with revolutions — M. Noirtier, for whom France was a vast chess-board, from which pawns, rooks, knights, and queens were to disappear, so that the king was checkmated — M. Noirtier, the redoubtable, was the next morning `poor M. Noirtier,’ the helpless old man, at the tender mercies of the
weakest creature in the household, that is, his grandchild, Valentine; a dumb and frozen carcass, in fact, living painlessly on, that time may be given for his frame to decompose without his consciousness of its decay.”

“Alas, sir,” said Monte Cristo “this spectacle is neither strange to my eye nor my thought. I am something of a physician, and have, like my fellows, sought more than once for the soul in living and in dead matter; yet, like providence, it has remained invisible to my eyes, although present to my heart. A hundred writers since
Socrates, Seneca, St. Augustine, and Gall, have made, in verse and prose, the comparison you have made, and
yet I can well understand that a father’s sufferings may effect great changes in the mind of a son. I will call on you, sir, since you bid me contemplate, for the advantage of my pride, this terrible spectacle, which must have been so great a source of sorrow to your family.”

“It would have been so unquestionably, had not God given me so large a compensation. In contrast with the
old man, who is dragging his way to the tomb, are two children just entering into life — Valentine, the
daughter by my first wife — Mademoiselle Renee de Saint-Meran — and Edward, the boy whose life you have this day saved.”

“And what is your deduction from this compensation, sir?” inquired Monte Cristo.

“My deduction is,” replied Villefort, “that my father, led away by his passions, has committed some fault
unknown to human justice, but marked by the justice of God. That God, desirous in his mercy to punish but one person, has visited this justice on him alone.” Monte Cristo with a smile on his lips, uttered in the depths
of his soul a groan which would have made Villefort fly had he but heard it. “Adieu, sir,” said the magistrate, who had risen from his seat; “I leave you, bearing a remembrance of you — a remembrance of esteem, which I hope will not be disagreeable to you when you know me better; for I am not a man to bore my friends, as you
will learn. Besides, you have made an eternal friend of Madame de Villefort.” The count bowed, and
contented himself with seeing Villefort to the door of his cabinet, the procureur being escorted to his carriage
by two footmen, who, on a signal from their master, followed him with every mark of attention. When he had gone, Monte Cristo breathed a profound sigh, and said, — “Enough of this poison, let me now seek the
antidote.” Then sounding his bell, he said to Ali, who entered, “I am going to madam’s chamber — have the carriage ready at one o’clock.”

Chapter 49

Haidee.

It will be recollected that the new, or rather old, acquaintances of the Count of Monte Cristo, residing in the Rue Meslay, were no other than Maximilian, Julie, and Emmanuel. The very anticipations of delight to be enjoyed in his forthcoming visits — the bright, pure gleam of heavenly happiness it diffused over the almost
deadly warfare in which he had voluntarily engaged, illumined his whole countenance with a look of ineffable
joy and calmness, as, immediately after Villefort’s departure, his thoughts flew back to the cheering prospect before him, of tasting, at least, a brief respite from the fierce and stormy passions of his mind. Even Ali, who had hastened to obey the Count’s summons, went forth from his master’s presence in charmed amazement at
the unusual animation and pleasure depicted on features ordinarily so stern and cold; while, as though
dreading to put to flight the agreeable ideas hovering over his patron’s meditations, whatever they were, the faithful Nubian walked on tiptoe towards the door, holding his breath, lest its faintest sound should dissipate
his master’s happy reverie.

It was noon, and Monte Cristo had set apart one hour to be passed in the apartments of Haidee, as though his oppressed spirit could not all at once admit the feeling of pure and unmixed joy, but required a gradual succession of calm and gentle emotions to prepare his mind to receive full and perfect happiness, in the same manner as ordinary natures demand to be inured by degrees to the reception of strong or violent sensations.
The young Greek, as we have already said, occupied apartments wholly unconnected with those of the count. The rooms had been fitted up in strict accordance with Oriental ideas; the floors were covered with the richest carpets Turkey could produce; the walls hung with brocaded silk of the most magnificent designs and texture; while around each chamber luxurious divans were placed, with piles of soft and yielding cushions, that needed
only to be arranged at the pleasure or convenience of such as sought repose. Haidee and three French maids, and one who was a Greek. The first three remained constantly in a small waiting-room, ready to obey the
summons of a small golden bell, or to receive the orders of the Romaic slave, who knew just enough French to
be able to transmit her mistress’s wishes to the three other waiting-women; the latter had received most peremptory instructions from Monte Cristo to treat Haidee with all the deference they would observe to a queen.

The young girl herself generally passed her time in the chamber at the farther end of her apartments. This was
a sort of boudoir, circular, and lighted only from the roof, which consisted of rose-colored glass. Haidee was reclining upon soft downy cushions, covered with blue satin spotted with silver; her head, supported by one of
her exquisitely moulded arms, rested on the divan immediately behind her, while the other was employed in adjusting to her lips the coral tube of a rich narghile, through whose flexible pipe she drew the smoke fragrant
by its passage through perfumed water. Her attitude, though perfectly natural for an Eastern woman would, in
a European, have been deemed too full of coquettish straining after effect. Her dress, which was that of the women of Epirus, consisted of a pair of white satin trousers, embroidered with pink roses, displaying feet so exquisitely formed and so delicately fair, that they might well have been taken for Parian marble, had not the
eye been undeceived by their movements as they constantly shifted in and out of a pair of little slippers with upturned toes, beautifully ornamented with gold and pearls. She wore a blue and white-striped vest, with long open sleeves, trimmed with silver loops and buttons of pearls, and a sort of bodice, which, closing only from
the centre to the waist, exhibited the whole of the ivory throat and upper part of the bosom; it was fastened
with three magnificent diamond clasps. The junction of the bodice and drawers was entirely concealed by one
of the many-colored scarfs, whose brilliant hues and rich silken fringe have rendered them so precious in the eyes of Parisian belles. Tilted on one side of her head she had a small cap of gold-colored silk, embroidered with pearls; while on the other a purple rose mingled its glowing colors with the luxuriant masses of her hair,
of which the blackness was so intense that it was tinged with blue. The extreme beauty of the countenance,
that shone forth in loveliness that mocked the vain attempts of dress to augment it, was peculiarly and purely Grecian; there were the large, dark, melting eyes, the finely formed nose, the coral lips, and pearly teeth, that belonged to her race and country. And, to complete the whole, Haidee was in the very springtide and fulness

of youthful charms — she had not yet numbered more than twenty summers.

Monte Cristo summoned the Greek attendant, and bade her inquire whether it would be agreeable to her
mistress to receive his visit. Haidee’s only reply was to direct her servant by a sign to withdraw the tapestried curtain that hung before the door of her boudoir, the framework of the opening thus made serving as a sort of border to the graceful tableau presented by the young girl’s picturesque attitude and appearance. As Monte
Cristo approached, she leaned upon the elbow of the arm that held the narghile, and extending to him her other hand, said, with a smile of captivating sweetness, in the sonorous language spoken by the women of
Athens and Sparta, “Why demand permission ere you enter? Are you no longer my master, or have I ceased to
be your slave?” Monte Cristo returned her smile. “Haidee,” said he, “you well know.”

“Why do you address me so coldly — so distantly?” asked the young Greek. “Have I by any means displeased you? Oh, if so, punish me as you will; but do not — do not speak to me in tones and manner so formal and constrained.”

“Haidee,” replied the count, “you know that you are now in France, and are free.” “Free to do what?” asked the young girl.
“Free to leave me.”

“Leave you? Why should I leave you?”

“That is not for me to say; but we are now about to mix in society — to visit and be visited.”

“I don’t wish to see anybody but you.”

“And should you see one whom you could prefer, I would not be so unjust” —

“I have never seen any one I preferred to you, and I have never loved any one but you and my father.”

“My poor child,” replied Monte Cristo, “that is merely because your father and myself are the only men who have ever talked to you.”

“I don’t want anybody else to talk to me. My father said I was his `joy’ — you style me your `love,’ — and both
of you have called me `my child.'”

“Do you remember your father, Haidee?” The young Greek smiled. “He is here, and here,” said she, touching her eyes and her heart. “And where am I?” inquired Monte Cristo laughingly.

“You?” cried she, with tones of thrilling tenderness, “you are everywhere!” Monte Cristo took the delicate hand of the young girl in his, and was about to raise it to his lips, when the simple child of nature hastily
withdrew it, and presented her cheek. “You now understand, Haidee,” said the count, “that from this moment you are absolutely free; that here you exercise unlimited sway, and are at liberty to lay aside or continue the costume of your country, as it may suit your inclination. Within this mansion you are absolute mistress of
your actions, and may go abroad or remain in your apartments as may seem most agreeable to you. A carriage waits your orders, and Ali and Myrtho will accompany you whithersoever you desire to go. There is but one
favor I would entreat of you.” “Speak.”
“Guard carefully the secret of your birth. Make no allusion to the past; nor upon any occasion be induced to

pronounce the names of your illustrious father or ill-fated mother.”

“I have already told you, my lord, that I shall see no one.”

“It is possible, Haidee, that so perfect a seclusion, though conformable with the habits and customs of the
East, may not be practicable in Paris. Endeavor, then, to accustom yourself to our manner of living in these northern climes as you did to those of Rome, Florence, Milan, and Madrid; it may be useful to you one of these days, whether you remain here or return to the East.” The young girl raised her tearful eyes towards
Monte Cristo as she said with touching earnestness, “Whether we return to the East, you mean to say, my lord,
do you not?”

“My child,” returned Monte Cristo “you know full well that whenever we part, it will be no fault or wish of mine; the tree forsakes not the flower — the flower falls from the tree.”

“My lord,” replied Haidee, “I never will leave you, for I am sure I could not exist without you.” “My poor girl, in ten years I shall be old, and you will be still young.”
“My father had a long white beard, but I loved him; he was sixty years old, but to me he was handsomer than
all the fine youths I saw.”

“Then tell me, Haidee, do you believe you shall be able to accustom yourself to our present mode of life?” “Shall I see you?”
“Every day.”

“Then what do you fear, my lord?” “You might find it dull.”
“No, my lord. In the morning, I shall rejoice in the prospect of your coming, and in the evening dwell with delight on the happiness I have enjoyed in your presence; then too, when alone, I can call forth mighty
pictures of the past, see vast horizons bounded only by the towering mountains of Pindus and Olympus. Oh, believe me, that when three great passions, such as sorrow, love, and gratitude fill the heart, ennui can find no place.”

“You are a worthy daughter of Epirus, Haidee, and your charming and poetical ideas prove well your descent from that race of goddesses who claim your country as their birthplace. Depend on my care to see that your youth is not blighted, or suffered to pass away in ungenial solitude; and of this be well assured, that if you
love me as a father, I love you as a child.”

“You are wrong, my lord. The love I have for you is very different from the love I had for my father. My father died, but I did not die. If you were to die, I should die too.” The Count, with a smile of profound tenderness, extended his hand, and she carried it to her lips. Monte Cristo, thus attuned to the interview he
proposed to hold with Morrel and his family, departed, murmuring as he went these lines of Pindar, “Youth is
a flower of which love is the fruit; happy is he who, after having watched its silent growth, is permitted to gather and call it his own.” The carriage was prepared according to orders, and stepping lightly into it, the count drove off at his usual rapid pace.

Chapter 50

The Morrel Family.

In a very few minutes the count reached No. 7 in the Rue Meslay. The house was of white stone, and in a
small court before it were two small beds full of beautiful flowers. In the concierge that opened the gate the count recognized Cocles; but as he had but one eye, and that eye had become somewhat dim in the course of
nine years, Cocles did not recognize the count. The carriages that drove up to the door were compelled to turn,
to avoid a fountain that played in a basin of rockwork, — an ornament that had excited the jealousy of the
whole quarter, and had gained for the place the appellation of “The Little Versailles.” It is needless to add that there were gold and silver fish in the basin. The house, with kitchens and cellars below, had above the
ground-floor, two stories and attics. The whole of the property, consisting of an immense workshop, two pavilions at the bottom of the garden, and the garden itself, had been purchased by Emmanuel, who had seen
at a glance that he could make of it a profitable speculation. He had reserved the house and half the garden, and building a wall between the garden and the workshops, had let them upon lease with the pavilions at the
bottom of the garden. So that for a trifling sum he was as well lodged, and as perfectly shut out from observation, as the inhabitants of the finest mansion in the Faubourg St. Germain. The breakfast-room was finished in oak; the salon in mahogany, and the furnishings were of blue velvet; the bedroom was in citronwood and green damask. There was a study for Emmanuel, who never studied, and a music-room for
Julie, who never played. The whole of the second story was set apart for Maximilian; it was precisely similar
to his sister’s apartments, except that for the breakfast-parlor he had a billiard-room, where he received his
friends. He was superintending the grooming of his horse, and smoking his cigar at the entrance of the garden, when the count’s carriage stopped at the gate.

Cocles opened the gate, and Baptistin, springing from the box, inquired whether Monsieur and Madame
Herbault and Monsieur Maximilian Morrel would see his excellency the Count of Monte Cristo. “The Count
of Monte Cristo?” cried Morrel, throwing away his cigar and hastening to the carriage; “I should think we would see him. Ah, a thousand thanks, count, for not having forgotten your promise.” And the young officer shook the count’s hand so warmly, that Monte Cristo could not be mistaken as to the sincerity of his joy, and
he saw that he had been expected with impatience, and was received with pleasure. “Come, come,” said
Maximilian, “I will serve as your guide; such a man as you are ought not to be introduced by a servant. My
sister is in the garden plucking the dead roses; my brother is reading his two papers, the Presse and the Debats, within six steps of her; for wherever you see Madame Herbault, you have only to look within a circle of four
yards and you will find M. Emmanuel, and `reciprocally,’ as they say at the Polytechnic School.” At the sound
of their steps a young woman of twenty to five and twenty, dressed in a silk morning gown, and busily
engaged in plucking the dead leaves off a noisette rose-tree, raised her head. This was Julie, who had become,
as the clerk of the house of Thomson & French had predicted, Madame Emmanuel Herbault. She uttered a cry
of surprise at the sight of a stranger, and Maximilian began to laugh. “Don’t disturb yourself, Julie,” said he. “The count has only been two or three days in Paris, but he already knows what a fashionable woman of the Marais is, and if he does not, you will show him.”

“Ah, monsieur,” returned Julie, “it is treason in my brother to bring you thus, but he never has any regard for
his poor sister. Penelon, Penelon!” An old man, who was digging busily at one of the beds, stuck his spade in
the earth, and approached, cap in hand, striving to conceal a quid of tobacco he had just thrust into his cheek.
A few locks of gray mingled with his hair, which was still thick and matted, while his bronzed features and determined glance well suited an old sailor who had braved the heat of the equator and the storms of the
tropics. “I think you hailed me, Mademoiselle Julie?” said he. Penelon had still preserved the habit of calling
his master’s daughter “Mademoiselle Julie,” and had never been able to change the name to Madame Herbault. “Penelon,” replied Julie, “go and inform M. Emmanuel of this gentleman’s visit, and Maximilian will conduct
him to the salon.” Then, turning to Monte Cristo, — “I hope you will permit me to leave you for a few
minutes,” continued she; and without awaiting any reply, disappeared behind a clump of trees, and escaped to
the house by a lateral alley.

“I am sorry to see,” observed Monte Cristo to Morrel, “that I cause no small disturbance in your house.”

“Look there,” said Maximilian, laughing; “there is her husband changing his jacket for a coat. I assure you, you are well known in the Rue Meslay.”

“Your family appears to be a very happy one,” said the count, as if speaking to himself.

“Oh, yes, I assure you, count, they want nothing that can render them happy; they are young and cheerful,
they are tenderly attached to each other, and with twenty-five thousand francs a year they fancy themselves as rich as Rothschild.”

“Five and twenty thousand francs is not a large sum, however,” replied Monte Cristo, with a tone so sweet and gentle, that it went to Maximilian’s heart like the voice of a father; “but they will not be content with that.
Your brother-in-law is a barrister? a doctor?”

“He was a merchant, monsieur, and had succeeded to the business of my poor father. M. Morrel, at his death,
left 500,000 francs, which were divided between my sister and myself, for we were his only children. Her husband, who, when he married her, had no other patrimony than his noble probity, his first-rate ability, and
his spotless reputation, wished to possess as much as his wife. He labored and toiled until he had amassed
250,000 francs; six years sufficed to achieve this object. Oh, I assure you, sir, it was a touching spectacle to
see these young creatures, destined by their talents for higher stations, toiling together, and through their unwillingness to change any of the customs of their paternal house, taking six years to accomplish what less scrupulous people would have effected in two or three. Marseilles resounded with their well-earned praises.
At last, one day, Emmanuel came to his wife, who had just finished making up the accounts. `Julie,’ said he to her, `Cocles has just given me the last rouleau of a hundred francs; that completes the 250,000 francs we had fixed as the limits of our gains. Can you content yourself with the small fortune which we shall possess for the future? Listen to me. Our house transacts business to the amount of a million a year, from which we derive an
income of 40,000 francs. We can dispose of the business, if we please, in an hour, for I have received a letter from M. Delaunay, in which he offers to purchase the good-will of the house, to unite with his own, for
300,000 francs. Advise me what I had better do.’ — `Emmanuel,’ returned my sister, `the house of Morrel can only be carried on by a Morrel. Is it not worth 300,000 francs to save our father’s name from the chances of
evil fortune and failure?’ — `I thought so,’ replied Emmanuel; `but I wished to have your advice.’ — `This is my counsel: — Our accounts are made up and our bills paid; all we have to do is to stop the issue of any more, and close our office.’ This was done instantly. It was three o’clock; at a quarter past, a merchant presented himself
to insure two ships; it was a clear profit of 15,000 francs. `Monsieur,’ said Emmanuel, `have the goodness to address yourself to M. Delaunay. We have quitted business.’ — `How long?’ inquired the astonished merchant.
`A quarter of an hour,’ was the reply. And this is the reason, monsieur,” continued Maximilian, “of my sister and brother-in-law having only 25,000 francs a year.”

Maximilian had scarcely finished his story, during which the count’s heart had swelled within him, when
Emmanuel entered wearing a hat and coat. He saluted the count with the air of a man who is aware of the rank
of his guest; then, after having led Monte Cristo around the little garden, he returned to the house. A large vase of Japan porcelain, filled with flowers that loaded the air with their perfume, stood in the salon. Julie,
suitably dressed, and her hair arranged (she had accomplished this feat in less than ten minutes), received the count on his entrance. The songs of the birds were heard in an aviary hard by, and the branches of laburnums and rose acacias formed an exquisite framework to the blue velvet curtains. Everything in this charming
retreat, from the warble of the birds to the smile of the mistress, breathed tranquillity and repose. The count had felt the influence of this happiness from the moment he entered the house, and he remained silent and
pensive, forgetting that he was expected to renew the conversation, which had ceased after the first salutations had been exchanged. The silence became almost painful when, by a violent effort, tearing himself from his pleasing reverie — “Madame,” said he at length, “I pray you to excuse my emotion, which must astonish you
who are only accustomed to the happiness I meet here; but contentment is so new a sight to me, that I could

never be weary of looking at yourself and your husband.”

“We are very happy, monsieur,” replied Julie; “but we have also known unhappiness, and few have ever undergone more bitter sufferings than ourselves.” The Count’s features displayed an expression of the most intense curiosity.

“Oh, all this is a family history, as Chateau-Renaud told you the other day,” observed Maximilian. “This humble picture would have but little interest for you, accustomed as you are to behold the pleasures and the misfortunes of the wealthy and industrious; but such as we are, we have experienced bitter sorrows.”

“And God has poured balm into your wounds, as he does into those of all who are in affliction?” said Monte
Cristo inquiringly.

“Yes, count,” returned Julie, “we may indeed say he has, for he has done for us what he grants only to his chosen; he sent us one of his angels.” The count’s cheeks became scarlet, and he coughed, in order to have an excuse for putting his handkerchief to his mouth. “Those born to wealth, and who have the means of
gratifying every wish,” said Emmanuel, “know not what is the real happiness of life, just as those who have been tossed on the stormy waters of the ocean on a few frail planks can alone realize the blessings of fair weather.”

Monte Cristo rose, and without making any answer (for the tremulousness of his voice would have betrayed
his emotion) walked up and down the apartment with a slow step.

“Our magnificence makes you smile, count,” said Maximilian, who had followed him with his eyes. “No, no,”
returned Monte Cristo, pale as death, pressing one hand on his heart to still its throbbings, while with the other
he pointed to a crystal cover, beneath which a silken purse lay on a black velvet cushion. “I was wondering what could be the significance of this purse, with the paper at one end and the large diamond at the other.”

“Count,” replied Maximilian, with an air of gravity, “those are our most precious family treasures.” “The stone seems very brilliant,” answered the count.
“Oh, my brother does not allude to its value, although it has been estimated at 100,000 francs; he means, that the articles contained in this purse are the relics of the angel I spoke of just now.”

“This I do not comprehend; and yet I may not ask for an explanation, madame,” replied Monte Cristo bowing. “Pardon me, I had no intention of committing an indiscretion.”

“Indiscretion, — oh, you make us happy by giving us an excuse for expatiating on this subject. If we wanted to conceal the noble action this purse commemorates, we should not expose it thus to view. Oh, would we could relate it everywhere, and to every one, so that the emotion of our unknown benefactor might reveal his
presence.”

“Ah, really,” said Monte Cristo in a half-stifled voice.

“Monsieur,” returned Maximilian, raising the glass cover, and respectfully kissing the silken purse, “this has touched the hand of a man who saved my father from suicide, us from ruin, and our name from shame and disgrace, — a man by whose matchless benevolence we poor children, doomed to want and wretchedness, can
at present hear every one envying our happy lot. This letter” (as he spoke, Maximilian drew a letter from the purse and gave it to the count) — “this letter was written by him the day that my father had taken a desperate resolution, and this diamond was given by the generous unknown to my sister as her dowry.” Monte Cristo opened the letter, and read it with an indescribable feeling of delight. It was the letter written (as our readers

know) to Julie, and signed “Sinbad the Sailor.” “Unknown you say, is the man who rendered you this service
— unknown to you?”

“Yes; we have never had the happiness of pressing his hand,” continued Maximilian. “We have supplicated heaven in vain to grant us this favor, but the whole affair has had a mysterious meaning that we cannot comprehend — we have been guided by an invisible hand, — a hand as powerful as that of an enchanter.”

“Oh,” cried Julie, “I have not lost all hope of some day kissing that hand, as I now kiss the purse which he has touched. Four years ago, Penelon was at Trieste — Penelon, count, is the old sailor you saw in the garden, and who, from quartermaster, has become gardener — Penelon, when he was at Trieste, saw on the quay an Englishman, who was on the point of embarking on board a yacht, and he recognized him as the person who called on my father the fifth of June, 1829, and who wrote me this letter on the fifth of September. He felt convinced of his identity, but he did not venture to address him.”

“An Englishman,” said Monte Cristo, who grew uneasy at the attention with which Julie looked at him. “An
Englishman you say?”

“Yes,” replied Maximilian, “an Englishman, who represented himself as the confidential clerk of the house of Thomson & French, at Rome. It was this that made me start when you said the other day, at M. de Morcerf’s, that Messrs. Thomson & French were your bankers. That happened, as I told you, in 1829. For God’s sake, tell
me, did you know this Englishman?”

“But you tell me, also, that the house of Thomson & French have constantly denied having rendered you this service?”

“Yes.”

“Then is it not probable that this Englishman may be some one who, grateful for a kindness your father had shown him, and which he himself had forgotten, has taken this method of requiting the obligation?”

“Everything is possible in this affair, even a miracle.” “What was his name?” asked Monte Cristo.
“He gave no other name,” answered Julie, looking earnestly at the count, “than that at the end of his letter —
`Sinbad the Sailor.'”

“Which is evidently not his real name, but a fictitious one.”

Then, noticing that Julie was struck with the sound of his voice, —

“Tell me,” continued he, “was he not about my height, perhaps a little taller, with his chin imprisoned, as it were, in a high cravat; his coat closely buttoned up, and constantly taking out his pencil?”

“Oh, do you then know him?” cried Julie, whose eyes sparkled with joy.

“No,” returned Monte Cristo “I only guessed. I knew a Lord Wilmore, who was constantly doing actions of this kind.”

“Without revealing himself?”

“He was an eccentric being, and did not believe in the existence of gratitude.”

“Oh, heaven,” exclaimed Julie, clasping her hands, “in what did he believe, then?”

“He did not credit it at the period which I knew him,” said Monte Cristo, touched to the heart by the accents of
Julie’s voice; “but, perhaps, since then he has had proofs that gratitude does exist.” “And do you know this gentleman, monsieur?” inquired Emmanuel.
“Oh, if you do know him,” cried Julie, “can you tell us where he is — where we can find him? Maximilian — Emmanuel — if we do but discover him, he must believe in the gratitude of the heart!” Monte Cristo felt tears start into his eyes, and he again walked hastily up and down the room.

“In the name of heaven,” said Maximilian, “if you know anything of him, tell us what it is.”

“Alas,” cried Monte Cristo, striving to repress his emotion, “if Lord Wilmore was your unknown benefactor, I
fear you will never see him again. I parted from him two years ago at Palermo, and he was then on the point
of setting out for the most remote regions; so that I fear he will never return.”
“Oh, monsieur, this is cruel of you,” said Julie, much affected; and the young lady’s eyes swam with tears. “Madame,” replied Monte Cristo gravely, and gazing earnestly on the two liquid pearls that trickled down
Julie’s cheeks, “had Lord Wilmore seen what I now see, he would become attached to life, for the tears you
shed would reconcile him to mankind;” and he held out his hand to Julie, who gave him hers, carried away by
the look and accent of the count. “But,” continued she, “Lord Wilmore had a family or friends, he must have known some one, can we not — ”

“Oh, it is useless to inquire,” returned the count; “perhaps, after all, he was not the man you seek for. He was my friend: he had no secrets from me, and if this had been so he would have confided in me.”

“And he told you nothing?” “Not a word.”
“Nothing that would lead you to suppose?” “Nothing.”
“And yet you spoke of him at once.” “Ah, in such a case one supposes” —
“Sister, sister,” said Maximilian, coming to the count’s aid, “monsieur is quite right. Recollect what our excellent father so often told us, `It was no Englishman that thus saved us.'” Monte Cristo started. “What did your father tell you, M. Morrel?” said he eagerly.

“My father thought that this action had been miraculously performed — he believed that a benefactor had
arisen from the grave to save us. Oh, it was a touching superstition, monsieur, and although I did not myself believe it, I would not for the world have destroyed my father’s faith. How often did he muse over it and pronounce the name of a dear friend — a friend lost to him forever; and on his death-bed, when the near approach of eternity seemed to have illumined his mind with supernatural light, this thought, which had until then been but a doubt, became a conviction, and his last words were, `Maximilian, it was Edmond Dantes!'”
At these words the count’s paleness, which had for some time been increasing, became alarming; he could not speak; he looked at his watch like a man who has forgotten the hour, said a few hurried words to Madame

Herbault, and pressing the hands of Emmanuel and Maximilian, — “Madame,” said he, “I trust you will allow
me to visit you occasionally; I value your friendship, and feel grateful to you for your welcome, for this is the first time for many years that I have thus yielded to my feelings;” and he hastily quitted the apartment.

“This Count of Monte Cristo is a strange man,” said Emmanuel.

“Yes,” answered Maximilian, “but I feel sure he has an excellent heart, and that he likes us.”

“His voice went to my heart,” observed Julie; “and two or three times I fancied that I had heard it before.”

Chapter 51

Pyramus and Thisbe.

About two-thirds of the way along the Faubourg Saint-Honore, and in the rear of one of the most imposing mansions in this rich neighborhood, where the various houses vie with each other for elegance of design and magnificence of construction, extended a large garden, where the wide-spreading chestnut-trees raised their heads high above the walls in a solid rampart, and with the coming of every spring scattered a shower of delicate pink and white blossoms into the large stone vases that stood upon the two square pilasters of a curiously wrought iron gate, that dated from the time of Louis XII. This noble entrance, however, in spite of
its striking appearance and the graceful effect of the geraniums planted in the two vases, as they waved their variegated leaves in the wind and charmed the eye with their scarlet bloom, had fallen into utter disuse. The proprietors of the mansion had many years before thought it best to confine themselves to the possession of
the house itself, with its thickly planted court-yard, opening into the Faubourg Saint-Honore, and to the
garden shut in by this gate, which formerly communicated with a fine kitchen-garden of about an acre. For the demon of speculation drew a line, or in other words projected a street, at the farther side of the kitchen-garden. The street was laid out, a name was chosen and posted up on an iron plate, but before construction was begun,
it occurred to the possessor of the property that a handsome sum might be obtained for the ground then
devoted to fruits and vegetables, by building along the line of the proposed street, and so making it a branch of communication with the Faubourg Saint-Honore itself, one of the most important thoroughfares in the city of Paris.

In matters of speculation, however, though “man proposes,” “money disposes.” From some such difficulty the newly named street died almost in birth, and the purchaser of the kitchen-garden, having paid a high price for
it, and being quite unable to find any one willing to take his bargain off his hands without a considerable loss,
yet still clinging to the belief that at some future day he should obtain a sum for it that would repay him, not only for his past outlay, but also the interest upon the capital locked up in his new acquisition, contented
himself with letting the ground temporarily to some market-gardeners, at a yearly rental of 500 francs. And so,
as we have said, the iron gate leading into the kitchen-garden had been closed up and left to the rust, which bade fair before long to eat off its hinges, while to prevent the ignoble glances of the diggers and delvers of
the ground from presuming to sully the aristocratic enclosure belonging to the mansion, the gate had been boarded up to a height of six feet. True, the planks were not so closely adjusted but that a hasty peep might be
obtained through their interstices; but the strict decorum and rigid propriety of the inhabitants of the house left
no grounds for apprehending that advantage would be taken of that circumstance.

Horticulture seemed, however, to have been abandoned in the deserted kitchen-garden; and where cabbages, carrots, radishes, pease, and melons had once flourished, a scanty crop of lucerne alone bore evidence of its being deemed worthy of cultivation. A small, low door gave egress from the walled space we have been describing into the projected street, the ground having been abandoned as unproductive by its various renters, and had now fallen so completely in general estimation as to return not even the one-half per cent it had originally paid. Towards the house the chestnut-trees we have before mentioned rose high above the wall, without in any way affecting the growth of other luxuriant shrubs and flowers that eagerly dressed forward to
fill up the vacant spaces, as though asserting their right to enjoy the boon of light and air. At one corner, where the foliage became so thick as almost to shut out day, a large stone bench and sundry rustic seats
indicated that this sheltered spot was either in general favor or particular use by some inhabitant of the house, which was faintly discernible through the dense mass of verdure that partially concealed it, though situated
but a hundred paces off.

Whoever had selected this retired portion of the grounds as the boundary of a walk, or as a place for
meditation, was abundantly justified in the choice by the absence of all glare, the cool, refreshing shade, the screen it afforded from the scorching rays of the sun, that found no entrance there even during the burning
days of hottest summer, the incessant and melodious warbling of birds, and the entire removal from either the

noise of the street or the bustle of the mansion. On the evening of one of the warmest days spring had yet
bestowed on the inhabitants of Paris, might be seen negligently thrown upon the stone bench, a book, a parasol, and a work-basket, from which hung a partly embroidered cambric handkerchief, while at a little distance from these articles was a young woman, standing close to the iron gate, endeavoring to discern
something on the other side by means of the openings in the planks, — the earnestness of her attitude and the fixed gaze with which she seemed to seek the object of her wishes, proving how much her feelings were interested in the matter. At that instant the little side-gate leading from the waste ground to the street was noiselessly opened, and a tall, powerful young man appeared. He was dressed in a common gray blouse and velvet cap, but his carefully arranged hair, beard and mustache, all of the richest and glossiest black, ill accorded with his plebeian attire. After casting a rapid glance around him, in order to assure himself that he
was unobserved, he entered by the small gate, and, carefully closing and securing it after him, proceeded with
a hurried step towards the barrier.

At the sight of him she expected, though probably not in such a costume, the young woman started in terror, and was about to make a hasty retreat. But the eye of love had already seen, even through the narrow chinks
of the wooden palisades, the movement of the white robe, and observed the fluttering of the blue sash.
Pressing his lips close to the planks, he exclaimed, “Don’t be alarmed, Valentine — it is I!” Again the timid girl found courage to return to the gate, saying, as she did so, “And why do you come so late to-day? It is almost dinner-time, and I had to use no little diplomacy to get rid of my watchful mother-in-law, my too-devoted
maid, and my troublesome brother, who is always teasing me about coming to work at my embroidery, which
I am in a fair way never to get done. So pray excuse yourself as well as you can for having made me wait, and, after that, tell me why I see you in a dress so singular that at first I did not recognize you.”

“Dearest Valentine,” said the young man, “the difference between our respective stations makes me fear to offend you by speaking of my love, but yet I cannot find myself in your presence without longing to pour
forth my soul, and tell you how fondly I adore you. If it be but to carry away with me the recollection of such sweet moments, I could even thank you for chiding me, for it leaves me a gleam of hope, that if you did not expect me (and that indeed would be worse than vanity to suppose), at least I was in your thoughts. You asked
me the cause of my being late, and why I come disguised. I will candidly explain the reason of both, and I
trust to your goodness to pardon me. I have chosen a trade.”

“A trade? Oh, Maximilian, how can you jest at a time when we have such deep cause for uneasiness?”

“Heaven keep me from jesting with that which is far dearer to me than life itself! But listen to me, Valentine,
and I will tell you all about it. I became weary of ranging fields and scaling walls, and seriously alarmed at the idea suggested by you, that if caught hovering about here your father would very likely have me sent to prison
as a thief. That would compromise the honor of the French army, to say nothing of the fact that the continual presence of a captain of Spahis in a place where no warlike projects could be supposed to account for it might well create surprise; so I have become a gardener, and, consequently, adopted the costume of my calling.”

“What excessive nonsense you talk, Maximilian!”

“Nonsense? Pray do not call what I consider the wisest action of my life by such a name. Consider, by becoming a gardener I effectually screen our meetings from all suspicion or danger.”

“I beseech of you, Maximilian, to cease trifling, and tell me what you really mean.”

“Simply, that having ascertained that the piece of ground on which I stand was to let, I made application for it, was readily accepted by the proprietor, and am now master of this fine crop of lucerne. Think of that,
Valentine! There is nothing now to prevent my building myself a little hut on my plantation, and residing not twenty yards from you. Only imagine what happiness that would afford me. I can scarcely contain myself at
the bare idea. Such felicity seems above all price — as a thing impossible and unattainable. But would you

believe that I purchase all this delight, joy, and happiness, for which I would cheerfully have surrendered ten
years of my life, at the small cost of 500 francs per annum, paid quarterly? Henceforth we have nothing to
fear. I am on my own ground, and have an undoubted right to place a ladder against the wall, and to look over when I please, without having any apprehensions of being taken off by the police as a suspicious character. I
may also enjoy the precious privilege of assuring you of my fond, faithful, and unalterable affection,
whenever you visit your favorite bower, unless, indeed, it offends your pride to listen to professions of love from the lips of a poor workingman, clad in a blouse and cap.” A faint cry of mingled pleasure and surprise escaped from the lips of Valentine, who almost instantly said, in a saddened tone, as though some envious
cloud darkened the joy which illumined her heart, “Alas, no, Maximilian, this must not be, for many reasons. We should presume too much on our own strength, and, like others, perhaps, be led astray by our blind confidence in each other’s prudence.”

“How can you for an instant entertain so unworthy a thought, dear Valentine? Have I not, from the first
blessed hour of our acquaintance, schooled all my words and actions to your sentiments and ideas? And you have, I am sure, the fullest confidence in my honor. When you spoke to me of experiencing a vague and indefinite sense of coming danger, I placed myself blindly and devotedly at your service, asking no other reward than the pleasure of being useful to you; and have I ever since, by word or look, given you cause of
regret for having selected me from the numbers that would willingly have sacrificed their lives for you? You told me, my dear Valentine, that you were engaged to M. d’Epinay, and that your father was resolved upon completing the match, and that from his will there was no appeal, as M. de Villefort was never known to
change a determination once formed. I kept in the background, as you wished, and waited, not for the decision
of your heart or my own, but hoping that providence would graciously interpose in our behalf, and order events in our favor. But what cared I for delays or difficulties, Valentine, as long as you confessed that you loved me, and took pity on me? If you will only repeat that avowal now and then, I can endure anything.”

“Ah, Maximilian, that is the very thing that makes you so bold, and which renders me at once so happy and unhappy, that I frequently ask myself whether it is better for me to endure the harshness of my mother-in-law,
and her blind preference for her own child, or to be, as I now am, insensible to any pleasure save such as I find
in these meetings, so fraught with danger to both.”

“I will not admit that word,” returned the young man; “it is at once cruel and unjust. Is it possible to find a more submissive slave than myself? You have permitted me to converse with you from time to time,
Valentine, but forbidden my ever following you in your walks or elsewhere — have I not obeyed? And since I found means to enter this enclosure to exchange a few words with you through this gate — to be close to you without really seeing you — have I ever asked so much as to touch the hem of your gown or tried to pass this barrier which is but a trifle to one of my youth and strength? Never has a complaint or a murmur escaped me.
I have been bound by my promises as rigidly as any knight of olden times. Come, come, dearest Valentine, confess that what I say is true, lest I be tempted to call you unjust.”

“It is true,” said Valentine, as she passed the end of her slender fingers through a small opening in the planks, and permitted Maximilian to press his lips to them, “and you are a true and faithful friend; but still you acted from motives of self-interest, my dear Maximilian, for you well knew that from the moment in which you had
manifested an opposite spirit all would have been ended between us. You promised to bestow on me the friendly affection of a brother. For I have no friend but yourself upon earth, who am neglected and forgotten
by my father, harassed and persecuted by my mother-in-law, and left to the sole companionship of a paralyzed and speechless old man, whose withered hand can no longer press mine, and who can speak to me with the
eye alone, although there still lingers in his heart the warmest tenderness for his poor grandchild. Oh, how
bitter a fate is mine, to serve either as a victim or an enemy to all who are stronger than myself, while my only friend and supporter is a living corpse! Indeed, indeed, Maximilian, I am very miserable, and if you love me it must be out of pity.”

“Valentine,” replied the young man, deeply affected, “I will not say you are all I love in the world, for I dearly

prize my sister and brother-in-law; but my affection for them is calm and tranquil, in no manner resembling
what I feel for you. When I think of you my heart beats fast, the blood burns in my veins, and I can hardly breathe; but I solemnly promise you to restrain all this ardor, this fervor and intensity of feeling, until you yourself shall require me to render them available in serving or assisting you. M. Franz is not expected to
return home for a year to come, I am told; in that time many favorable and unforeseen chances may befriend
us. Let us, then, hope for the best; hope is so sweet a comforter. Meanwhile, Valentine, while reproaching me with selfishness, think a little what you have been to me — the beautiful but cold resemblance of a marble
Venus. What promise of future reward have you made me for all the submission and obedience I have evinced? — none whatever. What granted me? — scarcely more. You tell me of M. Franz d’Epinay, your betrothed lover, and you shrink from the idea of being his wife; but tell me, Valentine, is there no other sorrow in your heart? You see me devoted to you, body and soul, my life and each warm drop that circles
round my heart are consecrated to your service; you know full well that my existence is bound up in yours — that were I to lose you I would not outlive the hour of such crushing misery; yet you speak with calmness of
the prospect of your being the wife of another! Oh, Valentine, were I in your place, and did I feel conscious,
as you do, of being worshipped, adored, with such a love as mine, a hundred times at least should I have passed my hand between these iron bars, and said, `Take this hand, dearest Maximilian, and believe that, living or dead, I am yours — yours only, and forever!'” The poor girl made no reply, but her lover could plainly hear her sobs and tears. A rapid change took place in the young man’s feelings. “Dearest, dearest Valentine,” exclaimed he, “forgive me if I have offended you, and forget the words I spoke if they have unwittingly caused you pain.”

“No, Maximilian, I am not offended,” answered she, “but do you not see what a poor, helpless being I am, almost a stranger and an outcast in my father’s house, where even he is seldom seen; whose will has been thwarted, and spirits broken, from the age of ten years, beneath the iron rod so sternly held over me; oppressed, mortified, and persecuted, day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, no person has cared for,
even observed my sufferings, nor have I ever breathed one word on the subject save to yourself. Outwardly and in the eyes of the world, I am surrounded by kindness and affection; but the reverse is the case. The
general remark is, `Oh, it cannot be expected that one of so stern a character as M. Villefort could lavish the tenderness some fathers do on their daughters. What though she has lost her own mother at a tender age, she
has had the happiness to find a second mother in Madame de Villefort.’ The world, however, is mistaken; my father abandons me from utter indifference, while my mother-in-law detests me with a hatred so much the
more terrible because it is veiled beneath a continual smile.”

