The Count of Monte Cristo
“Florentin here!” cried he, starting up; “is my mother ill?” And he
hastened to the door. Monte Cristo watched and saw him approach the
valet, who drew a small sealed parcel from his pocket, containing a
newspaper and a letter.
“From whom is this?” said he eagerly.
“From M. Beauchamp,” replied Florentin.
“Did he send you?”
“Yes, sir; he sent for me to his house, gave me money for my journey,
procured a horse, and made me promise not to stop till I had reached
you, I have come in fifteen hours.”
Albert opened the letter with fear, uttered a shriek on reading the
first line, and seized the paper. His sight was dimmed, his legs sank
under him, and he would have fallen had not Florentin supported him.
“Poor young man,” said Monte Cristo in a low voice; “it is then true
that the sin of the father shall fall on the children to the third and
fourth generation.”
Meanwhile Albert had revived, and, continuing to read, he threw back
his head, saying:
“Florentin, is your horse fit to return immediately?”
“It is a poor, lame post-horse.”
“In what state was the house when you left?”
“All was quiet, but on returning from M. Beauchamp’s, I found madame in
tears; she had sent for me to know when you would return. I told her my
orders from M. Beauchamp; she first extended her arms to prevent me,
but after a moment’s reflection, ‘Yes, go, Florentin,’ said she, ‘and
may he come quickly.’”
“Yes, my mother,” said Albert, “I will return, and woe to the infamous
wretch! But first of all I must get there.”
He went back to the room where he had left Monte Cristo. Five minutes
had sufficed to make a complete transformation in his appearance. His
voice had become rough and hoarse; his face was furrowed with wrinkles;
his eyes burned under the blue-veined lids, and he tottered like a
drunken man.
“Count,” said he, “I thank you for your hospitality, which I would
gladly have enjoyed longer; but I must return to Paris.”
“What has happened?”
“A great misfortune, more important to me than life. Don’t question me,
I beg of you, but lend me a horse.”
“My stables are at your command, viscount; but you will kill yourself
by riding on horseback. Take a post-chaise or a carriage.”
“No, it would delay me, and I need the fatigue you warn me of; it will
do me good.”
Albert reeled as if he had been shot, and fell on a chair near the
door. Monte Cristo did not see this second manifestation of physical
exhaustion; he was at the window, calling:
“Ali, a horse for M. de Morcerf—quick! he is in a hurry!”
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These words restored Albert; he darted from the room, followed by the
count.
“Thank you!” cried he, throwing himself on his horse.
“Return as soon as you can, Florentin. Must I use any password to
procure a horse?”
“Only dismount; another will be immediately saddled.”
Albert hesitated a moment. “You may think my departure strange and
foolish,” said the young man; “you do not know how a paragraph in a
newspaper may exasperate one. Read that,” said he, “when I am gone,
that you may not be witness of my anger.”
While the count picked up the paper he put spurs to his horse, which
leaped in astonishment at such an unusual stimulus, and shot away with
the rapidity of an arrow. The count watched him with a feeling of
compassion, and when he had completely disappeared, read as follows:
“The French officer in the service of Ali Pasha of Yanina alluded to
three weeks since in _l’Impartial_, who not only surrendered the castle
of Yanina, but sold his benefactor to the Turks, styled himself truly
at that time Fernand, as our esteemed contemporary states; but he has
since added to his Christian name a title of nobility and a family
name. He now calls himself the Count of Morcerf, and ranks among the
peers.”
Thus the terrible secret, which Beauchamp had so generously destroyed,
appeared again like an armed phantom; and another paper, deriving its
information from some malicious source, had published two days after
Albert’s departure for Normandy the few lines which had rendered the
unfortunate young man almost crazy.
Chapter 86. The Trial
At eight o’clock in the morning Albert had arrived at Beauchamp’s door.
The valet de chambre had received orders to usher him in at once.
Beauchamp was in his bath.
“Here I am,” Albert said.
“Well, my poor friend,” replied Beauchamp, “I expected you.”
“I need not say I think you are too faithful and too kind to have
spoken of that painful circumstance. Your having sent for me is another
proof of your affection. So, without losing time, tell me, have you the
slightest idea whence this terrible blow proceeds?”
“I think I have some clew.”
“But first tell me all the particulars of this shameful plot.”
Beauchamp proceeded to relate to the young man, who was overwhelmed
with shame and grief, the following facts. Two days previously, the
article had appeared in another paper besides _ l’Impartial_, and, what
was more serious, one that was well known as a government paper.
Beauchamp was breakfasting when he read the paragraph. He sent
immediately for a cabriolet, and hastened to the publisher’s office.
Although professing diametrically opposite principles from those of the
editor of the other paper, Beauchamp—as it sometimes, we may say often,
happens—was his intimate friend. The editor was reading, with apparent
delight, a leading article in the same paper on beet-sugar, probably a
composition of his own.
“Ah, _pardieu!_” said Beauchamp, “with the paper in your hand, my
friend, I need not tell you the cause of my visit.”
