The Count of Monte Cristo
new, and have not yet been used. Will you examine them.”
“Oh, M. Beauchamp, if you assure me that M. de Morcerf does not know
these pistols, you may readily believe that your word will be quite
sufficient.”
“Gentlemen,” said Château-Renaud, “it is not Morcerf coming in that
carriage;—faith, it is Franz and Debray!”
The two young men he announced were indeed approaching. “What chance
brings you here, gentlemen?” said Château-Renaud, shaking hands with
each of them.
“Because,” said Debray, “Albert sent this morning to request us to
come.” Beauchamp and Château-Renaud exchanged looks of astonishment. “I
think I understand his reason,” said Morrel.
“What is it?”
“Yesterday afternoon I received a letter from M. de Morcerf, begging me
to attend the Opera.”
“And I,” said Debray.
“And I also,” said Franz.
“And we, too,” added Beauchamp and Château-Renaud.
“Having wished you all to witness the challenge, he now wishes you to
be present at the combat.”
“Exactly so,” said the young men; “you have probably guessed right.”
“But, after all these arrangements, he does not come himself,” said
Château-Renaud. “Albert is ten minutes after time.”
“There he comes,” said Beauchamp, “on horseback, at full gallop,
followed by a servant.”
“How imprudent,” said Château-Renaud, “to come on horseback to fight a
duel with pistols, after all the instructions I had given him.”
“And besides,” said Beauchamp, “with a collar above his cravat, an open
coat and white waistcoat! Why has he not painted a spot upon his
heart?—it would have been more simple.”
Meanwhile Albert had arrived within ten paces of the group formed by
the five young men. He jumped from his horse, threw the bridle on his
servant’s arms, and joined them. He was pale, and his eyes were red and
swollen; it was evident that he had not slept. A shade of melancholy
gravity overspread his countenance, which was not natural to him.
“I thank you, gentlemen,” said he, “for having complied with my
request; I feel extremely grateful for this mark of friendship.” Morrel
had stepped back as Morcerf approached, and remained at a short
distance. “And to you also, M. Morrel, my thanks are due. Come, there
cannot be too many.”
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“Sir,” said Maximilian, “you are not perhaps aware that I am M. de
Monte Cristo’s friend?”
“I was not sure, but I thought it might be so. So much the better; the
more honorable men there are here the better I shall be satisfied.”
“M. Morrel,” said Château-Renaud, “will you apprise the Count of Monte
Cristo that M. de Morcerf is arrived, and we are at his disposal?”
Morrel was preparing to fulfil his commission. Beauchamp had meanwhile
drawn the box of pistols from the carriage.
“Stop, gentlemen,” said Albert; “I have two words to say to the Count
of Monte Cristo.”
“In private?” asked Morrel.
“No, sir; before all who are here.”
Albert’s witnesses looked at each other. Franz and Debray exchanged
some words in a whisper, and Morrel, rejoiced at this unexpected
incident, went to fetch the count, who was walking in a retired path
with Emmanuel.
“What does he want with me?” said Monte Cristo.
“I do not know, but he wishes to speak to you.”
“Ah?” said Monte Cristo, “I trust he is not going to tempt me by some
fresh insult!”
“I do not think that such is his intention,” said Morrel.
The count advanced, accompanied by Maximilian and Emmanuel. His calm
and serene look formed a singular contrast to Albert’s grief-stricken
face, who approached also, followed by the other four young men.
When at three paces distant from each other, Albert and the count
stopped.
“Approach, gentlemen,” said Albert; “I wish you not to lose one word of
what I am about to have the honor of saying to the Count of Monte
Cristo, for it must be repeated by you to all who will listen to it,
strange as it may appear to you.”
“Proceed, sir,” said the count.
“Sir,” said Albert, at first with a tremulous voice, but which
gradually became firmer, “I reproached you with exposing the conduct of
M. de Morcerf in Epirus, for guilty as I knew he was, I thought you had
no right to punish him; but I have since learned that you had that
right. It is not Fernand Mondego’s treachery towards Ali Pasha which
induces me so readily to excuse you, but the treachery of the fisherman
Fernand towards you, and the almost unheard-of miseries which were its
consequences; and I say, and proclaim it publicly, that you were
justified in revenging yourself on my father, and I, his son, thank you
for not using greater severity.”
Had a thunderbolt fallen in the midst of the spectators of this
unexpected scene, it would not have surprised them more than did
Albert’s declaration. As for Monte Cristo, his eyes slowly rose towards
heaven with an expression of infinite gratitude. He could not
understand how Albert’s fiery nature, of which he had seen so much
among the Roman bandits, had suddenly stooped to this humiliation. He
recognized the influence of Mercédès, and saw why her noble heart had
not opposed the sacrifice she knew beforehand would be useless.
“Now, sir,” said Albert, “if you think my apology sufficient, pray give
me your hand. Next to the merit of infallibility which you appear to
possess, I rank that of candidly acknowledging a fault. But this
confession concerns me only. I acted well as a man, but you have acted
better than man. An angel alone could have saved one of us from
death—that angel came from heaven, if not to make us friends (which,
alas, fatality renders impossible), at least to make us esteem each
other.”