“Hate you, sweet Valentine,” exclaimed the young man; “how is it possible for any one to do that?”

“Alas,” replied the weeping girl, “I am obliged to own that my mother-in-law’s aversion to me arises from a very natural source — her overweening love for her own child, my brother Edward.”

“But why should it?”

“I do not know; but, though unwilling to introduce money matters into our present conversation, I will just say this much — that her extreme dislike to me has its origin there; and I much fear she envies me the fortune I
enjoy in right of my mother, and which will be more than doubled at the death of M. and Mme. de
Saint-Meran, whose sole heiress I am. Madame de Villefort has nothing of her own, and hates me for being so richly endowed. Alas, how gladly would I exchange the half of this wealth for the happiness of at least sharing
my father’s love. God knows, I would prefer sacrificing the whole, so that it would obtain me a happy and affectionate home.”

“Poor Valentine!”

“I seem to myself as though living a life of bondage, yet at the same time am so conscious of my own
weakness that I fear to break the restraint in which I am held, lest I fall utterly helpless. Then, too, my father is

not a person whose orders may be infringed with impunity; protected as he is by his high position and firmly
established reputation for talent and unswerving integrity, no one could oppose him; he is all-powerful even with the king; he would crush you at a word. Dear Maximilian, believe me when I assure you that if I do not attempt to resist my father’s commands it is more on your account than my own.”

“But why, Valentine, do you persist in anticipating the worst, — why picture so gloomy a future?” “Because I judge it from the past.”
“Still, consider that although I may not be, strictly speaking, what is termed an illustrious match for you, I am,
for many reasons, not altogether so much beneath your alliance. The days when such distinctions were so nicely weighed and considered no longer exist in France, and the first families of the monarchy have intermarried with those of the empire. The aristocracy of the lance has allied itself with the nobility of the cannon. Now I belong to this last-named class; and certainly my prospects of military preferment are most encouraging as well as certain. My fortune, though small, is free and unfettered, and the memory of my late
father is respected in our country, Valentine, as that of the most upright and honorable merchant of the city; I
say our country, because you were born not far from Marseilles.”

“Don’t speak of Marseilles, I beg of you, Maximilian; that one word brings back my mother to my recollection
— my angel mother, who died too soon for myself and all who knew her; but who, after watching over her child during the brief period allotted to her in this world, now, I fondly hope, watches from her home in heaven. Oh, if my mother were still living, there would be nothing to fear, Maximilian, for I would tell her that I loved you, and she would protect us.”

“I fear, Valentine,” replied the lover, “that were she living I should never have had the happiness of knowing you; you would then have been too happy to have stooped from your grandeur to bestow a thought on me.”

“Now it is you who are unjust, Maximilian,” cried Valentine; “but there is one thing I wish to know.” “And what is that?” inquired the young man, perceiving that Valentine hesitated.
“Tell me truly, Maximilian, whether in former days, when our fathers dwelt at Marseilles, there was ever any misunderstanding between them?”

“Not that I am aware of,” replied the young man, “unless, indeed, any ill-feeling might have arisen from their being of opposite parties — your father was, as you know, a zealous partisan of the Bourbons, while mine was wholly devoted to the emperor; there could not possibly be any other difference between them. But why do
you ask?”

“I will tell you,” replied the young girl, “for it is but right you should know. Well, on the day when your appointment as an officer of the Legion of honor was announced in the papers, we were all sitting with my grandfather, M. Noirtier; M. Danglars was there also — you recollect M. Danglars, do you not, Maximilian,
the banker, whose horses ran away with my mother-in-law and little brother, and very nearly killed them? While the rest of the company were discussing the approaching marriage of Mademoiselle Danglars, I was
reading the paper to my grandfather; but when I came to the paragraph about you, although I had done nothing else but read it over to myself all the morning (you know you had told me all about it the previous evening), I
felt so happy, and yet so nervous, at the idea of speaking your name aloud, and before so many people, that I
really think I should have passed it over, but for the fear that my doing so might create suspicions as to the cause of my silence; so I summoned up all my courage, and read it as firmly and as steadily as I could.”

“Dear Valentine!”

“Well, would you believe it? directly my father caught the sound of your name he turned round quite hastily,
and, like a poor silly thing, I was so persuaded that every one must be as much affected as myself by the utterance of your name, that I was not surprised to see my father start, and almost tremble; but I even thought (though that surely must have been a mistake) that M. Danglars trembled too.”

“`Morrel, Morrel,’ cried my father, `stop a bit;’ then knitting his brows into a deep frown, he added, `surely this cannot be one of the Morrel family who lived at Marseilles, and gave us so much trouble from their
violent Bonapartism — I mean about the year 1815.’ — `Yes,’ replied M. Danglars, `I believe he is the son of the old shipowner.'”

“Indeed,” answered Maximilian; “and what did your father say then, Valentine?” “Oh, such a dreadful thing, that I don’t dare to tell you.”
“Always tell me everything,” said Maximilian with a smile.

“`Ah,’ continued my father, still frowning, `their idolized emperor treated these madmen as they deserved; he called them `food for powder,’ which was precisely all they were good for; and I am delighted to see that the present government have adopted this salutary principle with all its pristine vigor; if Algiers were good for nothing but to furnish the means of carrying so admirable an idea into practice, it would be an acquisition well worthy of struggling to obtain. Though it certainly does cost France somewhat dear to assert her rights in that uncivilized country.'”

“Brutal politics, I must confess.” said Maximilian; “but don’t attach any serious importance, dear, to what your father said. My father was not a bit behind yours in that sort of talk. `Why,’ said he, `does not the emperor,
who has devised so many clever and efficient modes of improving the art of war, organize a regiment of lawyers, judges and legal practitioners, sending them in the hottest fire the enemy could maintain, and using them to save better men?’ You see, my dear, that for picturesque expression and generosity of spirit there is
not much to choose between the language of either party. But what did M. Danglars say to this outburst on the part of the procureur?”

“Oh, he laughed, and in that singular manner so peculiar to himself — half-malicious, half-ferocious; he almost immediately got up and took his leave; then, for the first time, I observed the agitation of my grandfather, and
I must tell you, Maximilian, that I am the only person capable of discerning emotion in his paralyzed frame. And I suspected that the conversation that had been carried on in his presence (for they always say and do
what they like before the dear old man, without the smallest regard for his feelings) had made a strong impression on his mind; for, naturally enough, it must have pained him to hear the emperor he so devotedly loved and served spoken of in that depreciating manner.”

“The name of M. Noirtier,” interposed Maximilian, “is celebrated throughout Europe; he was a statesman of high standing, and you may or may not know, Valentine, that he took a leading part in every Bonapartist conspiracy set on foot during the restoration of the Bourbons.”

“Oh, I have often heard whispers of things that seem to me most strange — the father a Bonapartist, the son a Royalist; what can have been the reason of so singular a difference in parties and politics? But to resume my story; I turned towards my grandfather, as though to question him as to the cause of his emotion; he looked expressively at the newspaper I had been reading. `What is the matter, dear grandfather?’ said I, `are you pleased?’ He gave me a sign in the affirmative. `With what my father said just now?’ He returned a sign in the negative. `Perhaps you liked what M. Danglars said?’ Another sign in the negative. `Oh, then, you were glad
to hear that M. Morrel (I didn’t dare to say Maximilian) had been made an officer of the Legion of Honor?’ He signified assent; only think of the poor old man’s being so pleased to think that you, who were a perfect
stranger to him, had been made an officer of the Legion of Honor! Perhaps it was a mere whim on his part, for

he is falling, they say, into second childhood, but I love him for showing so much interest in you.”

“How singular,” murmured Maximilian; “your father hates me, while your grandfather, on the contrary — What strange feelings are aroused by politics.”

“Hush,” cried Valentine, suddenly; “some one is coming!” Maximilian leaped at one bound into his crop of lucerne, which he began to pull up in the most ruthless way, under the pretext of being occupied in weeding it.

“Mademoiselle, mademoiselle!” exclaimed a voice from behind the trees. “Madame is searching for you everywhere; there is a visitor in the drawing-room.”

“A visitor?” inquired Valentine, much agitated; “who is it?”

“Some grand personage — a prince I believe they said — the Count of Monte Cristo.”

“I will come directly,” cried Valentine aloud. The name of Monte Cristo sent an electric shock through the
young man on the other side of the iron gate, to whom Valentine’s “I am coming” was the customary signal of farewell. “Now, then,” said Maximilian, leaning on the handle of his spade, “I would give a good deal to know how it comes about that the Count of Monte Cristo is acquainted with M. de Villefort.”

Chapter 52

Toxicology.

It was really the Count of Monte Cristo who had just arrived at Madame de Villefort’s for the purpose of returning the procureur’s visit, and at his name, as may be easily imagined, the whole house was in confusion. Madame de Villefort, who was alone in her drawing-room when the count was announced, desired that her
son might be brought thither instantly to renew his thanks to the count; and Edward, who heard this great personage talked of for two whole days, made all possible haste to come to him, not from obedience to his mother, or out of any feeling of gratitude to the count, but from sheer curiosity, and that some chance remark might give him the opportunity for making one of the impertinent speeches which made his mother say, —
“Oh, that naughty child! But I can’t be severe with him, he is really so bright.”

After the usual civilities, the count inquired after M. de Villefort. “My husband dines with the chancellor,”
replied the young lady; “he has just gone, and I am sure he’ll be exceedingly sorry not to have had the pleasure
of seeing you before he went.” Two visitors who were there when the count arrived, having gazed at him with
all their eyes, retired after that reasonable delay which politeness admits and curiosity requires. “What is your sister Valentine doing?” inquired Madame de Villefort of Edward; “tell some one to bid her come here, that I may have the honor of introducing her to the count.”

“You have a daughter, then, madame?” inquired the count; “very young, I presume?”

“The daughter of M. de Villefort by his first marriage,” replied the young wife, “a fine well-grown girl.”

“But melancholy,” interrupted Master Edward, snatching the feathers out of the tail of a splendid parroquet that was screaming on its gilded perch, in order to make a plume for his hat. Madame de Villefort merely
cried, — “Be still, Edward!” She then added, — “This young madcap is, however, very nearly right, and merely
re-echoes what he has heard me say with pain a hundred times; for Mademoiselle de Villefort is, in spite of all
we can do to rouse her, of a melancholy disposition and taciturn habit, which frequently injure the effect of her beauty. But what detains her? Go, Edward, and see.”

“Because they are looking for her where she is not to be found.” “And where are they looking for her?”
“With grandpapa Noirtier.”

“And do you think she is not there?”

“No, no, no, no, no, she is not there,” replied Edward, singing his words. “And where is she, then? If you know, why don’t you tell?”
“She is under the big chestnut-tree,” replied the spoiled brat, as he gave, in spite of his mother’s commands,
live flies to the parrot, which seemed keenly to relish such fare. Madame de Villefort stretched out her hand to ring, intending to direct her waiting-maid to the spot where she would find Valentine, when the young lady herself entered the apartment. She appeared much dejected; and any person who considered her attentively
might have observed the traces of recent tears in her eyes.

Valentine, whom we have in the rapid march of our narrative presented to our readers without formally introducing her, was a tall and graceful girl of nineteen, with bright chestnut hair, deep blue eyes, and that reposeful air of quiet distinction which characterized her mother. Her white and slender fingers, her pearly

neck, her cheeks tinted with varying hues reminded one of the lovely Englishwomen who have been so
poetically compared in their manner to the gracefulness of a swan. She entered the apartment, and seeing near
her stepmother the stranger of whom she had already heard so much, saluted him without any girlish awkwardness, or even lowering her eyes, and with an elegance that redoubled the count’s attention. He rose to return the salutation. “Mademoiselle de Villefort, my daughter-in-law,” said Madame de Villefort to Monte Cristo, leaning back on her sofa and motioning towards Valentine with her hand. “And M. de Monte Cristo,
King of China, Emperor of Cochin-China,” said the young imp, looking slyly towards his sister.

Madame de Villefort at this really did turn pale, and was very nearly angry with this household plague, who answered to the name of Edward; but the count, on the contrary, smiled, and appeared to look at the boy complacently, which caused the maternal heart to bound again with joy and enthusiasm.

“But, madame,” replied the count, continuing the conversation, and looking by turns at Madame de Villefort and Valentine, “have I not already had the honor of meeting yourself and mademoiselle before? I could not help thinking so just now; the idea came over my mind, and as mademoiselle entered the sight of her was an
additional ray of light thrown on a confused remembrance; excuse the remark.”

“I do not think it likely, sir; Mademoiselle de Villefort is not very fond of society, and we very seldom go out,” said the young lady.

“Then it was not in society that I met with mademoiselle or yourself, madame, or this charming little merry boy. Besides, the Parisian world is entirely unknown to me, for, as I believe I told you, I have been in Paris
but very few days. No, — but, perhaps, you will permit me to call to mind — stay!” The Count placed his hand
on his brow as if to collect his thoughts. “No — it was somewhere — away from here — it was — I do not know
— but it appears that this recollection is connected with a lovely sky and some religious fete; mademoiselle was holding flowers in her hand, the interesting boy was chasing a beautiful peacock in a garden, and you, madame, were under the trellis of some arbor. Pray come to my aid, madame; do not these circumstances appeal to your memory?”

“No, indeed,” replied Madame de Villefort; “and yet it appears to me, sir, that if I had met you anywhere, the recollection of you must have been imprinted on my memory.”

“Perhaps the count saw us in Italy,” said Valentine timidly.

“Yes, in Italy; it was in Italy most probably,” replied Monte Cristo; “you have travelled then in Italy, mademoiselle?”

“Yes; madame and I were there two years ago. The doctors, anxious for my lungs, had prescribed the air of
Naples. We went by Bologna, Perugia, and Rome.”

“Ah, yes — true, mademoiselle,” exclaimed Monte Cristo as if this simple explanation was sufficient to revive
the recollection he sought. “It was at Perugia on Corpus Christi Day, in the garden of the Hotel des Postes, when chance brought us together; you, Madame de Villefort, and her son; I now remember having had the honor of meeting you.”

“I perfectly well remember Perugia, sir, and the Hotel des Postes, and the festival of which you speak,” said Madame de Villefort, “but in vain do I tax my memory, of whose treachery I am ashamed, for I really do not recall to mind that I ever had the pleasure of seeing you before.”

“It is strange, but neither do I recollect meeting with you,” observed Valentine, raising her beautiful eyes to the count.

“But I remember it perfectly,” interposed the darling Edward.

“I will assist your memory, madame,” continued the count; “the day had been burning hot; you were waiting
for horses, which were delayed in consequence of the festival. Mademoiselle was walking in the shade of the garden, and your son disappeared in pursuit of the peacock.”

“And I caught it, mamma, don’t you remember?” interposed Edward, “and I pulled three such beautiful feathers out of his tail.”

“You, madame, remained under the arbor; do you not remember, that while you were seated on a stone bench, and while, as I told you, Mademoiselle de Villefort and your young son were absent, you conversed for a considerable time with somebody?”

“Yes, in truth, yes,” answered the young lady, turning very red, “I do remember conversing with a person wrapped in a long woollen mantle; he was a medical man, I think.”

“Precisely so, madame; this man was myself; for a fortnight I had been at that hotel, during which period I had cured my valet de chambre of a fever, and my landlord of the jaundice, so that I really acquired a reputation as
a skilful physician. We discoursed a long time, madame, on different subjects; of Perugino, of Raffaelle, of manners, customs, of the famous aquatofana, of which they had told you, I think you said, that certain individuals in Perugia had preserved the secret.”

“Yes, true,” replied Madame de Villefort, somewhat uneasily, “I remember now.”

“I do not recollect now all the various subjects of which we discoursed, madame,” continued the count with perfect calmness; “but I perfectly remember that, falling into the error which others had entertained respecting me, you consulted me as to the health of Mademoiselle de Villefort.”
“Yes, really, sir, you were in fact a medical man,” said Madame de Villefort, “since you had cured the sick.” “Moliere or Beaumarchais would reply to you, madame, that it was precisely because I was not, that I had
cured my patients; for myself, I am content to say to you that I have studied chemistry and the natural sciences
somewhat deeply, but still only as an amateur, you understand.” — At this moment the clock struck six. “It is
six o’clock,” said Madame de Villefort, evidently agitated. “Valentine, will you not go and see if your
grandpapa will have his dinner?” Valentine rose, and saluting the count, left the apartment without speaking.

“Oh, madame,” said the count, when Valentine had left the room, “was it on my account that you sent
Mademoiselle de Villefort away?”

“By no means,” replied the young lady quickly; “but this is the hour when we usually give M. Noirtier the unwelcome meal that sustains his pitiful existence. You are aware, sir, of the deplorable condition of my husband’s father?”

“Yes, madame, M. de Villefort spoke of it to me — a paralysis, I think.”

“Alas, yes; the poor old gentleman is entirely helpless; the mind alone is still active in this human machine, and that is faint and flickering, like the light of a lamp about to expire. But excuse me, sir, for talking of our
domestic misfortunes; I interrupted you at the moment when you were telling me that you were a skilful chemist.”

“No, madame, I did not say as much as that,” replied the count with a smile; “quite the contrary. I have studied chemistry because, having determined to live in eastern climates I have been desirous of following the

example of King Mithridates.”

“Mithridates rex Ponticus,” said the young scamp, as he tore some beautiful portraits out of a splendid album, “the individual who took cream in his cup of poison every morning at breakfast.”

“Edward, you naughty boy,” exclaimed Madame de Villefort, snatching the mutilated book from the urchin’s grasp, “you are positively past bearing; you really disturb the conversation; go, leave us, and join your sister Valentine in dear grandpapa Noirtier’s room.”

“The album,” said Edward sulkily. “What do you mean? — the album!” “I want the album.”
“How dare you tear out the drawings?” “Oh, it amuses me.”
“Go — go at once.”

“I won’t go unless you give me the album,” said the boy, seating himself doggedly in an arm-chair, according
to his habit of never giving way.

“Take it, then, and pray disturb us no longer,” said Madame de Villefort, giving the album to Edward, who then went towards the door, led by his mother. The count followed her with his eyes.

“Let us see if she shuts the door after him,” he muttered. Madame de Villefort closed the door carefully after
the child, the count appearing not to notice her; then casting a scrutinizing glance around the chamber, the
young wife returned to her chair, in which she seated herself. “Allow me to observe, madame,” said the count, with that kind tone he could assume so well, “you are really very severe with that dear clever child.”

“Oh, sometimes severity is quite necessary,” replied Madame de Villefort, with all a mother’s real firmness.

“It was his Cornelius Nepos that Master Edward was repeating when he referred to King Mithridates,” continued the count, “and you interrupted him in a quotation which proves that his tutor has by no means neglected him, for your son is really advanced for his years.”

“The fact is, count,” answered the mother, agreeably flattered, “he has great aptitude, and learns all that is set before him. He has but one fault, he is somewhat wilful; but really, on referring for the moment to what he
said, do you truly believe that Mithridates used these precautions, and that these precautions were efficacious?”

“I think so, madame, because I myself have made use of them, that I might not be poisoned at Naples, at Palermo, and at Smyrna — that is to say, on three several occasions when, but for these precautions, I must have lost my life.”

“And your precautions were successful?” “Completely so.”
“Yes, I remember now your mentioning to me at Perugia something of this sort.”

“Indeed?” said the count with an air of surprise, remarkably well counterfeited; “I really did not remember.”

“I inquired of you if poisons acted equally, and with the same effect, on men of the North as on men of the
South; and you answered me that the cold and sluggish habits of the North did not present the same aptitude
as the rich and energetic temperaments of the natives of the South.”

“And that is the case,” observed Monte Cristo. “I have seen Russians devour, without being visibly inconvenienced, vegetable substances which would infallibly have killed a Neapolitan or an Arab.”

“And you really believe the result would be still more sure with us than in the East, and in the midst of our fogs and rains a man would habituate himself more easily than in a warm latitude to this progressive absorption of poison?”

“Certainly; it being at the same time perfectly understood that he should have been duly fortified against the poison to which he had not been accustomed.”

“Yes, I understand that; and how would you habituate yourself, for instance, or rather, how did you habituate yourself to it?”

“Oh, very easily. Suppose you knew beforehand the poison that would be made use of against you; suppose the poison was, for instance, brucine” —

“Brucine is extracted from the false angostura* is it not?” inquired Madame de Villefort.

“Precisely, madame,” replied Monte Cristo; “but I perceive I have not much to teach you. Allow me to compliment you on your knowledge; such learning is very rare among ladies.”

* Brucoea ferruginea.

“Oh, I am aware of that,” said Madame de Villefort; “but I have a passion for the occult sciences, which speak
to the imagination like poetry, and are reducible to figures, like an algebraic equation; but go on, I beg of you;
what you say interests me to the greatest degree.”

“Well,” replied Monte Cristo “suppose, then, that this poison was brucine, and you were to take a milligramme the first day, two milligrammes the second day, and so on. Well, at the end of ten days you
would have taken a centigramme, at the end of twenty days, increasing another milligramme, you would have taken three hundred centigrammes; that is to say, a dose which you would support without inconvenience, and which would be very dangerous for any other person who had not taken the same precautions as yourself.
Well, then, at the end of a month, when drinking water from the same carafe, you would kill the person who drank with you, without your perceiving, otherwise than from slight inconvenience, that there was any poisonous substance mingled with this water.”

“Do you know any other counter-poisons?” “I do not.”
“I have often read, and read again, the history of Mithridates,” said Madame de Villefort in a tone of reflection, “and had always considered it a fable.”

“No, madame, contrary to most history, it is true; but what you tell me, madame, what you inquire of me, is
not the result of a chance query, for two years ago you asked me the same questions, and said then, that for a very long time this history of Mithridates had occupied your mind.”

“True, sir. The two favorite studies of my youth were botany and mineralogy, and subsequently, when I
learned that the use of simples frequently explained the whole history of a people, and the entire life of individuals in the East, as flowers betoken and symbolize a love affair, I have regretted that I was not a man, that I might have been a Flamel, a Fontana, or a Cabanis.”

“And the more, madame,” said Monte Cristo, “as the Orientals do not confine themselves, as did Mithridates,
to make a cuirass of his poisons, but they also made them a dagger. Science becomes, in their hands, not only
a defensive weapon, but still more frequently an offensive one; the one serves against all their physical sufferings, the other against all their enemies. With opium, belladonna, brucaea, snake-wood, and the cherry-laurel, they put to sleep all who stand in their way. There is not one of those women, Egyptian,
Turkish, or Greek, whom here you call `good women,’ who do not know how, by means of chemistry, to stupefy a doctor, and in psychology to amaze a confessor.”

“Really,” said Madame de Villefort, whose eyes sparkled with strange fire at this conversation.

“Oh, yes, indeed, madame,” continued Monte Cristo, “the secret dramas of the East begin with a love philtre and end with a death potion — begin with paradise and end with — hell. There are as many elixirs of every
kind as there are caprices and peculiarities in the physical and moral nature of humanity; and I will say further
— the art of these chemists is capable with the utmost precision to accommodate and proportion the remedy and the bane to yearnings for love or desires for vengeance.”

“But, sir,” remarked the young woman, “these Eastern societies, in the midst of which you have passed a portion of your existence, are as fantastic as the tales that come from their strange land. A man can easily be
put out of the way there, then; it is, indeed, the Bagdad and Bassora of the `Thousand and One Nights.’ The sultans and viziers who rule over society there, and who constitute what in France we call the government, are really Haroun-al-Raschids and Giaffars, who not only pardon a poisoner, but even make him a prime minister,
if his crime has been an ingenious one, and who, under such circumstances, have the whole story written in letters of gold, to divert their hours of idleness and ennui.”

“By no means, madame; the fanciful exists no longer in the East. There, disguised under other names, and concealed under other costumes, are police agents, magistrates, attorneys-general, and bailiffs. They hang, behead, and impale their criminals in the most agreeable possible manner; but some of these, like clever rogues, have contrived to escape human justice, and succeed in their fraudulent enterprises by cunning stratagems. Amongst us a simpleton, possessed by the demon of hate or cupidity, who has an enemy to destroy, or some near relation to dispose of, goes straight to the grocer’s or druggist’s, gives a false name,
which leads more easily to his detection than his real one, and under the pretext that the rats prevent him from sleeping, purchases five or six grammes of arsenic — if he is really a cunning fellow, he goes to five or six different druggists or grocers, and thereby becomes only five or six times more easily traced; — then, when he
has acquired his specific, he administers duly to his enemy, or near kinsman, a dose of arsenic which would make a mammoth or mastodon burst, and which, without rhyme or reason, makes his victim utter groans
which alarm the entire neighborhood. Then arrive a crowd of policemen and constables. They fetch a doctor, who opens the dead body, and collects from the entrails and stomach a quantity of arsenic in a spoon. Next
day a hundred newspapers relate the fact, with the names of the victim and the murderer. The same evening
the grocer or grocers, druggist or druggists, come and say, `It was I who sold the arsenic to the gentleman;’ and rather than not recognize the guilty purchaser, they will recognize twenty. Then the foolish criminal is taken, imprisoned, interrogated, confronted, confounded, condemned, and cut off by hemp or steel; or if she
be a woman of any consideration, they lock her up for life. This is the way in which you Northerns understand chemistry, madame. Desrues was, however, I must confess, more skilful.”

“What would you have, sir?” said the lady, laughing; “we do what we can. All the world has not the secret of the Medicis or the Borgias.”

“Now,” replied the count, shrugging his shoulders, “shall I tell you the cause of all these stupidities? It is
because, at your theatres, by what at least I could judge by reading the pieces they play, they see persons swallow the contents of a phial, or suck the button of a ring, and fall dead instantly. Five minutes afterwards
the curtain falls, and the spectators depart. They are ignorant of the consequences of the murder; they see neither the police commissary with his badge of office, nor the corporal with his four men; and so the poor
fools believe that the whole thing is as easy as lying. But go a little way from France — go either to Aleppo or
Cairo, or only to Naples or Rome, and you will see people passing by you in the streets — people erect,
smiling, and fresh-colored, of whom Asmodeus, if you were holding on by the skirt of his mantle, would say,
`That man was poisoned three weeks ago; he will be a dead man in a month.'”

“Then,” remarked Madame de Villefort, “they have again discovered the secret of the famous aquatofana that they said was lost at Perugia.”

“Ah, but madame, does mankind ever lose anything? The arts change about and make a tour of the world;
things take a different name, and the vulgar do not follow them — that is all; but there is always the same
result. Poisons act particularly on some organ or another — one on the stomach, another on the brain, another
on the intestines. Well, the poison brings on a cough, the cough an inflammation of the lungs, or some other complaint catalogued in the book of science, which, however, by no means precludes it from being decidedly mortal; and if it were not, would be sure to become so, thanks to the remedies applied by foolish doctors, who
are generally bad chemists, and which will act in favor of or against the malady, as you please; and then there
is a human being killed according to all the rules of art and skill, and of whom justice learns nothing, as was said by a terrible chemist of my acquaintance, the worthy Abbe Adelmonte of Taormina, in Sicily, who has studied these national phenomena very profoundly.”

“It is quite frightful, but deeply interesting,” said the young lady, motionless with attention. “I thought, I must confess, that these tales, were inventions of the Middle Ages.”

“Yes, no doubt, but improved upon by ours. What is the use of time, rewards of merit, medals, crosses,
Monthyon prizes, if they do not lead society towards more complete perfection? Yet man will never be perfect until he learns to create and destroy; he does know how to destroy, and that is half the battle.”

“So,” added Madame de Villefort, constantly returning to her object, “the poisons of the Borgias, the Medicis,
the Renes, the Ruggieris, and later, probably, that of Baron de Trenck, whose story has been so misused by modern drama and romance” —

“Were objects of art, madame, and nothing more,” replied the count. “Do you suppose that the real savant addresses himself stupidly to the mere individual? By no means. Science loves eccentricities, leaps and
bounds, trials of strength, fancies, if I may be allowed so to term them. Thus, for instance, the excellent Abbe
Adelmonte, of whom I spoke just now, made in this way some marvellous experiments.” “Really?”
“Yes; I will mention one to you. He had a remarkably fine garden, full of vegetables, flowers, and fruit. From amongst these vegetables he selected the most simple — a cabbage, for instance. For three days he watered this cabbage with a distillation of arsenic; on the third, the cabbage began to droop and turn yellow. At that
moment he cut it. In the eyes of everybody it seemed fit for table, and preserved its wholesome appearance. It was only poisoned to the Abbe Adelmonte. He then took the cabbage to the room where he had rabbits — for
the Abbe Adelmonte had a collection of rabbits, cats, and guinea-pigs, fully as fine as his collection of vegetables, flowers, and fruit. Well, the Abbe Adelmonte took a rabbit, and made it eat a leaf of the cabbage. The rabbit died. What magistrate would find, or even venture to insinuate, anything against this? What
procureur has ever ventured to draw up an accusation against M. Magendie or M. Flourens, in consequence of
the rabbits, cats, and guinea-pigs they have killed? — not one. So, then, the rabbit dies, and justice takes no

notice. This rabbit dead, the Abbe Adelmonte has its entrails taken out by his cook and thrown on the
dunghill; on this dunghill is a hen, who, pecking these intestines, is in her turn taken ill, and dies next day. At
the moment when she is struggling in the convulsions of death, a vulture is flying by (there are a good many vultures in Adelmonte’s country); this bird darts on the dead fowl, and carries it away to a rock, where it dines
off its prey. Three days afterwards, this poor vulture, which has been very much indisposed since that dinner, suddenly feels very giddy while flying aloft in the clouds, and falls heavily into a fish-pond. The pike, eels,
and carp eat greedily always, as everybody knows — well, they feast on the vulture. Now suppose that next day, one of these eels, or pike, or carp, poisoned at the fourth remove, is served up at your table. Well, then,
your guest will be poisoned at the fifth remove, and die, at the end of eight or ten days, of pains in the intestines, sickness, or abscess of the pylorus. The doctors open the body and say with an air of profound learning, `The subject has died of a tumor on the liver, or of typhoid fever!'”

“But,” remarked Madame de Villefort, “all these circumstances which you link thus to one another may be broken by the least accident; the vulture may not see the fowl, or may fall a hundred yards from the
fish-pond.”

“Ah, that is where the art comes in. To be a great chemist in the East, one must direct chance; and this is to be achieved.” — Madame de Villefort was in deep thought, yet listened attentively. “But,” she exclaimed,
suddenly, “arsenic is indelible, indestructible; in whatsoever way it is absorbed, it will be found again in the body of the victim from the moment when it has been taken in sufficient quantity to cause death.”

“Precisely so,” cried Monte Cristo — “precisely so; and this is what I said to my worthy Adelmonte. He reflected, smiled, and replied to me by a Sicilian proverb, which I believe is also a French proverb, `My son,
the world was not made in a day — but in seven. Return on Sunday.’ On the Sunday following I did return to him. Instead of having watered his cabbage with arsenic, he had watered it this time with a solution of salts, having their basis in strychnine, strychnos colubrina, as the learned term it. Now, the cabbage had not the slightest appearance of disease in the world, and the rabbit had not the smallest distrust; yet, five minutes
afterwards, the rabbit was dead. The fowl pecked at the rabbit, and the next day was a dead hen. This time we were the vultures; so we opened the bird, and this time all special symptoms had disappeared, there were only general symptoms. There was no peculiar indication in any organ — an excitement of the nervous system —
that was it; a case of cerebral congestion — nothing more. The fowl had not been poisoned — she had died of apoplexy. Apoplexy is a rare disease among fowls, I believe, but very common among men.” Madame de Villefort appeared more and more thoughtful.

“It is very fortunate,” she observed, “that such substances could only be prepared by chemists; otherwise, all the world would be poisoning each other.”

“By chemists and persons who have a taste for chemistry,” said Monte Cristo carelessly.

“And then,” said Madame de Villefort, endeavoring by a struggle, and with effort, to get away from her thoughts, “however skilfully it is prepared, crime is always crime, and if it avoid human scrutiny, it does not escape the eye of God. The Orientals are stronger than we are in cases of conscience, and, very prudently,
have no hell — that is the point.”

“Really, madame, this is a scruple which naturally must occur to a pure mind like yours, but which would
easily yield before sound reasoning. The bad side of human thought will always be defined by the paradox of
Jean Jacques Rousseau, — you remember, — the mandarin who is killed five hundred leagues off by raising the
tip of the finger. Man’s whole life passes in doing these things, and his intellect is exhausted by reflecting on them. You will find very few persons who will go and brutally thrust a knife in the heart of a fellow-creature,
or will administer to him, in order to remove him from the surface of the globe on which we move with life and animation, that quantity of arsenic of which we just now talked. Such a thing is really out of rule —
eccentric or stupid. To attain such a point, the blood must be heated to thirty-six degrees, the pulse be, at least,

at ninety, and the feelings excited beyond the ordinary limit. But suppose one pass, as is permissible in
philology, from the word itself to its softened synonym, then, instead of committing an ignoble assassination you make an `elimination;’ you merely and simply remove from your path the individual who is in your way,
and that without shock or violence, without the display of the sufferings which, in the case of becoming a punishment, make a martyr of the victim, and a butcher, in every sense of the word, of him who inflicts them. Then there will be no blood, no groans, no convulsions, and above all, no consciousness of that horrid and compromising moment of accomplishing the act, — then one escapes the clutch of the human law, which says,
`Do not disturb society!’ This is the mode in which they manage these things, and succeed in Eastern climes, where there are grave and phlegmatic persons who care very little for the questions of time in conjunctures of importance.”
“Yet conscience remains,” remarked Madame de Villefort in an agitated voice, and with a stifled sigh. “Yes,” answered Monte Cristo “happily, yes, conscience does remain; and if it did not, how wretched we
should be! After every action requiring exertion, it is conscience that saves us, for it supplies us with a
thousand good excuses, of which we alone are judges; and these reasons, howsoever excellent in producing sleep, would avail us but very little before a tribunal, when we were tried for our lives. Thus Richard III., for
instance, was marvellously served by his conscience after the putting away of the two children of Edward IV.;
in fact, he could say, `These two children of a cruel and persecuting king, who have inherited the vices of their father, which I alone could perceive in their juvenile propensities — these two children are impediments in my way of promoting the happiness of the English people, whose unhappiness they (the children) would infallibly have caused.’ Thus was Lady Macbeth served by her conscience, when she sought to give her son, and not her
husband (whatever Shakespeare may say), a throne. Ah, maternal love is a great virtue, a powerful motive —
so powerful that it excuses a multitude of things, even if, after Duncan’s death, Lady Macbeth had been at all pricked by her conscience.”

Madame de Villefort listened with avidity to these appalling maxims and horrible paradoxes, delivered by the count with that ironical simplicity which was peculiar to him. After a moment’s silence, the lady inquired, “Do you know, my dear count,” she said, “that you are a very terrible reasoner, and that you look at the world
through a somewhat distempered medium? Have you really measured the world by scrutinies, or through alembics and crucibles? For you must indeed be a great chemist, and the elixir you administered to my son, which recalled him to life almost instantaneously” —

“Oh, do not place any reliance on that, madame; one drop of that elixir sufficed to recall life to a dying child,
but three drops would have impelled the blood into his lungs in such a way as to have produced most violent palpitations; six would have suspended his respiration, and caused syncope more serious than that in which he was; ten would have destroyed him. You know, madame, how suddenly I snatched him from those phials
which he so imprudently touched?” “Is it then so terrible a poison?”
“Oh, no. In the first place, let us agree that the word poison does not exist, because in medicine use is made of
the most violent poisons, which become, according as they are employed, most salutary remedies.” “What, then, is it?”
“A skilful preparation of my friend’s the worthy Abbe Adelmonte, who taught me the use of it.” “Oh,” observed Madame de Villefort, “it must be an admirable anti-spasmodic.”
“Perfect, madame, as you have seen,” replied the count; “and I frequently make use of it — with all possible prudence though, be it observed,” he added with a smile of intelligence.

“Most assuredly,” responded Madame de Villefort in the same tone. “As for me, so nervous, and so subject to
fainting fits, I should require a Doctor Adelmonte to invent for me some means of breathing freely and tranquillizing my mind, in the fear I have of dying some fine day of suffocation. In the meanwhile, as the
thing is difficult to find in France, and your abbe is not probably disposed to make a journey to Paris on my account, I must continue to use Monsieur Planche’s anti-spasmodics; and mint and Hoffman’s drops are
among my favorite remedies. Here are some lozenges which I have made up on purpose; they are
compounded doubly strong.” Monte Cristo opened the tortoise-shell box, which the lady presented to him, and inhaled the odor of the lozenges with the air of an amateur who thoroughly appreciated their composition.
“They are indeed exquisite,” he said; “but as they are necessarily submitted to the process of deglutition — a function which it is frequently impossible for a fainting person to accomplish — I prefer my own specific.”

“Undoubtedly, and so should I prefer it, after the effects I have seen produced; but of course it is a secret, and
I am not so indiscreet as to ask it of you.”

“But I,” said Monte Cristo, rising as he spoke — “I am gallant enough to offer it you.” “How kind you are.”
“Only remember one thing — a small dose is a remedy, a large one is poison. One drop will restore life, as you have seen; five or six will inevitably kill, and in a way the more terrible inasmuch as, poured into a glass of
wine, it would not in the slightest degree affect its flavor. But I say no more, madame; it is really as if I were prescribing for you.” The clock struck half-past six, and a lady was announced, a friend of Madame de
Villefort, who came to dine with her.

“If I had had the honor of seeing you for the third or fourth time, count, instead of only for the second,” said Madame de Villefort; “if I had had the honor of being your friend, instead of only having the happiness of being under an obligation to you, I should insist on detaining you to dinner, and not allow myself to be
daunted by a first refusal.”

“A thousand thanks, madame,” replied Monte Cristo “but I have an engagement which I cannot break. I have promised to escort to the Academie a Greek princess of my acquaintance who has never seen your grand
opera, and who relies on me to conduct her thither.” “Adieu, then, sir, and do not forget the prescription.”
“Ah, in truth, madame, to do that I must forget the hour’s conversation I have had with you, which is indeed impossible.” Monte Cristo bowed, and left the house. Madame de Villefort remained immersed in thought.
“He is a very strange man,” she said, “and in my opinion is himself the Adelmonte he talks about.” As to
Monte Cristo the result had surpassed his utmost expectations. “Good,” said he, as he went away; “this is a fruitful soil, and I feel certain that the seed sown will not be cast on barren ground.” Next morning, faithful to
his promise, he sent the prescription requested.

Chapter 53

Robert le Diable.

The pretext of an opera engagement was so much the more feasible, as there chanced to be on that very night
a more than ordinary attraction at the Academie Royale. Levasseur, who had been suffering under severe illness, made his reappearance in the character of Bertrand, and, as usual, the announcement of the most admired production of the favorite composer of the day had attracted a brilliant and fashionable audience. Morcerf, like most other young men of rank and fortune, had his orchestra stall, with the certainty of always finding a seat in at least a dozen of the principal boxes occupied by persons of his acquaintance; he had, moreover, his right of entry into the omnibus box. Chateau-Renaud rented a stall beside his own, while Beauchamp, as a journalist, had unlimited range all over the theatre. It happened that on this particular night
the minister’s box was placed at the disposal of Lucien Debray, who offered it to the Comte de Morcerf, who again, upon his mother’s rejection of it, sent it to Danglars, with an intimation that he should probably do
himself the honor of joining the baroness and her daughter during the evening, in the event of their accepting
the box in question. The ladies received the offer with too much pleasure to dream of a refusal. To no class of persons is the presentation of a gratuitous opera-box more acceptable than to the wealthy millionaire, who still hugs economy while boasting of carrying a king’s ransom in his waistcoat pocket.

Danglars had, however, protested against showing himself in a ministerial box, declaring that his political principles, and his parliamentary position as member of the opposition party would not permit him so to
commit himself; the baroness had, therefore, despatched a note to Lucien Debray, bidding him call for them, it being wholly impossible for her to go alone with Eugenie to the opera. There is no gainsaying the fact that a
very unfavorable construction would have been put upon the circumstance if the two women had gone without escort, while the addition of a third, in the person of her mother’s admitted lover, enabled Mademoiselle
Danglars to defy malice and ill-nature. One must take the world as one finds it.

