Edmond Dantès
everything that occurred, and, on the lightning's wing, dispatched it to
its destination, so that the most important decrees of the
cabinet-council of Vienna were exposed to the whole world by the
Parisian press long before they had been communicated by Metternich to
his sovereign. And thus, often, the ruler first learned the purposes of
the Minister. Not a city or village was there in all Europe which
nourished not in its bosom the germ of reform and revolution, while the
great principle of association combined, embodied, and concentrated into
a focus energies and influences which would otherwise have proved
comparatively powerless.
The click and buzz of the register ceased--the engine had revealed its
secret--the shadowy tale had been caught up as it fell and given to the
press of all Europe, thence to be laid before men's minds.
Exhausted by the severe mental toil, and by the lateness of the hour,
the Deputy sank back into his arm-chair and clasped his hands.
"Glorious, omnipotent science!" he exclaimed in low and trembling, yet
eager and enthusiastic tones. "Wealth must yield in power to thee, for
what wealth can rival thy achievements or secure thy results? Thou hast
girt the earth with web-work, forced the lightning to syllable the
unspoken thought and made man's mind ubiquitous like God's; ere long,
thou wilt have knit together with thy magic spells a world of mankind
into one vast brotherhood!"
M. Dantes ceased and, closing his eyes wearily, continued to think over
the possibilities of the future. As he sat there motionless and
seemingly asleep, a light footfall was heard in the apartment and his
daughter stood before him. Zuleika was now sixteen, tall and matured
beyond her years; she greatly resembled her dead mother, Haydee, the
beautiful Greek, and the half-oriental costume she wore helped to render
the resemblance still more striking; her abundant hair was the hue of
the raven's wing, her feet and hands were those of a fairy, while her
large and expressive eyes flashed like diamonds, and her parted lips, as
red as rubies, disclosed perfect teeth of the whiteness of pearls. A
shade of anxiety settled upon her handsome countenance as she bent over
her weary father. The Deputy opened his eyes and glanced at her.
"Why are you up so late, my child?" he asked, fondly. "I thought you
were sleeping soundly long ere this."
"I was waiting for you, papa," replied Zuleika, in a low, musical voice,
that sounded like a chime of tiny bells; "I could not retire to my
couch while you were toiling."
M. Dantes pointed to a stool; the young girl brought it and seated
herself at his feet; he drew her to his knee, smoothing her tresses
gently and affectionately.
"So you would not desert me, darling?" he said, with a glad smile.
"No, indeed, dear papa," answered she, nestling closer to him.
"Will you always love me as you do now, Zuleika?" asked the father,
looking down into the liquid depths of her eyes.
"Oh! papa, what a question, what a singular question!" said the girl,
springing to her feet, throwing her arms around his neck, and kissing
him again and again.
"But love of another kind and for another will come along after awhile,"
said the Deputy sadly, "and then you will forget your father."
Zuleika blushed and hung her head in maidenly modesty; then she
exclaimed:
"No, no, papa; never will I forget you whatever may happen!"
"Ah! my darling, you know not what you are saying; it is only natural
for a woman to cast her father aside and cleave unto her husband."
"But, papa, I have not even a lover yet, and, besides, I am not a woman;
I am merely a little girl and your own, true, loving daughter."
"Yes, yes, but you must remember that last year, young as you were
then, you attracted marked attention from several youthful Romans of the
best families in the Eternal City, and that one of them, the Viscount
Giovanni Massetti, went so far as to ask me for your hand."
At the mention of Massetti's name the blush upon Zuleika's cheek
deepened. She trembled slightly, but said nothing; her heart fluttered
painfully, but the pain was not altogether disagreeable. The young
Viscount was evidently not unpleasing to her.
M. Dantes resumed, looking at her fixedly the while:
"My daughter, as you were then attending the convent school I felt it my
duty to deny Giovanni Massetti's solicitation, nay, his ardent,
impetuous prayer, but I did not deprive him of all hope; I gave him
permission to urge his suit with you personally after a year from that
time had elapsed. Did I do right?"
Zuleika maintained silence, but blushed and trembled more than ever,
while her heart fluttered so that she placed her hand upon her breast to
still it.
"Come, come, my daughter, answer me," said the Deputy, kindly, "did I do
right? Tell me what your little heart says."
"I do not know, oh! I do not know!" cried Zuleika, bursting into tears.
"There, there now," said her father, soothingly; "I did not mean either
to frighten or wound you. If the Viscount is displeasing to you I will
answer his letter to-morrow and tell him as gently as possible that he
has no hope of winning your hand."
"What! have you received a letter from Giovanni?" exclaimed Zuleika,
with sudden interest, her tears vanishing instantly and her pretty face
brightening up.
"Ho! ho!" said M. Dantes to himself, "Mademoiselle has waked up in
earnest now." Then he added aloud: "Yes, one came this afternoon. The
Viscount is in Paris, and has claimed the privilege I accorded him a
year ago, provided you interposed no objection. However, the matter can
speedily be settled. Young Massetti is a man of honor, and will not for
an instant think of troubling with his attentions a lady to whom they
cannot prove acceptable."