Monte Cristo, with moistened eye, heaving breast, and lips half open,
extended to Albert a hand which the latter pressed with a sentiment
resembling respectful fear.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “M. de Monte Cristo receives my apology. I had
acted hastily towards him. Hasty actions are generally bad ones. Now my
fault is repaired. I hope the world will not call me cowardly for
acting as my conscience dictated. But if anyone should entertain a
false opinion of me,” added he, drawing himself up as if he would
challenge both friends and enemies, “I shall endeavor to correct his
mistake.”
“What happened during the night?” asked Beauchamp of Château-Renaud;
“we appear to make a very sorry figure here.”
“In truth, what Albert has just done is either very despicable or very
noble,” replied the baron.
“What can it mean?” said Debray to Franz.
“The Count of Monte Cristo acts dishonorably to M. de Morcerf, and is
justified by his son! Had I ten Yaninas in my family, I should only
consider myself the more bound to fight ten times.”
As for Monte Cristo, his head was bent down, his arms were powerless.
Bowing under the weight of twenty-four years’ reminiscences, he thought
not of Albert, of Beauchamp, of Château-Renaud, or of any of that
group; but he thought of that courageous woman who had come to plead
for her son’s life, to whom he had offered his, and who had now saved
it by the revelation of a dreadful family secret, capable of destroying
forever in that young man’s heart every feeling of filial piety.
“Providence still,” murmured he; “now only am I fully convinced of
being the emissary of God!”
Chapter 91. Mother and Son
The Count of Monte Cristo bowed to the five young men with a melancholy
and dignified smile, and got into his carriage with Maximilian and
Emmanuel. Albert, Beauchamp, and Château-Renaud remained alone. Albert
looked at his two friends, not timidly, but in a way that appeared to
ask their opinion of what he had just done.
“Indeed, my dear friend,” said Beauchamp first, who had either the most
feeling or the least dissimulation, “allow me to congratulate you; this
is a very unhoped-for conclusion of a very disagreeable affair.”
Albert remained silent and wrapped in thought. Château-Renaud contented
himself with tapping his boot with his flexible cane.
“Are we not going?” said he, after this embarrassing silence.
“When you please,” replied Beauchamp; “allow me only to compliment M.
de Morcerf, who has given proof today of rare chivalric generosity.”
“Oh, yes,” said Château-Renaud.
“It is magnificent,” continued Beauchamp, “to be able to exercise so
much self-control!”
“Assuredly; as for me, I should have been incapable of it,” said
Château-Renaud, with most significant coolness.
“Gentlemen,” interrupted Albert, “I think you did not understand that
something very serious had passed between M. de Monte Cristo and
myself.”
“Possibly, possibly,” said Beauchamp immediately; “but every simpleton
would not be able to understand your heroism, and sooner or later you
will find yourself compelled to explain it to them more energetically
than would be convenient to your bodily health and the duration of your
life. May I give you a friendly counsel? Set out for Naples, the Hague,
or St. Petersburg—calm countries, where the point of honor is better
understood than among our hot-headed Parisians. Seek quietude and
oblivion, so that you may return peaceably to France after a few years.
Am I not right, M. de Château-Renaud?”
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“That is quite my opinion,” said the gentleman; “nothing induces
serious duels so much as a duel forsworn.”
“Thank you, gentlemen,” replied Albert, with a smile of indifference;
“I shall follow your advice—not because you give it, but because I had
before intended to quit France. I thank you equally for the service you
have rendered me in being my seconds. It is deeply engraved on my
heart, and, after what you have just said, I remember that only.”
Château-Renaud and Beauchamp looked at each other; the impression was
the same on both of them, and the tone in which Morcerf had just
expressed his thanks was so determined that the position would have
become embarrassing for all if the conversation had continued.
“Good-bye, Albert,” said Beauchamp suddenly, carelessly extending his
hand to the young man. The latter did not appear to arouse from his
lethargy; in fact, he did not notice the offered hand.
“Good-bye,” said Château-Renaud in his turn, keeping his little cane in
his left hand, and saluting with his right.
Albert’s lips scarcely whispered “Good-bye,” but his look was more
explicit; it expressed a whole poem of restrained anger, proud disdain,
and generous indignation. He preserved his melancholy and motionless
position for some time after his two friends had regained their
carriage; then suddenly unfastening his horse from the little tree to
which his servant had tied it, he mounted and galloped off in the
direction of Paris.
In a quarter of an hour he was entering the house in the Rue du Helder.
As he alighted, he thought he saw his father’s pale face behind the
curtain of the count’s bedroom. Albert turned away his head with a
sigh, and went to his own apartments. He cast one lingering look on all
the luxuries which had rendered life so easy and so happy since his
infancy; he looked at the pictures, whose faces seemed to smile, and
the landscapes, which appeared painted in brighter colors. Then he took
away his mother’s portrait, with its oaken frame, leaving the gilt
frame from which he took it black and empty. Then he arranged all his
beautiful Turkish arms, his fine English guns, his Japanese china, his
cups mounted in silver, his artistic bronzes by Feuchères or Barye;
examined the cupboards, and placed the key in each; threw into a drawer
of his secretaire, which he left open, all the pocket-money he had
about him, and with it the thousand fancy jewels from his vases and his
jewel-boxes; then he made an exact inventory of everything, and placed
it in the most conspicuous part of the table, after putting aside the
books and papers which had collected there.