The curtain rose, as usual, to an almost empty house, it being one of the absurdities of Parisian fashion never
to appear at the opera until after the beginning of the performance, so that the first act is generally played without the slightest attention being paid to it, that part of the audience already assembled being too much occupied in observing the fresh arrivals, while nothing is heard but the noise of opening and shutting doors,
and the buzz of conversation. “Surely,” said Albert, as the door of a box on the first circle opened, “that must
be the Countess G—-.”

“And who is the Countess G—- ?” inquired Chateau-Renaud.

“What a question! Now, do you know, baron, I have a great mind to pick a quarrel with you for asking it; as if
all the world did not know who the Countess G—- was.”

“Ah, to be sure,” replied Chateau-Renaud; “the lovely Venetian, is it not?”

“Herself.” At this moment the countess perceived Albert, and returned his salutation with a smile. “You know her, it seems?” said Chateau-Renaud.

“Franz introduced me to her at Rome,” replied Albert.

“Well, then, will you do as much for me in Paris as Franz did for you in Rome?” “With pleasure.”
There was a cry of “Shut up!” from the audience. This manifestation on the part of the spectators of their wish
to be allowed to hear the music, produced not the slightest effect on the two young men, who continued their

conversation. “The countess was present at the races in the Champ-de-Mars,” said Chateau-Renaud.

“To-day?” “Yes.”
“Bless me, I quite forgot the races. Did you bet?” “Oh, merely a paltry fifty louis.”
“And who was the winner?” “Nautilus. I staked on him.”
“But there were three races, were there not?”

“Yes; there was the prize given by the Jockey Club — a gold cup, you know — and a very singular circumstance occurred about that race.”

“What was it?”

“Oh, shut up!” again interposed some of the audience.

“Why, it was won by a horse and rider utterly unknown on the course.” “Is that possible?”
“True as day. The fact was, nobody had observed a horse entered by the name of Vampa, or that of a jockey styled Job, when, at the last moment, a splendid roan, mounted by a jockey about as big as your fist, presented themselves at the starting-post. They were obliged to stuff at least twenty pounds weight of shot in the small rider’s pockets, to make him weight; but with all that he outstripped Ariel and Barbare, against whom he ran,
by at least three whole lengths.”

“And was it not found out at last to whom the horse and jockey belonged?” “No.”
“You say that the horse was entered under the name of Vampa?” “Exactly; that was the title.”
“Then,” answered Albert, “I am better informed than you are, and know who the owner of that horse was.”

“Shut up, there!” cried the pit in chorus. And this time the tone and manner in which the command was given, betokened such growing hostility that the two young men perceived, for the first time, that the mandate was addressed to them. Leisurely turning round, they calmly scrutinized the various countenances around them, as though demanding some one person who would take upon himself the responsibility of what they deemed excessive impertinence; but as no one responded to the challenge, the friends turned again to the front of the theatre, and affected to busy themselves with the stage. At this moment the door of the minister’s box opened,
and Madame Danglars, accompanied by her daughter, entered, escorted by Lucien Debray, who assiduously conducted them to their seats.

“Ha, ha,” said Chateau-Renaud, “here comes some friends of yours, viscount! What are you looking at there?
don’t you see they are trying to catch your eye?” Albert turned round, just in time to receive a gracious wave
of the fan from the baroness; as for Mademoiselle Eugenie, she scarcely vouchsafed to waste the glances of her large black eyes even upon the business of the stage. “I tell you what, my dear fellow,” said
Chateau-Renaud, “I cannot imagine what objection you can possibly have to Mademoiselle Danglars — that is, setting aside her want of ancestry and somewhat inferior rank, which by the way I don’t think you care very
much about. Now, barring all that, I mean to say she is a deuced fine girl!”

“Handsome, certainly,” replied Albert, “but not to my taste, which I confess, inclines to something softer, gentler, and more feminine.”

“Ah, well,” exclaimed Chateau-Renaud, who because he had seen his thirtieth summer fancied himself duly warranted in assuming a sort of paternal air with his more youthful friend, “you young people are never
satisfied; why, what would you have more? your parents have chosen you a bride built on the model of Diana,
the huntress, and yet you are not content.”

“No, for that very resemblance affrights me; I should have liked something more in the manner of the Venus
of Milo or Capua; but this chase-loving Diana continually surrounded by her nymphs gives me a sort of alarm lest she should some day bring on me the fate of Actaeon.”

And, indeed, it required but one glance at Mademoiselle Danglars to comprehend the justness of Morcerf’s remark — she was beautiful, but her beauty was of too marked and decided a character to please a fastidious
taste; her hair was raven black, but its natural waves seemed somewhat rebellious; her eyes, of the same color
as her hair, were surmounted by well-arched brows, whose great defect, however, consisted in an almost habitual frown, while her whole physiognomy wore that expression of firmness and decision so little in
accordance with the gentler attributes of her sex — her nose was precisely what a sculptor would have chosen
for a chiselled Juno. Her mouth, which might have been found fault with as too large, displayed teeth of
pearly whiteness, rendered still more conspicuous by the brilliant carmine of her lips, contrasting vividly with
her naturally pale complexion. But that which completed the almost masculine look Morcerf found so little to
his taste, was a dark mole, of much larger dimensions than these freaks of nature generally are, placed just at
the corner of her mouth; and the effect tended to increase the expression of self-dependence that characterized
her countenance. The rest of Mademoiselle Eugenie’s person was in perfect keeping with the head just described; she, indeed, reminded one of Diana, as Chateau-Renaud observed, but her bearing was more haughty and resolute. As regarded her attainments, the only fault to be found with them was the same that a
fastidious connoisseur might have found with her beauty, that they were somewhat too erudite and masculine
for so young a person. She was a perfect linguist, a first-rate artist, wrote poetry, and composed music; to the study of the latter she professed to be entirely devoted, following it with an indefatigable perseverance,
assisted by a schoolfellow, — a young woman without fortune whose talent promised to develop into
remarkable powers as a singer. It was rumored that she was an object of almost paternal interest to one of the principal composers of the day, who excited her to spare no pains in the cultivation of her voice, which might hereafter prove a source of wealth and independence. But this counsel effectually decided Mademoiselle Danglars never to commit herself by being seen in public with one destined for a theatrical life; and acting
upon this principle, the banker’s daughter, though perfectly willing to allow Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly
(that was the name of the young virtuosa) to practice with her through the day, took especial care not to be
seen in her company. Still, though not actually received at the Hotel Danglars in the light of an acknowledged friend, Louise was treated with far more kindness and consideration than is usually bestowed on a governess.

The curtain fell almost immediately after the entrance of Madame Danglars into her box, the band quitted the orchestra for the accustomed half-hour’s interval allowed between the acts, and the audience were left at
liberty to promenade the salon or lobbies, or to pay and receive visits in their respective boxes. Morcerf and Chateau-Renaud were amongst the first to avail themselves of this permission. For an instant the idea struck Madame Danglars that this eagerness on the part of the young viscount arose from his impatience to join her

party, and she whispered her expectations to her daughter, that Albert was hurrying to pay his respects to
them. Mademoiselle Eugenie, however, merely returned a dissenting movement of the head, while, with a cold smile, she directed the attention of her mother to an opposite box on the first circle, in which sat the
Countess G—- , and where Morcerf had just made his appearance. “So we meet again, my travelling friend,
do we?” cried the countess, extending her hand to him with all the warmth and cordiality of an old acquaintance; “it was really very good of you to recognize me so quickly, and still more so to bestow your first visit on me.”

“Be assured,” replied Albert, “that if I had been aware of your arrival in Paris, and had known your address, I should have paid my respects to you before this. Allow me to introduce my friend, Baron de Chateau-Renaud, one of the few true gentlemen now to be found in France, and from whom I have just learned that you were a spectator of the races in the Champ-de-Mars, yesterday.” Chateau-Renaud bowed to the countess.

“So you were at the races, baron?” inquired the countess eagerly. “Yes, madame.”
“Well, then,” pursued Madame G—- with considerable animation, “you can probably tell me who won the
Jockey Club stakes?”

“I am sorry to say I cannot,” replied the baron; “and I was just asking the same question of Albert.” “Are you very anxious to know, countess?” asked Albert.
“To know what?”

“The name of the owner of the winning horse?”

“Excessively; only imagine — but do tell me, viscount, whether you really are acquainted with it or no?”

“I beg your pardon, madame, but you were about to relate some story, were you not? You said, `only imagine,’
— and then paused. Pray continue.”

“Well, then, listen. You must know I felt so interested in the splendid roan horse, with his elegant little rider,
so tastefully dressed in a pink satin jacket and cap, that I could not help praying for their success with as much earnestness as though the half of my fortune were at stake; and when I saw them outstrip all the others, and
come to the winning-post in such gallant style, I actually clapped my hands with joy. Imagine my surprise,
when, upon returning home, the first object I met on the staircase was the identical jockey in the pink jacket! I
concluded that, by some singular chance, the owner of the winning horse must live in the same hotel as
myself; but, as I entered my apartments, I beheld the very gold cup awarded as a prize to the unknown horse and rider. Inside the cup was a small piece of paper, on which were written these words — `From Lord
Ruthven to Countess G—- .'”

“Precisely; I was sure of it,” said Morcerf. “Sure of what?”
“That the owner of the horse was Lord Ruthven himself.” “What Lord Ruthven do you mean?”
“Why, our Lord Ruthven — the Vampire of the Salle Argentino!”

“Is it possible?” exclaimed the countess; “is he here in Paris?”

“To be sure, — why not?”

“And you visit him? — meet him at your own house and elsewhere?”

“I assure you he is my most intimate friend, and M. de Chateau-Renaud has also the honor of his acquaintance.”

“But why are you so sure of his being the winner of the Jockey Club prize?” “Was not the winning horse entered by the name of Vampa?”
“What of that?”

“Why, do you not recollect the name of the celebrated bandit by whom I was made prisoner?” “Oh, yes.”
“And from whose hands the count extricated me in so wonderful a manner?” “To be sure, I remember it all now.”
“He called himself Vampa. You see. it’s evident where the count got the name.” “But what could have been his motive for sending the cup to me?”
“In the first place, because I had spoken much of you to him, as you may believe; and in the second, because
he delighted to see a countrywoman take so lively an interest in his success.”

“I trust and hope you never repeated to the count all the foolish remarks we used to make about him?”

“I should not like to affirm upon oath that I have not. Besides, his presenting you the cup under the name of
Lord Ruthven” —

“Oh, but that is dreadful! Why, the man must owe me a fearful grudge.” “Does his action appear like that of an enemy?”
“No; certainly not.” “Well, then” —
“And so he is in Paris?” “Yes.”
“And what effect does he produce?”

“Why,” said Albert, “he was talked about for a week; then the coronation of the queen of England took place, followed by the theft of Mademoiselle Mars’s diamonds; and so people talked of something else.”

“My good fellow,” said Chateau-Renaud, “the count is your friend and you treat him accordingly. Do not
believe what Albert is telling you, countess; so far from the sensation excited in the Parisian circles by the appearance of the Count of Monte Cristo having abated, I take upon myself to declare that it is as strong as
ever. His first astounding act upon coming amongst us was to present a pair of horses, worth 32,000 francs, to Madame Danglars; his second, the almost miraculous preservation of Madame de Villefort’s life; now it seems that he has carried off the prize awarded by the Jockey Club. I therefore maintain, in spite of Morcerf, that not only is the count the object of interest at this present moment, but also that he will continue to be so for a
month longer if he pleases to exhibit an eccentricity of conduct which, after all, may be his ordinary mode of existence.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said Morcerf; “meanwhile, who is in the Russian ambassador’s box?” “Which box do you mean?” asked the countess.
“The one between the pillars on the first tier — it seems to have been fitted up entirely afresh.” “Did you observe any one during the first act?” asked Chateau-Renaud.
“Where?”

“In that box.”

“No,” replied the countess, “it was certainly empty during the first act;” then, resuming the subject of their previous conversation, she said, “And so you really believe it was your mysterious Count of Monte Cristo that gained the prize?”

“I am sure of it.”

“And who afterwards sent the cup to me?” “Undoubtedly.”
“But I don’t know him,” said the countess; “I have a great mind to return it.”

“Do no such thing, I beg of you; he would only send you another, formed of a magnificent sapphire, or hollowed out of a gigantic ruby. It is his way, and you must take him as you find him.” At this moment the
bell rang to announce the drawing up of the curtain for the second act. Albert rose to return to his place. “Shall
I see you again?” asked the countess. “At the end of the next act, with your permission, I will come and inquire whether there is anything I can do for you in Paris?”

“Pray take notice,” said the countess, “that my present residence is 22 Rue de Rivoli, and that I am at home to
my friends every Saturday evening. So now, you are both forewarned.” The young men bowed, and quitted
the box. Upon reaching their stalls, they found the whole of the audience in the parterre standing up and
directing their gaze towards the box formerly possessed by the Russian ambassador. A man of from thirty-five
to forty years of age, dressed in deep black, had just entered, accompanied by a young woman dressed after
the Eastern style. The lady was surpassingly beautiful, while the rich magnificence of her attire drew all eyes upon her. “Hullo,” said Albert; “it is Monte Cristo and his Greek!”

The strangers were, indeed, no other than the count and Haidee. In a few moments the young girl had attracted
the attention of the whole house, and even the occupants of the boxes leaned forward to scrutinize her magnificent diamonds. The second act passed away during one continued buzz of voices — one deep whisper
— intimating that some great and universally interesting event had occurred; all eyes, all thoughts, were

occupied with the young and beautiful woman, whose gorgeous apparel and splendid jewels made a most
extraordinary spectacle. Upon this occasion an unmistakable sign from Madame Danglars intimated her desire
to see Albert in her box directly the curtain fell on the second act, and neither the politeness nor good taste of Morcerf would permit his neglecting an invitation so unequivocally given. At the close of the act he therefore went to the baroness. Having bowed to the two ladies, he extended his hand to Debray. By the baroness he
was most graciously welcomed, while Eugenie received him with her accustomed coldness.

“My dear fellow,” said Debray, “you have come in the nick of time. There is madame overwhelming me with questions respecting the count; she insists upon it that I can tell her his birth, education, and parentage, where
he came from, and whither he is going. Being no disciple of Cagliostro, I was wholly unable to do this; so, by way of getting out of the scrape, I said, `Ask Morcerf; he has got the whole history of his beloved Monte
Cristo at his fingers’ ends;’ whereupon the baroness signified her desire to see you.”

“Is it not almost incredible,” said Madame Danglars, “that a person having at least half a million of secret-service money at his command, should possess so little information?”

“Let me assure you, madame,” said Lucien, “that had I really the sum you mention at my disposal, I would employ it more profitably than in troubling myself to obtain particulars respecting the Count of Monte Cristo, whose only merit in my eyes consists in his being twice as rich as a nabob. However, I have turned the
business over to Morcerf, so pray settle it with him as may be most agreeable to you; for my own part, I care nothing about the count or his mysterious doings.”

“I am very sure no nabob would have sent me a pair of horses worth 32,000 francs, wearing on their heads four diamonds valued at 5,000 francs each.”

“He seems to have a mania for diamonds,” said Morcerf, smiling, “and I verily believe that, like Potemkin, he keeps his pockets filled, for the sake of strewing them along the road, as Tom Thumb did his flint stones.”

“Perhaps he has discovered some mine,” said Madame Danglars. “I suppose you know he has an order for unlimited credit on the baron’s banking establishment?”

“I was not aware of it,” replied Albert, “but I can readily believe it.”

“And, further, that he stated to M. Danglars his intention of only staying a year in Paris, during which time he proposed to spend six millions.

“He must be the Shah of Persia, travelling incog.”

“Have you noticed the remarkable beauty of the young woman, M. Lucien?” inquired Eugenie.

“I really never met with one woman so ready to do justice to the charms of another as yourself,” responded
Lucien, raising his lorgnette to his eye. “A most lovely creature, upon my soul!” was his verdict. “Who is this young person, M. de Morcerf?” inquired Eugenie; “does anybody know?”
“Mademoiselle,” said Albert, replying to this direct appeal, “I can give you very exact information on that subject, as well as on most points relative to the mysterious person of whom we are now conversing — the young woman is a Greek.”

“So I should suppose by her dress; if you know no more than that, every one here is as well-informed as yourself.”

“I am extremely sorry you find me so ignorant a cicerone,” replied Morcerf, “but I am reluctantly obliged to
confess, I have nothing further to communicate — yes, stay, I do know one thing more, namely, that she is a musician, for one day when I chanced to be breakfasting with the count, I heard the sound of a guzla — it is impossible that it could have been touched by any other finger than her own.”

“Then your count entertains visitors, does he?” asked Madame Danglars. “Indeed he does, and in a most lavish manner, I can assure you.”
“I must try and persuade M. Danglars to invite him to a ball or dinner, or something of the sort, that he may be compelled to ask us in return.”

“What,” said Debray, laughing; “do you really mean you would go to his house?” “Why not? my husband could accompany me.”
“But do you know this mysterious count is a bachelor?”

“You have ample proof to the contrary, if you look opposite,” said the baroness, as she laughingly pointed to the beautiful Greek.

“No, no!” exclaimed Debray; “that girl is not his wife: he told us himself she was his slave. Do you not recollect, Morcerf, his telling us so at your breakfast?”

“Well, then,” said the baroness, “if slave she be, she has all the air and manner of a princess.” “Of the `Arabian Nights’?”
“If you like; but tell me, my dear Lucien, what it is that constitutes a princess. Why, diamonds — and she is covered with them.”

“To me she seems overloaded,” observed Eugenie; “she would look far better if she wore fewer, and we should then be able to see her finely formed throat and wrists.”

“See how the artist peeps out!” exclaimed Madame Danglars. “My poor Eugenie, you must conceal your passion for the fine arts.”

“I admire all that is beautiful,” returned the young lady.

“What do you think of the count?” inquired Debray; “he is not much amiss, according to my ideas of good looks.”

“The count,” repeated Eugenie, as though it had not occurred to her to observe him sooner; “the count? — oh,
he is so dreadfully pale.”

“I quite agree with you,” said Morcerf; “and the secret of that very pallor is what we want to find out. The
Countess G—- insists upon it that he is a vampire.”

“Then the Countess G—- has returned to Paris, has she?” inquired the baroness.

“Is that she, mamma?” asked Eugenie; “almost opposite to us, with that profusion of beautiful light hair?”

“Yes,” said Madame Danglars, “that is she. Shall I tell you what you ought to do, Morcerf?”

“Command me, madame.”

“Well, then, you should go and bring your Count of Monte Cristo to us.” “What for?” asked Eugenie.
“What for? Why, to converse with him, of course. Have you really no desire to meet him?” “None whatever,” replied Eugenie.
“Strange child,” murmured the baroness.

“He will very probably come of his own accord,” said Morcerf. “There; do you see, madame, he recognizes you, and bows.” The baroness returned the salute in the most smiling and graceful manner.

“Well,” said Morcerf, “I may as well be magnanimous, and tear myself away to forward your wishes. Adieu; I
will go and try if there are any means of speaking to him.” “Go straight to his box; that will be the simplest plan.”
“But I have never been presented.” “Presented to whom?”
“To the beautiful Greek.”

“You say she is only a slave?”

“While you assert that she is a queen, or at least a princess. No; I hope that when he sees me leave you, he will come out.”

“That is possible — go.”

“I am going,” said Albert, as he made his parting bow. Just as he was passing the count’s box, the door
opened, and Monte Cristo came forth. After giving some directions to Ali, who stood in the lobby, the count took Albert’s arm. Carefully closing the box door, Ali placed himself before it, while a crowd of spectators assembled round the Nubian.

“Upon my word,” said Monte Cristo, “Paris is a strange city, and the Parisians a very singular people. See that cluster of persons collected around poor Ali, who is as much astonished as themselves; really one might
suppose he was the only Nubian they had ever beheld. Now I can promise you, that a Frenchman might show himself in public, either in Tunis, Constantinople, Bagdad, or Cairo, without being treated in that way.”

“That shows that the Eastern nations have too much good sense to waste their time and attention on objects undeserving of either. However, as far as Ali is concerned, I can assure you, the interest he excites is merely from the circumstance of his being your attendant — you, who are at this moment the most celebrated and fashionable person in Paris.”

“Really? and what has procured me so fluttering a distinction?”

“What? why, yourself, to be sure! You give away horses worth a thousand louis; you save the lives of ladies
of high rank and beauty; under the name of Major Brack you run thoroughbreds ridden by tiny urchins not
larger than marmots; then, when you have carried off the golden trophy of victory, instead of setting any value
on it, you give it to the first handsome woman you think of!” “And who has filled your head with all this nonsense?”
“Why, in the first place, I heard it from Madame Danglars, who, by the by, is dying to see you in her box, or
to have you seen there by others; secondly, I learned it from Beauchamp’s journal; and thirdly, from my own imagination. Why, if you sought concealment, did you call your horse Vampa?”

“That was an oversight, certainly,” replied the count; “but tell me, does the Count of Morcerf never visit the
Opera? I have been looking for him, but without success.” “He will be here to-night.”
“In what part of the house?”

“In the baroness’s box, I believe.”

“That charming young woman with her is her daughter?” “Yes.”
“I congratulate you.” Morcerf smiled. “We will discuss that subject at length some future time,” said he. “But what do you think of the music?”

“What music?”

“Why, the music you have been listening to.”

“Oh, it is well enough as the production of a human composer, sung by featherless bipeds, to quote the late
Diogenes.”

“From which it would seem, my dear count, that you can at pleasure enjoy the seraphic strains that proceed from the seven choirs of paradise?”

“You are right, in some degree; when I wish to listen to sounds more exquisitely attuned to melody than mortal ear ever yet listened to, I go to sleep.”

“Then sleep here, my dear count. The conditions are favorable; what else was opera invented for?”

“No, thank you. Your orchestra is too noisy. To sleep after the manner I speak of, absolute calm and silence are necessary, and then a certain preparation” —

“I know — the famous hashish!”

“Precisely. So, my dear viscount, whenever you wish to be regaled with music come and sup with me.”

“I have already enjoyed that treat when breakfasting with you,” said Morcerf. “Do you mean at Rome?”

“I do.”

“Ah, then, I suppose you heard Haidee’s guzla; the poor exile frequently beguiles a weary hour in playing over
to me the airs of her native land.” Morcerf did not pursue the subject, and Monte Cristo himself fell into a silent reverie. The bell rang at this moment for the rising of the curtain. “You will excuse my leaving you,” said the count, turning in the direction of his box.

“What? Are you going?”

“Pray, say everything that is kind to Countess G—- on the part of her friend the Vampire.” “And what message shall I convey to the baroness!”
“That, with her permission, I shall do myself the honor of paying my respects in the course of the evening.”

The third act had begun; and during its progress the Count of Morcerf, according to his promise, made his appearance in the box of Madame Danglars. The Count of Morcerf was not a person to excite either interest or curiosity in a place of public amusement; his presence, therefore, was wholly unnoticed, save by the
occupants of the box in which he had just seated himself. The quick eye of Monte Cristo however, marked his coming; and a slight though meaning smile passed over his lips. Haidee, whose soul seemed centred in the business of the stage, like all unsophisticated natures, delighted in whatever addressed itself to the eye or ear.

The third act passed off as usual. Mesdemoiselles Noblet, Julie, and Leroux executed the customary
pirouettes; Robert duly challenged the Prince of Granada; and the royal father of the princess Isabella, taking
his daughter by the hand, swept round the stage with majestic strides, the better to display the rich folds of his velvet robe and mantle. After which the curtain again fell, and the spectators poured forth from the theatre into
the lobbies and salon. The count left his box, and a moment later was saluting the Baronne Danglars, who could not restrain a cry of mingled pleasure and surprise. “You are welcome, count!” she exclaimed, as he
entered. “I have been most anxious to see you, that I might repeat orally the thanks writing can so ill express.”

“Surely so trifling a circumstance cannot deserve a place in your remembrance. Believe me, madame, I had entirely forgotten it.”

“But it is not so easy to forget, monsieur, that the very next day after your princely gift you saved the life of
my dear friend, Madame de Villefort, which was endangered by the very animals your generosity restored to me.”

“This time, at least, I do not deserve your thanks. It was Ali, my Nubian slave, who rendered this service to
Madame de Villefort.”

“Was it Ali,” asked the Count of Morcerf, “who rescued my son from the hands of bandits?”

“No, count,” replied Monte Cristo taking the hand held out to him by the general; “in this instance I may fairly and freely accept your thanks; but you have already tendered them, and fully discharged your debt — if indeed there existed one — and I feel almost mortified to find you still reverting to the subject. May I beg of you, baroness, to honor me with an introduction to your daughter?”

“Oh, you are no stranger — at least not by name,” replied Madame Danglars, “and the last two or three days
we have really talked of nothing but you. Eugenie,” continued the baroness, turning towards her daughter,
“this is the Count of Monte Cristo.” The Count bowed, while Mademoiselle Danglars bent her head slightly. “You have a charming young person with you to-night, count,” said Eugenie. “Is she your daughter?”

“No, mademoiselle,” said Monte Cristo, astonished at the coolness and freedom of the question. “She is a poor
unfortunate Greek left under my care.” “And what is her name?”
“Haidee,” replied Monte Cristo.

“A Greek?” murmured the Count of Morcerf.

“Yes, indeed, count,” said Madame Danglars; “and tell me, did you ever see at the court of Ali Tepelini, whom you so gloriously and valiantly served, a more exquisite beauty or richer costume?”

“Did I hear rightly, monsieur,” said Monte Cristo “that you served at Yanina?”

“I was inspector-general of the pasha’s troops,” replied Morcerf; “and it is no secret that I owe my fortune, such as it is, to the liberality of the illustrious Albanese chief.”

“But look!” exclaimed Madame Danglars. “Where?” stammered Morcerf.
“There,” said Monte Cristo placing his arms around the count, and leaning with him over the front of the box, just as Haidee, whose eyes were occupied in examining the theatre in search of her guardian, perceived his
pale features close to Morcerf’s face. It was as if the young girl beheld the head of Medusa. She bent forwards
as though to assure herself of the reality of what she saw, then, uttering a faint cry, threw herself back in her seat. The sound was heard by the people about Ali, who instantly opened the box-door. “Why, count,” exclaimed Eugenie, “what has happened to your ward? she seems to have been taken suddenly ill.”

“Very probably,” answered the count. “But do not be alarmed on her account. Haidee’s nervous system is delicately organized, and she is peculiarly susceptible to the odors even of flowers — nay, there are some which cause her to faint if brought into her presence. However,” continued Monte Cristo, drawing a small phial from his pocket, “I have an infallible remedy.” So saying, he bowed to the baroness and her daughter, exchanged a parting shake of the hand with Debray and the count, and left Madame Danglars’ box. Upon his
return to Haidee he found her still very pale. As soon as she saw him she seized his hand; her own hands were moist and icy cold. “Who was it you were talking with over there?” she asked.

“With the Count of Morcerf,” answered Monte Cristo. “He tells me he served your illustrious father, and that
he owes his fortune to him.”

“Wretch!” exclaimed Haidee, her eyes flashing with rage; “he sold my father to the Turks, and the fortune he boasts of was the price of his treachery! Did not you know that, my dear lord?”

“Something of this I heard in Epirus,” said Monte Cristo; “but the particulars are still unknown to me. You shall relate them to me, my child. They are, no doubt, both curious and interesting.”

“Yes, yes; but let us go. I feel as though it would kill me to remain long near that dreadful man.” So saying, Haidee arose, and wrapping herself in her burnoose of white cashmire embroidered with pearls and coral, she hastily quitted the box at the moment when the curtain was rising upon the fourth act.

“Do you observe,” said the Countess G—- to Albert, who had returned to her side, “that man does nothing like other people; he listens most devoutly to the third act of `Robert le Diable,’ and when the fourth begins, takes
his departure.”

Chapter 54

A Flurry in Stocks.

Some days after this meeting, Albert de Morcerf visited the Count of Monte Cristo at his house in the Champs
Elysees, which had already assumed that palace-like appearance which the count’s princely fortune enabled
him to give even to his most temporary residences. He came to renew the thanks of Madame Danglars which had been already conveyed to the count through the medium of a letter, signed “Baronne Danglars, nee
Hermine de Servieux.” Albert was accompanied by Lucien Debray, who, joining in his friend’s conversation, added some passing compliments, the source of which the count’s talent for finesse easily enabled him to
guess. He was convinced that Lucien’s visit was due to a double feeling of curiosity, the larger half of which sentiment emanated from the Rue de la Chaussee d’Antin. In short, Madame Danglars, not being able
personally to examine in detail the domestic economy and household arrangements of a man who gave away horses worth 30,000 francs and who went to the opera with a Greek slave wearing diamonds to the amount of
a million of money, had deputed those eyes, by which she was accustomed to see, to give her a faithful
account of the mode of life of this incomprehensible person. But the count did not appear to suspect that there could be the slightest connection between Lucien’s visit and the curiosity of the baroness.

“You are in constant communication with the Baron Danglars?” the count inquired of Albert de Morcerf. “Yes, count, you know what I told you?”
“All remains the same, then, in that quarter?”

“It is more than ever a settled thing,” said Lucien, — and, considering that this remark was all that he was at that time called upon to make, he adjusted the glass to his eye, and biting the top of his gold headed cane, began to make the tour of the apartment, examining the arms and the pictures.

“Ah,” said Monte Cristo “I did not expect that the affair would be so promptly concluded.”

“Oh, things take their course without our assistance. While we are forgetting them, they are falling into their appointed order; and when, again, our attention is directed to them, we are surprised at the progress they have made towards the proposed end. My father and M. Danglars served together in Spain, my father in the army
and M. Danglars in the commissariat department. It was there that my father, ruined by the revolution, and M. Danglars, who never had possessed any patrimony, both laid the foundations of their different fortunes.”

“Yes,” said Monte Cristo “I think M. Danglars mentioned that in a visit which I paid him; and,” continued he, casting a side-glance at Lucien, who was turning over the leaves of an album, “Mademoiselle Eugenie is
pretty — I think I remember that to be her name.”

“Very pretty, or rather, very beautiful,” replied Albert, “but of that style of beauty which I do not appreciate; I
am an ungrateful fellow.”

“You speak as if you were already her husband.”

“Ah,” returned Albert, in his turn looking around to see what Lucien was doing.

“Really,” said Monte Cristo, lowering his voice, “you do not appear to me to be very enthusiastic on the subject of this marriage.”

“Mademoiselle Danglars is too rich for me,” replied Morcerf, “and that frightens me.”

“Bah,” exclaimed Monte Cristo, “that’s a fine reason to give. Are you not rich yourself?”

“My father’s income is about 50,000 francs per annum; and he will give me, perhaps, ten or twelve thousand when I marry.”

“That, perhaps, might not be considered a large sum, in Paris especially,” said the count; “but everything does
not depend on wealth, and it is a fine thing to have a good name, and to occupy a high station in society. Your name is celebrated, your position magnificent; and then the Comte de Morcerf is a soldier, and it is pleasing to
see the integrity of a Bayard united to the poverty of a Duguesclin; disinterestedness is the brightest ray in which a noble sword can shine. As for me, I consider the union with Mademoiselle Danglars a most suitable one; she will enrich you, and you will ennoble her.” Albert shook his head, and looked thoughtful. “There is
still something else,” said he.

“I confess,” observed Monte Cristo, “that I have some difficulty in comprehending your objection to a young lady who is both rich and beautiful.”

“Oh,” said Morcerf, “this repugnance, if repugnance it may be called, is not all on my side.” “Whence can it arise, then? for you told me your father desired the marriage.”
“It is my mother who dissents; she has a clear and penetrating judgment, and does not smile on the proposed union. I cannot account for it, but she seems to entertain some prejudice against the Danglars.”

“Ah,” said the count, in a somewhat forced tone, “that may be easily explained; the Comtesse de Morcerf, who
is aristocracy and refinement itself, does not relish the idea of being allied by your marriage with one of ignoble birth; that is natural enough.”

“I do not know if that is her reason,” said Albert, “but one thing I do know, that if this marriage be consummated, it will render her quite miserable. There was to have been a meeting six weeks ago in order to talk over and settle the affair; but I had such a sudden attack of indisposition” —

“Real?” interrupted the count, smiling.

“Oh, real enough, from anxiety doubtless, — at any rate they postponed the matter for two months. There is no hurry, you know. I am not yet twenty-one, and Eugenie is only seventeen; but the two months expire next
week. It must be done. My dear count, you cannot imagine how my mind is harassed. How happy you are in being exempt from all this!”

“Well, and why should not you be free, too? What prevents you from being so?”

“Oh, it will be too great a disappointment to my father if I do not marry Mademoiselle Danglars.” “Marry her then,” said the count, with a significant shrug of the shoulders.
“Yes,” replied Morcerf, “but that will plunge my mother into positive grief.” “Then do not marry her,” said the count.
“Well, I shall see. I will try and think over what is the best thing to be done; you will give me your advice, will you not, and if possible extricate me from my unpleasant position? I think, rather than give pain to my dear mother, I would run the risk of offending the count.” Monte Cristo turned away; he seemed moved by
this last remark. “Ah,” said he to Debray, who had thrown himself into an easy-chair at the farthest extremity

of the salon, and who held a pencil in his right hand and an account book in his left, “what are you doing
there? Are you making a sketch after Poussin?”

“Oh, no,” was the tranquil response; “I am too fond of art to attempt anything of that sort. I am doing a little sum in arithmetic.”

“In arithmetic?”

“Yes; I am calculating — by the way, Morcerf, that indirectly concerns you — I am calculating what the house
of Danglars must have gained by the last rise in Haiti bonds; from 206 they have risen to 409 in three days, and the prudent banker had purchased at 206; therefore he must have made 300,000 livres.”

“That is not his biggest scoop,” said Morcerf; “did he not make a million in Spaniards this last year?”

“My dear fellow,” said Lucien, “here is the Count of Monte Cristo, who will say to you, as the Italians do, — “`Danaro e santita, Meta della meta.’*
* “Money and sanctity, Each in a moiety.

“When they tell me such things, I only shrug my shoulders and say nothing.” “But you were speaking of Haitians?” said Monte Cristo.
“Ah, Haitians, — that is quite another thing! Haitians are the ecarte of French stock-jobbing. We may like bouillotte, delight in whist, be enraptured with boston, and yet grow tired of them all; but we always come back to ecarte — it is not only a game, it is a hors-d’oeuvre! M. Danglars sold yesterday at 405, and pockets
300,000 francs. Had he but waited till to-day, the price would have fallen to 205, and instead of gaining
300,000 francs, he would have lost 20 or 25,000.”

“And what has caused the sudden fall from 409 to 206?” asked Monte Cristo. “I am profoundly ignorant of all these stock-jobbing intrigues.”

“Because,” said Albert, laughing, “one piece of news follows another, and there is often great dissimilarity between them.”

“Ah,” said the count, “I see that M. Danglars is accustomed to play at gaining or losing 300,000 francs in a day; he must be enormously rich.”

“It is not he who plays!” exclaimed Lucien; “it is Madame Danglars: she is indeed daring.”

“But you who are a reasonable being, Lucien, and who know how little dependence is to be placed on the news, since you are at the fountain-head, surely you ought to prevent it,” said Morcerf, with a smile.

“How can I, if her husband fails in controlling her?” asked Lucien; “you know the character of the baroness —
no one has any influence with her, and she does precisely what she pleases.” “Ah, if I were in your place” — said Albert.
“Well?”

“I would reform her; it would be rendering a service to her future son-in-law.”

“How would you set about it?”

“Ah, that would be easy enough — I would give her a lesson.” “A lesson?”
“Yes. Your position as secretary to the minister renders your authority great on the subject of political news; you never open your mouth but the stockbrokers immediately stenograph your words. Cause her to lose a hundred thousand francs, and that would teach her prudence.”

“I do not understand,” stammered Lucien.

“It is very clear, notwithstanding,” replied the young man, with an artlessness wholly free from affectation; “tell her some fine morning an unheard-of piece of intelligence — some telegraphic despatch, of which you alone are in possession; for instance, that Henri IV. was seen yesterday at Gabrielle’s. That would boom the
market; she will buy heavily, and she will certainly lose when Beauchamp announces the following day, in his gazette, `The report circulated by some usually well-informed persons that the king was seen yesterday at Gabrielle’s house, is totally without foundation. We can positively assert that his majesty did not quit the
Pont-Neuf.'” Lucien half smiled. Monte Cristo, although apparently indifferent, had not lost one word of this conversation, and his penetrating eye had even read a hidden secret in the embarrassed manner of the
secretary. This embarrassment had completely escaped Albert, but it caused Lucien to shorten his visit; he was evidently ill at ease. The count, in taking leave of him, said something in a low voice, to which he answered, “Willingly, count; I accept.” The count returned to young Morcerf.

“Do you not think, on reflection,” said he to him, “that you have done wrong in thus speaking of your mother-in-law in the presence of M. Debray?”

“My dear count,” said Morcerf, “I beg of you not to apply that title so prematurely.”
“Now, speaking without any exaggeration, is your mother really so very much averse to this marriage?” “So much so that the baroness very rarely comes to the house, and my mother, has not, I think, visited
Madame Danglars twice in her whole life.”

“Then,” said the count, “I am emboldened to speak openly to you. M. Danglars is my banker; M. de Villefort
has overwhelmed me with politeness in return for a service which a casual piece of good fortune enabled me
to render him. I predict from all this an avalanche of dinners and routs. Now, in order not to presume on this, and also to be beforehand with them, I have, if agreeable to you, thought of inviting M. and Madame
Danglars, and M. and Madame de Villefort, to my country-house at Auteuil. If I were to invite you and the
Count and Countess of Morcerf to this dinner, I should give it the appearance of being a matrimonial meeting,
or at least Madame de Morcerf would look upon the affair in that light, especially if Baron Danglars did me
the honor to bring his daughter. In that case your mother would hold me in aversion, and I do not at all wish that; on the contrary, I desire to stand high in her esteem.”

“Indeed, count,” said Morcerf, “I thank you sincerely for having used so much candor towards me, and I gratefully accept the exclusion which you propose. You say you desire my mother’s good opinion; I assure you it is already yours to a very unusual extent.”

“Do you think so?” said Monte Cristo, with interest.

“Oh, I am sure of it; we talked of you an hour after you left us the other day. But to return to what we were saying. If my mother could know of this attention on your part — and I will venture to tell her — I am sure that

she will be most grateful to you; it is true that my father will be equally angry.” The count laughed. “Well,”
said he to Morcerf, “but I think your father will not be the only angry one; M. and Madame Danglars will
think me a very ill-mannered person. They know that I am intimate with you — that you are, in fact; one of the oldest of my Parisian acquaintances — and they will not find you at my house; they will certainly ask me why
I did not invite you. Be sure to provide yourself with some previous engagement which shall have a
semblance of probability, and communicate the fact to me by a line in writing. You know that with bankers nothing but a written document will be valid.”

“I will do better than that,” said Albert; “my mother is wishing to go to the sea-side — what day is fixed for your dinner?”

“Saturday.”

“This is Tuesday — well, to-morrow evening we leave, and the day after we shall be at Treport. Really, count, you have a delightful way of setting people at their ease.”

“Indeed, you give me more credit than I deserve; I only wish to do what will be agreeable to you, that is all.” “When shall you send your invitations?”
“This very day.”

“Well, I will immediately call on M. Danglars, and tell him that my mother and myself must leave Paris
to-morrow. I have not seen you, consequently I know nothing of your dinner.”

“How foolish you are! Have you forgotten that M. Debray has just seen you at my house?” “Ah, true,”
“Fix it this way. I have seen you, and invited you without any ceremony, when you instantly answered that it would be impossible for you to accept, as you were going to Treport.”

“Well, then, that is settled; but you will come and call on my mother before to-morrow?”

“Before to-morrow? — that will be a difficult matter to arrange, besides, I shall just be in the way of all the preparations for departure.”

“Well, you can do better. You were only a charming man before, but, if you accede to my proposal, you will
be adorable.”

“What must I do to attain such sublimity?”

“You are to-day free as air — come and dine with me; we shall be a small party — only yourself, my mother,
and I. You have scarcely seen my mother; you shall have an opportunity of observing her more closely. She is
a remarkable woman, and I only regret that there does not exist another like her, about twenty years younger;
in that case, I assure you, there would very soon be a Countess and Viscountess of Morcerf. As to my father, you will not see him; he is officially engaged, and dines with the chief referendary. We will talk over our
travels; and you, who have seen the whole world, will relate your adventures — you shall tell us the history of
the beautiful Greek who was with you the other night at the Opera, and whom you call your slave, and yet
treat like a princess. We will talk Italian and Spanish. Come, accept my invitation, and my mother will thank you.”

