The Count of Monte Cristo
“Maximilian,” said the count, “let us both lay aside the mask we have
assumed. You no more deceive me with that false calmness than I impose
upon you with my frivolous solicitude. You can understand, can you not,
that to have acted as I have done, to have broken that glass, to have
intruded on the solitude of a friend—you can understand that, to have
done all this, I must have been actuated by real uneasiness, or rather
by a terrible conviction. Morrel, you are going to destroy yourself!”
“Indeed, count,” said Morrel, shuddering; “what has put this into your
head?”
“I tell you that you are about to destroy yourself,” continued the
count, “and here is proof of what I say;” and, approaching the desk, he
removed the sheet of paper which Morrel had placed over the letter he
had begun, and took the latter in his hands.
Morrel rushed forward to tear it from him, but Monte Cristo perceiving
his intention, seized his wrist with his iron grasp.
“You wish to destroy yourself,” said the count; “you have written it.”
“Well,” said Morrel, changing his expression of calmness for one of
violence—“well, and if I do intend to turn this pistol against myself,
who shall prevent me—who will dare prevent me? All my hopes are
blighted, my heart is broken, my life a burden, everything around me is
sad and mournful; earth has become distasteful to me, and human voices
distract me. It is a mercy to let me die, for if I live I shall lose my
reason and become mad. When, sir, I tell you all this with tears of
heartfelt anguish, can you reply that I am wrong, can you prevent my
putting an end to my miserable existence? Tell me, sir, could you have
the courage to do so?”
“Yes, Morrel,” said Monte Cristo, with a calmness which contrasted
strangely with the young man’s excitement; “yes, I would do so.”
“You?” exclaimed Morrel, with increasing anger and reproach—“you, who
have deceived me with false hopes, who have cheered and soothed me with
vain promises, when I might, if not have saved her, at least have seen
her die in my arms! You, who pretend to understand everything, even the
hidden sources of knowledge,—and who enact the part of a guardian angel
upon earth, and could not even find an antidote to a poison
administered to a young girl! Ah, sir, indeed you would inspire me with
pity, were you not hateful in my eyes.”
“Morrel——”
“Yes; you tell me to lay aside the mask, and I will do so, be
satisfied! When you spoke to me at the cemetery, I answered you—my
heart was softened; when you arrived here, I allowed you to enter. But
since you abuse my confidence, since you have devised a new torture
after I thought I had exhausted them all, then, Count of Monte Cristo
my pretended benefactor—then, Count of Monte Cristo, the universal
guardian, be satisfied, you shall witness the death of your friend;”
and Morrel, with a maniacal laugh, again rushed towards the pistols.
“And I again repeat, you shall not commit suicide.”
“Prevent me, then!” replied Morrel, with another struggle, which, like
the first, failed in releasing him from the count’s iron grasp.
“I will prevent you.”
50127m
“And who are you, then, that arrogate to yourself this tyrannical right
over free and rational beings?”
“Who am I?” repeated Monte Cristo. “Listen; I am the only man in the
world having the right to say to you, ‘Morrel, your father’s son shall
not die today;’” and Monte Cristo, with an expression of majesty and
sublimity, advanced with arms folded toward the young man, who,
involuntarily overcome by the commanding manner of this man, recoiled a
step.
“Why do you mention my father?” stammered he; “why do you mingle a
recollection of him with the affairs of today?”
“Because I am he who saved your father’s life when he wished to destroy
himself, as you do today—because I am the man who sent the purse to
your young sister, and the _Pharaon_ to old Morrel—because I am the
Edmond Dantès who nursed you, a child, on my knees.”
Morrel made another step back, staggering, breathless, crushed; then
all his strength give way, and he fell prostrate at the feet of Monte
Cristo. Then his admirable nature underwent a complete and sudden
revulsion; he arose, rushed out of the room and to the stairs,
exclaiming energetically, “Julie, Julie—Emmanuel, Emmanuel!”
Monte Cristo endeavored also to leave, but Maximilian would have died
rather than relax his hold of the handle of the door, which he closed
upon the count. Julie, Emmanuel, and some of the servants, ran up in
alarm on hearing the cries of Maximilian. Morrel seized their hands,
and opening the door exclaimed in a voice choked with sobs:
“On your knees—on your knees—he is our benefactor—the saviour of our
father! He is——”
He would have added “Edmond Dantès,” but the count seized his arm and
prevented him.
Julie threw herself into the arms of the count; Emmanuel embraced him
as a guardian angel; Morrel again fell on his knees, and struck the
ground with his forehead. Then the iron-hearted man felt his heart
swell in his breast; a flame seemed to rush from his throat to his
eyes, he bent his head and wept. For a while nothing was heard in the
room but a succession of sobs, while the incense from their grateful
hearts mounted to heaven. Julie had scarcely recovered from her deep
emotion when she rushed out of the room, descended to the next floor,
ran into the drawing-room with childlike joy and raised the crystal
globe which covered the purse given by the unknown of the Allées de
Meilhan. Meanwhile, Emmanuel in a broken voice said to the count:
“Oh, count, how could you, hearing us so often speak of our unknown
benefactor, seeing us pay such homage of gratitude and adoration to his
memory,—how could you continue so long without discovering yourself to
us? Oh, it was cruel to us, and—dare I say it?—to you also.”