“Are you interested in the sugar question?” asked the editor of the
ministerial paper.
“No,” replied Beauchamp, “I have not considered the question; a totally
different subject interests me.”
“What is it?”
“The article relative to Morcerf.”
“Indeed? Is it not a curious affair?”
“So curious, that I think you are running a great risk of a prosecution
for defamation of character.”
“Not at all; we have received with the information all the requisite
proofs, and we are quite sure M. de Morcerf will not raise his voice
against us; besides, it is rendering a service to one’s country to
denounce these wretched criminals who are unworthy of the honor
bestowed on them.”
Beauchamp was thunderstruck.
“Who, then, has so correctly informed you?” asked he; “for my paper,
which gave the first information on the subject, has been obliged to
stop for want of proof; and yet we are more interested than you in
exposing M. de Morcerf, as he is a peer of France, and we are of the
opposition.”
“Oh, that is very simple; we have not sought to scandalize. This news
was brought to us. A man arrived yesterday from Yanina, bringing a
formidable array of documents; and when we hesitated to publish the
accusatory article, he told us it should be inserted in some other
paper.”
Beauchamp understood that nothing remained but to submit, and left the
office to despatch a courier to Morcerf. But he had been unable to send
to Albert the following particulars, as the events had transpired after
the messenger’s departure; namely, that the same day a great agitation
was manifest in the House of Peers among the usually calm members of
that dignified assembly. Everyone had arrived almost before the usual
hour, and was conversing on the melancholy event which was to attract
the attention of the public towards one of their most illustrious
colleagues. Some were perusing the article, others making comments and
recalling circumstances which substantiated the charges still more.
The Count of Morcerf was no favorite with his colleagues. Like all
upstarts, he had had recourse to a great deal of haughtiness to
maintain his position. The true nobility laughed at him, the talented
repelled him, and the honorable instinctively despised him. He was, in
fact, in the unhappy position of the victim marked for sacrifice; the
finger of God once pointed at him, everyone was prepared to raise the
hue and cry.
The Count of Morcerf alone was ignorant of the news. He did not take in
the paper containing the defamatory article, and had passed the morning
in writing letters and in trying a horse. He arrived at his usual hour,
with a proud look and insolent demeanor; he alighted, passed through
the corridors, and entered the house without observing the hesitation
of the door-keepers or the coolness of his colleagues.
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Business had already been going on for half an hour when he entered.
Everyone held the accusing paper, but, as usual, no one liked to take
upon himself the responsibility of the attack. At length an honorable
peer, Morcerf’s acknowledged enemy, ascended the tribune with that
solemnity which announced that the expected moment had arrived. There
was an impressive silence; Morcerf alone knew not why such profound
attention was given to an orator who was not always listened to with so
much complacency.
The count did not notice the introduction, in which the speaker
announced that his communication would be of that vital importance that
it demanded the undivided attention of the House; but at the mention of
Yanina and Colonel Fernand, he turned so frightfully pale that every
member shuddered and fixed his eyes upon him. Moral wounds have this
peculiarity,—they may be hidden, but they never close; always painful,
always ready to bleed when touched, they remain fresh and open in the
heart.
The article having been read during the painful hush that followed, a
universal shudder pervaded the assembly, and immediately the closest
attention was given to the orator as he resumed his remarks. He stated
his scruples and the difficulties of the case; it was the honor of M.
de Morcerf, and that of the whole House, he proposed to defend, by
provoking a debate on personal questions, which are always such painful
themes of discussion. He concluded by calling for an investigation,
which might dispose of the calumnious report before it had time to
spread, and restore M. de Morcerf to the position he had long held in
public opinion.
Morcerf was so completely overwhelmed by this great and unexpected
calamity that he could scarcely stammer a few words as he looked around
on the assembly. This timidity, which might proceed from the
astonishment of innocence as well as the shame of guilt, conciliated
some in his favor; for men who are truly generous are always ready to
compassionate when the misfortune of their enemy surpasses the limits
of their hatred.
The president put it to the vote, and it was decided that the
investigation should take place. The count was asked what time he
required to prepare his defence. Morcerf’s courage had revived when he
found himself alive after this horrible blow.
“My lords,” answered he, “it is not by time I could repel the attack
made on me by enemies unknown to me, and, doubtless, hidden in
obscurity; it is immediately, and by a thunderbolt, that I must repel
the flash of lightning which, for a moment, startled me. Oh, that I
could, instead of taking up this defence, shed my last drop of blood to
prove to my noble colleagues that I am their equal in worth.”
These words made a favorable impression on behalf of the accused.
“I demand, then, that the examination shall take place as soon as
possible, and I will furnish the house with all necessary information.”
“What day do you fix?” asked the president.
“Today I am at your service,” replied the count.
The president rang the bell. “Does the House approve that the
examination should take place today?”
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“Yes,” was the unanimous answer.
A committee of twelve members was chosen to examine the proofs brought
forward by Morcerf. The investigation would begin at eight o’clock that