“A thousand thanks,” said the count, “your invitation is most gracious, and I regret exceedingly that it is not in
my power to accept it. I am not so much at liberty as you suppose; on the contrary, I have a most important engagement.”

“Ah, take care, you were teaching me just now how, in case of an invitation to dinner, one might creditably make an excuse. I require the proof of a pre-engagement. I am not a banker, like M. Danglars, but I am quite
as incredulous as he is.”

“I am going to give you a proof,” replied the count, and he rang the bell.

“Humph,” said Morcerf, “this is the second time you have refused to dine with my mother; it is evident that you wish to avoid her.” Monte Cristo started. “Oh, you do not mean that,” said he; “besides, here comes the confirmation of my assertion.” Baptistin entered, and remained standing at the door. “I had no previous knowledge of your visit, had I?”

“Indeed, you are such an extraordinary person, that I would not answer for it.” “At all events, I could not guess that you would invite me to dinner.”
“Probably not.”

“Well, listen, Baptistin, what did I tell you this morning when I called you into my laboratory?” “To close the door against visitors as soon as the clock struck five,” replied the valet.
“What then?”

“Ah, my dear count,” said Albert.

“No, no, I wish to do away with that mysterious reputation that you have given me, my dear viscount; it is tiresome to be always acting Manfred. I wish my life to be free and open. Go on, Baptistin.”

“Then to admit no one except Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti and his son.”

“You hear — Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti — a man who ranks amongst the most ancient nobility of Italy,
whose name Dante has celebrated in the tenth canto of `The Inferno,’ you remember it, do you not? Then there
is his son, Andrea, a charming young man, about your own age, viscount, bearing the same title as yourself, and who is making his entry into the Parisian world, aided by his father’s millions. The major will bring his son with him this evening, the contino, as we say in Italy; he confides him to my care. If he proves himself
worthy of it, I will do what I can to advance his interests. You will assist me in the work, will you not?” “Most undoubtedly. This Major Cavalcanti is an old friend of yours, then?”
“By no means. He is a perfect nobleman, very polite, modest, and agreeable, such as may be found constantly
in Italy, descendants of very ancient families. I have met him several times at Florence, Bologna and Lucca,
and he has now communicated to me the fact of his arrival in Paris. The acquaintances one makes in travelling have a sort of claim on one; they everywhere expect to receive the same attention which you once paid them
by chance, as though the civilities of a passing hour were likely to awaken any lasting interest in favor of the man in whose society you may happen to be thrown in the course of your journey. This good Major
Cavalcanti is come to take a second view of Paris, which he only saw in passing through in the time of the
Empire, when he was on his way to Moscow. I shall give him a good dinner, he will confide his son to my
care, I will promise to watch over him, I shall let him follow in whatever path his folly may lead him, and then

I shall have done my part.”

“Certainly; I see you are a model Mentor,” said Albert “Good-by, we shall return on Sunday. By the way, I
have received news of Franz.”

“Have you? Is he still amusing himself in Italy?”

“I believe so; however, he regrets your absence extremely. He says you were the sun of Rome, and that without you all appears dark and cloudy; I do not know if he does not even go so far as to say that it rains.”

“His opinion of me is altered for the better, then?”

“No, he still persists in looking upon you as the most incomprehensible and mysterious of beings.”

“He is a charming young man,” said Monte Cristo “and I felt a lively interest in him the very first evening of
my introduction, when I met him in search of a supper, and prevailed upon him to accept a portion of mine.
He is, I think, the son of General d’Epinay?” “He is.”
“The same who was so shamefully assassinated in 1815?” “By the Bonapartists.”
“Yes. Really I like him extremely; is there not also a matrimonial engagement contemplated for him?” “Yes, he is to marry Mademoiselle de Villefort.”
“Indeed?”

“And you know I am to marry Mademoiselle Danglars,” said Albert, laughing. “You smile.”
“Yes.”

“Why do you do so?”

“I smile because there appears to me to be about as much inclination for the consummation of the engagement
in question as there is for my own. But really, my dear count, we are talking as much of women as they do of
us; it is unpardonable.” Albert rose. “Are you going?”
“Really, that is a good idea! — two hours have I been boring you to death with my company, and then you,
with the greatest politeness, ask me if I am going. Indeed, count, you are the most polished man in the world. And your servants, too, how very well behaved they are; there is quite a style about them. Monsieur Baptistin especially; I could never get such a man as that. My servants seem to imitate those you sometimes see in a
play, who, because they have only a word or two to say, aquit themselves in the most awkward manner possible. Therefore, if you part with M. Baptistin, give me the refusal of him.”

“By all means.”

“That is not all; give my compliments to your illustrious Luccanese, Cavalcante of the Cavalcanti; and if by
any chance he should be wishing to establish his son, find him a wife very rich, very noble on her mother’s side at least, and a baroness in right of her father, I will help you in the search.”

“Ah, ha; you will do as much as that, will you?” “Yes.”
“Well, really, nothing is certain in this world.”

“Oh, count, what a service you might render me! I should like you a hundred times better if, by your intervention, I could manage to remain a bachelor, even were it only for ten years.”

“Nothing is impossible,” gravely replied Monte Cristo; and taking leave of Albert, he returned into the house, and struck the gong three times. Bertuccio appeared. “Monsieur Bertuccio, you understand that I intend entertaining company on Saturday at Auteuil.” Bertuccio slightly started. “I shall require your services to see
that all be properly arranged. It is a beautiful house, or at all events may be made so.”

“There must be a good deal done before it can deserve that title, your excellency, for the tapestried hangings are very old.”

“Let them all be taken away and changed, then, with the exception of the sleeping-chamber which is hung
with red damask; you will leave that exactly as it is.” Bertuccio bowed. “You will not touch the garden either;
as to the yard, you may do what you please with it; I should prefer that being altered beyond all recognition.”

“I will do everything in my power to carry out your wishes, your excellency. I should be glad, however, to receive your excellency’s commands concerning the dinner.”

“Really, my dear M. Bertuccio,” said the count, “since you have been in Paris, you have become quite nervous, and apparently out of your element; you no longer seem to understand me.”

“But surely your excellency will be so good as to inform me whom you are expecting to receive?”

“I do not yet know myself, neither is it necessary that you should do so. `Lucullus dines with Lucullus,’ that is quite sufficient.” Bertuccio bowed, and left the room.

Chapter 55

Major Cavalcanti.

Both the count and Baptistin had told the truth when they announced to Morcerf the proposed visit of the major, which had served Monte Cristo as a pretext for declining Albert’s invitation. Seven o’clock had just
struck, and M. Bertuccio, according to the command which had been given him, had two hours before left for
Auteuil, when a cab stopped at the door, and after depositing its occupant at the gate, immediately hurried away, as if ashamed of its employment. The visitor was about fifty-two years of age, dressed in one of the
green surtouts, ornamented with black frogs, which have so long maintained their popularity all over Europe.
He wore trousers of blue cloth, boots tolerably clean, but not of the brightest polish, and a little too thick in
the soles, buckskin gloves, a hat somewhat resembling in shape those usually worn by the gendarmes, and a black cravat striped with white, which, if the proprietor had not worn it of his own free will, might have
passed for a halter, so much did it resemble one. Such was the picturesque costume of the person who rang at
the gate, and demanded if it was not at No. 30 in the Avenue des Champs-Elysees that the Count of Monte Cristo lived, and who, being answered by the porter in the affirmative, entered, closed the gate after him, and began to ascend the steps.

The small and angular head of this man, his white hair and thick gray mustaches, caused him to be easily recognized by Baptistin, who had received an exact description of the expected visitor, and who was awaiting
him in the hall. Therefore, scarcely had the stranger time to pronounce his name before the count was apprised
of his arrival. He was ushered into a simple and elegant drawing-room, and the count rose to meet him with a smiling air. “Ah, my dear sir, you are most welcome; I was expecting you.”

“Indeed,” said the Italian, “was your excellency then aware of my visit?” “Yes; I had been told that I should see you to-day at seven o’clock.”
“Then you have received full information concerning my arrival?” “Of course.”
“Ah, so much the better, I feared this little precaution might have been forgotten.” “What precaution?”
“That of informing you beforehand of my coming.” “Oh, no, it has not.”
“But you are sure you are not mistaken.” “Very sure.”
“It really was I whom your excellency expected at seven o’clock this evening?”

“I will prove it to you beyond a doubt.”

“Oh, no, never mind that,” said the Italian; “it is not worth the trouble.”

“Yes, yes,” said Monte Cristo. His visitor appeared slightly uneasy. “Let me see,” said the count; “are you not
the Marquis Bartolomeo Cavalcanti?”

“Bartolomeo Cavalcanti,” joyfully replied the Italian; “yes, I am really he.”

“Ex-major in the Austrian service?”

“Was I a major?” timidly asked the old soldier.

“Yes,” said Monte Cristo “you were a major; that is the title the French give to the post which you filled in
Italy.”

“Very good,” said the major, “I do not demand more, you understand” —

“Your visit here to-day is not of your own suggestion, is it?” said Monte Cristo. “No, certainly not.”
“You were sent by some other person?” “Yes.”
“By the excellent Abbe Busoni?” “Exactly so,” said the delighted major. “And you have a letter?”
“Yes, there it is.”

“Give it me, then;” and Monte Cristo took the letter, which he opened and read. The major looked at the count with his large staring eyes, and then took a survey of the apartment, but his gaze almost immediately reverted
to the proprietor of the room. “Yes, yes, I see. `Major Cavalcanti, a worthy patrician of Lucca, a descendant of
the Cavalcanti of Florence,'” continued Monte Cristo, reading aloud, “`possessing an income of half a
million.'” Monte Cristo raised his eyes from the paper, and bowed. “Half a million,” said he, “magnificent!” “Half a million, is it?” said the major.
“Yes, in so many words; and it must be so, for the abbe knows correctly the amount of all the largest fortunes
in Europe.”

“Be it half a million. then; but on my word of honor, I had no idea that it was so much.” “Because you are robbed by your steward. You must make some reformation in that quarter.”
“You have opened my eyes,” said the Italian gravely; “I will show the gentlemen the door.” Monte Cristo resumed the perusal of the letter: —

“`And who only needs one thing more to make him happy.'” “Yes, indeed but one!” said the major with a sigh.
“`Which is to recover a lost and adored son.'” “A lost and adored son!”

“`Stolen away in his infancy, either by an enemy of his noble family or by the gypsies.'”

“At the age of five years!” said the major with a deep sigh, and raising his eye to heaven. “Unhappy father,” said Monte Cristo. The count continued: —
“`I have given him renewed life and hope, in the assurance that you have the power of restoring the son whom
he has vainly sought for fifteen years.'” The major looked at the count with an indescribable expression of anxiety. “I have the power of so doing,” said Monte Cristo. The major recovered his self-possession. “So, then,” said he, “the letter was true to the end?”

“Did you doubt it, my dear Monsieur Bartolomeo?”

“No, indeed; certainly not; a good man, a man holding religious office, as does the Abbe Busoni, could not condescend to deceive or play off a joke; but your excellency has not read all.”

“Ah, true,” said Monte Cristo “there is a postscript.”

“Yes, yes,” repeated the major, “yes — there — is — a — postscript.”

“`In order to save Major Cavalcanti the trouble of drawing on his banker, I send him a draft for 2,000 francs to defray his travelling expenses, and credit on you for the further sum of 48,000 francs, which you still owe
me.'” The major awaited the conclusion of the postscript, apparently with great anxiety. “Very good,” said the count.

“He said `very good,'” muttered the major, “then — sir” — replied he. “Then what?” asked Monte Cristo.
“Then the postscript” —

“Well; what of the postscript?”

“Then the postscript is as favorably received by you as the rest of the letter?”

“Certainly; the Abbe Busoni and myself have a small account open between us. I do not remember if it is exactly 48,000 francs, which I am still owing him, but I dare say we shall not dispute the difference. You attached great importance, then, to this postscript, my dear Monsieur Cavalcanti?”

“I must explain to you,” said the major, “that, fully confiding in the signature of the Abbe Busoni, I had not provided myself with any other funds; so that if this resource had failed me, I should have found myself very unpleasantly situated in Paris.”

“Is it possible that a man of your standing should be embarrassed anywhere?” said Monte Cristo. “Why, really I know no one,” said the major.
“But then you yourself are known to others?” “Yes, I am known, so that” —
“Proceed, my dear Monsieur Cavalcanti.”

“So that you will remit to me these 48,000 francs?”

“Certainly, at your first request.” The major’s eyes dilated with pleasing astonishment. “But sit down,” said
Monte Cristo; “really I do not know what I have been thinking of — I have positively kept you standing for the last quarter of an hour.”

“Don’t mention it.” The major drew an arm-chair towards him, and proceeded to seat himself. “Now,” said the count, “what will you take — a glass of port, sherry, or Alicante?”
“Alicante, if you please; it is my favorite wine.”

“I have some that is very good. You will take a biscuit with it, will you not?” “Yes, I will take a biscuit, as you are so obliging.”
Monte Cristo rang; Baptistin appeared. The count advanced to meet him. “Well?” said he in a low voice. “The young man is here,” said the valet de chambre in the same tone.

“Into what room did you take him?”

“Into the blue drawing-room, according to your excellency’s orders.” “That’s right; now bring the Alicante and some biscuits.”
Baptistin left the room. “Really,” said the major, “I am quite ashamed of the trouble I am giving you.”

“Pray don’t mention such a thing,” said the count. Baptistin re-entered with glasses, wine, and biscuits. The count filled one glass, but in the other he only poured a few drops of the ruby-colored liquid. The bottle was
covered with spiders’ webs, and all the other signs which indicate the age of wine more truly than do wrinkles
on a man’s face. The major made a wise choice; he took the full glass and a biscuit. The count told Baptistin to leave the plate within reach of his guest, who began by sipping the Alicante with an expression of great satisfaction, and then delicately steeped his biscuit in the wine.

“So, sir, you lived at Lucca, did you? You were rich, noble, held in great esteem — had all that could render a man happy?”

“All,” said the major, hastily swallowing his biscuit, “positively all.”

“And yet there was one thing wanting in order to complete your happiness?” “Only one thing,” said the Italian.
“And that one thing, your lost child.”

“Ah,” said the major, taking a second biscuit, “that consummation of my happiness was indeed wanting.” The worthy major raised his eyes to heaven and sighed.

“Let me hear, then,” said the count, “who this deeply regretted son was; for I always understood you were a bachelor.”

“That was the general opinion, sir,” said the major, “and I” —

“Yes,” replied the count, “and you confirmed the report. A youthful indiscretion, I suppose, which you were
anxious to conceal from the world at large?” The major recovered himself, and resumed his usual calm
manner, at the same time casting his eyes down, either to give himself time to compose his countenance, or to assist his imagination, all the while giving an under-look at the count, the protracted smile on whose lips still announced the same polite curiosity. “Yes,” said the major, “I did wish this fault to be hidden from every eye.”

“Not on your own account, surely,” replied Monte Cristo; “for a man is above that sort of thing?” “Oh, no, certainly not on my own account,” said the major with a smile and a shake of the head. “But for the sake of the mother?” said the count.
“Yes, for the mother’s sake — his poor mother!” cried the major, taking a third biscuit.

“Take some more wine, my dear Cavalcanti,” said the count, pouring out for him a second glass of Alicante; “your emotion has quite overcome you.”

“His poor mother,” murmured the major, trying to get the lachrymal gland in operation, so as to moisten the corner of his eye with a false tear.

“She belonged to one of the first families in Italy, I think, did she not?” “She was of a noble family of Fiesole, count.”
“And her name was” —

“Do you desire to know her name?” —

“Oh,” said Monte Cristo “it would be quite superfluous for you to tell me, for I already know it.” “The count knows everything,” said the Italian, bowing.
“Oliva Corsinari, was it not?” “Oliva Corsinari.”
“A marchioness?” “A marchioness.”
“And you married her at last, notwithstanding the opposition of her family?” “Yes, that was the way it ended.”
“And you have doubtless brought all your papers with you?” said Monte Cristo. “What papers?”
“The certificate of your marriage with Oliva Corsinari, and the register of your child’s birth.” “The register of my child’s birth?”

“The register of the birth of Andrea Cavalcanti — of your son; is not his name Andrea?”

“I believe so,” said the major. “What? You believe so?”
“I dare not positively assert it, as he has been lost for so long a time.” “Well, then,” said Monte Cristo “you have all the documents with you?”
“Your excellency, I regret to say that, not knowing it was necessary to come provided with these papers, I
neglected to bring them.”

“That is unfortunate,” returned Monte Cristo. “Were they, then, so necessary?”
“They were indispensable.”

The major passed his hand across his brow. “Ah, per Bacco, indispensable, were they?”

“Certainly they were; supposing there were to be doubts raised as to the validity of your marriage or the legitimacy of your child?”

“True,” said the major, “there might be doubts raised.”

“In that case your son would be very unpleasantly situated.” “It would be fatal to his interests.”
“It might cause him to fail in some desirable matrimonial alliance.” “O peccato!”
“You must know that in France they are very particular on these points; it is not sufficient, as in Italy, to go to
the priest and say, `We love each other, and want you to marry us.’ Marriage is a civil affair in France, and in order to marry in an orthodox manner you must have papers which undeniably establish your identity.”

“That is the misfortune! You see I have not these necessary papers.” “Fortunately, I have them, though,” said Monte Cristo.
“You?” “Yes.”
“You have them?” “I have them.”
“Ah, indeed?” said the major, who, seeing the object of his journey frustrated by the absence of the papers, feared also that his forgetfulness might give rise to some difficulty concerning the 48,000 francs — “ah,

indeed, that is a fortunate circumstance; yes, that really is lucky, for it never occurred to me to bring them.”

“I do not at all wonder at it — one cannot think of everything; but, happily, the Abbe Busoni thought for you.” “He is an excellent person.”
“He is extremely prudent and thoughtful”

“He is an admirable man,” said the major; “and he sent them to you?” “Here they are.”
The major clasped his hands in token of admiration. “You married Oliva Corsinari in the church of San Paolo
del Monte-Cattini; here is the priest’s certificate.”

“Yes indeed, there it is truly,” said the Italian, looking on with astonishment.

“And here is Andrea Cavalcanti’s baptismal register, given by the curate of Saravezza.” “All quite correct.”
“Take these documents, then; they do not concern me. You will give them to your son, who will, of course, take great care of them.”

“I should think so, indeed! If he were to lose them” — “Well, and if he were to lose them?” said Monte Cristo.
“In that case,” replied the major, “it would be necessary to write to the curate for duplicates, and it would be some time before they could be obtained.”

“It would be a difficult matter to arrange,” said Monte Cristo. “Almost an impossibility,” replied the major.
“I am very glad to see that you understand the value of these papers.”

“I regard them as invaluable.”

“Now,” said Monte Cristo “as to the mother of the young man” —

“As to the mother of the young man” — repeated the Italian, with anxiety. “As regards the Marchesa Corsinari” —
“Really,” said the major, “difficulties seem to thicken upon us; will she be wanted in any way?” “No, sir,” replied Monte Cristo; “besides, has she not” —
“Yes, sir,” said the major, “she has” — “Paid the last debt of nature?”

“Alas, yes,” returned the Italian.

“I knew that,” said Monte Cristo; “she has been dead these ten years.”

“And I am still mourning her loss,” exclaimed the major, drawing from his pocket a checked handkerchief, and alternately wiping first the left and then the right eye.

“What would you have?” said Monte Cristo; “we are all mortal. Now, you understand, my dear Monsieur Cavalcanti, that it is useless for you to tell people in France that you have been separated from your son for fifteen years. Stories of gypsies, who steal children, are not at all in vogue in this part of the world, and would
not be believed. You sent him for his education to a college in one of the provinces, and now you wish him to complete his education in the Parisian world. That is the reason which has induced you to leave Via Reggio, where you have lived since the death of your wife. That will be sufficient.”

“You think so?” “Certainly.”
“Very well, then.”

“If they should hear of the separation” — “Ah, yes; what could I say?”
“That an unfaithful tutor, bought over by the enemies of your family” — “By the Corsinari?”
“Precisely. Had stolen away this child, in order that your name might become extinct.” “That is reasonable, since he is an only son.”
“Well, now that all is arranged, do not let these newly awakened remembrances be forgotten. You have, doubtless, already guessed that I was preparing a surprise for you?”

“An agreeable one?” asked the Italian.

“Ah, I see the eye of a father is no more to be deceived than his heart.” “Hum!” said the major.
“Some one has told you the secret; or, perhaps, you guessed that he was here.” “That who was here?”
“Your child — your son — your Andrea!”

“I did guess it,” replied the major with the greatest possible coolness. “Then he is here?”

“He is,” said Monte Cristo; “when the valet de chambre came in just now, he told me of his arrival.” “Ah, very well, very well,” said the major, clutching the buttons of his coat at each exclamation.

“My dear sir,” said Monte Cristo, “I understand your emotion; you must have time to recover yourself. I will,
in the meantime, go and prepare the young man for this much-desired interview, for I presume that he is not less impatient for it than yourself.”

“I should quite imagine that to be the case,” said Cavalcanti. “Well, in a quarter of an hour he shall be with you.”
“You will bring him, then? You carry your goodness so far as even to present him to me yourself?”

“No; I do not wish to come between a father and son. Your interview will be private. But do not be uneasy;
even if the powerful voice of nature should be silent, you cannot well mistake him; he will enter by this door.
He is a fine young man, of fair complexion — a little too fair, perhaps — pleasing in manners; but you will see and judge for yourself.”

“By the way,” said the major, “you know I have only the 2,000 francs which the Abbe Busoni sent me; this sum I have expended upon travelling expenses, and” —

“And you want money; that is a matter of course, my dear M. Cavalcanti. Well, here are 8,000 francs on account.”

The major’s eyes sparkled brilliantly.

“It is 40,000 francs which I now owe you,” said Monte Cristo.

“Does your excellency wish for a receipt?” said the major, at the same time slipping the money into the inner pocket of his coat.

“For what?” said the count.

“I thought you might want it to show the Abbe Busoni.”

“Well, when you receive the remaining 40,000, you shall give me a receipt in full. Between honest men such excessive precaution is, I think, quite unnecessary.”

“Yes, so it is, between perfectly upright people.” “One word more,” said Monte Cristo.
“Say on.”

“You will permit me to make one remark?” “Certainly; pray do so.”
“Then I should advise you to leave off wearing that style of dress.”

“Indeed,” said the major, regarding himself with an air of complete satisfaction.

“Yes. It may be worn at Via Reggio; but that costume, however elegant in itself, has long been out of fashion
in Paris.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“Oh, if you really are attached to your old mode of dress; you can easily resume it when you leave Paris.” “But what shall I wear?”
“What you find in your trunks.”

“In my trunks? I have but one portmanteau.”

“I dare say you have nothing else with you. What is the use of boring one’s self with so many things? Besides
an old soldier always likes to march with as little baggage as possible.” “That is just the case — precisely so.”
“But you are a man of foresight and prudence, therefore you sent your luggage on before you. It has arrived at
the Hotel des Princes, Rue de Richelieu. It is there you are to take up your quarters.” “Then, in these trunks” —
“I presume you have given orders to your valet de chambre to put in all you are likely to need, — your plain clothes and your uniform. On grand occasions you must wear your uniform; that will look very well. Do not forget your crosses. They still laugh at them in France, and yet always wear them, for all that.”

“Very well, very well,” said the major, who was in ecstasy at the attention paid him by the count.

“Now,” said Monte Cristo, “that you have fortified yourself against all painful excitement, prepare yourself,
my dear M. Cavalcanti, to meet your lost Andrea.” Saying which Monte Cristo bowed, and disappeared behind the tapestry, leaving the major fascinated beyond expression with the delightful reception which he had received at the hands of the count.

Chapter 56

Andrea Cavalcanti.

The Count of Monte Cristo entered the adjoining room, which Baptistin had designated as the drawing-room, and found there a young man, of graceful demeanor and elegant appearance, who had arrived in a cab about
half an hour previously. Baptistin had not found any difficulty in recognizing the person who presented
himself at the door for admittance. He was certainly the tall young man with light hair, red beard, black eyes, and brilliant complexion, whom his master had so particularly described to him. When the count entered the room the young man was carelessly stretched on a sofa, tapping his boot with the gold-headed cane which he held in his hand. On perceiving the count he rose quickly. “The Count of Monte Cristo, I believe?” said he.

“Yes, sir, and I think I have the honor of addressing Count Andrea Cavalcanti?”

“Count Andrea Cavalcanti,” repeated the young man, accompanying his words with a bow. “You are charged with a letter of introduction addressed to me, are you not?” said the count.
“I did not mention that, because the signature seemed to me so strange.” “The letter signed `Sinbad the Sailor,’ is it not?”
“Exactly so. Now, as I have never known any Sinbad, with the exception of the one celebrated in the
`Thousand and One Nights'” —

“Well, it is one of his descendants, and a great friend of mine; he is a very rich Englishman, eccentric almost
to insanity, and his real name is Lord Wilmore.”

“Ah, indeed? Then that explains everything that is extraordinary,” said Andrea. “He is, then, the same
Englishman whom I met — at — ah — yes, indeed. Well, monsieur, I am at your service.”

“If what you say be true,” replied the count, smiling, “perhaps you will be kind enough to give me some account of yourself and your family?”

“Certainly, I will do so,” said the young man, with a quickness which gave proof of his ready invention. “I am
(as you have said) the Count Andrea Cavalcanti, son of Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti, a descendant of the Cavalcanti whose names are inscribed in the golden book at Florence. Our family, although still rich (for my father’s income amounts to half a million), has experienced many misfortunes, and I myself was, at the age of five years, taken away by the treachery of my tutor, so that for fifteen years I have not seen the author of my existence. Since I have arrived at years of discretion and become my own master, I have been constantly
seeking him, but all in vain. At length I received this letter from your friend, which states that my father is in
Paris, and authorizes me to address myself to you for information respecting him.”

“Really, all you have related to me is exceedingly interesting,” said Monte Cristo, observing the young man with a gloomy satisfaction; “and you have done well to conform in everything to the wishes of my friend Sinbad; for your father is indeed here, and is seeking you.”

The count from the moment of first entering the drawing-room, had not once lost sight of the expression of the young man’s countenance; he had admired the assurance of his look and the firmness of his voice; but at these words, so natural in themselves, “Your father is indeed here, and is seeking you,” young Andrea started, and exclaimed, “My father? Is my father here?”

“Most undoubtedly,” replied Monte Cristo; “your father, Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti.” The expression of
terror which, for the moment, had overspread the features of the young man, had now disappeared. “Ah, yes, that is the name, certainly. Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti. And you really mean to say; monsieur, that my dear
father is here?”

“Yes, sir; and I can even add that I have only just left his company. The history which he related to me of his lost son touched me to the quick; indeed, his griefs, hopes, and fears on that subject might furnish material for
a most touching and pathetic poem. At length, he one day received a letter, stating that the abductors of his
son now offered to restore him, or at least to give notice where he might be found, on condition of receiving a large sum of money, by way of ransom. Your father did not hesitate an instant, and the sum was sent to the frontier of Piedmont, with a passport signed for Italy. You were in the south of France, I think?”

“Yes,” replied Andrea, with an embarrassed air, “I was in the south of France.” “A carriage was to await you at Nice?”
“Precisely so; and it conveyed me from Nice to Genoa, from Genoa to Turin, from Turin to Chambery, from
Chambery to Pont-de-Beauvoisin, and from Pont-de-Beauvoisin to Paris.”

“Indeed? Then your father ought to have met with you on the road, for it is exactly the same route which he himself took, and that is how we have been able to trace your journey to this place.”

“But,” said Andrea, “if my father had met me, I doubt if he would have recognized me; I must be somewhat altered since he last saw me.”

“Oh, the voice of nature,” said Monte Cristo.

“True,” interrupted the young man, “I had not looked upon it in that light.”

“Now,” replied Monte Cristo “there is only one source of uneasiness left in your father’s mind, which is this —
he is anxious to know how you have been employed during your long absence from him, how you have been treated by your persecutors, and if they have conducted themselves towards you with all the deference due to your rank. Finally, he is anxious to see if you have been fortunate enough to escape the bad moral influence to
which you have been exposed, and which is infinitely more to be dreaded than any physical suffering; he wishes to discover if the fine abilities with which nature had endowed you have been weakened by want of
culture; and, in short, whether you consider yourself capable of resuming and retaining in the world the high position to which your rank entitles you.”

“Sir!” exclaimed the young man, quite astounded, “I hope no false report” —

“As for myself, I first heard you spoken of by my friend Wilmore, the philanthropist. I believe he found you in some unpleasant position, but do not know of what nature, for I did not ask, not being inquisitive. Your misfortunes engaged his sympathies, so you see you must have been interesting. He told me that he was
anxious to restore you to the position which you had lost, and that he would seek your father until he found
him. He did seek, and has found him, apparently, since he is here now; and, finally, my friend apprised me of your coming, and gave me a few other instructions relative to your future fortune. I am quite aware that my friend Wilmore is peculiar, but he is sincere, and as rich as a gold-mine, consequently, he may indulge his eccentricities without any fear of their ruining him, and I have promised to adhere to his instructions. Now,
sir, pray do not be offended at the question I am about to put to you, as it comes in the way of my duty as your patron. I would wish to know if the misfortunes which have happened to you — misfortunes entirely beyond
your control, and which in no degree diminish my regard for you — I would wish to know if they have not, in some measure, contributed to render you a stranger to the world in which your fortune and your name entitle

you to make a conspicuous figure?”

“Sir,” returned the young man, with a reassurance of manner, “make your mind easy on this score. Those who took me from my father, and who always intended, sooner or later, to sell me again to my original proprietor,
as they have now done, calculated that, in order to make the most of their bargain, it would be politic to leave
me in possession of all my personal and hereditary worth, and even to increase the value, if possible. I have, therefore, received a very good education, and have been treated by these kidnappers very much as the slaves were treated in Asia Minor, whose masters made them grammarians, doctors, and philosophers, in order that they might fetch a higher price in the Roman market.” Monte Cristo smiled with satisfaction; it appeared as if
he had not expected so much from M. Andrea Cavalcanti. “Besides,” continued the young man, “if there did appear some defect in education, or offence against the established forms of etiquette, I suppose it would be excused, in consideration of the misfortunes which accompanied my birth, and followed me through my
youth.”

“Well,” said Monte Cristo in an indifferent tone, “you will do as you please, count, for you are the master of your own actions, and are the person most concerned in the matter, but if I were you, I would not divulge a word of these adventures. Your history is quite a romance, and the world, which delights in romances in
yellow covers, strangely mistrusts those which are bound in living parchment, even though they be gilded like yourself. This is the kind of difficulty which I wished to represent to you, my dear count. You would hardly
have recited your touching history before it would go forth to the world, and be deemed unlikely and
unnatural. You would be no longer a lost child found, but you would be looked upon as an upstart, who had sprung up like a mushroom in the night. You might excite a little curiosity, but it is not every one who likes to
be made the centre of observation and the subject of unpleasant remark.”

“I agree with you, monsieur,” said the young man, turning pale, and, in spite of himself, trembling beneath the scrutinizing look of his companion, “such consequences would be extremely unpleasant.”

“Nevertheless, you must not exaggerate the evil,” said Monte Cristo, “for by endeavoring to avoid one fault
you will fall into another. You must resolve upon one simple and single line of conduct, and for a man of your intelligence, this plan is as easy as it is necessary; you must form honorable friendships, and by that means counteract the prejudice which may attach to the obscurity of your former life.” Andrea visibly changed countenance. “I would offer myself as your surety and friendly adviser,” said Monte Cristo, “did I not possess
a moral distrust of my best friends, and a sort of inclination to lead others to doubt them too; therefore, in departing from this rule, I should (as the actors say) be playing a part quite out of my line, and should, therefore, run the risk of being hissed, which would be an act of folly.”

“However, your excellency,” said Andrea, “in consideration of Lord Wilmore, by whom I was recommended
to you — ”

“Yes, certainly,” interrupted Monte Cristo; “but Lord Wilmore did not omit to inform me, my dear M. Andrea, that the season of your youth was rather a stormy one. Ah,” said the count, watching Andrea’s countenance, “I
do not demand any confession from you; it is precisely to avoid that necessity that your father was sent for
from Lucca. You shall soon see him. He is a little stiff and pompous in his manner, and he is disfigured by his uniform; but when it becomes known that he has been for eighteen years in the Austrian service, all that will
be pardoned. We are not generally very severe with the Austrians. In short, you will find your father a very presentable person, I assure you.”

“Ah, sir, you have given me confidence; it is so long since we were separated, that I have not the least remembrance of him, and, besides, you know that in the eyes of the world a large fortune covers all defects.”

“He is a millionaire — his income is 500,000 francs.”

“Then,” said the young man, with anxiety, “I shall be sure to be placed in an agreeable position.”

“One of the most agreeable possible, my dear sir; he will allow you an income of 50,000 livres per annum during the whole time of your stay in Paris.”

“Then in that case I shall always choose to remain there.”

“You cannot control circumstances, my dear sir; `man proposes, and God disposes.'” Andrea sighed. “But,” said he, “so long as I do remain in Paris, and nothing forces me to quit it, do you mean to tell me that I may rely on receiving the sum you just now mentioned to me?”

“You may.”

“Shall I receive it from my father?” asked Andrea, with some uneasiness.

“Yes, you will receive it from your father personally, but Lord Wilmore will be the security for the money. He has, at the request of your father, opened an account of 6,000 francs a month at M. Danglars’, which is one of
the safest banks in Paris.”

“And does my father mean to remain long in Paris?” asked Andrea.

“Only a few days,” replied Monte Cristo. “His service does not allow him to absent himself more than two or three weeks together.”
“Ah, my dear father!” exclaimed Andrea, evidently charmed with the idea of his speedy departure. “Therefore,” said Monte Cristo feigning to mistake his meaning — “therefore I will not, for another instant,
retard the pleasure of your meeting. Are you prepared to embrace your worthy father?”

“I hope you do not doubt it.”

“Go, then, into the drawing-room, my young friend, where you will find your father awaiting you.” Andrea made a low bow to the count, and entered the adjoining room. Monte Cristo watched him till he disappeared, and then touched a spring in a panel made to look like a picture, which, in sliding partly from the frame, discovered to view a small opening, so cleverly contrived that it revealed all that was passing in the
drawing-room now occupied by Cavalcanti and Andrea. The young man closed the door behind him, and advanced towards the major, who had risen when he heard steps approaching him. “Ah, my dear father!” said Andrea in a loud voice, in order that the count might hear him in the next room, “is it really you?”

“How do you do, my dear son?” said the major gravely.

“After so many years of painful separation,” said Andrea, in the same tone of voice, and glancing towards the door, “what a happiness it is to meet again!”

“Indeed it is, after so long a separation.”

“Will you not embrace me, sir?” said Andrea.

“If you wish it, my son,” said the major; and the two men embraced each other after the fashion of actors on the stage; that is to say, each rested his head on the other’s shoulder.

“Then we are once more reunited?” said Andrea.

“Once more,” replied the major.

“Never more to be separated?”

“Why, as to that — I think, my dear son, you must be by this time so accustomed to France as to look upon it almost as a second country.”

“The fact is,” said the young man, “that I should be exceedingly grieved to leave it.”

“As for me, you must know I cannot possibly live out of Lucca; therefore I shall return to Italy as soon as I
can.”

“But before you leave France, my dear father, I hope you will put me in possession of the documents which will be necessary to prove my descent.”

“Certainly; I am come expressly on that account; it has cost me much trouble to find you, but I had resolved
on giving them into your hands, and if I had to recommence my search, it would occupy all the few remaining years of my life.”

“Where are these papers, then?” “Here they are.”
Andrea seized the certificate of his father’s marriage and his own baptismal register, and after having opened them with all the eagerness which might be expected under the circumstances, he read them with a facility
which proved that he was accustomed to similar documents, and with an expression which plainly denoted an unusual interest in the contents. When he had perused the documents, an indefinable expression of pleasure lighted up his countenance, and looking at the major with a most peculiar smile, he said, in very excellent Tuscan, — “Then there is no longer any such thing, in Italy as being condemned to the galleys?” The major
drew himself up to his full height.

“Why? — what do you mean by that question?”

“I mean that if there were, it would be impossible to draw up with impunity two such deeds as these. In France, my dear sir, half such a piece of effrontery as that would cause you to be quickly despatched to Toulon for five years, for change of air.”

“Will you be good enough to explain your meaning?” said the major, endeavoring as much as possible to assume an air of the greatest majesty.

“My dear M. Cavalcanti,” said Andrea, taking the major by the arm in a confidential manner, “how much are you paid for being my father?” The major was about to speak, when Andrea continued, in a low voice.

“Nonsense, I am going to set you an example of confidence, they give me 50,000 francs a year to be your son; consequently, you can understand that it is not at all likely I shall ever deny my parent.” The major looked anxiously around him. “Make yourself easy, we are quite alone,” said Andrea; “besides, we are conversing in Italian.”

“Well, then,” replied the major, “they paid me 50,000 francs down.” “Monsieur Cavalcanti,” said Andrea, “do you believe in fairy tales?”

“I used not to do so, but I really feel now almost obliged to have faith in them.”

“You have, then, been induced to alter your opinion; you have had some proofs of their truth?” The major drew from his pocket a handful of gold. “Most palpable proofs,” said he, “as you may perceive.”

“You think, then, that I may rely on the count’s promises?” “Certainly I do.”
“You are sure he will keep his word with me?”

“To the letter, but at the same time, remember, we must continue to play our respective parts. I, as a tender father” —

“And I as a dutiful son, as they choose that I shall be descended from you.” “Whom do you mean by they?”
“Ma foi, I can hardly tell, but I was alluding to those who wrote the letter; you received one, did you not?” “Yes.”
“From whom?”

“From a certain Abbe Busoni.” “Have you any knowledge of him?” “No, I have never seen him.”
“What did he say in the letter?”

“You will promise not to betray me?”

“Rest assured of that; you well know that our interests are the same.”
“Then read for yourself;” and the major gave a letter into the young man’s hand. Andrea read in a low voice — “You are poor; a miserable old age awaits you. Would you like to become rich, or at least independent? Set
out immediately for Paris, and demand of the Count of Monte Cristo, Avenue des Champs Elysees, No. 30,
the son whom you had by the Marchesa Corsinari, and who was taken from you at five years of age. This son
is named Andrea Cavalcanti. In order that you may not doubt the kind intention of the writer of this letter, you will find enclosed an order for 2,400 francs, payable in Florence, at Signor Gozzi’s; also a letter of
introduction to the Count of Monte Cristo, on whom I give you a draft of 48,000 francs. Remember to go to the count on the 26th May at seven o’clock in the evening.

(Signed)

“Abbe Busoni.” “It is the same.”

“What do you mean?” said the major.

“I was going to say that I received a letter almost to the same effect.” “You?”
“Yes.”

“From the Abbe Busoni?” “No.”
“From whom, then?”

“From an Englishman, called Lord Wilmore, who takes the name of Sinbad the Sailor.” “And of whom you have no more knowledge than I of the Abbe Busoni?”
“You are mistaken; there I am ahead of you.” “You have seen him, then?”
“Yes, once.” “Where?”
“Ah, that is just what I cannot tell you; if I did, I should make you as wise as myself, which it is not my intention to do.”

“And what did the letter contain?” “Read it.”
“`You are poor, and your future prospects are dark and gloomy. Do you wish for a name? should you like to
be rich, and your own master?'”

“Ma foi,” said the young man; “was it possible there could be two answers to such a question?”

“Take the post-chaise which you will find waiting at the Porte de Genes, as you enter Nice; pass through
Turin, Chambery, and Pont-de-Beauvoisin. Go to the Count of Monte Cristo, Avenue des Champs Elysees, on
the 26th of May, at seven o’clock in the evening, and demand of him your father. You are the son of the
Marchese Cavalcanti and the Marchesa Oliva Corsinari. The marquis will give you some papers which will certify this fact, and authorize you to appear under that name in the Parisian world. As to your rank, an annual income of 50,000 livres will enable you to support it admirably. I enclose a draft for 5,000 livres, payable on
M. Ferrea, banker at Nice, and also a letter of introduction to the Count of Monte Cristo, whom I have directed to supply all your wants.

“Sinbad the Sailor.”

“Humph,” said the major; “very good. You have seen the count, you say?”

“I have only just left him ”

“And has he conformed to all that the letter specified?”

“He has.”

“Do you understand it?” “Not in the least.”
“There is a dupe somewhere.”

“At all events, it is neither you nor I.” “Certainly not.”
“Well, then” —

“Why, it does not much concern us, do you think it does?”