"Oh! papa, papa, don't tell him that; he wouldn't come here if you did;
besides, did--did--did I ever tell you that Giovanni's attentions would
prove unacceptable to me?"
"No, not in so many words," answered M. Dantes, archly, "but I inferred
as much from your manner and tears just now. So I am to understand that
you do not want me to reply to the Viscount's letter, am I?"
"Oh! yes, I want you to reply to his letter, but--but----"
"But what, darling?"
"I do not wish you to tell him there is no hope!"
"You think there is hope, then?"
"I--I--am afraid so, dear papa!"
"Yet a moment ago you told me you had no lover, and were merely a little
girl!"
"I did not know then that Giovanni was in Paris, and I--I--thought he
had forgotten all about me."
M. Dantes smiled as he said:
"That makes all the difference in the world, doesn't it, Mademoiselle?"
"Yes," answered Zuleika, innocently; then she added in a tone of great
earnestness: "Write to Giovanni in the morning, and--and tell him I
shall be delighted to see him."
"I will write and inform him that, so far as I have been able to
discover, my daughter does not object to receiving a visit from him."
"Oh! that would be too cold and formal, and Giovanni is such an old
friend."
"Well, well," said M. Dantes, "I will so frame my reply as to give
entire satisfaction both to you and him. Now, my child, kiss me and
retire to your couch, for it is very, very late."
Zuleika embraced her father and kissed him repeatedly; then, with
beaming eyes and a countenance overflowing with happiness she ran
lightly from the apartment.
As she tripped joyously away, M. Dantes arose from his arm-chair and
gazed after her with a look of the utmost sadness.
"Oh! my daughter, my daughter," he murmured, "soon will you also quit
me, and then I shall be alone, indeed! True, Esperance will remain,
but, generous, manly and heroic as he is, he can never fill the void
Zuleika will leave. Oh! Haydee, Haydee, my beloved wife, why were you
torn so ruthlessly from your husband's heart!"
Zuleika's dreams that night were rose-hued and delicious, and in all of
them the central figure was the youthful Roman Viscount.
When day dawned M. Dantes was still pacing his library.
CHAPTER VIII.
A VAST PRINTING HOUSE.
A street somewhat famous in Paris is the Rue Lepelletier, famous not for
its length, for its breadth, for the splendid edifices it exhibits, or
for the scenes and events it has witnessed, but famous for the exploits
beheld by its neighbors, and the magnificent structures by them
displayed. Not that the Rue Lepelletier can boast no fine edifices, for
the grand opera-house would give the loud lie to such an assertion. And
then there is the Foreign Office near by, the Hotel of the Minister of
Foreign Affairs at the corner of the Boulevard and the Rue des
Capucines, and other noted places.
But there is one structure on the Rue Lepelletier not very noticeable
save for its immense size and its ancient and dingy aspect, which has
witnessed more scenes and events, and is more important than all its
more splendid neighbors put together.
This edifice is of brick, five stories in height, and, as has been
intimated, is time-stained, storm-stained, smoke-stained and stained, it
would seem, by all other conceivable causes of stain, so begrimed and
dingy, yet so venerable and imposing, does it seem.
This vast and ancient pile can be said to represent no order of
architecture. Architectural elegance appears not to have been thought of
when it was designed, and yet the facade of the old building seems to
bear the same relation to the building itself as the face of an old man
bears to his body, and that face is full of character, as are the faces
of some men--sombre, sedate, serious, almost sinister in aspect. This
old face, too, seemed full of apertures, through which unceasing and
sleepless espionage could be kept up on the good citizens of the good
City of Paris. Doors, and especially windows, numberless, opened and
looked upon the street, and on a cul de sac at one end of the edifice.
One of the doors opening on the cul de sac, at its further extremity,
was broad, low, dark and sombre; like the gates of hell, as portrayed by
the English bard, it "stood open night and day." If you entered this
door and advanced, you would immediately find yourself ascending a
narrow, gloomy and winding flight of stairs. Having with difficulty
groped your way to the top, without having broken your neck, by having
first reached the point from which you started, to wit, the bottom; or
your shins, by stumbling against the steps--having, I say, accomplished
the ascent to the first landing, your further passage is effectually
stopped by a massive door, which resists all your efforts to open it;
and, as you are contemplating the dangerous descent which you now think
you are immediately and inevitably forced to make, an ivory bell-handle
against the wall, beside the door, arrests your attention, with the
words around it, which, with difficulty, you decipher by the dim light,
"Editor's Room--No Admittance," followed by the encouraging, but
somewhat contradictory word, "Ring," which, doubtless, means this: "If
you are a particular friend of the editor, or have particular business
with him as a journalist, ring the bell, and perhaps you may be
admitted." Supposing either of these positions yours, you "ring the
bell," and immediately you are startled by the tinkling of a small bell
in the darkness close beside you, and the ponderous door, firm as a
barricade till then, is now opened by unseen hands--by the same hand,
indeed, and by the same action of that hand which caused the bell to
tinkle.
You enter the door, and find yourself in a corridor or passage, long and
dark, for everything in this building is dark, and gaslight is the only
light eighteen hours in the twenty-four; you find yourself in a
corridor, I say, running the entire depth of the building, and bringing