“Listen, my friends,” said the count—“I may call you so since we have
really been friends for the last eleven years—the discovery of this
secret has been occasioned by a great event which you must never know.
I wished to bury it during my whole life in my own bosom, but your
brother Maximilian wrested it from me by a violence he repents of now,
I am sure.”
Then turning around, and seeing that Morrel, still on his knees, had
thrown himself into an armchair, he added in a low voice, pressing
Emmanuel’s hand significantly, “Watch over him.”
“Why so?” asked the young man, surprised.
“I cannot explain myself; but watch over him.” Emmanuel looked around
the room and caught sight of the pistols; his eyes rested on the
weapons, and he pointed to them. Monte Cristo bent his head. Emmanuel
went towards the pistols.
“Leave them,” said Monte Cristo. Then walking towards Morrel, he took
his hand; the tumultuous agitation of the young man was succeeded by a
profound stupor. Julie returned, holding the silken purse in her hands,
while tears of joy rolled down her cheeks, like dewdrops on the rose.
“Here is the relic,” she said; “do not think it will be less dear to us
now we are acquainted with our benefactor!”
“My child,” said Monte Cristo, coloring, “allow me to take back that
purse? Since you now know my face, I wish to be remembered alone
through the affection I hope you will grant me.
“Oh,” said Julie, pressing the purse to her heart, “no, no, I beseech
you do not take it, for some unhappy day you will leave us, will you
not?”
“You have guessed rightly, madame,” replied Monte Cristo, smiling; “in
a week I shall have left this country, where so many persons who merit
the vengeance of Heaven lived happily, while my father perished of
hunger and grief.”
While announcing his departure, the count fixed his eyes on Morrel, and
remarked that the words, “I shall have left this country,” had failed
to rouse him from his lethargy. He then saw that he must make another
struggle against the grief of his friend, and taking the hands of
Emmanuel and Julie, which he pressed within his own, he said with the
mild authority of a father:
“My kind friends, leave me alone with Maximilian.”
Julie saw the means offered of carrying off her precious relic, which
Monte Cristo had forgotten. She drew her husband to the door. “Let us
leave them,” she said.
The count was alone with Morrel, who remained motionless as a statue.
“Come,” said Monte-Cristo, touching his shoulder with his finger, “are
you a man again, Maximilian?”
“Yes; for I begin to suffer again.”
The count frowned, apparently in gloomy hesitation.
“Maximilian, Maximilian,” he said, “the ideas you yield to are unworthy
of a Christian.”
“Oh, do not fear, my friend,” said Morrel, raising his head, and
smiling with a sweet expression on the count; “I shall no longer
attempt my life.”
“Then we are to have no more pistols—no more despair?”
“No; I have found a better remedy for my grief than either a bullet or
a knife.”
“Poor fellow, what is it?”
“My grief will kill me of itself.”
“My friend,” said Monte Cristo, with an expression of melancholy equal
to his own, “listen to me. One day, in a moment of despair like yours,
since it led to a similar resolution, I also wished to kill myself; one
day your father, equally desperate, wished to kill himself too. If
anyone had said to your father, at the moment he raised the pistol to
his head—if anyone had told me, when in my prison I pushed back the
food I had not tasted for three days—if anyone had said to either of us
then, ‘Live—the day will come when you will be happy, and will bless
life!’—no matter whose voice had spoken, we should have heard him with
the smile of doubt, or the anguish of incredulity,—and yet how many
times has your father blessed life while embracing you—how often have I
myself——”
“Ah,” exclaimed Morrel, interrupting the count, “you had only lost your
liberty, my father had only lost his fortune, but I have lost
Valentine.”
“Look at me,” said Monte Cristo, with that expression which sometimes
made him so eloquent and persuasive—“look at me. There are no tears in
my eyes, nor is there fever in my veins, yet I see you suffer—you,
Maximilian, whom I love as my own son. Well, does not this tell you
that in grief, as in life, there is always something to look forward to
beyond? Now, if I entreat, if I order you to live, Morrel, it is in the
conviction that one day you will thank me for having preserved your
life.”
“Oh, heavens,” said the young man, “oh, heavens—what are you saying,
count? Take care. But perhaps you have never loved!”
“Child!” replied the count.
“I mean, as I love. You see, I have been a soldier ever since I
attained manhood. I reached the age of twenty-nine without loving, for
none of the feelings I before then experienced merit the appellation of
love. Well, at twenty-nine I saw Valentine; for two years I have loved
her, for two years I have seen written in her heart, as in a book, all
the virtues of a daughter and wife. Count, to possess Valentine would
have been a happiness too infinite, too ecstatic, too complete, too
divine for this world, since it has been denied me; but without
Valentine the earth is desolate.”
“I have told you to hope,” said the count.
“Then have a care, I repeat, for you seek to persuade me, and if you
succeed I should lose my reason, for I should hope that I could again
behold Valentine.”
The count smiled.
“My friend, my father,” said Morrel with excitement, “have a care, I
again repeat, for the power you wield over me alarms me. Weigh your
words before you speak, for my eyes have already become brighter, and
my heart beats strongly; be cautious, or you will make me believe in
supernatural agencies. I must obey you, though you bade me call forth
the dead or walk upon the water.”
“Hope, my friend,” repeated the count.