“No; I agree with you there. We must play the game to the end, and consent to be blindfold.” “Ah, you shall see; I promise you I will sustain my part to admiration.”
“I never once doubted your doing so.” Monte Cristo chose this moment for re-entering the drawing-room. On hearing the sound of his footsteps, the two men threw themselves in each other’s arms, and while they were in
the midst of this embrace, the count entered. “Well, marquis,” said Monte Cristo, “you appear to be in no way disappointed in the son whom your good fortune has restored to you.”

“Ah, your excellency, I am overwhelmed with delight.”

“And what are your feelings?” said Monte Cristo, turning to the young man. “As for me, my heart is overflowing with happiness.”
“Happy father, happy son!” said the count.

“There is only one thing which grieves me,” observed the major, “and that is the necessity for my leaving
Paris so soon.”

“Ah, my dear M. Cavalcanti, I trust you will not leave before I have had the honor of presenting you to some
of my friends.”

“I am at your service, sir,” replied the major.

“Now, sir,” said Monte Cristo, addressing Andrea, “make your confession.” “To whom?”
“Tell M. Cavalcanti something of the state of your finances.” “Ma foi, monsieur, you have touched upon a tender chord.” “Do you hear what he says, major?”

“Certainly I do.”

“But do you understand?” “I do.”
“Your son says he requires money.”

“Well, what would you have me do?” said the major.

“You should furnish him with some of course,” replied Monte Cristo. “I?”
“Yes, you,” said the count, at the same time advancing towards Andrea, and slipping a packet of bank-notes into the young man’s hand.

“What is this?”

“It is from your father.” “From my father?”
“Yes; did you not tell him just now that you wanted money? Well, then, he deputes me to give you this.” “Am I to consider this as part of my income on account?”
“No, it is for the first expenses of your settling in Paris.” “Ah, how good my dear father is!”
“Silence,” said Monte Cristo; “he does not wish you to know that it comes from him.”

“I fully appreciate his delicacy,” said Andrea, cramming the notes hastily into his pocket. “And now, gentlemen, I wish you good-morning,” said Monte Cristo.
“And when shall we have the honor of seeing you again, your excellency?” asked Cavalcanti. “Ah,” said Andrea, “when may we hope for that pleasure?”
“On Saturday, if you will — Yes. — Let me see — Saturday — I am to dine at my country house, at Auteuil, on that day, Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28. Several persons are invited, and among others, M. Danglars, your
banker. I will introduce you to him, for it will be necessary he should know you, as he is to pay your money.” “Full dress?” said the major, half aloud.
“Oh, yes, certainly,” said the count; “uniform, cross, knee-breeches.” “And how shall I be dressed?” demanded Andrea.
“Oh, very simply; black trousers, patent leather boots, white waistcoat, either a black or blue coat, and a long

cravat. Go to Blin or Veronique for your clothes. Baptistin will tell you where, if you do not know their
address. The less pretension there is in your attire, the better will be the effect, as you are a rich man. If you mean to buy any horses, get them of Devedeux, and if you purchase a phaeton, go to Baptiste for it.”

“At what hour shall we come?” asked the young man. “About half-past six.”
“We will be with you at that time,” said the major. The two Cavalcanti bowed to the count, and left the house. Monte Cristo went to the window, and saw them crossing the street, arm in arm. “There go two miscreants;”
said he, “it is a pity they are not really related!” — then, after an instant of gloomy reflection, “Come, I will go
to see the Morrels,” said he; “I think that disgust is even more sickening than hatred.”

Chapter 57

In the Lucerne Patch.

Our readers must now allow us to transport them again to the enclosure surrounding M. de Villefort’s house, and, behind the gate, half screened from view by the large chestnut-trees, which on all sides spread their luxuriant branches, we shall find some people of our acquaintance. This time Maximilian was the first to
arrive. He was intently watching for a shadow to appear among the trees, and awaiting with anxiety the sound
of a light step on the gravel walk. At length, the long-desired sound was heard, and instead of one figure, as he had expected, he perceived that two were approaching him. The delay had been occasioned by a visit from Madame Danglars and Eugenie, which had been prolonged beyond the time at which Valentine was expected. That she might not appear to fail in her promise to Maximilian, she proposed to Mademoiselle Danglars that
they should take a walk in the garden, being anxious to show that the delay, which was doubtless a cause of vexation to him, was not occasioned by any neglect on her part. The young man, with the intuitive perception
of a lover, quickly understood the circumstances in which she was involuntarily placed, and he was comforted. Besides, although she avoided coming within speaking distance, Valentine arranged so that Maximilian could see her pass and repass, and each time she went by, she managed, unperceived by her
companion, to cast an expressive look at the young man, which seemed to say, “Have patience! You see it is
not my fault.” And Maximilian was patient, and employed himself in mentally contrasting the two girls, — one fair, with soft languishing eyes, a figure gracefully bending like a weeping willow; the other a brunette, with a fierce and haughty expression, and as straight as a poplar. It is unnecessary to state that, in the eyes of the
young man, Valentine did not suffer by the contrast. In about half an hour the girls went away, and Maximilian understood that Mademoiselle Danglars’ visit had at last come to an end. In a few minutes Valentine re-entered the garden alone. For fear that any one should be observing her return, she walked slowly; and instead of immediately directing her steps towards the gate, she seated herself on a bench, and, carefully casting her eyes around, to convince herself that she was not watched, she presently arose, and proceeded quickly to join Maximilian.

“Good-evening, Valentine,” said a well-known voice.

“Good-evening, Maximilian; I know I have kept you waiting, but you saw the cause of my delay.” “Yes, I recognized Mademoiselle Danglars. I was not aware that you were so intimate with her.” “Who told you we were intimate, Maximilian?”
“No one, but you appeared to be so. From the manner in which you walked and talked together, one would have thought you were two school-girls telling your secrets to each other.”

“We were having a confidential conversation,” returned Valentine; “she was owning to me her repugnance to
the marriage with M. de Morcerf; and I, on the other hand, was confessing to her how wretched it made me to think of marrying M. d’Epinay.”

“Dear Valentine!”

“That will account to you for the unreserved manner which you observed between me and Eugenie, as in speaking of the man whom I could not love, my thoughts involuntarily reverted to him on whom my affections were fixed.”

“Ah, how good you are to say so, Valentine! You possess a quality which can never belong to Mademoiselle
Danglars. It is that indefinable charm which is to a woman what perfume is to the flower and flavor to the fruit, for the beauty of either is not the only quality we seek.”

“It is your love which makes you look upon everything in that light.”

“No, Valentine, I assure you such is not the case. I was observing you both when you were walking in the
garden, and, on my honor, without at all wishing to depreciate the beauty of Mademoiselle Danglars, I cannot understand how any man can really love her.”

“The fact is, Maximilian, that I was there, and my presence had the effect of rendering you unjust in your comparison.”

“No; but tell me — it is a question of simple curiosity, and which was suggested by certain ideas passing in my mind relative to Mademoiselle Danglars” —

“I dare say it is something disparaging which you are going to say. It only proves how little indulgence we may expect from your sex,” interrupted Valentine.

“You cannot, at least, deny that you are very harsh judges of each other.”

“If we are so, it is because we generally judge under the influence of excitement. But return to your question.” “Does Mademoiselle Danglars object to this marriage with M. de Morcerf on account of loving another?”
“I told you I was not on terms of strict intimacy with Eugenie.”

“Yes, but girls tell each other secrets without being particularly intimate; own, now, that you did question her
on the subject. Ah, I see you are smiling.”

“If you are already aware of the conversation that passed, the wooden partition which interposed between us and you has proved but a slight security.”

“Come, what did she say?”

“She told me that she loved no one,” said Valentine; “that she disliked the idea of being married; that she
would infinitely prefer leading an independent and unfettered life; and that she almost wished her father might lose his fortune, that she might become an artist, like her friend, Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly.”

“Ah, you see” —

“Well, what does that prove?” asked Valentine. “Nothing,” replied Maximilian.
“Then why did you smile?”

“Why, you know very well that you are reflecting on yourself, Valentine.” “Do you want me to go away?”
“Ah, no, no. But do not let us lose time; you are the subject on which I wish to speak.” “True, we must be quick, for we have scarcely ten minutes more to pass together.”
“Ma foi,” said Maximilian, in consternation.

“Yes, you are right; I am but a poor friend to you. What a life I cause you to lead, poor Maximilian, you who
are formed for happiness! I bitterly reproach myself, I assure you.”

“Well, what does it signify, Valentine, so long as I am satisfied, and feel that even this long and painful
suspense is amply repaid by five minutes of your society, or two words from your lips? And I have also a deep conviction that heaven would not have created two hearts, harmonizing as ours do, and almost miraculously brought us together, to separate us at last.”

“Those are kind and cheering words. You must hope for us both, Maximilian; that will make me at least partly happy.”

“But why must you leave me so soon?”

“I do not know particulars. I can only tell you that Madame de Villefort sent to request my presence, as she had a communication to make on which a part of my fortune depended. Let them take my fortune, I am
already too rich; and, perhaps, when they have taken it, they will leave me in peace and quietness. You would love me as much if I were poor, would you not, Maximilian?”

“Oh, I shall always love you. What should I care for either riches or poverty, if my Valentine was near me,
and I felt certain that no one could deprive me of her? But do you not fear that this communication may relate
to your marriage?”

“I do not think that is the case.”

“However it may be, Valentine, you must not be alarmed. I assure you that, as long as I live, I shall never love any one else!”

“You think to reassure me when you say that, Maximilian.”

“Pardon me, you are right. I am a brute. But I was going to tell you that I met M. de Morcerf the other day.” “Well?”
“Monsieur Franz is his friend, you know.” “What then?”
“Monsieur de Morcerf has received a letter from Franz, announcing his immediate return.” Valentine turned
pale, and leaned her hand against the gate. “Ah heavens, if it were that! But no, the communication would not come through Madame de Villefort.”

“Why not?”

“Because — I scarcely know why — but it has appeared as if Madame de Villefort secretly objected to the marriage, although she did not choose openly to oppose it.”

“Is it so? Then I feel as if I could adore Madame de Villefort.”

“Do not be in such a hurry to do that,” said Valentine, with a sad smile.

“If she objects to your marrying M. d’Epinay, she would be all the more likely to listen to any other proposition.”

“No, Maximilian, it is not suitors to which Madame de Villefort objects, it is marriage itself.”

“Marriage? If she dislikes that so much, why did she ever marry herself?”

“You do not understand me, Maximilian. About a year ago, I talked of retiring to a convent. Madame de Villefort, in spite of all the remarks which she considered it her duty to make, secretly approved of the proposition, my father consented to it at her instigation, and it was only on account of my poor grandfather that I finally abandoned the project. You can form no idea of the expression of that old man’s eye when he looks at me, the only person in the world whom he loves, and, I had almost said, by whom he is beloved in
return. When he learned my resolution, I shall never forget the reproachful look which he cast on me, and the tears of utter despair which chased each other down his lifeless cheeks. Ah, Maximilian, I experienced, at that moment, such remorse for my intention, that, throwing myself at his feet, I exclaimed, — `Forgive me, pray forgive me, my dear grandfather; they may do what they will with me, I will never leave you.’ When I had
ceased speaking, he thankfully raised his eyes to heaven, but without uttering a word. Ah, Maximilian, I may have much to suffer, but I feel as if my grandfather’s look at that moment would more than compensate for
all.”

“Dear Valentine, you are a perfect angel, and I am sure I do not know what I — sabring right and left among
the Bedouins — can have done to merit your being revealed to me, unless, indeed, heaven took into consideration the fact that the victims of my sword were infidels. But tell me what interest Madame de Villefort can have in your remaining unmarried?”

“Did I not tell you just now that I was rich, Maximilian — too rich? I possess nearly 50,000 livres in right of
my mother; my grandfather and my grandmother, the Marquis and Marquise de Saint-Meran, will leave me as much, and M. Noirtier evidently intends making me his heir. My brother Edward, who inherits nothing from
his mother, will, therefore, be poor in comparison with me. Now, if I had taken the veil, all this fortune would have descended to my father, and, in reversion, to his son.”

“Ah, how strange it seems that such a young and beautiful woman should be so avaricious.”

“It is not for herself that she is so, but for her son, and what you regard as a vice becomes almost a virtue when looked at in the light of maternal love.”

“But could you not compromise matters, and give up a portion of your fortune to her son?”

“How could I make such a proposition, especially to a woman who always professes to be so entirely disinterested?”

“Valentine, I have always regarded our love in the light of something sacred; consequently, I have covered it with the veil of respect, and hid it in the innermost recesses of my soul. No human being, not even my sister,
is aware of its existence. Valentine, will you permit me to make a confidant of a friend and reveal to him the love I bear you?”

Valentine started. “A friend, Maximilian; and who is this friend? I tremble to give my permission.”

“Listen, Valentine. Have you never experienced for any one that sudden and irresistible sympathy which made you feel as if the object of it had been your old and familiar friend, though, in reality, it was the first time you
had ever met? Nay, further, have you never endeavored to recall the time, place, and circumstances of your former intercourse, and failing in this attempt, have almost believed that your spirits must have held converse with each other in some state of being anterior to the present, and that you are only now occupied in a reminiscence of the past?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that is precisely the feeling which I experienced when I first saw that extraordinary man.” “Extraordinary, did you say?”
“Yes.”

“You have known him for some time, then?” “Scarcely longer than eight or ten days.”
“And do you call a man your friend whom you have only known for eight or ten days? Ah, Maximilian, I had hoped you set a higher value on the title of friend.”

“Your logic is most powerful, Valentine, but say what you will, I can never renounce the sentiment which has instinctively taken possession of my mind. I feel as if it were ordained that this man should be associated with
all the good which the future may have in store for me, and sometimes it really seems as if his eye was able to
see what was to come, and his hand endowed with the power of directing events according to his own will.” “He must be a prophet, then,” said Valentine, smiling.
“Indeed,” said Maximilian, “I have often been almost tempted to attribute to him the gift of prophecy; at all events, he has a wonderful power of foretelling any future good.”

“Ah,” said Valentine in a mournful tone, “do let me see this man, Maximilian; he may tell me whether I shall ever be loved sufficiently to make amends for all I have suffered.”

“My poor girl, you know him already.” “I know him?”
“Yes; it was he who saved the life of your step-mother and her son.” “The Count of Monte Cristo?”
“The same.”

“Ah,” cried Valentine, “he is too much the friend of Madame de Villefort ever to be mine.” “The friend of Madame de Villefort! It cannot be; surely, Valentine, you are mistaken?”
“No, indeed, I am not; for I assure you, his power over our household is almost unlimited. Courted by my
step-mother, who regards him as the epitome of human wisdom; admired by my father, who says he has never before heard such sublime ideas so eloquently expressed; idolized by Edward, who, notwithstanding his fear
of the count’s large black eyes, runs to meet him the moment he arrives, and opens his hand, in which he is sure to find some delightful present, — M. de Monte Cristo appears to exert a mysterious and almost uncontrollable influence over all the members of our family.”

“If such be the case, my dear Valentine, you must yourself have felt, or at all events will soon feel, the effects
of his presence. He meets Albert de Morcerf in Italy — it is to rescue him from the hands of the banditti; he introduces himself to Madame Danglars — it is that he may give her a royal present; your step-mother and her

son pass before his door — it is that his Nubian may save them from destruction. This man evidently possesses
the power of influencing events, both as regards men and things. I never saw more simple tastes united to
greater magnificence. His smile is so sweet when he addresses me, that I forget it ever can be bitter to others. Ah, Valentine, tell me, if he ever looked on you with one of those sweet smiles? if so, depend on it, you will
be happy.”

“Me?” said the young girl, “he never even glances at me; on the contrary, if I accidentally cross his path, he appears rather to avoid me. Ah, he is not generous, neither does he possess that supernatural penetration which you attribute to him, for if he did, he would have perceived that I was unhappy; and if he had been generous, seeing me sad and solitary, he would have used his influence to my advantage, and since, as you say, he
resembles the sun, he would have warmed my heart with one of his life-giving rays. You say he loves you, Maximilian; how do you know that he does? All would pay deference to an officer like you, with a fierce mustache and a long sabre, but they think they may crush a poor weeping girl with impunity.”

“Ah, Valentine, I assure you you are mistaken.”

“If it were otherwise — if he treated me diplomatically — that is to say, like a man who wishes, by some means
or other, to obtain a footing in the house, so that he may ultimately gain the power of dictating to its occupants
— he would, if it had been but once, have honored me with the smile which you extol so loudly; but no, he
saw that I was unhappy, he understood that I could be of no use to him, and therefore paid no attention to me whatever. Who knows but that, in order to please Madame de Villefort and my father, he may not persecute
me by every means in his power? It is not just that he should despise me so, without any reason. Ah, forgive me,” said Valentine, perceiving the effect which her words were producing on Maximilian: “I have done
wrong, for I have given utterance to thoughts concerning that man which I did not even know existed in my heart. I do not deny the influence of which you speak, or that I have not myself experienced it, but with me it
has been productive of evil rather than good.”

“Well, Valentine,” said Morrel with a sigh, “we will not discuss the matter further. I will not make a confidant
of him.”

“Alas,” said Valentine, “I see that I have given you pain. I can only say how sincerely I ask pardon for having griefed you. But, indeed, I am not prejudiced beyond the power of conviction. Tell me what this Count of
Monte Cristo has done for you.”

“I own that your question embarrasses me, Valentine, for I cannot say that the count has rendered me any ostensible service. Still, as I have already told you I have an instinctive affection for him, the source of which
I cannot explain to you. Has the sun done anything for me? No; he warms me with his rays, and it is by his
light that I see you — nothing more. Has such and such a perfume done anything for me? No; its odor charms one of my senses — that is all I can say when I am asked why I praise it. My friendship for him is as strange
and unaccountable as his for me. A secret voice seems to whisper to me that there must be something more than chance in this unexpected reciprocity of friendship. In his most simple actions, as well as in his most secret thoughts, I find a relation to my own. You will perhaps smile at me when I tell you that, ever since I
have known this man, I have involuntarily entertained the idea that all the good fortune which his befallen me originated from him. However, I have managed to live thirty years without this protection, you will say; but I will endeavor a little to illustrate my meaning. He invited me to dine with him on Saturday, which was a very
natural thing for him to do. Well, what have I learned since? That your mother and M. de Villefort are both coming to this dinner. I shall meet them there, and who knows what future advantages may result from the interview? This may appear to you to be no unusual combination of circumstances; nevertheless, I perceive some hidden plot in the arrangement — something, in fact, more than is apparent on a casual view of the subject. I believe that this singular man, who appears to fathom the motives of every one, has purposely
arranged for me to meet M. and Madame de Villefort, and sometimes, I confess, I have gone so far as to try to read in his eyes whether he was in possession of the secret of our love.”

“My good friend,” said Valentine, “I should take you for a visionary, and should tremble for your reason, if I
were always to hear you talk in a strain similar to this. Is it possible that you can see anything more than the merest chance in this meeting? Pray reflect a little. My father, who never goes out, has several times been on
the point of refusing this invitation; Madame de Villefort, on the contrary, is burning with the desire of seeing this extraordinary nabob in his own house, therefore, she has with great difficulty prevailed on my father to
accompany her. No, no; it is as I have said, Maximilian, — there is no one in the world of whom I can ask help but yourself and my grandfather, who is little better than a corpse.”

“I see that you are right, logically speaking,” said Maximilian; “but the gentle voice which usually has such power over me fails to convince me to-day.”

“I feel the same as regards yourself.” said Valentine; “and I own that, if you have no stronger proof to give me” —

“I have another,” replied Maximilian; “but I fear you will deem it even more absurd than the first.” “So much the worse,” said Valentine, smiling.
“It is, nevertheless, conclusive to my mind. My ten years of service have also confirmed my ideas on the
subject of sudden inspirations, for I have several times owed my life to a mysterious impulse which directed
me to move at once either to the right or to the left, in order to escape the ball which killed the comrade fighting by my side, while it left me unharmed.”

“Dear Maximilian, why not attribute your escape to my constant prayers for your safety? When you are away,
I no longer pray for myself, but for you.”

“Yes, since you have known me,” said Morrel, smiling; “but that cannot apply to the time previous to our acquaintance, Valentine.”

“You are very provoking, and will not give me credit for anything; but let me hear this second proof, which you yourself own to be absurd.”

“Well, look through this opening, and you will see the beautiful new horse which I rode here.”

“Ah, what a beautiful creature!” cried Valentine; “why did you not bring him close to the gate, so that I could talk to him and pat him?”

“He is, as you see, a very valuable animal,” said Maximilian. “You know that my means are limited, and that I
am what would be designated a man of moderate pretensions. Well, I went to a horse dealer’s, where I saw
this magnificent horse, which I have named Medeah. I asked the price; they told me it was 4,500 francs. I was, therefore, obliged to give it up, as you may imagine, but I own I went away with rather a heavy heart, for the
horse had looked at me affectionately, had rubbed his head against me and, when I mounted him, had pranced
in the most delightful way imaginable, so that I was altogether fascinated with him. The same evening some friends of mine visited me, — M. de Chateau-Renaud, M. Debray, and five or six other choice spirits, whom
you do not know, even by name. They proposed a game of bouillotte. I never play, for I am not rich enough to afford to lose, or sufficiently poor to desire to gain. But I was at my own house, you understand, so there was nothing to be done but to send for the cards, which I did.

“Just as they were sitting down to table, M. de Monte Cristo arrived. He took his seat amongst them; they played, and I won. I am almost ashamed to say that my gains amounted to 5,000 francs. We separated at midnight. I could not defer my pleasure, so I took a cabriolet and drove to the horse dealer’s. Feverish and excited, I rang at the door. The person who opened it must have taken me for a madman, for I rushed at once

to the stable. Medeah was standing at the rack, eating his hay. I immediately put on the saddle and bridle, to
which operation he lent himself with the best grace possible; then, putting the 4,500 francs into the hands of
the astonished dealer, I proceeded to fulfil my intention of passing the night in riding in the Champs Elysees.
As I rode by the count’s house I perceived a light in one of the windows, and fancied I saw the shadow of his figure moving behind the curtain. Now, Valentine, I firmly believe that he knew of my wish to possess this horse, and that he lost expressly to give me the means of procuring him.”

“My dear Maximilian, you are really too fanciful; you will not love even me long. A man who accustoms himself to live in such a world of poetry and imagination must find far too little excitement in a common, every-day sort of attachment such as ours. But they are calling me. Do you hear?”

“Ah, Valentine,” said Maximilian, “give me but one finger through this opening in the grating, one finger, the littlest finger of all, that I may have the happiness of kissing it.”

“Maximilian, we said we would be to each other as two voices, two shadows.” “As you will, Valentine.”
“Shall you be happy if I do what you wish?”

“Oh, yes!” Valentine mounted on a bench, and passed not only her finger but her whole hand through the opening. Maximilian uttered a cry of delight, and, springing forwards, seized the hand extended towards him, and imprinted on it a fervent and impassioned kiss. The little hand was then immediately withdrawn, and the young man saw Valentine hurrying towards the house, as though she were almost terrified at her own
sensations.

Chapter 58

M. Noirtier de Villefort.

We will now relate what was passing in the house of the king’s attorney after the departure of Madame
Danglars and her daughter, and during the time of the conversation between Maximilian and Valentine, which
we have just detailed. M. de Villefort entered his father’s room, followed by Madame de Villefort. Both of the visitors, after saluting the old man and speaking to Barrois, a faithful servant, who had been twenty-five years
in his service, took their places on either side of the paralytic.

M. Noirtier was sitting in an arm-chair, which moved upon casters, in which he was wheeled into the room in
the morning, and in the same way drawn out again at night. He was placed before a large glass, which
reflected the whole apartment, and so, without any attempt to move, which would have been impossible, he could see all who entered the room and everything which was going on around him. M. Noirtier, although
almost as immovable as a corpse, looked at the newcomers with a quick and intelligent expression, perceiving
at once, by their ceremonious courtesy, that they were come on business of an unexpected and official character. Sight and hearing were the only senses remaining, and they, like two solitary sparks, remained to
animate the miserable body which seemed fit for nothing but the grave; it was only, however, by means of one
of these senses that he could reveal the thoughts and feelings that still occupied his mind, and the look by which he gave expression to his inner life was like the distant gleam of a candle which a traveller sees by night across some desert place, and knows that a living being dwells beyond the silence and obscurity. Noirtier’s hair was long and white, and flowed over his shoulders; while in his eyes, shaded by thick black
lashes, was concentrated, as it often happens with an organ which is used to the exclusion of the others, all the activity, address, force, and intelligence which were formerly diffused over his whole body; and so although
the movement of the arm, the sound of the voice, and the agility of the body, were wanting, the speaking eye sufficed for all. He commanded with it; it was the medium through which his thanks were conveyed. In short,
his whole appearance produced on the mind the impression of a corpse with living eyes, and nothing could be more startling than to observe the expression of anger or joy suddenly lighting up these organs, while the rest
of the rigid and marble-like features were utterly deprived of the power of participation. Three persons only could understand this language of the poor paralytic; these were Villefort, Valentine, and the old servant of whom we have already spoken. But as Villefort saw his father but seldom, and then only when absolutely
obliged, and as he never took any pains to please or gratify him when he was there, all the old man’s happiness was centred in his granddaughter. Valentine, by means of her love, her patience, and her devotion, had learned
to read in Noirtier’s look all the varied feelings which were passing in his mind. To this dumb language, which was so unintelligible to others, she answered by throwing her whole soul into the expression of her
countenance, and in this manner were the conversations sustained between the blooming girl and the helpless invalid, whose body could scarcely be called a living one, but who, nevertheless, possessed a fund of
knowledge and penetration, united with a will as powerful as ever although clogged by a body rendered
utterly incapable of obeying its impulses. Valentine had solved the problem, and was able easily to understand
his thoughts, and to convey her own in return, and, through her untiring and devoted assiduity, it was seldom that, in the ordinary transactions of every-day life, she failed to anticipate the wishes of the living, thinking mind, or the wants of the almost inanimate body. As to the servant, he had, as we have said, been with his master for five and twenty years, therefore he knew all his habits, and it was seldom that Noirtier found it
necessary to ask for anything, so prompt was he in administering to all the necessities of the invalid. Villefort
did not need the help of either Valentine or the domestic in order to carry on with his father the strange conversation which he was about to begin. As we have said, he perfectly understood the old man’s vocabulary, and if he did not use it more often, it was only indifference and ennui which prevented him from so doing. He therefore allowed Valentine to go into the garden, sent away Barrois, and after having seated himself at his
father’s right hand, while Madame de Villefort placed herself on the left, he addressed him thus: —

“I trust you will not be displeased, sir, that Valentine has not come with us, or that I dismissed Barrois, for our conference will be one which could not with propriety be carried on in the presence of either. Madame de

Villefort and I have a communication to make to you.”

Noirtier’s face remained perfectly passive during this long preamble, while, on the contrary, Villefort’s eye was endeavoring to penetrate into the inmost recesses of the old man’s heart.

“This communication,” continued the procureur, in that cold and decisive tone which seemed at once to preclude all discussion, “will, we are sure, meet with your approbation.” The eye of the invalid still retained
that vacancy of expression which prevented his son from obtaining any knowledge of the feelings which were passing in his mind; he listened, nothing more. “Sir,” resumed Villefort, “we are thinking of marrying
Valentine.” Had the old man’s face been moulded in wax it could not have shown less emotion at this news than was now to be traced there. “The marriage will take place in less than three months,” said Villefort. Noirtier’s eye still retained its inanimate expression.

Madame de Villefort now took her part in the conversation and added, — “We thought this news would
possess an interest for you, sir, who have always entertained a great affection for Valentine; it therefore only now remains for us to tell you the name of the young man for whom she is destined. It is one of the most
desirable connections which could possibly be formed; he possesses fortune, a high rank in society, and every personal qualification likely to render Valentine supremely happy, — his name, moreover, cannot be wholly unknown to you. It is M. Franz de Quesnel, Baron d’Epinay.”

While his wife was speaking, Villefort had narrowly watched the old man’s countenance. When Madame de
Villefort pronounced the name of Franz, the pupil of M. Noirtier’s eye began to dilate, and his eyelids
trembled with the same movement that may be perceived on the lips of an individual about to speak, and he darted a lightning glance at Madame de Villefort and his son. The procureur, who knew the political hatred which had formerly existed between M. Noirtier and the elder d’Epinay, well understood the agitation and anger which the announcement had produced; but, feigning not to perceive either, he immediately resumed
the narrative begun by his wife. “Sir,” said he, “you are aware that Valentine is about to enter her nineteenth year, which renders it important that she should lose no time in forming a suitable alliance. Nevertheless, you have not been forgotten in our plans, and we have fully ascertained beforehand that Valentine’s future husband will consent, not to live in this house, for that might not be pleasant for the young people, but that you should live with them; so that you and Valentine, who are so attached to each other, would not be separated, and you
would be able to pursue exactly the same course of life which you have hitherto done, and thus, instead of losing, you will be a gainer by the change, as it will secure to you two children instead of one, to watch over and comfort you.”

Noirtier’s look was furious; it was very evident that something desperate was passing in the old man’s mind,
for a cry of anger and grief rose in his throat, and not being able to find vent in utterance, appeared almost to choke him, for his face and lips turned quite purple with the struggle. Villefort quietly opened a window,
saying, “It is very warm, and the heat affects M. Noirtier.” He then returned to his place, but did not sit down. “This marriage,” added Madame de Villefort, “is quite agreeable to the wishes of M. d’Epinay and his family; besides, he had no relations nearer than an uncle and aunt, his mother having died at his birth, and his father having been assassinated in 1815, that is to say, when he was but two years old; it naturally followed that the child was permitted to choose his own pursuits, and he has, therefore, seldom acknowledged any other
authority but that of his own will.”

“That assassination was a mysterious affair,” said Villefort, “and the perpetrators have hitherto escaped detection, although suspicion has fallen on the head of more than one person.” Noirtier made such an effort that his lips expanded into a smile.

“Now,” continued Villefort, “those to whom the guilt really belongs, by whom the crime was committed, on whose heads the justice of man may probably descend here, and the certain judgment of God hereafter, would rejoice in the opportunity thus afforded of bestowing such a peace-offering as Valentine on the son of him

whose life they so ruthlessly destroyed.” Noirtier had succeeded in mastering his emotion more than could
have been deemed possible with such an enfeebled and shattered frame. “Yes, I understand,” was the reply contained in his look; and this look expressed a feeling of strong indignation, mixed with profound contempt. Villefort fully understood his father’s meaning, and answered by a slight shrug of his shoulders. He then
motioned to his wife to take leave. “Now sir,” said Madame de Villefort, “I must bid you farewell. Would you like me to send Edward to you for a short time?”

It had been agreed that the old man should express his approbation by closing his eyes, his refusal by winking them several times, and if he had some desire or feeling to express, he raised them to heaven. If he wanted Valentine, he closed his right eye only, and if Barrois, the left. At Madame de Villefort’s proposition he
instantly winked his eyes. Provoked by a complete refusal, she bit her lip and said, “Then shall I send Valentine to you?” The old man closed his eyes eagerly, thereby intimating that such was his wish. M. and Madame de Villefort bowed and left the room, giving orders that Valentine should be summoned to her
grandfather’s presence, and feeling sure that she would have much to do to restore calmness to the perturbed
spirit of the invalid. Valentine, with a color still heightened by emotion, entered the room just after her parents had quitted it. One look was sufficient to tell her that her grandfather was suffering, and that there was much
on his mind which he was wishing to communicate to her. “Dear grandpapa,” cried she, “what has happened? They have vexed you, and you are angry?” The paralytic closed his eyes in token of assent. “Who has
displeased you? Is it my father?” “No.”
“Madame de Villefort?” “No.”
“Me?” The former sign was repeated. “Are you displeased with me?” cried Valentine in astonishment. M. Noirtier again closed his eyes. “And what have I done, dear grandpapa, that you should be angry with me?” cried Valentine.

There was no answer, and she continued. “I have not seen you all day. Has any one been speaking to you against me?”

“Yes,” said the old man’s look, with eagerness.

“Let me think a moment. I do assure you, grandpapa — Ah — M. and Madame de Villefort have just left this room, have they not?”

“Yes.”

“And it was they who told you something which made you angry? What was it then? May I go and ask them, that I may have the opportunity of making my peace with you?”

“No, no,” said Noirtier’s look.

“Ah, you frighten me. What can they have said?” and she again tried to think what it could be.

“Ah, I know,” said she, lowering her voice and going close to the old man. “They have been speaking of my marriage, — have they not?”

“Yes,” replied the angry look.

“I understand; you are displeased at the silence I have preserved on the subject. The reason of it was, that they
had insisted on my keeping the matter a secret, and begged me not to tell you anything of it. They did not even acquaint me with their intentions, and I only discovered them by chance, that is why I have been so
reserved with you, dear grandpapa. Pray forgive me.” But there was no look calculated to reassure her; all it seemed to say was, “It is not only your reserve which afflicts me.”

“What is it, then?” asked the young girl. “Perhaps you think I shall abandon you, dear grandpapa, and that I
shall forget you when I am married?” “No.”
“They told you, then, that M. d’Epinay consented to our all living together?” “Yes.”
“Then why are you still vexed and grieved?” The old man’s eyes beamed with an expression of gentle
affection. “Yes, I understand,” said Valentine; “it is because you love me.” The old man assented. “And you are afraid I shall be unhappy?”

“Yes.”

“You do not like M. Franz?” The eyes repeated several times, “No, no, no.” “Then you are vexed with the engagement?”
“Yes.”

“Well, listen,” said Valentine, throwing herself on her knees, and putting her arm round her grandfather’s
neck, “I am vexed, too, for I do not love M. Franz d’Epinay.” An expression of intense joy illumined the old man’s eyes. “When I wished to retire into a convent, you remember how angry you were with me?” A tear trembled in the eye of the invalid. “Well,” continued Valentine, “the reason of my proposing it was that I
might escape this hateful marriage, which drives me to despair.” Noirtier’s breathing came thick and short. “Then the idea of this marriage really grieves you too? Ah, if you could but help me — if we could both
together defeat their plan! But you are unable to oppose them, — you, whose mind is so quick, and whose will
is so firm are nevertheless, as weak and unequal to the contest as I am myself. Alas, you, who would have
been such a powerful protector to me in the days of your health and strength, can now only sympathize in my joys and sorrows, without being able to take any active part in them. However, this is much, and calls for gratitude and heaven has not taken away all my blessings when it leaves me your sympathy and kindness.”

At these words there appeared in Noirtier’s eye an expression of such deep meaning that the young girl thought she could read these words there: “You are mistaken; I can still do much for you.”

“Do you think you can help me, dear grandpapa?” said Valentine.

“Yes.” Noirtier raised his eyes, it was the sign agreed on between him and Valentine when he wanted anything.

“What is it you want, dear grandpapa?” said Valentine, and she endeavored to recall to mind all the things
which he would be likely to need; and as the ideas presented themselves to her mind, she repeated them aloud, then, — finding that all her efforts elicited nothing but a constant “No,” — she said, “Come, since this plan does
not answer, I will have recourse to another.” She then recited all the letters of the alphabet from A down to N. When she arrived at that letter the paralytic made her understand that she had spoken the initial letter of the

thing he wanted. “Ah,” said Valentine, “the thing you desire begins with the letter N; it is with N that we have
to do, then. Well, let me see, what can you want that begins with N? Na — Ne — Ni — No” — “Yes, yes, yes,” said the old man’s eye.
“Ah, it is No, then?”

“Yes.” Valentine fetched a dictionary, which she placed on a desk before Noirtier; she opened it, and, seeing
that the odd man’s eye was thoroughly fixed on its pages, she ran her finger quickly up and down the columns. During the six years which had passed since Noirtier first fell into this sad state, Valentine’s powers of
invention had been too often put to the test not to render her expert in devising expedients for gaining a knowledge of his wishes, and the constant practice had so perfected her in the art that she guessed the old man’s meaning as quickly as if he himself had been able to seek for what he wanted. At the word “Notary,”
Noirtier made a sign to her to stop. “Notary,” said she, “do you want a notary, dear grandpapa?” The old man again signified that it was a notary he desired.

“You would wish a notary to be sent for then?” said Valentine. “Yes.”
“Shall my father be informed of your wish?” “Yes.”
“Do you wish the notary to be sent for immediately?” “Yes.”
“Then they shall go for him directly, dear grandpapa. Is that all you want?”

“Yes.” Valentine rang the bell, and ordered the servant to tell Monsieur or Madame de Villefort that they were requested to come to M. Noirtier’s room. “Are you satisfied now?” inquired Valentine.

“Yes.”

“I am sure you are; it is not very difficult to discover that,” — and the young girl smiled on her grandfather, as
if he had been a child. M. de Villefort entered, followed by Barrois. “What do you want me for, sir?”
demanded he of the paralytic.

“Sir,” said Valentine, “my grandfather wishes for a notary.” At this strange and unexpected demand M. de Villefort and his father exchanged looks. “Yes,” motioned the latter, with a firmness which seemed to declare that with the help of Valentine and his old servant, who both knew what his wishes were, he was quite
prepared to maintain the contest. “Do you wish for a notary?” asked Villefort. “Yes.”
“What to do?”

Noirtier made no answer. “What do you want with a notary?” again repeated Villefort. The invalid’s eye
remained fixed, by which expression he intended to intimate that his resolution was unalterable. “Is it to do us some ill turn? Do you think it is worth while?” said Villefort.

“Still,” said Barrois, with the freedom and fidelity of an old servant, “if M. Noirtier asks for a notary, I
suppose he really wishes for a notary; therefore I shall go at once and fetch one.” Barrois acknowledged no master but Noirtier, and never allowed his desires in any way to be contradicted.

“Yes, I do want a notary,” motioned the old man, shutting his eyes with a look of defiance, which seemed to say, “and I should like to see the person who dares to refuse my request.”

“You shall have a notary, as you absolutely wish for one, sir,” said Villefort; “but I shall explain to him your state of health, and make excuses for you, for the scene cannot fail of being a most ridiculous one.”

“Never mind that,” said Barrois; “I shall go and fetch a notary, nevertheless,” — and the old servant departed triumphantly on his mission.

Chapter 59

The Will.

As soon as Barrois had left the room, Noirtier looked at Valentine with a malicious expression that said many things. The young girl perfectly understood the look, and so did Villefort, for his countenance became
clouded, and he knitted his eyebrows angrily. He took a seat, and quietly awaited the arrival of the notary. Noirtier saw him seat himself with an appearance of perfect indifference, at the same time giving a side look
at Valentine, which made her understand that she also was to remain in the room. Three-quarters of an hour
after, Barrois returned, bringing the notary with him. “Sir,” said Villefort, after the first salutations were over, “you were sent for by M. Noirtier, whom you see here. All his limbs have become completely paralysed, he
has lost his voice also, and we ourselves find much trouble in endeavoring to catch some fragments of his meaning.” Noirtier cast an appealing look on Valentine, which look was at once so earnest and imperative,
that she answered immediately. “Sir,” said she, “I perfectly understand my grandfather’s meaning at all times.” “That is quite true,” said Barrois; “and that is what I told the gentleman as we walked along.”
“Permit me,” said the notary, turning first to Villefort and then to Valentine — “permit me to state that the case
in question is just one of those in which a public officer like myself cannot proceed to act without thereby incurring a dangerous responsibility. The first thing necessary to render an act valid is, that the notary should
be thoroughly convinced that he has faithfully interpreted the will and wishes of the person dictating the act. Now I cannot be sure of the approbation or disapprobation of a client who cannot speak, and as the object of
his desire or his repugnance cannot be clearly proved to me, on account of his want of speech, my services here would be quite useless, and cannot be legally exercised.” The notary then prepared to retire. An
imperceptible smile of triumph was expressed on the lips of the procureur. Noirtier looked at Valentine with
an expression so full of grief, that she arrested the departure of the notary. “Sir,” said she, “the language which
I speak with my grandfather may be easily learnt, and I can teach you in a few minutes, to understand it
almost as well as I can myself. Will you tell me what you require, in order to set your conscience quite at ease
on the subject?”

“In order to render an act valid, I must be certain of the approbation or disapprobation of my client. Illness of body would not affect the validity of the deed, but sanity of mind is absolutely requisite.”

“Well, sir, by the help of two signs, with which I will acquaint you presently, you may ascertain with perfect certainty that my grandfather is still in the full possession of all his mental faculties. M. Noirtier, being
deprived of voice and motion, is accustomed to convey his meaning by closing his eyes when he wishes to
signify `yes,’ and to wink when he means `no.’ You now know quite enough to enable you to converse with M. Noirtier; — try.” Noirtier gave Valentine such a look of tenderness and gratitude that it was comprehended
even by the notary himself. “You have heard and understood what your granddaughter has been saying, sir,
have you?” asked the notary. Noirtier closed his eyes. “And you approve of what she said — that is to say, you declare that the signs which she mentioned are really those by means of which you are accustomed to convey your thoughts?”

“Yes.”

“It was you who sent for me?” “Yes.”
“To make your will?” “Yes.”

“And you do not wish me to go away without fulfilling your original intentions?” The old man winked
violently. “Well, sir,” said the young girl, “do you understand now, and is your conscience perfectly at rest on
the subject?” But before the notary could answer, Villefort had drawn him aside. “Sir,” said he, “do you
suppose for a moment that a man can sustain a physical shock, such as M. Noirtier has received, without any detriment to his mental faculties?”

“It is not exactly that, sir,” said the notary, “which makes me uneasy, but the difficulty will be in wording his thoughts and intentions, so as to be able to get his answers.”

“You must see that to be an utter impossibility,” said Villefort. Valentine and the old man heard this conversation, and Noirtier fixed his eye so earnestly on Valentine that she felt bound to answer to the look.

“Sir,” said she, “that need not make you uneasy, however difficult it may at first sight appear to be. I can discover and explain to you my grandfather’s thoughts, so as to put an end to all your doubts and fears on the subject. I have now been six years with M. Noirtier, and let him tell you if ever once, during that time, he has entertained a thought which he was unable to make me understand.”

“No,” signed the old man.

“Let us try what we can do, then,” said the notary. “You accept this young lady as your interpreter, M. Noirtier?”

“Yes.”

“Well, sir, what do you require of me, and what document is it that you wish to be drawn up?” Valentine named all the letters of the alphabet until she came to W. At this letter the eloquent eye of Noirtier gave her
notice that she was to stop. “It is very evident that it is the letter W which M. Noirtier wants,” said the notary. “Wait,” said Valentine; and, turning to her grandfather, she repeated, “Wa — We — Wi” — The old man
stopped her at the last syllable. Valentine then took the dictionary, and the notary watched her while she turned over the pages. She passed her finger slowly down the columns, and when she came to the word
“Will,” M. Noirtier’s eye bade her stop. “Will,” said the notary; “it is very evident that M. Noirtier is desirous
of making his will.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” motioned the invalid.

“Really, sir, you must allow that this is most extraordinary,” said the astonished notary, turning to M. de
Villefort. “Yes,” said the procureur, “and I think the will promises to be yet more extraordinary, for I cannot
see how it is to be drawn up without the intervention of Valentine, and she may, perhaps, be considered as too much interested in its contents to allow of her being a suitable interpreter of the obscure and ill-defined wishes
of her grandfather.”

“No, no, no,” replied the eye of the paralytic.

“What?” said Villefort, “do you mean to say that Valentine is not interested in your will?” “No.”
“Sir,” said the notary, whose interest had been greatly excited, and who had resolved on publishing far and wide the account of this extraordinary and picturesque scene, “what appeared so impossible to me an hour
ago, has now become quite easy and practicable, and this may be a perfectly valid will, provided it be read in
the presence of seven witnesses, approved by the testator, and sealed by the notary in the presence of the witnesses. As to the time, it will not require very much more than the generality of wills. There are certain

forms necessary to be gone through, and which are always the same. As to the details, the greater part will be
furnished afterwards by the state in which we find the affairs of the testator, and by yourself, who, having had
the management of them, can doubtless give full information on the subject. But besides all this, in order that
the instrument may not be contested, I am anxious to give it the greatest possible authenticity, therefore, one
of my colleagues will help me, and, contrary to custom, will assist in the dictation of the testament. Are you satisfied, sir?” continued the notary, addressing the old man.

“Yes,” looked the invalid, his eye beaming with delight at the ready interpretation of his meaning.

“What is he going to do?” thought Villefort, whose position demanded much reserve, but who was longing to know what his father’s intentions were. He left the room to give orders for another notary to be sent, but
Barrois, who had heard all that passed, had guessed his master’s wishes, and had already gone to fetch one.
The procureur then told his wife to come up. In the course of a quarter of an hour every one had assembled in
the chamber of the paralytic; the second notary had also arrived. A few words sufficed for a mutual understanding between the two officers of the law. They read to Noirtier the formal copy of a will, in order to give him an idea of the terms in which such documents are generally couched; then, in order to test the
capacity of the testator, the first notary said, turning towards him, — “When an individual makes his will, it is generally in favor or in prejudice of some person.”

“Yes.”

“Have you an exact idea of the amount of your fortune?” “Yes.”
“I will name to you several sums which will increase by gradation; you will stop me when I reach the one representing the amount of your own possessions?”

“Yes.” There was a kind of solemnity in this interrogation. Never had the struggle between mind and matter been more apparent than now, and if it was not a sublime, it was, at least, a curious spectacle. They had
formed a circle round the invalid; the second notary was sitting at a table, prepared for writing, and his colleague was standing before the testator in the act of interrogating him on the subject to which we have alluded. “Your fortune exceeds 300,000 francs, does it not?” asked he. Noirtier made a sign that it did. “Do you possess 400,000 francs?” inquired the notary. Noirtier’s eye remained immovable. “Five hundred thousand?” The same expression continued. “Six hundred thousand — 700,000 — 800,000 — 900,000?”
Noirtier stopped him at the last-named sum. “You are then in possession of 900,000 francs?” asked the notary. “Yes.”

“In landed property?” “No.”
“In stock?” “Yes.”
“The stock is in your own hands?” The look which M. Noirtier cast on Barrois showed that there was something wanting which he knew where to find. The old servant left the room, and presently returned,
bringing with him a small casket. “Do you permit us to open this casket?” asked the notary. Noirtier gave his assent. They opened it, and found 900,000 francs in bank scrip. The first notary handed over each note, as he examined it, to his colleague.

The total amount was found to be as M. Noirtier had stated. “It is all as he has said; it is very evident that the
mind still retains its full force and vigor.” Then, turning towards the paralytic, he said, “You possess, then,
900,000 francs of capital, which, according to the manner in which you have invested it, ought to bring in an income of about 40,000 livres?”

“Yes.”

“To whom do you desire to leave this fortune?”

“Oh,” said Madame de Villefort, “there is not much doubt on that subject. M. Noirtier tenderly loves his granddaughter, Mademoiselle de Villefort; it is she who has nursed and tended him for six years, and has, by
her devoted attention, fully secured the affection, I had almost said the gratitude, of her grandfather, and it is
but just that she should reap the fruit of her devotion.” The eye of Noirtier clearly showed by its expression
that he was not deceived by the false assent given by Madame de Villefort’s words and manner to the motives which she supposed him to entertain. “Is it, then, to Mademoiselle Valentine de Villefort that you leave these
900,000 francs?” demanded the notary, thinking he had only to insert this clause, but waiting first for the assent of Noirtier, which it was necessary should be given before all the witnesses of this singular scene. Valentine, when her name was made the subject of discussion, had stepped back, to escape unpleasant observation; her eyes were cast down, and she was crying. The old man looked at her for an instant with an expression of the deepest tenderness, then, turning towards the notary, he significantly winked his eye in
token of dissent.

“What,” said the notary, “do you not intend making Mademoiselle Valentine de Villefort your residuary legatee?”

“No.”

“You are not making any mistake, are you?” said the notary; “you really mean to declare that such is not your intention?”

“No,” repeated Noirtier; “No.” Valentine raised her head, struck dumb with astonishment. It was not so much
the conviction that she was disinherited that caused her grief, but her total inability to account for the feelings which had provoked her grandfather to such an act. But Noirtier looked at her with so much affectionate tenderness that she exclaimed, “Oh, grandpapa, I see now that it is only your fortune of which you deprive
me; you still leave me the love which I have always enjoyed.”

“Ah, yes, most assuredly,” said the eyes of the paralytic, for he closed them with an expression which Valentine could not mistake. “Thank you, thank you,” murmured she. The old man’s declaration that Valentine was not the destined inheritor of his fortune had excited the hopes of Madame de Villefort; she gradually approached the invalid, and said: “Then, doubtless, dear M. Noirtier, you intend leaving your fortune to your grandson, Edward de Villefort?” The winking of the eyes which answered this speech was most decided and terrible, and expressed a feeling almost amounting to hatred.

“No?” said the notary; “then, perhaps, it is to your son, M. de Villefort?”

“No.” The two notaries looked at each other in mute astonishment and inquiry as to what were the real intentions of the testator. Villefort and his wife both grew red, one from shame, the other from anger.

“What have we all done, then, dear grandpapa?” said Valentine; “you no longer seem to love any of us?” The
old man’s eyes passed rapidly from Villefort and his wife, and rested on Valentine with a look of unutterable fondness. “Well,” said she; “if you love me, grandpapa, try and bring that love to bear upon your actions at
this present moment. You know me well enough to be quite sure that I have never thought of your fortune;

besides, they say I am already rich in right of my mother — too rich, even. Explain yourself, then.” Noirtier
fixed his intelligent eyes on Valentine’s hand. “My hand?” said she. “Yes.”
“Her hand!” exclaimed every one.

“Oh, gentlemen, you see it is all useless, and that my father’s mind is really impaired,” said Villefort. “Ah,” cried Valentine suddenly, “I understand. It is my marriage you mean, is it not, dear grandpapa?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” signed the paralytic, casting on Valentine a look of joyful gratitude for having guessed his meaning.

“You are angry with us all on account of this marriage, are you not?” “Yes?”
“Really, this is too absurd,” said Villefort.

“Excuse me, sir,” replied the notary; “on the contrary, the meaning of M. Noirtier is quite evident to me, and I
can quite easily connect the train of ideas passing in his mind.”

“You do not wish me to marry M. Franz d’Epinay?” observed Valentine.

“I do not wish it,” said the eye of her grandfather. “And you disinherit your granddaughter,” continued the notary, “because she has contracted an engagement contrary to your wishes?”

“Yes.”

“So that, but for this marriage, she would have been your heir?”

“Yes.” There was a profound silence. The two notaries were holding a consultation as to the best means of proceeding with the affair. Valentine was looking at her grandfather with a smile of intense gratitude, and Villefort was biting his lips with vexation, while Madame de Villefort could not succeed in repressing an
inward feeling of joy, which, in spite of herself, appeared in her whole countenance. “But,” said Villefort, who was the first to break the silence, “I consider that I am the best judge of the propriety of the marriage in
question. I am the only person possessing the right to dispose of my daughter’s hand. It is my wish that she should marry M. Franz d’Epinay — and she shall marry him.” Valentine sank weeping into a chair.

“Sir,” said the notary, “how do you intend disposing of your fortune in case Mademoiselle de Villefort still determines on marrying M. Franz?” The old man gave no answer. “You will, of course, dispose of it in some way or other?”

“Yes.”

“In favor of some member of your family?” “No.”
“Do you intend devoting it to charitable purposes, then?” pursued the notary.

“Yes.”

“But,” said the notary, “you are aware that the law does not allow a son to be entirely deprived of his patrimony?”

“Yes.”

“You only intend, then, to dispose of that part of your fortune which the law allows you to subtract from the inheritance of your son?” Noirtier made no answer. “Do you still wish to dispose of all?”

“Yes.”

“But they will contest the will after your death?” “No.”
“My father knows me,” replied Villefort; “he is quite sure that his wishes will be held sacred by me; besides,
he understands that in my position I cannot plead against the poor.” The eye of Noirtier beamed with triumph. “What do you decide on, sir?” asked the notary of Villefort.

“Nothing, sir; it is a resolution which my father has taken and I know he never alters his mind. I am quite resigned. These 900,000 francs will go out of the family in order to enrich some hospital; but it is ridiculous thus to yield to the caprices of an old man, and I shall, therefore, act according to my conscience.” Having
said this, Villefort quitted the room with his wife, leaving his father at liberty to do as he pleased. The same
day the will was made, the witnesses were brought, it was approved by the old man, sealed in the presence of
all and given in charge to M. Deschamps, the family notary.

Chapter 60

The Telegraph.

M. and Madame de Villefort found on their return that the Count of Monte Cristo, who had come to visit them
in their absence, had been ushered into the drawing-room, and was still awaiting them there. Madame de
Villefort, who had not yet sufficiently recovered from her late emotion to allow of her entertaining visitors so immediately, retired to her bedroom, while the procureur, who could better depend upon himself, proceeded at once to the salon. Although M. de Villefort flattered himself that, to all outward view, he had completely
masked the feelings which were passing in his mind, he did not know that the cloud was still lowering on his brow, so much so that the count, whose smile was radiant, immediately noticed his sombre and thoughtful air. “Ma foi,” said Monte Cristo, after the first compliments were over, “what is the matter with you, M. de
Villefort? Have I arrived at the moment when you were drawing up an indictment for a capital crime?” Villefort tried to smile. “No, count,” he replied, “I am the only victim in this case. It is I who lose my cause, and it is ill-luck, obstinacy, and folly which have caused it to be decided against me.”

“To what do you refer?” said Monte Cristo with well-feigned interest. “Have you really met with some great misfortune?”

“Oh, no, monsieur,” said Villefort with a bitter smile; “it is only a loss of money which I have sustained — nothing worth mentioning, I assure you.”

“True,” said Monte Cristo, “the loss of a sum of money becomes almost immaterial with a fortune such as you possess, and to one of your philosophic spirit.”

“It is not so much the loss of the money that vexes me,” said Villefort, “though, after all, 900,000 francs are worth regretting; but I am the more annoyed with this fate, chance, or whatever you please to call the power which has destroyed my hopes and my fortune, and may blast the prospects of my child also, as it is all occasioned by an old man relapsed into second childhood.”

“What do you say?” said the count; “900,000 francs? It is indeed a sum which might be regretted even by a philosopher. And who is the cause of all this annoyance?”

“My father, as I told you.”

“M. Noirtier? But I thought you told me he had become entirely paralyzed, and that all his faculties were completely destroyed?”

“Yes, his bodily faculties, for he can neither move nor speak, nevertheless he thinks, acts, and wills in the
manner I have described. I left him about five minutes ago, and he is now occupied in dictating his will to two notaries.”

“But to do this he must have spoken?”

“He has done better than that — he has made himself understood.” “How was such a thing possible?”
“By the help of his eyes, which are still full of life, and, as you perceive, possess the power of inflicting mortal injury.”

“My dear,” said Madame de Villefort, who had just entered the room, “perhaps you exaggerate the evil.”

“Good-morning, madame,” said the count, bowing. Madame de Villefort acknowledged the salutation with
one of her most gracious smiles. “What is this that M. de Villefort has been telling me?” demanded Monte
Cristo “and what incomprehensible misfortune” —

“Incomprehensible is not the word,” interrupted the procureur, shrugging his shoulders. “It is an old man’s caprice.”

“And is there no means of making him revoke his decision?”

“Yes,” said Madame de Villefort; “and it is still entirely in the power of my husband to cause the will, which
is now in prejudice of Valentine, to be altered in her favor.” The count, who perceived that M. and Madame
de Villefort were beginning to speak in parables, appeared to pay no attention to the conversation, and feigned
to be busily engaged in watching Edward, who was mischievously pouring some ink into the bird’s
water-glass. “My dear,” said Villefort, in answer to his wife, “you know I have never been accustomed to play
the patriarch in my family, nor have I ever considered that the fate of a universe was to be decided by my nod. Nevertheless, it is necessary that my will should be respected in my family, and that the folly of an old man
and the caprice of a child should not be allowed to overturn a project which I have entertained for so many
years. The Baron d’Epinay was my friend, as you know, and an alliance with his son is the most suitable thing that could possibly be arranged.”

“Do you think,” said Madame de Villefort, “that Valentine is in league with him? She has always been opposed to this marriage, and I should not be at all surprised if what we have just seen and heard is nothing
but the execution of a plan concerted between them.”

“Madame,” said Villefort, “believe me, a fortune of 900,000 francs is not so easily renounced.”

“She could, nevertheless, make up her mind to renounce the world, sir, since it is only about a year ago that she herself proposed entering a convent.”

“Never mind,” replied Villefort; “I say that this marriage shall be consummated.”

“Notwithstanding your father’s wishes to the contrary?” said Madame de Villefort, selecting a new point of attack. “That is a serious thing.” Monte Cristo, who pretended not to be listening, heard however, every word
that was said. “Madame,” replied Villefort “I can truly say that I have always entertained a high respect for my father, because, to the natural feeling of relationship was added the consciousness of his moral superiority.
The name of father is sacred in two senses; he should be reverenced as the author of our being and as a master whom we ought to obey. But, under the present circumstances, I am justified in doubting the wisdom of an
old man who, because he hated the father, vents his anger on the son. It would be ridiculous in me to regulate
my conduct by such caprices. I shall still continue to preserve the same respect toward M. Noirtier; I will
suffer, without complaint, the pecuniary deprivation to which he has subjected me; but I shall remain firm in
my determination, and the world shall see which party has reason on his side. Consequently I shall marry my daughter to the Baron Franz d’Epinay, because I consider it would be a proper and eligible match for her to make, and, in short, because I choose to bestow my daughter’s hand on whomever I please.”

“What?” said the count, the approbation of whose eye Villefort had frequently solicited during this speech. “What? Do you say that M. Noirtier disinherits Mademoiselle de Villefort because she is going to marry M. le Baron Franz d’Epinay?”

“Yes, sir, that is the reason,” said Villefort, shrugging his shoulders. “The apparent reason, at least,” said Madame de Villefort.

“The real reason, madame, I can assure you; I know my father.”

“But I want to know in what way M. d’Epinay can have displeased your father more than any other person?”

“I believe I know M. Franz d’Epinay,” said the count; “is he not the son of General de Quesnel, who was created Baron d’Epinay by Charles X.?”

“The same,” said Villefort.

“Well, but he is a charming young man, according to my ideas.”

“He is, which makes me believe that it is only an excuse of M. Noirtier to prevent his granddaughter marrying; old men are always so selfish in their affection,” said Madame de Villefort.

“But,” said Monte Cristo “do you not know any cause for this hatred?” “Ah, ma foi, who is to know?”
“Perhaps it is some political difference?”
“My father and the Baron d’Epinay lived in the stormy times of which I only saw the ending,” said Villefort. “Was not your father a Bonapartist?” asked Monte Cristo; “I think I remember that you told me something of
that kind.”

“My father has been a Jacobin more than anything else,” said Villefort, carried by his emotion beyond the bounds of prudence; “and the senator’s robe, which Napoleon cast on his shoulders, only served to disguise
the old man without in any degree changing him. When my father conspired, it was not for the emperor, it was against the Bourbons; for M. Noirtier possessed this peculiarity, he never projected any Utopian schemes
which could never be realized, but strove for possibilities, and he applied to the realization of these possibilities the terrible theories of The Mountain, — theories that never shrank from any means that were deemed necessary to bring about the desired result.”

“Well,” said Monte Cristo, “it is just as I thought; it was politics which brought Noirtier and M. d’Epinay into personal contact. Although General d’Epinay served under Napoleon, did he not still retain royalist
sentiments? And was he not the person who was assassinated one evening on leaving a Bonapartist meeting to which he had been invited on the supposition that he favored the cause of the emperor?” Villefort looked at
the count almost with terror. “Am I mistaken, then?” said Monte Cristo.

“No, sir, the facts were precisely what you have stated,” said Madame de Villefort; “and it was to prevent the renewal of old feuds that M. de Villefort formed the idea of uniting in the bonds of affection the two children
of these inveterate enemies.”

“It was a sublime and charitable thought,” said Monte Cristo, “and the whole world should applaud it. It would be noble to see Mademoiselle Noirtier de Villefort assuming the title of Madame Franz d’Epinay.” Villefort shuddered and looked at Monte Cristo as if he wished to read in his countenance the real feelings which had dictated the words he had just uttered. But the count completely baffled the procureur, and
prevented him from discovering anything beneath the never-varying smile he was so constantly in the habit of assuming. “Although,” said Villefort, “it will be a serious thing for Valentine to lose her grandfather’s fortune,
I do not think that M. d’Epinay will be frightened at this pecuniary loss. He will, perhaps, hold me in greater esteem than the money itself, seeing that I sacrifice everything in order to keep my word with him. Besides, he knows that Valentine is rich in right of her mother, and that she will, in all probability, inherit the fortune of

M. and Madame de Saint-Meran, her mother’s parents, who both love her tenderly.”

“And who are fully as well worth loving and tending as M. Noirtier,” said Madame de Villefort; “besides, they
are to come to Paris in about a month, and Valentine, after the affront she has received, need not consider it necessary to continue to bury herself alive by being shut up with M. Noirtier.” The count listened with satisfaction to this tale of wounded self-love and defeated ambition. “But it seems to me,” said Monte Cristo, “and I must begin by asking your pardon for what I am about to say, that if M. Noirtier disinherits
Mademoiselle de Villefort because she is going to marry a man whose father he detested, he cannot have the same cause of complaint against this dear Edward.”

“True,” said Madame de Villefort, with an intonation of voice which it is impossible to describe; “is it not
unjust — shamefully unjust? Poor Edward is as much M. Noirtier’s grandchild as Valentine, and yet, if she had
not been going to marry M. Franz, M. Noirtier would have left her all his money; and supposing Valentine to
be disinherited by her grandfather, she will still be three times richer than he.” The count listened and said no more. “Count,” said Villefort, “we will not entertain you any longer with our family misfortunes. It is true that
my patrimony will go to endow charitable institutions, and my father will have deprived me of my lawful inheritance without any reason for doing so, but I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that I have acted like
a man of sense and feeling. M. d’Epinay, to whom I had promised the interest of this sum, shall receive it, even if I endure the most cruel privations.”

“However,” said Madame de Villefort, returning to the one idea which incessantly occupied her mind,
“perhaps it would be better to explain this unlucky affair to M. d’Epinay, in order to give him the opportunity
of himself renouncing his claim to the hand of Mademoiselle de Villefort.” “Ah, that would be a great pity,” said Villefort.
“A great pity,” said Monte Cristo.

“Undoubtedly,” said Villefort, moderating the tones of his voice, “a marriage once concerted and then broken off, throws a sort of discredit on a young lady; then again, the old reports, which I was so anxious to put an
end to, will instantly gain ground. No, it will all go well; M. d’Epinay, if he is an honorable man, will consider himself more than ever pledged to Mademoiselle de Villefort, unless he were actuated by a decided feeling of avarice, but that is impossible.”

“I agree with M. de Villefort,” said Monte Cristo, fixing his eyes on Madame de Villefort; “and if I were sufficiently intimate with him to allow of giving my advice, I would persuade him, since I have been told M. d’Epinay is coming back, to settle this affair at once beyond all possibility of revocation. I will answer for the success of a project which will reflect so much honor on M. de Villefort.” The procureur arose, delighted with
the proposition, but his wife slightly changed color. “Well, that is all that I wanted, and I will be guided by a counsellor such as you are,” said he, extending his hand to Monte Cristo. “Therefore let every one here look upon what has passed to-day as if it had not happened, and as though we had never thought of such a thing as
a change in our original plans.”

“Sir,” said the count, “the world, unjust as it is, will be pleased with your resolution; your friends will be
proud of you, and M. d’Epinay, even if he took Mademoiselle de Villefort without any dowry, which he will
not do, would be delighted with the idea of entering a family which could make such sacrifices in order to
keep a promise and fulfil a duty.” At the conclusion of these words, the count rose to depart. “Are you going
to leave us, count?” said Madame de Villefort.

“I am sorry to say I must do so, madame, I only came to remind you of your promise for Saturday.” “Did you fear that we should forget it?”

“You are very good, madame, but M. de Villefort has so many important and urgent occupations.”

“My husband has given me his word, sir,” said Madame de Villefort; “you have just seen him resolve to keep
it when he has everything to lose, and surely there is more reason for his doing so where he has everything to gain.”

“And,” said Villefort, “is it at your house in the Champs-Elysees that you receive your visitors?”

“No,” said Monte Cristo, “which is precisely the reason which renders your kindness more meritorious, — it is
in the country.” “In the country?” “Yes.”
“Where is it, then? Near Paris, is it not?”

“Very near, only half a league from the Barriers, — it is at Auteuil.”

“At Auteuil?” said Villefort; “true, Madame de Villefort told me you lived at Auteuil, since it was to your house that she was taken. And in what part of Auteuil do you reside?”

“Rue de la Fontaine.”

“Rue de la Fontaine!” exclaimed Villefort in an agitated tone; “at what number?” “No. 28.”
“Then,” cried Villefort, “was it you who bought M. de Saint-Meran’s house!” “Did it belong to M. de Saint-Meran?” demanded Monte Cristo.
“Yes,” replied Madame de Villefort; “and, would you believe it, count” — “Believe what?”
“You think this house pretty, do you not?” “I think it charming.”
“Well, my husband would never live in it.”

“Indeed?” returned Monte Cristo, “that is a prejudice on your part, M. de Villefort, for which I am quite at a loss to account.”

“I do not like Auteuil, sir,” said the procureur, making an evident effort to appear calm.

“But I hope you will not carry your antipathy so far as to deprive me of the pleasure of your company, sir,”
said Monte Cristo.

“No, count, — I hope — I assure you I shall do my best,” stammered Villefort.

“Oh,” said Monte Cristo, “I allow of no excuse. On Saturday, at six o’clock. I shall be expecting you, and if
you fail to come, I shall think — for how do I know to the contrary? — that this house, which his remained uninhabited for twenty years, must have some gloomy tradition or dreadful legend connected with it.”

“I will come, count, — I will be sure to come,” said Villefort eagerly.

“Thank you,” said Monte Cristo; “now you must permit me to take my leave of you.”

“You said before that you were obliged to leave us, monsieur,” said Madame de Villefort, “and you were about to tell us why when your attention was called to some other subject.”

“Indeed madame,” said Monte Cristo: “I scarcely know if I dare tell you where I am going.” “Nonsense; say on.”
“Well, then, it is to see a thing on which I have sometimes mused for hours together.” “What is it?”
“A telegraph. So now I have told my secret.” “A telegraph?” repeated Madame de Villefort.
“Yes, a telegraph. I had often seen one placed at the end of a road on a hillock, and in the light of the sun its black arms, bending in every direction, always reminded me of the claws of an immense beetle, and I assure you it was never without emotion that I gazed on it, for I could not help thinking how wonderful it was that these various signs should be made to cleave the air with such precision as to convey to the distance of three
hundred leagues the ideas and wishes of a man sitting at a table at one end of the line to another man similarly placed at the opposite extremity, and all this effected by a simple act of volition on the part of the sender of
the message. I began to think of genii, sylphs, gnomes, in short, of all the ministers of the occult sciences,
until I laughed aloud at the freaks of my own imagination. Now, it never occurred to me to wish for a nearer inspection of these large insects, with their long black claws, for I always feared to find under their stone
wings some little human genius fagged to death with cabals, factions, and government intrigues. But one fine day I learned that the mover of this telegraph was only a poor wretch, hired for twelve hundred francs a year, and employed all day, not in studying the heavens like an astronomer, or in gazing on the water like an angler,
or even in enjoying the privilege of observing the country around him, but all his monotonous life was passed
in watching his white-bellied, black-clawed fellow insect, four or five leagues distant from him. At length I
felt a desire to study this living chrysalis more closely, and to endeavor to understand the secret part played by these insect-actors when they occupy themselves simply with pulling different pieces of string.”

“And are you going there?” “I am.”
“What telegraph do you intend visiting? that of the home department, or of the observatory?”

“Oh, no; I should find there people who would force me to understand things of which I would prefer to remain ignorant, and who would try to explain to me, in spite of myself, a mystery which even they do not understand. Ma foi, I should wish to keep my illusions concerning insects unimpaired; it is quite enough to have those dissipated which I had formed of my fellow-creatures. I shall, therefore, not visit either of these
telegraphs, but one in the open country where I shall find a good-natured simpleton, who knows no more than
the machine he is employed to work.”

“You are a singular man,” said Villefort.

“What line would you advise me to study?” “The one that is most in use just at this time.” “The Spanish one, you mean, I suppose?”
“Yes; should you like a letter to the minister that they might explain to you” —

“No,” said Monte Cristo; “since, as I told you before, I do not wish to comprehend it. The moment I
understand it there will no longer exist a telegraph for me; it will he nothing more than a sign from M.
Duchatel, or from M. Montalivet, transmitted to the prefect of Bayonne, mystified by two Greek words, tele, graphein. It is the insect with black claws, and the awful word which I wish to retain in my imagination in all
its purity and all its importance.”

“Go then; for in the course of two hours it will be dark, and you will not be able to see anything.” “Ma foi, you frighten me. Which is the nearest way? Bayonne?”
“Yes; the road to Bayonne.”

“And afterwards the road to Chatillon?” “Yes.”
“By the tower of Montlhery, you mean?” “Yes.”
“Thank you. Good-by. On Saturday I will tell you my impressions concerning the telegraph.” At the door the count was met by the two notaries, who had just completed the act which was to disinherit Valentine, and who were leaving under the conviction of having done a thing which could not fail of redounding considerably to
their credit.

Chapter 61

How a Gardener may get rid of the Dormice that eat His Peaches.

Not on the same night, as he had intended, but the next morning, the Count of Monte Cristo went out by the Barrier d’Enfer, taking the road to Orleans. Leaving the village of Linas, without stopping at the telegraph, which flourished its great bony arms as he passed, the count reached the tower of Montlhery, situated, as
every one knows, upon the highest point of the plain of that name. At the foot of the hill the count dismounted and began to ascend by a little winding path, about eighteen inches wide; when he reached the summit he
found himself stopped by a hedge, upon which green fruit had succeeded to red and white flowers.

Monte Cristo looked for the entrance to the enclosure, and was not long in finding a little wooden gate,
working on willow hinges, and fastened with a nail and string. The count soon mastered the mechanism, the gate opened, and he then found himself in a little garden, about twenty feet long by twelve wide, bounded on
one side by part of the hedge, which contained the ingenious contrivance we have called a gate, and on the other by the old tower, covered with ivy and studded with wall-flowers. No one would have thought in
looking at this old, weather-beaten, floral-decked tower (which might be likened to an elderly dame dressed
up to receive her grandchildren at a birthday feast) that it would have been capable of telling strange things, if,
— in addition to the menacing ears which the proverb says all walls are provided with, — it had also a voice.
The garden was crossed by a path of red gravel, edged by a border of thick box, of many years’ growth, and of
a tone and color that would have delighted the heart of Delacroix, our modern Rubens. This path was formed
in the shape of the figure of 8, thus, in its windings, making a walk of sixty feet in a garden of only twenty.

Never had Flora, the fresh and smiling goddess of gardeners, been honored with a purer or more scrupulous worship than that which was paid to her in this little enclosure. In fact, of the twenty rose-trees which formed
the parterre, not one bore the mark of the slug, nor were there evidences anywhere of the clustering aphis which is so destructive to plants growing in a damp soil. And yet it was not because the damp had been
excluded from the garden; the earth, black as soot, the thick foliage of the trees betrayed its presence; besides, had natural humidity been wanting, it could have been immediately supplied by artificial means, thanks to a
tank of water, sunk in one of the corners of the garden, and upon which were stationed a frog and a toad, who, from antipathy, no doubt, always remained on the two opposite sides of the basin. There was not a blade of
grass to be seen in the paths, or a weed in the flower-beds; no fine lady ever trained and watered her geraniums, her cacti, and her rhododendrons, with more pains than this hitherto unseen gardener bestowed
upon his little enclosure. Monte Cristo stopped after having closed the gate and fastened the string to the nail, and cast a look around.

“The man at the telegraph,” said he, “must either engage a gardener or devote himself passionately to agriculture.” Suddenly he struck against something crouching behind a wheelbarrow filled with leaves; the something rose, uttering an exclamation of astonishment, and Monte Cristo found himself facing a man about
fifty years old, who was plucking strawberries, which he was placing upon grape leaves. He had twelve leaves and about as many strawberries, which, on rising suddenly, he let fall from his hand. “You are gathering your crop, sir?” said Monte Cristo, smiling.

“Excuse me, sir,” replied the man, raising his hand to his cap; “I am not up there, I know, but I have only just come down.”

“Do not let me interfere with you in anything, my friend,” said the count; “gather your strawberries, if, indeed, there are any left.”

“I have ten left,” said the man, “for here are eleven, and I had twenty-one, five more than last year. But I am
not surprised; the spring has been warm this year, and strawberries require heat, sir. This is the reason that, instead of the sixteen I had last year, I have this year, you see, eleven, already plucked — twelve, thirteen,

fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. Ah, I miss three, they were here last night, sir — I am sure they
were here — I counted them. It must be the Mere Simon’s son who has stolen them; I saw him strolling about here this morning. Ah, the young rascal — stealing in a garden — he does not know where that may lead him
to.”

“Certainly, it is wrong,” said Monte Cristo, “but you should take into consideration the youth and greediness
of the delinquent.”

“Of course,” said the gardener, “but that does not make it the less unpleasant. But, sir, once more I beg
pardon; perhaps you are an officer that I am detaining here.” And he glanced timidly at the count’s blue coat.

“Calm yourself, my friend,” said the count, with the smile which he made at will either terrible or benevolent, and which now expressed only the kindliest feeling; “I am not an inspector, but a traveller, brought here by a curiosity he half repents of, since he causes you to lose your time.”

“Ah, my time is not valuable,” replied the man with a melancholy smile. “Still it belongs to government, and I
ought not to waste it; but, having received the signal that I might rest for an hour” (here he glanced at the
sun-dial, for there was everything in the enclosure of Montlhery, even a sun-dial), “and having ten minutes before me, and my strawberries being ripe, when a day longer — by-the-by, sir, do you think dormice eat them?”

“Indeed, I should think not,” replied Monte Cristo; “dormice are bad neighbors for us who do not eat them preserved, as the Romans did.”

“What? Did the Romans eat them?” said the gardener — “ate dormice?”

“I have read so in Petronius,” said the count.

“Really? They can’t be nice, though they do say `as fat as a dormouse.’ It is not a wonder they are fat, sleeping
all day, and only waking to eat all night. Listen. Last year I had four apricots — they stole one, I had one nectarine, only one — well, sir, they ate half of it on the wall; a splendid nectarine — I never ate a better.”

“You ate it?”

“That is to say, the half that was left — you understand; it was exquisite, sir. Ah, those gentlemen never choose
the worst morsels; like Mere Simon’s son, who has not chosen the worst strawberries. But this year,” continued the horticulturist, “I’ll take care it shall not happen, even if I should be forced to sit by the whole night to watch when the strawberries are ripe.” Monte Cristo had seen enough. Every man has a devouring passion in his heart, as every fruit has its worm; that of the telegraph man was horticulture. He began
gathering the grape-leaves which screened the sun from the grapes, and won the heart of the gardener. “Did you come here, sir, to see the telegraph?” he said.

“Yes, if it isn’t contrary to the rules.”

“Oh, no,” said the gardener; “not in the least, since there is no danger that anyone can possibly understand what we are saying.”

“I have been told,” said the count, “that you do not always yourselves understand the signals you repeat.” “That is true, sir, and that is what I like best,” said the man, smiling.
“Why do you like that best?”

“Because then I have no responsibility. I am a machine then, and nothing else, and so long as I work, nothing
more is required of me.”

“Is it possible,” said Monte Cristo to himself, “that I can have met with a man that has no ambition? That would spoil my plans.”

“Sir,” said the gardener, glancing at the sun-dial, “the ten minutes are almost up; I must return to my post. Will you go up with me?”

“I follow you.” Monte Cristo entered the tower, which was divided into three stories. The tower contained implements, such as spades, rakes, watering-pots, hung against the wall; this was all the furniture. The second was the man’s conventional abode, or rather sleeping-place; it contained a few poor articles of household furniture — a bed, a table, two chairs, a stone pitcher — and some dry herbs, hung up to the ceiling, which the count recognized as sweet pease, and of which the good man was preserving the seeds; he had labelled them
with as much care as if he had been master botanist in the Jardin des Plantes.

“Does it require much study to learn the art of telegraphing?” asked Monte Cristo.

“The study does not take long; it was acting as a supernumerary that was so tedious.” “And what is the pay?”
“A thousand francs, sir.” “It is nothing.”
“No; but then we are lodged, as you perceive.”

Monte Cristo looked at the room. They passed to the third story; it was the telegraph room. Monte Cristo
looked in turn at the two iron handles by which the machine was worked. “It is very interesting,” he said, “but
it must be very tedious for a lifetime.”

“Yes. At first my neck was cramped with looking at it, but at the end of a year I became used to it; and then
we have our hours of recreation, and our holidays.” “Holidays?”
“Yes.” “When?”
“When we have a fog.” “Ah, to be sure.”
“Those are indeed holidays to me; I go into the garden, I plant, I prune, I trim, I kill the insects all day long.” “How long have you been here?”
“Ten years, and five as a supernumerary make fifteen.” “You are — ”

“Fifty-five years old.”

“How long must you have served to claim the pension?” “Oh, sir, twenty-five years.”
“And how much is the pension?” “A hundred crowns.”
“Poor humanity!” murmured Monte Cristo. “What did you say, sir?” asked the man.
“I was saying it was very interesting.” “What was?”
“All you were showing me. And you really understand none of these signals?” “None at all.”
“And have you never tried to understand them?” “Never. Why should I?”
“But still there are some signals only addressed to you.” “Certainly.”
“And do you understand them?” “They are always the same.” “And they mean — ”
“Nothing new; You have an hour; or To-morrow.”

“This is simple enough,” said the count; “but look, is not your correspondent putting itself in motion?” “Ah, yes; thank you, sir.”
“And what is it saying — anything you understand?” “Yes; it asks if I am ready.”
“And you reply?”

“By the same sign, which, at the same time, tells my right-hand correspondent that I am ready, while it gives notice to my left-hand correspondent to prepare in his turn.”

“It is very ingenious,” said the count.

“You will see,” said the man proudly; “in five minutes he will speak.”

“I have, then, five minutes,” said Monte Cristo to himself; “it is more time than I require. My dear sir, will you allow me to ask you a question?”

“What is it, sir?”

“You are fond of gardening?” “Passionately.”
“And you would be pleased to have, instead of this terrace of twenty feet, an enclosure of two acres?” “Sir, I should make a terrestrial paradise of it.”
“You live badly on your thousand francs?” “Badly enough; but yet I do live.”
“Yes; but you have a wretchedly small garden.” “True, the garden is not large.”
“And, then, such as it is, it is filled with dormice, who eat everything.” “Ah, they are my scourges.”
“Tell me, should you have the misfortune to turn your head while your right-hand correspondent was telegraphing” —

“I should not see him.”

“Then what would happen?”

“I could not repeat the signals.” “And then?”
“Not having repeated them, through negligence, I should be fined.” “How much?”
“A hundred francs.”

“The tenth of your income — that would be fine work.” “Ah,” said the man.
“Has it ever happened to you?” said Monte Cristo. “Once, sir, when I was grafting a rose-tree.”

“Well, suppose you were to alter a signal, and substitute another?”

“Ah, that is another case; I should be turned off, and lose my pension.” “Three hundred francs?”
“A hundred crowns, yes, sir; so you see that I am not likely to do any of these things.” “Not even for fifteen years’ wages? Come, it is worth thinking about?”
“For fifteen thousand francs?” “Yes.”
“Sir, you alarm me.” “Nonsense.”
“Sir, you are tempting me?”

“Just so; fifteen thousand francs, do you understand?” “Sir, let me see my right-hand correspondent.”
“On the contrary, do not look at him, but at this.” “What is it?”
“What? Do you not know these bits of paper?” “Bank-notes!”
“Exactly; there are fifteen of them.” “And whose are they?”
“Yours, if you like.”

“Mine?” exclaimed the man, half-suffocated. “Yes; yours — your own property.”
“Sir, my right-hand correspondent is signalling.” “Let him signal.”
“Sir, you have distracted me; I shall be fined.”

“That will cost you a hundred francs; you see it is your interest to take my bank-notes.” “Sir, my right-hand correspondent redoubles his signals; he is impatient.”

“Never mind — take these;” and the count placed the packet in the man’s hands. “Now this is not all,” he said;
“you cannot live upon your fifteen thousand francs.” “I shall still have my place.”
“No, you will lose it, for you are going to alter your correspondent’s message.” “Oh, sir, what are you proposing?”
“A jest.”

“Sir, unless you force me” —

“I think I can effectually force you;” and Monte Cristo drew another packet from his pocket. “Here are ten thousand more francs,” he said, “with the fifteen thousand already in your pocket, they will make twenty-five thousand. With five thousand you can buy a pretty little house with two acres of land; the remaining twenty thousand will bring you in a thousand francs a year.”

“A garden with two acres of land!” “And a thousand francs a year.” “Oh, heavens!”
“Come, take them,” and Monte Cristo forced the bank-notes into his hand. “What am I to do?”
“Nothing very difficult.” “But what is it?”
“To repeat these signs.” Monte Cristo took a paper from his pocket, upon which were drawn three signs, with numbers to indicate the order in which they were to be worked.

“There, you see it will not take long.” “Yes; but” —
“Do this, and you will have nectarines and all the rest.” The shot told; red with fever, while the large drops fell from his brow, the man executed, one after the other, the three signs given by the count, in spite of the
frightful contortions of the right-hand correspondent, who, not understanding the change, began to think the gardener had gone mad. As to the left-hand one, he conscientiously repeated the same signals, which were finally transmitted to the Minister of the Interior. “Now you are rich,” said Monte Cristo.

“Yes,” replied the man, “but at what a price!”

“Listen, friend,” said Monte Cristo. “I do not wish to cause you any remorse; believe me, then, when I swear
to you that you have wronged no man, but on the contrary have benefited mankind.” The man looked at the
bank-notes, felt them, counted them, turned pale, then red, then rushed into his room to drink a glass of water,
but he had no time to reach the water-jug, and fainted in the midst of his dried herbs. Five minutes after the new telegram reached the minister, Debray had the horses put to his carriage, and drove to Danglars’ house.

“Has your husband any Spanish bonds?” he asked of the baroness.

“I think so, indeed! He has six millions’ worth.” “He must sell them at whatever price.”
“Why?”

“Because Don Carlos has fled from Bourges, and has returned to Spain.”

“How do you know?” Debray shrugged his shoulders. “The idea of asking how I hear the news,” he said. The baroness did not wait for a repetition; she ran to her husband, who immediately hastened to his agent, and
ordered him to sell at any price. When it was seen that Danglars sold, the Spanish funds fell directly. Danglars lost five hundred thousand francs; but he rid himself of all his Spanish shares. The same evening the following
was read in Le Messager:

“[By telegraph.] The king, Don Carlos, has escaped the vigilance of his guardians at Bourges, and has returned to Spain by the Catalonian frontier. Barcelona has risen in his favor.”

All that evening nothing was spoken of but the foresight of Danglars, who had sold his shares, and of the luck
of the stock-jobber, who only lost five hundred thousand francs by such a blow. Those who had kept their shares, or bought those of Danglars, looked upon themselves as ruined, and passed a very bad night. Next morning Le Moniteur contained the following:

“It was without any foundation that Le Messager yesterday announced the flight of Don Carlos and the revolt
of Barcelona. The king (Don Carlos) has not left Bourges, and the peninsula is in the enjoyment of profound peace. A telegraphic signal, improperly interpreted, owing to the fog, was the cause of this error.”

The funds rose one per cent higher than before they had fallen. This, reckoning his loss, and what he had
missed gaining, made the difference of a million to Danglars. “Good,” said Monte Cristo to Morrel, who was
at his house when the news arrived of the strange reverse of fortune of which Danglars had been the victim, “I
have just made a discovery for twenty-five thousand francs, for which I would have paid a hundred thousand.” “What have you discovered?” asked Morrel.
“I have just discovered how a gardener may get rid of the dormice that eat his peaches.”

Chapter 62

Ghosts.

At first sight the exterior of the house at Auteuil gave no indications of splendor, nothing one would expect
from the destined residence of the magnificent Count of Monte Cristo; but this simplicity was according to the will of its master, who positively ordered nothing to be altered outside. The splendor was within. Indeed,
almost before the door opened, the scene changed. M. Bertuccio had outdone himself in the taste displayed in furnishing, and in the rapidity with which it was executed. It is told that the Duc d’Antin removed in a single night a whole avenue of trees that annoyed Louis XIV.; in three days M. Bertuccio planted an entirely bare
court with poplars, large spreading sycamores to shade the different parts of the house, and in the foreground, instead of the usual paving-stones, half hidden by the grass, there extended a lawn but that morning laid down, and upon which the water was yet glistening. For the rest, the orders had been issued by the count; he himself had given a plan to Bertuccio, marking the spot where each tree was to be planted, and the shape and extent of
the lawn which was to take the place of the paving-stones. Thus the house had become unrecognizable, and Bertuccio himself declared that he scarcely knew it, encircled as it was by a framework of trees. The overseer would not have objected, while he was about it, to have made some improvements in the garden, but the count had positively forbidden it to be touched. Bertuccio made amends, however, by loading the ante-chambers, staircases, and mantle-pieces with flowers.

What, above all, manifested the shrewdness of the steward, and the profound science of the master, the one in carrying out the ideas of the other, was that this house which appeared only the night before so sad and
gloomy, impregnated with that sickly smell one can almost fancy to be the smell of time, had in a single day acquired the aspect of life, was scented with its master’s favorite perfumes, and had the very light regulated according to his wish. When the count arrived, he had under his touch his books and arms, his eyes rested
upon his favorite pictures; his dogs, whose caresses he loved, welcomed him in the ante-chamber; the birds, whose songs delighted him, cheered him with their music; and the house, awakened from its long sleep, like
the sleeping beauty in the wood, lived, sang, and bloomed like the houses we have long cherished, and in which, when we are forced to leave them, we leave a part of our souls. The servants passed gayly along the
fine court-yard; some, belonging to the kitchens, gliding down the stairs, restored but the previous day, as if they had always inhabited the house; others filling the coach-houses, where the equipages, encased and numbered, appeared to have been installed for the last fifty years; and in the stables the horses replied with neighs to the grooms, who spoke to them with much more respect than many servants pay their masters.

The library was divided into two parts on either side of the wall, and contained upwards of two thousand volumes; one division was entirely devoted to novels, and even the volume which had been published but the day before was to be seen in its place in all the dignity of its red and gold binding. On the other side of the
house, to match with the library, was the conservatory, ornamented with rare flowers, that bloomed in china
jars; and in the midst of the greenhouse, marvellous alike to sight and smell, was a billiard-table which looked
as if it had been abandoned during the past hour by players who had left the balls on the cloth. One chamber alone had been respected by the magnificent Bertuccio. Before this room, to which you could ascend by the grand, and go out by the back staircase, the servants passed with curiosity, and Bertuccio with terror. At five o’clock precisely, the count arrived before the house at Auteuil, followed by Ali. Bertuccio was awaiting this
arrival with impatience, mingled with uneasiness; he hoped for some compliments, while, at the same time, he feared to have frowns. Monte Cristo descended into the courtyard, walked all over the house, without giving
any sign of approbation or pleasure, until he entered his bedroom, situated on the opposite side to the closed room; then he approached a little piece of furniture, made of rosewood, which he had noticed at a previous visit. “That can only be to hold gloves,” he said.

“Will your excellency deign to open it?” said the delighted Bertuccio, “and you will find gloves in it.” Elsewhere the count found everything he required — smelling-bottles, cigars, knick-knacks.

“Good,” he said; and M. Bertuccio left enraptured, so great, so powerful, and real was the influence exercised
by this man over all who surrounded him. At precisely six o’clock the clatter of horses’ hoofs was heard at the entrance door; it was our captain of Spahis, who had arrived on Medeah. “I am sure I am the first,” cried
Morrel; “I did it on purpose to have you a minute to myself, before every one came. Julie and Emmanuel have
a thousand things to tell you. Ah, really this is magnificent! But tell me, count, will your people take care of my horse?”

“Do not alarm yourself, my dear Maximilian — they understand.”

“I mean, because he wants petting. If you had seen at what a pace he came — like the wind!”

“I should think so, — a horse that cost 5,000 francs!” said Monte Cristo, in the tone which a father would use towards a son.

“Do you regret them?” asked Morrel, with his open laugh.

“I? Certainly not,” replied the count. “No; I should only regret if the horse had not proved good.”

“It is so good, that I have distanced M. de Chateau-Renaud, one of the best riders in France, and M. Debray, who both mount the minister’s Arabians; and close on their heels are the horses of Madame Danglars, who always go at six leagues an hour.”

“Then they follow you?” asked Monte Cristo.

“See, they are here.” And at the same minute a carriage with smoking horses, accompanied by two mounted gentlemen, arrived at the gate, which opened before them. The carriage drove round, and stopped at the steps, followed by the horsemen. The instant Debray had touched the ground, he was at the carriage-door. He
offered his hand to the baroness, who, descending, took it with a peculiarity of manner imperceptible to every one but Monte Cristo. But nothing escaped the count’s notice, and he observed a little note, passed with the facility that indicates frequent practice, from the hand of Madame Danglars to that of the minister’s secretary. After his wife the banker descended, as pale as though he had issued from his tomb instead of his carriage. Madame Danglars threw a rapid and inquiring glance which could only be interpreted by Monte Cristo,
around the court-yard, over the peristyle, and across the front of the house, then, repressing a slight emotion, which must have been seen on her countenance if she had not kept her color, she ascended the steps, saying to Morrel, “Sir, if you were a friend of mine, I should ask you if you would sell your horse.”

Morrel smiled with an expression very like a grimace, and then turned round to Monte Cristo, as if to ask him
to extricate him from his embarrassment. The count understood him. “Ah, madame,” he said, “why did you not make that request of me?”

“With you, sir,” replied the baroness, “one can wish for nothing, one is so sure to obtain it. If it were so with
M. Morrel” —

“Unfortunately,” replied the count, “I am witness that M. Morrel cannot give up his horse, his honor being engaged in keeping it.”

“How so?”

“He laid a wager he would tame Medeah in the space of six months. You understand now that if he were to
get rid of the animal before the time named, he would not only lose his bet, but people would say he was
afraid; and a brave captain of Spahis cannot risk this, even to gratify a pretty woman, which is, in my opinion, one of the most sacred obligations in the world.”

“You see my position, madame,” said Morrel, bestowing a grateful smile on Monte Cristo.

“It seems to me,” said Danglars, in his coarse tone, ill-concealed by a forced smile, “that you have already got horses enough.” Madame Danglars seldom allowed remarks of this kind to pass unnoticed, but, to the surprise
of the young people, she pretended not to hear it, and said nothing. Monte Cristo smiled at her unusual
humility, and showed her two immense porcelain jars, over which wound marine plants, of a size and delicacy that nature alone could produce. The baroness was astonished. “Why,” said she, “you could plant one of the chestnut-trees in the Tuileries inside! How can such enormous jars have been manufactured?”

“Ah, madame,” replied Monte Cristo, “you must not ask of us, the manufacturers of fine porcelain, such a question. It is the work of another age, constructed by the genii of earth and water.”

“How so? — at what period can that have been?”

“I do not know; I have only heard that an emperor of China had an oven built expressly, and that in this oven twelve jars like this were successively baked. Two broke, from the heat of the fire; the other ten were sunk
three hundred fathoms deep into the sea. The sea, knowing what was required of her, threw over them her weeds, encircled them with coral, and encrusted them with shells; the whole was cemented by two hundred
years beneath these almost impervious depths, for a revolution carried away the emperor who wished to make
the trial, and only left the documents proving the manufacture of the jars and their descent into the sea. At the end of two hundred years the documents were found, and they thought of bringing up the jars. Divers
descended in machines, made expressly on the discovery, into the bay where they were thrown; but of ten
three only remained, the rest having been broken by the waves. I am fond of these jars, upon which, perhaps, misshapen, frightful monsters have fixed their cold, dull eyes, and in which myriads of small fish have slept, seeking a refuge from the pursuit of their enemies.” Meanwhile, Danglars, who had cared little for curiosities, was mechanically tearing off the blossoms of a splendid orange-tree, one after another. When he had finished with the orange-tree, he began at the cactus; but this, not being so easily plucked as the orange-tree, pricked
him dreadfully. He shuddered, and rubbed his eyes as though awaking from a dream.

“Sir,” said Monte Cristo to him, “I do not recommend my pictures to you, who possess such splendid paintings; but, nevertheless, here are two by Hobbema, a Paul Potter, a Mieris, two by Gerard Douw, a Raphael, a Vandyke, a Zurbaran, and two or three by Murillo, worth looking at.”

“Stay,” said Debray; “I recognize this Hobbema.” “Ah, indeed!”
“Yes; it was proposed for the Museum.”

“Which, I believe, does not contain one?” said Monte Cristo. “No; and yet they refused to buy it.”
“Why?” said Chateau-Renaud.

“You pretend not to know, — because government was not rich enough.”

“Ah, pardon me,” said Chateau-Renaud; “I have heard of these things every day during the last eight years, and I cannot understand them yet.”

“You will, by and by,” said Debray.

“I think not,” replied Chateau-Renaud.

“Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti and Count Andrea Cavalcanti,” announced Baptistin. A black satin stock, fresh from the maker’s hands, gray moustaches, a bold eye, a major’s uniform, ornamented with three medals and
five crosses — in fact, the thorough bearing of an old soldier — such was the appearance of Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti, that tender father with whom we are already acquainted. Close to him, dressed in entirely new clothes, advanced smilingly Count Andrea Cavalcanti, the dutiful son, whom we also know. The three young people were talking together. On the entrance of the new comers, their eyes glanced from father to son, and
then, naturally enough, rested on the latter, whom they began criticising. “Cavalcanti!” said Debray. “A fine name,” said Morrel.

“Yes,” said Chateau-Renaud, “these Italians are well named and badly dressed.”

“You are fastidious, Chateau-Renaud,” replied Debray; “those clothes are well cut and quite new.”

“That is just what I find fault with. That gentleman appears to be well dressed for the first time in his life.” “Who are those gentlemen?” asked Danglars of Monte Cristo.
“You heard — Cavalcanti.”

“That tells me their name, and nothing else.”

“Ah, true. You do not know the Italian nobility; the Cavalcanti are all descended from princes.” “Have they any fortune?”
“An enormous one.” “What do they do?”
“Try to spend it all. They have some business with you, I think, from what they told me the day before yesterday. I, indeed, invited them here to-day on your account. I will introduce you to them.”

“But they appear to speak French with a very pure accent,” said Danglars.

“The son has been educated in a college in the south; I believe near Marseilles. You will find him quite enthusiastic.”

“Upon what subject?” asked Madame Danglars.

“The French ladies, madame. He has made up his mind to take a wife from Paris.”

“A fine idea that of his,” said Danglars, shrugging his shoulders. Madame Danglars looked at her husband with an expression which, at any other time, would have indicated a storm, but for the second time she
controlled herself. “The baron appears thoughtful to-day,” said Monte Cristo to her; “are they going to put him
in the ministry?”

“Not yet, I think. More likely he has been speculating on the Bourse, and has lost money.”

“M. and Madame de Villefort,” cried Baptistin. They entered. M. de Villefort, notwithstanding his
self-control, was visibly affected, and when Monte Cristo touched his hand, he felt it tremble. “Certainly,

women alone know how to dissimulate,” said Monte Cristo to himself, glancing at Madame Danglars, who
was smiling on the procureur, and embracing his wife. After a short time, the count saw Bertuccio, who, until then, had been occupied on the other side of the house, glide into an adjoining room. He went to him. “What
do you want, M. Bertuccio?” said he.

“Your excellency has not stated the number of guests.” “Ah, true.”
“How many covers?” “Count for yourself.”
“Is every one here, your excellency?” “Yes.”
Bertuccio glanced through the door, which was ajar. The count watched him. “Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “What is the matter?” said the count.
“That woman — that woman!” “Which?”
“The one with a white dress and so many diamonds — the fair one.” “Madame Danglars?”
“I do not know her name; but it is she, sir, it is she!” “Whom do you mean?”
“The woman of the garden! — she that was enciente — she who was walking while she waited for” — Bertuccio stood at the open door, with his eyes starting and his hair on end.

“Waiting for whom?” Bertuccio, without answering, pointed to Villefort with something of the gesture
Macbeth uses to point out Banquo. “Oh, oh,” he at length muttered, “do you see?” “What? Who?”
“Him!”

“Him! — M. de Villefort, the king’s attorney? Certainly I see him.” “Then I did not kill him?”
“Really, I think you are going mad, good Bertuccio,” said the count. “Then he is not dead?”
“No; you see plainly he is not dead. Instead of striking between the sixth and seventh left ribs, as your

countrymen do, you must have struck higher or lower, and life is very tenacious in these lawyers, or rather
there is no truth in anything you have told me — it was a fright of the imagination, a dream of your fancy. You went to sleep full of thoughts of vengeance; they weighed heavily upon your stomach; you had the nightmare
— that’s all. Come, calm yourself, and reckon them up — M. and Madame de Villefort, two; M. and Madame
Danglars, four; M. de Chateau-Renaud, M. Debray, M. Morrel, seven; Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti, eight.” “Eight!” repeated Bertuccio.
“Stop! You are in a shocking hurry to be off — you forget one of my guests. Lean a little to the left. Stay! look
at M. Andrea Cavalcanti, the young man in a black coat, looking at Murillo’s Madonna; now he is turning.” This time Bertuccio would have uttered an exclamation, had not a look from Monte Cristo silenced him. “Benedetto?” he muttered; “fatality!”

“Half-past six o’clock has just struck, M. Bertuccio,” said the count severely; “I ordered dinner at that hour, and I do not like to wait;” and he returned to his guests, while Bertuccio, leaning against the wall, succeeded
in reaching the dining-room. Five minutes afterwards the doors of the drawing-room were thrown open, and
Bertuccio appearing said, with a violent effort, “The dinner waits.”

The Count of Monte Cristo offered his arm to Madame de Villefort. “M. de Villefort,” he said, “will you conduct the Baroness Danglars?”

Villefort complied, and they passed on to the dining-room.

Chapter 63

The Dinner.

It was evident that one sentiment affected all the guests on entering the dining-room. Each one asked what strange influence had brought them to this house, and yet astonished, even uneasy though they were, they still
felt that they would not like to be absent. The recent events, the solitary and eccentric position of the count,
his enormous, nay, almost incredible fortune, should have made men cautious, and have altogether prevented ladies visiting a house where there was no one of their own sex to receive them; and yet curiosity had been enough to lead them to overleap the bounds of prudence and decorum. And all present, even including Cavalcanti and his son, notwithstanding the stiffness of the one and the carelessness of the other, were thoughtful, on finding themselves assembled at the house of this incomprehensible man. Madame Danglars
had started when Villefort, on the count’s invitation, offered his arm; and Villefort felt that his glance was
uneasy beneath his gold spectacles, when he felt the arm of the baroness press upon his own. None of this had escaped the count, and even by this mere contact of individuals the scene had already acquired considerable interest for an observer. M. de Villefort had on the right hand Madame Danglars, on his left Morrel. The count was seated between Madame de Villefort and Danglars; the other seats were filled by Debray, who was placed between the two Cavalcanti, and by Chateau-Renaud, seated between Madame de Villefort and Morrel.

The repast was magnificent; Monte Cristo had endeavored completely to overturn the Parisian ideas, and to
feed the curiosity as much as the appetite of his guests. It was an Oriental feast that he offered to them, but of such a kind as the Arabian fairies might be supposed to prepare. Every delicious fruit that the four quarters of
the globe could provide was heaped in vases from China and jars from Japan. Rare birds, retaining their most brilliant plumage, enormous fish, spread upon massive silver dishes, together with every wine produced in the Archipelago, Asia Minor, or the Cape, sparkling in bottles, whose grotesque shape seemed to give an
additional flavor to the draught, — all these, like one of the displays with which Apicius of old gratified his guests, passed in review before the eyes of the astonished Parisians, who understood that it was possible to expend a thousand louis upon a dinner for ten persons, but only on the condition of eating pearls, like Cleopatra, or drinking refined gold, like Lorenzo de’ Medici.

Monte Cristo noticed the general astonishment, and began laughing and joking about it. “Gentlemen,” he said, “you will admit that, when arrived at a certain degree of fortune, the superfluities of life are all that can be desired; and the ladies will allow that, after having risen to a certain eminence of position, the ideal alone can
be more exalted. Now, to follow out this reasoning, what is the marvellous? — that which we do not
understand. What is it that we really desire? — that which we cannot obtain. Now, to see things which I cannot understand, to procure impossibilities, these are the study of my life. I gratify my wishes by two means — my will and my money. I take as much interest in the pursuit of some whim as you do, M. Danglars, in promoting
a new railway line; you, M. de Villefort, in condemning a culprit to death; you, M. Debray, in pacifying a kingdom; you, M. de Chateau-Renaud, in pleasing a woman; and you, Morrel, in breaking a horse that no one
can ride. For example, you see these two fish; one brought fifty leagues beyond St. Petersburg, the other five leagues from Naples. Is it not amusing to see them both on the same table?”

“What are the two fish?” asked Danglars.

“M. Chateau-Renaud, who has lived in Russia, will tell you the name of one, and Major Cavalcanti, who is an
Italian, will tell you the name of the other.”

“This one is, I think, a sterlet,” said Chateau-Renaud. “And that one, if I mistake not, a lamprey.”
“Just so. Now, M. Danglars, ask these gentlemen where they are caught.”

“Starlets,” said Chateau-Renaud, “are only found in the Volga.”

“And,” said Cavalcanti, “I know that Lake Fusaro alone supplies lampreys of that size.” “Exactly; one comes from the Volga, and the other from Lake Fusaro.”
“Impossible!” cried all the guests simultaneously.

“Well, this is just what amuses me,” said Monte Cristo. “I am like Nero — cupitor impossibilium; and that is what is amusing you at this moment. This fish, which seems so exquisite to you, is very likely no better than perch or salmon; but it seemed impossible to procure it, and here it is.”

“But how could you have these fish brought to France?”

“Oh, nothing more easy. Each fish was brought over in a cask — one filled with river herbs and weeds, the other with rushes and lake plants; they were placed in a wagon built on purpose, and thus the sterlet lived
twelve days, the lamprey eight, and both were alive when my cook seized them, killing one with milk and the other with wine. You do not believe me, M. Danglars!”

“I cannot help doubting,” answered Danglars with his stupid smile.

“Baptistin,” said the count, “have the other fish brought in — the sterlet and the lamprey which came in the
other casks, and which are yet alive.” Danglars opened his bewildered eyes; the company clapped their hands. Four servants carried in two casks covered with aquatic plants, and in each of which was breathing a fish
similar to those on the table.

“But why have two of each sort?” asked Danglars.

“Merely because one might have died,” carelessly answered Monte Cristo.

“You are certainly an extraordinary man,” said Danglars; “and philosophers may well say it is a fine thing to
be rich.”

“And to have ideas,” added Madame Danglars.

“Oh, do not give me credit for this, madame; it was done by the Romans, who much esteemed them, and Pliny relates that they sent slaves from Ostia to Rome, who carried on their heads fish which he calls the mulus, and which, from the description, must probably be the goldfish. It was also considered a luxury to have them alive,
it being an amusing sight to see them die, for, when dying, they change color three or four times, and like the rainbow when it disappears, pass through all the prismatic shades, after which they were sent to the kitchen. Their agony formed part of their merit — if they were not seen alive, they were despised when dead.”

“Yes,” said Debray, “but then Ostia is only a few leagues from Rome.”

“True,” said Monte Cristo; “but what would be the use of living eighteen hundred years after Lucullus, if we
can do no better than he could?” The two Cavalcanti opened their enormous eyes, but had the good sense not
to say anything. “All this is very extraordinary,” said Chateau-Renaud; “still, what I admire the most, I
confess, is the marvellous promptitude with which your orders are executed. Is it not true that you only bought this house five or six days ago?”

“Certainly not longer.”

“Well, I am sure it is quite transformed since last week. If I remember rightly, it had another entrance, and the
court-yard was paved and empty; while to-day we have a splendid lawn, bordered by trees which appear to be
a hundred years old.”

“Why not? I am fond of grass and shade,” said Monte Cristo.

“Yes,” said Madame de Villefort, “the door was towards the road before, and on the day of my miraculous escape you brought me into the house from the road, I remember.”

“Yes, madame,” said Monte Cristo; “but I preferred having an entrance which would allow me to see the Bois
de Boulogne over my gate.”

“In four days,” said Morrel; “it is extraordinary!”

“Indeed,” said Chateau-Renaud, “it seems quite miraculous to make a new house out of an old one; for it was very old, and dull too. I recollect coming for my mother to look at it when M. de Saint-Meran advertised it for
sale two or three years ago.”

“M. de Saint-Meran?” said Madame de Villefort; “then this house belonged to M. de Saint-Meran before you bought it?”

“It appears so,” replied Monte Cristo.

“Is it possible that you do not know of whom you purchased it?” “Quite so; my steward transacts all this business for me.”
“It is certainly ten years since the house had been occupied,” said Chateau-Renaud, “and it was quite melancholy to look at it, with the blinds closed, the doors locked, and the weeds in the court. Really, if the house had not belonged to the father-in-law of the procureur, one might have thought it some accursed place
where a horrible crime had been committed.” Villefort, who had hitherto not tasted the three or four glasses of rare wine which were placed before him, here took one, and drank it off. Monte Cristo allowed a short time to elapse, and then said, “It is singular, baron, but the same idea came across me the first time I came here; it
looked so gloomy I should never have bought it if my steward had not taken the matter into his own hands. Perhaps the fellow had been bribed by the notary.”

“It is probable,” stammered out Villefort, trying to smile; “but I can assure you that I had nothing to do with
any such proceeding. This house is part of Valentine’s marriage-portion, and M. de Saint-Meran wished to sell
it; for if it had remained another year or two uninhabited it would have fallen to ruin.” It was Morrel’s turn to become pale.

“There was, above all, one room,” continued Monte Cristo, “very plain in appearance, hung with red damask, which, I know not why, appeared to me quite dramatic.”

“Why so?” said Danglars; “why dramatic?”

“Can we account for instinct?” said Monte Cristo. “Are there not some places where we seem to breathe sadness? — why, we cannot tell. It is a chain of recollections — an idea which carries you back to other times,
to other places — which, very likely, have no connection with the present time and place. And there is something in this room which reminds me forcibly of the chamber of the Marquise de Ganges* or Desdemona. Stay, since we have finished dinner, I will show it to you, and then we will take coffee in the garden. After dinner, the play.” Monte Cristo looked inquiringly at his guests. Madame de Villefort rose,

Monte Cristo did the same, and the rest followed their example. Villefort and Madame Danglars remained for
a moment, as if rooted to their seats; they questioned each other with vague and stupid glances. “Did you hear?” said Madame Danglars.

* Elisabeth de Rossan, Marquise de Ganges, was one of the famous women of the court of Louis XIV. where
she was known as “La Belle Provencale.” She was the widow of the Marquise de Castellane when she married
de Ganges, and having the misfortune to excite the enmity of her new brothers-in-law, was forced by them to take poison; and they finished her off with pistol and dagger. — Ed.

“We must go,” replied Villefort, offering his arm. The others, attracted by curiosity, were already scattered in different parts of the house; for they thought the visit would not be limited to the one room, and that, at the
same time, they would obtain a view of the rest of the building, of which Monte Cristo had created a palace. Each one went out by the open doors. Monte Cristo waited for the two who remained; then, when they had passed, he brought up the rear, and on his face was a smile, which, if they could have understood it, would
have alarmed them much more than a visit to the room they were about to enter. They began by walking
through the apartments, many of which were fitted up in the Eastern style, with cushions and divans instead of beds, and pipes instead of furniture. The drawing-rooms were decorated with the rarest pictures by the old masters, the boudoirs hung with draperies from China, of fanciful colors, fantastic design, and wonderful
texture. At length they arrived at the famous room. There was nothing particular about it, excepting that,
although daylight had disappeared, it was not lighted, and everything in it was old-fashioned, while the rest of
the rooms had been redecorated. These two causes were enough to give it a gloomy aspect. “Oh.” cried
Madame de Villefort, “it is really frightful.” Madame Danglars tried to utter a few words, but was not heard. Many observations were made, the import of which was a unanimous opinion that there was something
sinister about the room. “Is it not so?” asked Monte Cristo. “Look at that large clumsy bed, hung with such gloomy, blood-colored drapery! And those two crayon portraits, that have faded from the dampness; do they
not seem to say, with their pale lips and staring eyes, `We have seen’?” Villefort became livid; Madame Danglars fell into a long seat placed near the chimney. “Oh,” said Madame de Villefort, smiling, “are you courageous enough to sit down upon the very seat perhaps upon which the crime was committed?” Madame Danglars rose suddenly.

“And then,” said Monte Cristo, “this is not all.”

“What is there more?” said Debray, who had not failed to notice the agitation of Madame Danglars.

“Ah, what else is there?” said Danglars; “for, at present, I cannot say that I have seen anything extraordinary. What do you say, M. Cavalcanti?”

“Ah,” said he, “we have at Pisa, Ugolino’s tower; at Ferrara, Tasso’s prison; at Rimini, the room of Francesca and Paolo.”

“Yes, but you have not this little staircase,” said Monte Cristo, opening a door concealed by the drapery. “Look at it, and tell me what you think of it.”

“What a wicked-looking, crooked staircase,” said Chateau-Renaud with a smile.

“I do not know whether the wine of Chios produces melancholy, but certainly everything appears to me black
in this house,” said Debray.

Ever since Valentine’s dowry had been mentioned, Morrel had been silent and sad. “Can you imagine,” said Monte Cristo, “some Othello or Abbe de Ganges, one stormy, dark night, descending these stairs step by step, carrying a load, which he wishes to hide from the sight of man, if not from God?” Madame Danglars half
fainted on the arm of Villefort, who was obliged to support himself against the wall. “Ah, madame,” cried

Debray, “what is the matter with you? how pale you look!”

“It is very evident what is the matter with her,” said Madame de Villefort; “M. de Monte Cristo is relating horrible stories to us, doubtless intending to frighten us to death.”

“Yes,” said Villefort, “really, count, you frighten the ladies.”

“What is the matter?” asked Debray, in a whisper, of Madame Danglars. “Nothing,” she replied with a violent effort. “I want air, that is all.”
“Will you come into the garden?” said Debray, advancing towards the back staircase. “No, no,” she answered, “I would rather remain here.”
“Are you really frightened, madame?” said Monte Cristo.

“Oh, no, sir,” said Madame Danglars; “but you suppose scenes in a manner which gives them the appearance
of reality.”

“Ah, yes,” said Monte Cristo smiling; “it is all a matter of imagination. Why should we not imagine this the apartment of an honest mother? And this bed with red hangings, a bed visited by the goddess Lucina? And that mysterious staircase, the passage through which, not to disturb their sleep, the doctor and nurse pass, or
even the father carrying the sleeping child?” Here Madame Danglars, instead of being calmed by the soft
picture, uttered a groan and fainted. “Madame Danglars is ill,” said Villefort; “it would be better to take her to her carriage.”

“Oh, mon Dieu,” said Monte Cristo, “and I have forgotten my smelling-bottle!”

“I have mine,” said Madame de Villefort; and she passed over to Monte Cristo a bottle full of the same kind of red liquid whose good properties the count had tested on Edward.

“Ah,” said Monte Cristo, taking it from her hand.

“Yes,” she said, “at your advice I have made the trial.” “And have you succeeded?”
“I think so.”

Madame Danglars was carried into the adjoining room; Monte Cristo dropped a very small portion of the red liquid upon her lips; she returned to consciousness. “Ah,” she cried, “what a frightful dream!”

Villefort pressed her hand to let her know it was not a dream. They looked for M. Danglars, but, as he was not especially interested in poetical ideas, he had gone into the garden, and was talking with Major Cavalcanti on
the projected railway from Leghorn to Florence. Monte Cristo seemed in despair. He took the arm of Madame
Danglars, and conducted her into the garden, where they found Danglars taking coffee between the
Cavalcanti. “Really, madame,” he said, “did I alarm you much?”

“Oh, no, sir,” she answered; “but you know, things impress us differently, according to the mood of our minds.” Villefort forced a laugh. “And then, you know,” he said, “an idea, a supposition, is sufficient.”

“Well,” said Monte Cristo, “you may believe me if you like, but it is my opinion that a crime has been
committed in this house.”

“Take care,” said Madame de Villefort, “the king’s attorney is here.”

“Ah,” replied Monte Cristo, “since that is the case, I will take advantage of his presence to make my declaration.”

“Your declaration?” said Villefort. “Yes, before witnesses.”
“Oh, this is very interesting,” said Debray; “if there really has been a crime, we will investigate it.”

“There has been a crime,” said Monte Cristo. “Come this way, gentlemen; come, M. Villefort, for a
declaration to be available, should be made before the competent authorities.” He then took Villefort’s arm, and, at the same time, holding that of Madame Danglars under his own, he dragged the procureur to the
plantain-tree, where the shade was thickest. All the other guests followed. “Stay,” said Monte Cristo, “here, in this very spot” (and he stamped upon the ground), “I had the earth dug up and fresh mould put in, to refresh
these old trees; well, my man, digging, found a box, or rather, the iron-work of a box, in the midst of which
was the skeleton of a newly born infant.” Monte Cristo felt the arm of Madame Danglars stiffen, while that of
Villefort trembled. “A newly born infant,” repeated Debray; “this affair becomes serious!”

“Well,” said Chateau-Renaud, “I was not wrong just now then, when I said that houses had souls and faces like men, and that their exteriors carried the impress of their characters. This house was gloomy because it was remorseful: it was remorseful because it concealed a crime.”

“Who said it was a crime?” asked Villefort, with a last effort.

“How? is it not a crime to bury a living child in a garden?” cried Monte Cristo. “And pray what do you call such an action?”

“But who said it was buried alive?”

“Why bury it there if it were dead? This garden has never been a cemetery.”

“What is done to infanticides in this country?” asked Major Cavalcanti innocently. “Oh, their heads are soon cut off,” said Danglars.
“Ah, indeed?” said Cavalcanti.

“I think so; am I not right, M. de Villefort?” asked Monte Cristo. “Yes, count,” replied Villefort, in a voice now scarcely human.
Monte Cristo, seeing that the two persons for whom he had prepared this scene could scarcely endure it, and
not wishing to carry it too far, said, “Come, gentlemen, — some coffee, we seem to have forgotten it,” and he conducted the guests back to the table on the lawn.

“Indeed, count,” said Madame Danglars, “I am ashamed to own it, but all your frightful stories have so upset me, that I must beg you to let me sit down;” and she fell into a chair. Monte Cristo bowed, and went to

Madame de Villefort. “I think Madame Danglars again requires your bottle,” he said. But before Madame de
Villefort could reach her friend the procureur had found time to whisper to Madame Danglars, “I must speak
to you.” “When?”
“To-morrow.” “Where?”
“In my office, or in the court, if you like, — that is the surest place.”

“I will be there.” — At this moment Madame de Villefort approached. “Thanks, my dear friend,” said Madame
Danglars, trying to smile; “it is over now, and I am much better.”

Chapter 64

The Beggar.

The evening passed on; Madame de Villefort expressed a desire to return to Paris, which Madame Danglars had not dared to do, notwithstanding the uneasiness she experienced. On his wife’s request, M. de Villefort
was the first to give the signal of departure. He offered a seat in his landau to Madame Danglars, that she might be under the care of his wife. As for M. Danglars, absorbed in an interesting conversation with M. Cavalcanti, he paid no attention to anything that was passing. While Monte Cristo had begged the
smelling-bottle of Madame de Villefort, he had noticed the approach of Villefort to Madame Danglars, and he soon guessed all that had passed between them, though the words had been uttered in so low a voice as hardly
to be heard by Madame Danglars. Without opposing their arrangements, he allowed Morrel, Chateau-Renaud, and Debray to leave on horseback, and the ladies in M. de Villefort’s carriage. Danglars, more and more
delighted with Major Cavalcanti, had offered him a seat in his carriage. Andrea Cavalcanti found his tilbury waiting at the door; the groom, in every respect a caricature of the English fashion, was standing on tiptoe to hold a large iron-gray horse.

Andrea had spoken very little during dinner; he was an intelligent lad, and he feared to utter some absurdity before so many grand people, amongst whom, with dilating eyes, he saw the king’s attorney. Then he had
been seized upon by Danglars, who, with a rapid glance at the stiff-necked old major and his modest son, and taking into consideration the hospitality of the count, made up his mind that he was in the society of some
nabob come to Paris to finish the worldly education of his heir. He contemplated with unspeakable delight the large diamond which shone on the major’s little finger; for the major, like a prudent man, in case of any
accident happening to his bank-notes, had immediately converted them into an available asset. Then, after dinner, on the pretext of business, he questioned the father and son upon their mode of living; and the father and son, previously informed that it was through Danglars the one was to receive his 48,000 francs and the other 50,000 livres annually, were so full of affability that they would have shaken hands even with the banker’s servants, so much did their gratitude need an object to expend itself upon. One thing above all the
rest heightened the respect, nay almost the veneration, of Danglars for Cavalcanti. The latter, faithful to the principle of Horace, nil admirari, had contented himself with showing his knowledge by declaring in what
lake the best lampreys were caught. Then he had eaten some without saying a word more; Danglars, therefore, concluded that such luxuries were common at the table of the illustrious descendant of the Cavalcanti, who
most likely in Lucca fed upon trout brought from Switzerland, and lobsters sent from England, by the same means used by the count to bring the lampreys from Lake Fusaro, and the sterlet from the Volga. Thus it was with much politeness of manner that he heard Cavalcanti pronounce these words, “To-morrow, sir, I shall
have the honor of waiting upon you on business.”

“And I, sir,” said Danglars, “shall be most happy to receive you.” Upon which he offered to take Cavalcanti in
his carriage to the Hotel des Princes, if it would not be depriving him of the company of his son. To this Cavalcanti replied by saying that for some time past his son had lived independently of him, that he had his own horses and carriages, and that not having come together, it would not be difficult for them to leave separately. The major seated himself, therefore, by the side of Danglars, who was more and more charmed with the ideas of order and economy which ruled this man, and yet who, being able to allow his son 60,000 francs a year, might be supposed to possess a fortune of 500,000 or 600,000 livres.

As for Andrea, he began, by way of showing off, to scold his groom, who, instead of bringing the tilbury to
the steps of the house, had taken it to the outer door, thus giving him the trouble of walking thirty steps to
reach it. The groom heard him with humility, took the bit of the impatient animal with his left hand, and with
the right held out the reins to Andrea, who, taking them from him, rested his polished boot lightly on the step.
At that moment a hand touched his shoulder. The young man turned round, thinking that Danglars or Monte
Cristo had forgotten something they wished to tell him, and had returned just as they were starting. But instead of either of these, he saw nothing but a strange face, sunburnt, and encircled by a beard, with eyes

brilliant as carbuncles, and a smile upon the mouth which displayed a perfect set of white teeth, pointed and
sharp as the wolf’s or jackal’s. A red handkerchief encircled his gray head; torn and filthy garments covered
his large bony limbs, which seemed as though, like those of a skeleton, they would rattle as he walked; and
the hand with which he leaned upon the young man’s shoulder, and which was the first thing Andrea saw,
seemed of gigantic size. Did the young man recognize that face by the light of the lantern in his tilbury, or was
he merely struck with the horrible appearance of his interrogator? We cannot say; but only relate the fact that
he shuddered and stepped back suddenly. “What do you want of me?” he asked.

“Pardon me, my friend, if I disturb you,” said the man with the red handkerchief, “but I want to speak to you.” “You have no right to beg at night,” said the groom, endeavoring to rid his master of the troublesome intruder.
“I am not begging, my fine fellow,” said the unknown to the servant, with so ironical an expression of the eye, and so frightful a smile, that he withdrew; “I only wish to say two or three words to your master, who gave me
a commission to execute about a fortnight ago.”

“Come,” said Andrea, with sufficient nerve for his servant not to perceive his agitation, “what do you want? Speak quickly, friend.”

The man said, in a low voice: “I wish — I wish you to spare me the walk back to Paris. I am very tired, and as
I have not eaten so good a dinner as you, I can scarcely stand.” The young man shuddered at this strange familiarity. “Tell me,” he said — “tell me what you want?”

“Well, then, I want you to take me up in your fine carriage, and carry me back.” Andrea turned pale, but said nothing.

“Yes,” said the man, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and looking impudently at the youth; “I have taken the whim into my head; do you understand, Master Benedetto?”

At this name, no doubt, the young man reflected a little, for he went towards his groom, saying, “This man is right; I did indeed charge him with a commission, the result of which he must tell me; walk to the barrier,
there take a cab, that you may not be too late.” The surprised groom retired. “Let me at least reach a shady spot,” said Andrea.

“Oh, as for that, I’ll take you to a splendid place,” said the man with the handkerchief; and taking the horse’s
bit he led the tilbury where it was certainly impossible for any one to witness the honor that Andrea conferred upon him.

“Don’t think I want the glory of riding in your fine carriage,” said he; “oh, no, it’s only because I am tired, and also because I have a little business to talk over with you.”

“Come, step in,” said the young man. It was a pity this scene had not occurred in daylight, for it was curious to
see this rascal throwing himself heavily down on the cushion beside the young and elegant driver of the
tilbury. Andrea drove past the last house in the village without saying a word to his companion, who smiled complacently, as though well-pleased to find himself travelling in so comfortable a vehicle. Once out of Auteuil, Andrea looked around, in order to assure himself that he could neither be seen nor heard, and then,
stopping the horse and crossing his arms before the man, he asked, — “Now, tell me why you come to disturb my tranquillity?”

“Let me ask you why you deceived me?” “How have I deceived you?”

“`How,’ do you ask? When we parted at the Pont du Var, you told me you were going to travel through
Piedmont and Tuscany; but instead of that, you come to Paris.” “How does that annoy you?”
“It does not; on the contrary, I think it will answer my purpose.” “So,” said Andrea, “you are speculating upon me?”
“What fine words he uses!”

“I warn you, Master Caderousse, that you are mistaken.”

“Well, well, don’t be angry, my boy; you know well enough what it is to be unfortunate; and misfortunes make us jealous. I thought you were earning a living in Tuscany or Piedmont by acting as facchino or
cicerone, and I pitied you sincerely, as I would a child of my own. You know I always did call you my child.” “Come, come, what then?”
“Patience — patience!”

“I am patient, but go on.”

“All at once I see you pass through the barrier with a groom, a tilbury, and fine new clothes. You must have discovered a mine, or else become a stockbroker.”

“So that, as you confess, you are jealous?”

“No, I am pleased — so pleased that I wished to congratulate you; but as I am not quite properly dressed, I
chose my opportunity, that I might not compromise you.”
“Yes, and a fine opportunity you have chosen!” exclaimed Andrea; “you speak to me before my servant.” “How can I help that, my boy? I speak to you when I can catch you. You have a quick horse, a light tilbury,
you are naturally as slippery as an eel; if I had missed you to-night, I might not have had another chance.” “You see, I do not conceal myself.”
“You are lucky; I wish I could say as much, for I do conceal myself; and then I was afraid you would not recognize me, but you did,” added Caderousse with his unpleasant smile. “It was very polite of you.”

“Come,” said Andrea, “what do want?”

“You do not speak affectionately to me, Benedetto, my old friend, that is not right — take care, or I may
become troublesome.” This menace smothered the young man’s passion. He urged the horse again into a trot. “You should not speak so to an old friend like me, Caderousse, as you said just now; you are a native of Marseilles, I am” —

“Do you know then now what you are?”

“No, but I was brought up in Corsica; you are old and obstinate, I am young and wilful. Between people like
us threats are out of place, everything should be amicably arranged. Is it my fault if fortune, which has

frowned on you, has been kind to me?”

“Fortune has been kind to you, then? Your tilbury, your groom, your clothes, are not then hired? Good, so much the better,” said Caderousse, his eyes sparkling with avarice.

“Oh, you knew that well enough before speaking to me,” said Andrea, becoming more and more excited. “If I
had been wearing a handkerchief like yours on my head, rags on my back, and worn-out shoes on my feet, you would not have known me.”

“You wrong me, my boy; now I have found you, nothing prevents my being as well-dressed as any one, knowing, as I do, the goodness of your heart. If you have two coats you will give me one of them. I used to divide my soup and beans with you when you were hungry.”

“True,” said Andrea.

“What an appetite you used to have! Is it as good now?” “Oh, yes,” replied Andrea, laughing.
“How did you come to be dining with that prince whose house you have just left?” “He is not a prince; simply a count.”
“A count, and a rich one too, eh?”

“Yes; but you had better not have anything to say to him, for he is not a very good-tempered gentleman.”

“Oh, be easy! I have no design upon your count, and you shall have him all to yourself. But,” said Caderousse, again smiling with the disagreeable expression he had before assumed, “you must pay for it — you
understand?”

“Well, what do you want?”

“I think that with a hundred francs a month” — “Well?”
“I could live” —

“Upon a hundred francs!”

“Come — you understand me; but that with” — “With?”
“With a hundred and fifty francs I should be quite happy.”

“Here are two hundred,” said Andrea; and he placed ten gold louis in the hand of Caderousse. “Good!” said Caderousse.
“Apply to the steward on the first day of every mouth, and you will receive the same sum.”

“There now, again you degrade me.”

“How so?”

“By making me apply to the servants, when I want to transact business with you alone.”

“Well, be it so, then. Take it from me then, and so long at least as I receive my income, you shall be paid yours.”

“Come, come; I always said you were a fine fellow, and it is a blessing when good fortune happens to such as you. But tell me all about it?”

“Why do you wish to know?” asked Cavalcanti. “What? do you again defy me?”
“No; the fact is, I have found my father.” “What? a real father?”
“Yes, so long as he pays me” —

“You’ll honor and believe him — that’s right. What is his name?” “Major Cavalcanti.”
“Is he pleased with you?”

“So far I have appeared to answer his purpose.” “And who found this father for you?”
“The Count of Monte Cristo.”

“The man whose house you have just left?” “Yes.”
“I wish you would try and find me a situation with him as grandfather, since he holds the money-chest!” “Well, I will mention you to him. Meanwhile, what are you going to do?”
“I?”

“Yes, you.”

“It is very kind of you to trouble yourself about me.”

“Since you interest yourself in my affairs, I think it is now my turn to ask you some questions.”

“Ah, true. Well; I shall rent a room in some respectable house, wear a decent coat, shave every day, and go and read the papers in a cafe. Then, in the evening, I shall go to the theatre; I shall look like some retired

baker. That is what I want.”

“Come, if you will only put this scheme into execution, and be steady, nothing could be better.” “Do you think so, M. Bossuet? And you — what will you become? A peer of France?”
“Ah,” said Andrea, “who knows?”

“Major Cavalcanti is already one, perhaps; but then, hereditary rank is abolished.”

“No politics, Caderousse. And now that you have all you want, and that we understand each other, jump down from the tilbury and disappear.”

“Not at all, my good friend.” “How? Not at all?”
“Why, just think for a moment; with this red handkerchief on my head, with scarcely any shoes, no papers, and ten gold napoleons in my pocket, without reckoning what was there before — making in all about two
hundred francs, — why, I should certainly be arrested at the barriers. Then, to justify myself, I should say that you gave me the money; this would cause inquiries, it would be found that I left Toulon without giving due notice, and I should then be escorted back to the shores of the Mediterranean. Then I should become simply
No. 106, and good-by to my dream of resembling the retired baker! No, no, my boy; I prefer remaining honorably in the capital.” Andrea scowled. Certainly, as he had himself owned, the reputed son of Major Cavalcanti was a wilful fellow. He drew up for a minute, threw a rapid glance around him, and then his hand
fell instantly into his pocket, where it began playing with a pistol. But, meanwhile, Caderousse, who had never taken his eyes off his companion, passed his hand behind his back, and opened a long Spanish knife,
which he always carried with him, to be ready in case of need. The two friends, as we see, were worthy of and understood one another. Andrea’s hand left his pocket inoffensively, and was carried up to the red mustache, which it played with for some time. “Good Caderousse,” he said, “how happy you will be.”

“I will do my best,” said the inn-keeper of the Pont du Gard, shutting up his knife.

“Well, then, we will go into Paris. But how will you pass through the barrier without exciting suspicion? It seems to me that you are in more danger riding than on foot.”

“Wait,” said Caderousse, “we shall see.” He then took the great-coat with the large collar, which the groom had left behind in the tilbury, and put it on his back; then he took off Cavalcanti’s hat, which he placed upon
his own head, and finally he assumed the careless attitude of a servant whose master drives himself. “But, tell me,” said Andrea, “am I to remain bareheaded?”
“Pooh,” said Caderousse; “it is so windy that your hat can easily appear to have blown off.” “Come, come; enough of this,” said Cavalcanti.
“What are you waiting for?” said Caderousse. “I hope I am not the cause.”

“Hush,” said Andrea. They passed the barrier without accident. At the first cross street Andrea stopped his horse, and Caderousse leaped out.

“Well!” said Andrea, — “my servant’s coat and my hat?”

“Ah,” said Caderousse, “you would not like me to risk taking cold?”

“But what am I to do?”

“You? Oh, you are young while I am beginning to get old. Au revoir, Benedetto;” and running into a court, he disappeared. “Alas,” said Andrea, sighing, “one cannot be completely happy in this world!”

Chapter 65

A Conjugal Scene.

At the Place Louis XV. the three young people separated — that is to say, Morrel went to the Boulevards, Chateau-Renaud to the Pont de la Revolution, and Debray to the Quai. Most probably Morrel and
Chateau-Renaud returned to their “domestic hearths,” as they say in the gallery of the Chamber in well-turned speeches, and in the theatre of the Rue Richelieu in well-written pieces; but it was not the case with Debray. When he reached the wicket of the Louvre, he turned to the left, galloped across the Carrousel, passed through
the Rue Saint-Roch, and, issuing from the Rue de la Michodiere, he arrived at M. Danglars’ door just at the
same time that Villefort’s landau, after having deposited him and his wife at the Faubourg St. Honore, stopped
to leave the baroness at her own house. Debray, with the air of a man familiar with the house, entered first into
the court, threw his bridle into the hands of a footman, and returned to the door to receive Madame Danglars,
to whom he offered his arm, to conduct her to her apartments. The gate once closed, and Debray and the baroness alone in the court, he asked, — “What was the matter with you, Hermine? and why were you so affected at that story, or rather fable, which the count related?”

“Because I have been in such shocking spirits all the evening, my friend,” said the baroness.

“No, Hermine,” replied Debray; “you cannot make me believe that; on the contrary, you were in excellent spirits when you arrived at the count’s. M. Danglars was disagreeable, certainly, but I know how much you care for his ill-humor. Some one has vexed you; I will allow no one to annoy you.”

“You are deceived, Lucien, I assure you,” replied Madame Danglars; “and what I have told you is really the case, added to the ill-humor you remarked, but which I did not think it worth while to allude to.” It was
evident that Madame Danglars was suffering from that nervous irritability which women frequently cannot account for even to themselves; or that, as Debray had guessed, she had experienced some secret agitation that
she would not acknowledge to any one. Being a man who knew that the former of these symptoms was one of
the inherent penalties of womanhood, he did not then press his inquiries, but waited for a more appropriate opportunity when he should again interrogate her, or receive an avowal proprio motu. At the door of her apartment the baroness met Mademoiselle Cornelie, her confidential maid. “What is my daughter doing?” asked Madame Danglars.

“She practiced all the evening, and then went to bed,” replied Mademoiselle Cornelie. “Yet I think I hear her piano.”
“It is Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly, who is playing while Mademoiselle Danglars is in bed.”

“Well,” said Madame Danglars, “come and undress me.” They entered the bedroom. Debray stretched himself upon a large couch, and Madame Danglars passed into her dressing-room with Mademoiselle Cornelie. “My
dear M. Lucien,” said Madame Danglars through the door, “you are always complaining that Eugenie will not address a word to you.”

“Madame,” said Lucien, playing with a little dog, who, recognizing him as a friend of the house, expected to
be caressed, “I am not the only one who makes similar complaints, I think I heard Morcerf say that he could not extract a word from his betrothed.”

“True,” said Madame Danglars; “yet I think this will all pass off, and that you will one day see her enter your study.”

“My study?”

“At least that of the minister.”

“Why so!”

“To ask for an engagement at the Opera. Really, I never saw such an infatuation for music; it is quite
ridiculous for a young lady of fashion.” Debray smiled. “Well,” said he, “let her come, with your consent and that of the baron, and we will try and give her an engagement, though we are very poor to pay such talent as hers.”

“Go, Cornelie,” said Madame Danglars, “I do not require you any longer.”

Cornelie obeyed, and the next minute Madame Danglars left her room in a charming loose dress, and came and sat down close to Debray. Then she began thoughtfully to caress the little spaniel. Lucien looked at her
for a moment in silence. “Come, Hermine,” he said, after a short time, “answer candidly, — something vexes you — is it not so?”

“Nothing,” answered the baroness.

And yet, as she could scarcely breathe, she rose and went towards a looking-glass. “I am frightful to-night,”
she said. Debray rose, smiling, and was about to contradict the baroness upon this latter point, when the door opened suddenly. M. Danglars appeared; Debray reseated himself. At the noise of the door Madame Danglars turned round, and looked upon her husband with an astonishment she took no trouble to conceal.
“Good-evening, madame,” said the banker; “good-evening, M. Debray.”

Probably the baroness thought this unexpected visit signified a desire to make up for the sharp words he had uttered during the day. Assuming a dignified air, she turned round to Debray, without answering her husband. “Read me something, M. Debray,” she said. Debray, who was slightly disturbed at this visit, recovered
himself when he saw the calmness of the baroness, and took up a book marked by a mother-of-pearl knife inlaid with gold. “Excuse me,” said the banker, “but you will tire yourself, baroness, by such late hours, and
M. Debray lives some distance from here.”

Debray was petrified, not only to hear Danglars speak so calmly and politely, but because it was apparent that beneath outward politeness there really lurked a determined spirit of opposition to anything his wife might
wish to do. The baroness was also surprised, and showed her astonishment by a look which would doubtless have had some effect upon her husband if he had not been intently occupied with the paper, where he was looking to see the closing stock quotations. The result was, that the proud look entirely failed of its purpose.

“M. Lucien,” said the baroness, “I assure you I have no desire to sleep, and that I have a thousand things to tell you this evening, which you must listen to, even though you slept while hearing me.”

“I am at your service, madame,” replied Lucien coldly.

“My dear M. Debray,” said the banker, “do not kill yourself to-night listening to the follies of Madame Danglars, for you can hear them as well to-morrow; but I claim to-night and will devote it, if you will allow me, to talk over some serious matters with my wife.” This time the blow was so well aimed, and hit so
directly, that Lucien and the baroness were staggered, and they interrogated each other with their eyes, as if to seek help against this aggression, but the irresistible will of the master of the house prevailed, and the husband was victorious.

“Do not think I wish to turn you out, my dear Debray,” continued Danglars; “oh, no, not at all. An unexpected occurrence forces me to ask my wife to have a little conversation with me; it is so rarely I make such a
request, I am sure you cannot grudge it to me.” Debray muttered something, bowed and went out, knocking

himself against the edge of the door, like Nathan in “Athalie.”

“It is extraordinary,” he said, when the door was closed behind him, “how easily these husbands, whom we ridicule, gain an advantage over us.”

Lucien having left, Danglars took his place on the sofa, closed the open book, and placing himself in a
dreadfully dictatorial attitude, he began playing with the dog; but the animal, not liking him as well as Debray, and attempting to bite him, Danglars seized him by the skin of his neck and threw him upon a couch on the
other side of the room. The animal uttered a cry during the transit, but, arrived at its destination, it crouched behind the cushions, and stupefied at such unusual treatment remained silent and motionless. “Do you know, sir,” asked the baroness, “that you are improving? Generally you are only rude, but to-night you are brutal.”

“It is because I am in a worse humor than usual,” replied Danglars. Hermine looked at the banker with supreme disdain. These glances frequently exasperated the pride of Danglars, but this evening he took no notice of them.

“And what have I to do with your ill-humor?” said the baroness, irritated at the impassibility of her husband; “do these things concern me? Keep your ill-humor at home in your money boxes, or, since you have clerks whom you pay, vent it upon them.”

“Not so,” replied Danglars; “your advice is wrong, so I shall not follow it. My money boxes are my Pactolus,
as, I think, M. Demoustier says, and I will not retard its course, or disturb its calm. My clerks are honest men, who earn my fortune, whom I pay much below their deserts, if I may value them according to what they bring
in; therefore I shall not get into a passion with them; those with whom I will be in a passion are those who eat my dinners, mount my horses, and exhaust my fortune.”

“And pray who are the persons who exhaust your fortune? Explain yourself more clearly, I beg, sir.”

“Oh, make yourself easy! — I am not speaking riddles, and you will soon know what I mean. The people who exhaust my fortune are those who draw out 700,000 francs in the course of an hour.”

“I do not understand you, sir,” said the baroness, trying to disguise the agitation of her voice and the flush of
her face. “You understand me perfectly, on the contrary,” said Danglars: “but, if you will persist, I will tell you that I have just lost 700,000 francs upon the Spanish loan.”

“And pray,” asked the baroness, “am I responsible for this loss?” “Why not?”
“Is it my fault you have lost 700,000 francs?” “Certainly it is not mine.”
“Once for all, sir,” replied the baroness sharply, “I tell you I will not hear cash named; it is a style of language
I never heard in the house of my parents or in that of my first husband.” “Oh, I can well believe that, for neither of them was worth a penny.”
“The better reason for my not being conversant with the slang of the bank, which is here dinning in my ears from morning to night; that noise of jingling crowns, which are constantly being counted and re-counted, is odious to me. I only know one thing I dislike more, which is the sound of your voice.”

“Really?” said Danglars. “Well, this surprises me, for I thought you took the liveliest interest in all my
affairs!”

“I? What could put such an idea into your head?” “Yourself.”
“Ah? — what next?” “Most assuredly.”
“I should like to know upon what occasion?”

“Oh, mon Dieu, that is very easily done. Last February you were the first who told me of the Haitian funds. You had dreamed that a ship had entered the harbor at Havre, that this ship brought news that a payment we had looked upon as lost was going to be made. I know how clear-sighted your dreams are; I therefore
purchased immediately as many shares as I could of the Haitian debt, and I gained 400,000 francs by it, of
which 100,000 have been honestly paid to you. You spent it as you pleased; that was your business. In March there was a question about a grant to a railway. Three companies presented themselves, each offering equal securities. You told me that your instinct, — and although you pretend to know nothing about speculations, I
think on the contrary, that your comprehension is very clear upon certain affairs, — well, you told me that your instinct led you to believe the grant would be given to the company called the Southern. I bought two thirds of
the shares of that company; as you had foreseen, the shares trebled in value, and I picked up a million, from which 250,000 francs were paid to you for pin-money. How have you spent this 250,000 francs? — it is no business of mine.”

“When are you coming to the point?” cried the baroness, shivering with anger and impatience. “Patience, madame, I am coming to it.”
“That’s fortunate.”

“In April you went to dine at the minister’s. You heard a private conversation respecting Spanish affairs — on
the expulsion of Don Carlos. I bought some Spanish shares. The expulsion took place and I pocketed 600,000 francs the day Charles V. repassed the Bidassoa. Of these 600,000 francs you took 50,000 crowns. They were yours, you disposed of them according to your fancy, and I asked no questions; but it is not the less true that
you have this year received 500,000 livres.” “Well, sir, and what then?”
“Ah, yes, it was just after this that you spoiled everything.” “Really, your manner of speaking” —
“It expresses my meaning, and that is all I want. Well, three days after that you talked politics with M.
Debray, and you fancied from his words that Don Carlos had returned to Spain. Well, I sold my shares, the news got out, and I no longer sold — I gave them away, next day I find the news was false, and by this false report I have lost 700,000 francs.”

“Well?”

“Well, since I gave you a fourth of my gains, I think you owe me a fourth of my losses; the fourth of 700,000

francs is 175,000 francs.”

“What you say is absurd, and I cannot see why M. Debray’s name is mixed up in this affair.”

“Because if you do not possess the 175,000 francs I reclaim, you must have lent them to your friends, and M. Debray is one of your friends.”

“For shame!” exclaimed the baroness.

“Oh, let us have no gestures, no screams, no modern drama, or you will oblige me to tell you that I see Debray leave here, pocketing the whole of the 500,000 livres you have handed over to him this year, while he smiles
to himself, saying that he has found what the most skilful players have never discovered — that is, a roulette where he wins without playing, and is no loser when he loses.” The baroness became enraged. “Wretch!” she cried, “will you dare to tell me you did not know what you now reproach me with?”

“I do not say that I did know it, and I do not say that I did not know it. I merely tell you to look into my conduct during the last four years that we have ceased to be husband and wife, and see whether it has not
always been consistent. Some time after our rupture, you wished to study music, under the celebrated baritone who made such a successful appearance at the Theatre Italien; at the same time I felt inclined to learn dancing
of the danseuse who acquired such a reputation in London. This cost me, on your account and mine, 100,000 francs. I said nothing, for we must have peace in the house; and 100,000 francs for a lady and gentleman to be properly instructed in music and dancing are not too much. Well, you soon become tired of singing, and you
take a fancy to study diplomacy with the minister’s secretary. You understand, it signifies nothing to me so
long as you pay for your lessons out of your own cashbox. But to-day I find you are drawing on mine, and that your apprenticeship may cost me 700,000 francs per month. Stop there, madame, for this cannot last. Either
the diplomatist must give his lessons gratis, and I will tolerate him, or he must never set his foot again in my house; — do you understand, madame?”

“Oh, this is too much,” cried Hermine, choking, “you are worse than despicable.” “But,” continued Danglars, “I find you did not even pause there” —
“Insults!”

“You are right; let us leave these facts alone, and reason coolly. I have never interfered in your affairs
excepting for your good; treat me in the same way. You say you have nothing to do with my cash-box. Be it
so. Do as you like with your own, but do not fill or empty mine. Besides, how do I know that this was not a political trick, that the minister enraged at seeing me in the opposition, and jealous of the popular sympathy I excite, has not concerted with M. Debray to ruin me?”

“A probable thing!”

“Why not? Who ever heard of such an occurrence as this? — a false telegraphic despatch — it is almost
impossible for wrong signals to be made as they were in the last two telegrams. It was done on purpose for me
— I am sure of it.”

“Sir,” said the baroness humbly, “are you not aware that the man employed there was dismissed, that they
talked of going to law with him, that orders were issued to arrest him and that this order would have been put into execution if he had not escaped by flight, which proves that he was either mad or guilty? It was a
mistake.”

“Yes, which made fools laugh, which caused the minister to have a sleepless night, which has caused the

minister’s secretaries to blacken several sheets of paper, but which has cost me 700,000 francs.”

“But, sir,” said Hermine suddenly, “if all this is, as you say, caused by M. Debray, why, instead of going direct to him, do you come and tell me of it? Why, to accuse the man, do you address the woman?”

“Do I know M. Debray? — do I wish to know him? — do I wish to know that he gives advice? — do I wish to follow it? — do I speculate? No; you do all this, not I.”

“Still it seems to me, that as you profit by it — ”

Danglars shrugged his shoulders. “Foolish creature,” he exclaimed. “Women fancy they have talent because they have managed two or three intrigues without being the talk of Paris! But know that if you had even
hidden your irregularities from your husband, who has but the commencement of the art — for generally husbands will not see — you would then have been but a faint imitation of most of your friends among the women of the world. But it has not been so with me, — I see, and always have seen, during the last sixteen years. You may, perhaps, have hidden a thought; but not a step, not an action, not a fault, has escaped me,
while you flattered yourself upon your address, and firmly believed you had deceived me. What has been the result? — that, thanks to my pretended ignorance, there is none of your friends, from M. de Villefort to M. Debray, who has not trembled before me. There is not one who has not treated me as the master of the house,
— the only title I desire with respect to you; there is not one, in fact, who would have dared to speak of me as I have spoken of them this day. I will allow you to make me hateful, but I will prevent your rendering me ridiculous, and, above all, I forbid you to ruin me.”

The baroness had been tolerably composed until the name of Villefort had been pronounced; but then she became pale, and, rising, as if touched by a spring, she stretched out her hands as though conjuring an apparition; she then took two or three steps towards her husband, as though to tear the secret from him, of which he was ignorant, or which he withheld from some odious calculation, — odious, as all his calculations were. “M. de Villefort! — What do you mean?”

“I mean that M. de Nargonne, your first husband, being neither a philosopher nor a banker, or perhaps being both, and seeing there was nothing to be got out of a king’s attorney, died of grief or anger at finding, after an absence of nine months, that you had been enceinte six. I am brutal, — I not only allow it, but boast of it; it is one of the reasons of my success in commercial business. Why did he kill himself instead of you? Because he had no cash to save. My life belongs to my cash. M. Debray has made me lose 700,000 francs; let him bear his
share of the loss, and we will go on as before; if not, let him become bankrupt for the 250,000 livres, and do
as all bankrupts do — disappear. He is a charming fellow, I allow, when his news is correct; but when it is not, there are fifty others in the world who would do better than he.”

Madame Danglars was rooted to the spot; she made a violent effort to reply to this last attack, but she fell upon a chair thinking of Villefort, of the dinner scene, of the strange series of misfortunes which had taken place in her house during the last few days, and changed the usual calm of her establishment to a scene of
scandalous debate. Danglars did not even look at her, though she did her best to faint. He shut the bedroom door after him, without adding another word, and returned to his apartments; and when Madame Danglars recovered from her half-fainting condition, she could almost believe that she had had a disagreeable dream.

Chapter 66

Matrimonial Projects.

The day following this scene, at the hour the banker usually chose to pay a visit to Madame Danglars on his way to his office, his coupe did not appear. At this time, that is, about half-past twelve, Madame Danglars ordered her carriage, and went out. Danglars, hidden behind a curtain, watched the departure he had been waiting for. He gave orders that he should be informed as soon as Madame Danglars appeared; but at two o’clock she had not returned. He then called for his horses, drove to the Chamber, and inscribed his name to speak against the budget. From twelve to two o’clock Danglars had remained in his study, unsealing his
dispatches, and becoming more and more sad every minute, heaping figure upon figure, and receiving, among other visits, one from Major Cavalcanti, who, as stiff and exact as ever, presented himself precisely at the hour named the night before, to terminate his business with the banker. On leaving the Chamber, Danglars, who
had shown violent marks of agitation during the sitting, and been more bitter than ever against the ministry,
re-entered his carriage, and told the coachman to drive to the Avenue des Champs-Elysees, No. 30.

Monte Cristo was at home; only he was engaged with some one and begged Danglars to wait for a moment in
the drawing-room. While the banker was waiting in the anteroom, the door opened, and a man dressed as an abbe and doubtless more familiar with the house than he was, came in and instead of waiting, merely bowed, passed on to the farther apartments, and disappeared. A minute after the door by which the priest had entered reopened, and Monte Cristo appeared. “Pardon me,” said he, “my dear baron, but one of my friends, the Abbe Busoni, whom you perhaps saw pass by, has just arrived in Paris; not having seen him for a long time, I could
not make up my mind to leave him sooner, so I hope this will be sufficient reason for my having made you wait.”

“Nay,” said Danglars, “it is my fault; I have chosen my visit at a wrong time, and will retire.”

“Not at all; on the contrary, be seated; but what is the matter with you? You look careworn; really, you alarm me. Melancholy in a capitalist, like the appearance of a comet, presages some misfortune to the world.”

“I have been in ill-luck for several days,” said Danglars, “and I have heard nothing but bad news.” “Ah, indeed?” said Monte Cristo. “Have you had another fall at the Bourse?”
“No; I am safe for a few days at least. I am only annoyed about a bankrupt of Trieste.” “Really? Does it happen to be Jacopo Manfredi?”
“Exactly so. Imagine a man who has transacted business with me for I don’t know how long, to the amount of
800,000 or 900,000 francs during the year. Never a mistake or delay — a fellow who paid like a prince. Well, I
was a million in advance with him, and now my fine Jacopo Manfredi suspends payment!” “Really?”
“It is an unheard-of fatality. I draw upon him for 600,000 francs, my bills are returned unpaid, and, more than that, I hold bills of exchange signed by him to the value of 400,000 francs, payable at his correspondent’s in
Paris at the end of this month. To-day is the 30th. I present them; but my correspondent has disappeared. This, with my Spanish affairs, made a pretty end to the month.”

“Then you really lost by that affair in Spain?”

“Yes; only 700,000 francs out of my cash-box — nothing more!”

“Why, how could you make such a mistake — such an old stager?”

“Oh, it is all my wife’s fault. She dreamed Don Carlos had returned to Spain; she believes in dreams. It is magnetism, she says, and when she dreams a thing it is sure to happen, she assures me. On this conviction I allow her to speculate, she having her bank and her stockbroker; she speculated and lost. It is true she speculates with her own money, not mine; nevertheless, you can understand that when 700,000 francs leave
the wife’s pocket, the husband always finds it out. But do you mean to say you have not heard of this? Why, the thing has made a tremendous noise.”

“Yes, I heard it spoken of, but I did not know the details, and then no one can be more ignorant than I am of the affairs in the Bourse.”

“Then you do not speculate?”

“I? — How could I speculate when I already have so much trouble in regulating my income? I should be obliged, besides my steward, to keep a clerk and a boy. But touching these Spanish affairs, I think that the
baroness did not dream the whole of the Don Carlos matter. The papers said something about it, did they not?” “Then you believe the papers?”
“I? — not the least in the world; only I fancied that the honest Messager was an exception to the rule, and that
it only announced telegraphic despatches.”

“Well, that’s what puzzles me,” replied Danglars; “the news of the return of Don Carlos was brought by telegraph.”

“So that,” said Monte Cristo, “you have lost nearly 1,700,000 francs this month.” “Not nearly, indeed; that is exactly my loss.”
“Diable,” said Monte Cristo compassionately, “it is a hard blow for a third-rate fortune.” “Third-rate,” said Danglars, rather humble, “what do you mean by that?”
“Certainly,” continued Monte Cristo, “I make three assortments in fortune — first-rate, second-rate, and
third-rate fortunes. I call those first-rate which are composed of treasures one possesses under one’s hand, such as mines, lands, and funded property, in such states as France, Austria, and England, provided these treasures and property form a total of about a hundred millions; I call those second-rate fortunes, that are gained by manufacturing enterprises, joint-stock companies, viceroyalties, and principalities, not drawing
more than 1,500,000 francs, the whole forming a capital of about fifty millions; finally, I call those third-rate fortunes, which are composed of a fluctuating capital, dependent upon the will of others, or upon chances
which a bankruptcy involves or a false telegram shakes, such as banks, speculations of the day — in fact, all operations under the influence of greater or less mischances, the whole bringing in a real or fictitious capital
of about fifteen millions. I think this is about your position, is it not?” “Confound it, yes!” replied Danglars.
“The result, then, of six more such months as this would be to reduce the third-rate house to despair.” “Oh,” said Danglars, becoming very pale, how you are running on!”
“Let us imagine seven such months,” continued Monte Cristo, in the same tone. “Tell me, have you ever

thought that seven times 1,700,000 francs make nearly twelve millions? No, you have not; — well, you are
right, for if you indulged in such reflections, you would never risk your principal, which is to the speculator what the skin is to civilized man. We have our clothes, some more splendid than others, — this is our credit;
but when a man dies he has only his skin; in the same way, on retiring from business, you have nothing but your real principal of about five or six millions, at the most; for third-rate fortunes are never more than a fourth of what they appear to be, like the locomotive on a railway, the size of which is magnified by the
smoke and steam surrounding it. Well, out of the five or six millions which form your real capital, you have just lost nearly two millions, which must, of course, in the same degree diminish your credit and fictitious fortune; to follow out my simile, your skin has been opened by bleeding, and this if repeated three or four
times will cause death — so pay attention to it, my dear Monsieur Danglars. Do you want money? Do you wish me to lend you some?”

“What a bad calculator you are!” exclaimed Danglars, calling to his assistance all his philosophy and dissimulation. “I have made money at the same time by speculations which have succeeded. I have made up
the loss of blood by nutrition. I lost a battle in Spain, I have been defeated in Trieste, but my naval army in
India will have taken some galleons, and my Mexican pioneers will have discovered some mine.” “Very good, very good! But the wound remains and will reopen at the first loss.”
“No, for I am only embarked in certainties,” replied Danglars, with the air of a mountebank sounding his own praises; “to involve me, three governments must crumble to dust.”

“Well, such things have been.” “That there should be a famine!”
“Recollect the seven fat and the seven lean kine.”

“Or, that the sea should become dry, as in the days of Pharaoh, and even then my vessels would become caravans.”

“So much the better. I congratulate you, my dear M. Danglars,” said Monte Cristo; “I see I was deceived, and that you belong to the class of second-rate fortunes.”

“I think I may aspire to that honor,” said Danglars with a smile, which reminded Monte Cristo of the sickly moons which bad artists are so fond of daubing into their pictures of ruins. “But, while we are speaking of
business,” Danglars added, pleased to find an opportunity of changing the subject, “tell me what I am to do for
M. Cavalcanti.”

“Give him money, if he is recommended to you, and the recommendation seems good.”

“Excellent; he presented himself this morning with a bond of 40,000 francs, payable at sight, on you, signed
by Busoni, and returned by you to me, with your indorsement — of course, I immediately counted him over the forty bank-notes.”

Monte Cristo nodded his head in token of assent. “But that is not all,” continued Danglars; “he has opened an account with my house for his son.”

“May I ask how much he allows the young man?” “Five thousand francs per month.”

“Sixty thousand francs per year. I thought I was right in believing that Cavalcanti to be a stingy fellow. How
can a young man live upon 5,000 francs a month?”

“But you understand that if the young man should want a few thousands more” —

“Do not advance it; the father will never repay it. You do not know these ultramontane millionaires; they are regular misers. And by whom were they recommended to you?”

“Oh, by the house of Fenzi, one of the best in Florence.”

“I do not mean to say you will lose, but, nevertheless, mind you hold to the terms of the agreement.” “Would you not trust the Cavalcanti?”
“I? oh, I would advance six millions on his signature. I was only speaking in reference to the second-rate fortunes we were mentioning just now.”

“And with all this, how unassuming he is! I should never have taken him for anything more than a mere major.”

“And you would have flattered him, for certainly, as you say, he has no manner. The first time I saw him he appeared to me like an old lieutenant who had grown mouldy under his epaulets. But all the Italians are the same; they are like old Jews when they are not glittering in Oriental splendor.”

“The young man is better,” said Danglars.

“Yes; a little nervous, perhaps, but, upon the whole, he appeared tolerable. I was uneasy about him.” “Why?”
“Because you met him at my house, just after his introduction into the world, as they told me. He has been travelling with a very severe tutor, and had never been to Paris before.”

“Ah, I believe noblemen marry amongst themselves, do they not?” asked Danglars carelessly; “they like to unite their fortunes.”

“It is usual, certainly; but Cavalcanti is an original who does nothing like other people. I cannot help thinking that he has brought his son to France to choose a wife.”

“Do you think so?” “I am sure of it.”
“And you have heard his fortune mentioned?”

“Nothing else was talked of; only some said he was worth millions, and others that he did not possess a farthing.”

“And what is your opinion?”

“I ought not to influence you, because it is only my own personal impression.”

“Well, and it is that” —

“My opinion is, that all these old podestas, these ancient condottieri, — for the Cavalcanti have commanded armies and governed provinces, — my opinion, I say, is, that they have buried their millions in corners, the secret of which they have transmitted only to their eldest sons, who have done the same from generation to generation; and the proof of this is seen in their yellow and dry appearance, like the florins of the republic, which, from being constantly gazed upon, have become reflected in them.”

“Certainly,” said Danglars, “and this is further supported by the fact of their not possessing an inch of land.” “Very little, at least; I know of none which Cavalcanti possesses, excepting his palace in Lucca.”
“Ah, he has a palace?” said Danglars, laughing; “come, that is something.”

“Yes; and more than that, he lets it to the Minister of Finance while he lives in a simple house. Oh, as I told you before, I think the old fellow is very close.”

“Come, you do not flatter him.”

“I scarcely know him; I think I have seen him three times in my life; all I know relating to him is through
Busoni and himself. He was telling me this morning that, tired of letting his property lie dormant in Italy,
which is a dead nation, he wished to find a method, either in France or England, of multiplying his millions, but remember, that though I place great confidence in Busoni, I am not responsible for this.”

“Never mind; accept my thanks for the client you have sent me. It is a fine name to inscribe on my ledgers, and my cashier was quite proud of it when I explained to him who the Cavalcanti were. By the way, this is merely a simple question, when this sort of people marry their sons, do they give them any fortune?”

“Oh, that depends upon circumstances. I know an Italian prince, rich as a gold mine, one of the noblest families in Tuscany, who, when his sons married according to his wish, gave them millions; and when they
married against his consent, merely allowed them thirty crowns a month. Should Andrea marry according to
his father’s views, he will, perhaps, give him one, two, or three millions. For example, supposing it were the daughter of a banker, he might take an interest in the house of the father-in-law of his son; then again, if he disliked his choice, the major takes the key, double-locks his coffer, and Master Andrea would be obliged to live like the sons of a Parisian family, by shuffling cards or rattling the dice.”

“Ah, that boy will find out some Bavarian or Peruvian princess; he will want a crown and an immense fortune.”

“No; these grand lords on the other side of the Alps frequently marry into plain families; like Jupiter, they like
to cross the race. But do you wish to marry Andrea, my dear M. Danglars, that you are asking so many questions?”

“Ma foi,” said Danglars, “it would not be a bad speculation, I fancy, and you know I am a speculator.”

“You are not thinking of Mademoiselle Danglars, I hope; you would not like poor Andrea to have his throat cut by Albert?”

“Albert,” repeated Danglars, shrugging his shoulders; “ah, well; he would care very little about it, I think.” “But he is betrothed to your daughter, I believe?”

“Well, M. de Morcerf and I have talked about this marriage, but Madame de Morcerf and Albert” —

“You do not mean to say that it would not be a good match?”

“Indeed, I imagine that Mademoiselle Danglars is as good as M. de Morcerf.”

“Mademoiselle Danglars’ fortune will be great, no doubt, especially if the telegraph should not make any more mistakes.”

“Oh, I do not mean her fortune only; but tell me” — “What?”
“Why did you not invite M. and Madame de Morcerf to your dinner?”

“I did so, but he excused himself on account of Madame de Morcerf being obliged to go to Dieppe for the benefit of sea air.”

“Yes, yes,” said Danglars, laughing, “it would do her a great deal of good.” “Why so?”
“Because it is the air she always breathed in her youth.” Monte Cristo took no notice of this ill-natured remark.

“But still, if Albert be not so rich as Mademoiselle Danglars,” said the count, “you must allow that he has a fine name?”

“So he has; but I like mine as well.”

“Certainly; your name is popular, and does honor to the title they have adorned it with; but you are too intelligent not to know that according to a prejudice, too firmly rooted to be exterminated, a nobility which dates back five centuries is worth more than one that can only reckon twenty years.”

“And for this very reason,” said Danglars with a smile, which he tried to make sardonic, “I prefer M. Andrea
Cavalcanti to M. Albert de Morcerf.”

“Still, I should not think the Morcerfs would yield to the Cavalcanti?”

“The Morcerfs! — Stay, my dear count,” said Danglars; “you are a man of the world, are you not?”

“I think so.”

“And you understand heraldry?” “A little.”
“Well, look at my coat-of-arms, it is worth more than Morcerf’s.” “Why so?”
“Because, though I am not a baron by birth, my real name is, at least, Danglars.”

“Well, what then?”

“While his name is not Morcerf.” “How? — not Morcerf?”
“Not the least in the world.” “Go on.”
“I have been made a baron, so that I actually am one; he made himself a count, so that he is not one at all.” “Impossible!”
“Listen my dear count; M. de Morcerf has been my friend, or rather my acquaintance, during the last thirty years. You know I have made the most of my arms, though I never forgot my origin.”

“A proof of great humility or great pride,” said Monte Cristo. “Well, when I was a clerk, Morcerf was a mere fisherman.” “And then he was called” —
“Fernand.”

“Only Fernand?” “Fernand Mondego.” “You are sure?”
“Pardieu, I have bought enough fish of him to know his name.” “Then, why did you think of giving your daughter to him?”
“Because Fernand and Danglars, being both parvenus, both having become noble, both rich, are about equal in worth, excepting that there have been certain things mentioned of him that were never said of me.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing!”

“Ah, yes; what you tell me recalls to mind something about the name of Fernand Mondego. I have heard that name in Greece.”

“In conjunction with the affairs of Ali Pasha?” “Exactly so.”
“This is the mystery,” said Danglars. “I acknowledge I would have given anything to find it out.”

“It would be very easy if you much wished it?”

“How so?”

“Probably you have some correspondent in Greece?” “I should think so.”
“At Yanina?” “Everywhere.”
“Well, write to your correspondent in Yanina, and ask him what part was played by a Frenchman named
Fernand Mondego in the catastrophe of Ali Tepelini.”

“You are right,” exclaimed Danglars, rising quickly, “I will write to-day.” “Do so.”
“I will.”

“And if you should hear of anything very scandalous” — “I will communicate it to you.”
“You will oblige me.” Danglars rushed out of the room, and made but one leap into his coupe.

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