The Count of Monte Cristo
death which allows me to fade away while pronouncing Valentine’s name
and pressing your hand.”
“Yes, you have guessed rightly, Morrel,” said the count, “that is what
I intended.”
“Thanks; the idea that tomorrow I shall no longer suffer, is sweet to
my heart.”
“Do you then regret nothing?”
“No,” replied Morrel.
“Not even me?” asked the count with deep emotion. Morrel’s clear eye
was for the moment clouded, then it shone with unusual lustre, and a
large tear rolled down his cheek.
“What,” said the count, “do you still regret anything in the world, and
yet die?”
“Oh, I entreat you,” exclaimed Morrel in a low voice, “do not speak
another word, count; do not prolong my punishment.”
The count fancied that he was yielding, and this belief revived the
horrible doubt that had overwhelmed him at the Château d’If.
“I am endeavoring,” he thought, “to make this man happy; I look upon
this restitution as a weight thrown into the scale to balance the evil
I have wrought. Now, supposing I am deceived, supposing this man has
not been unhappy enough to merit happiness. Alas, what would become of
me who can only atone for evil by doing good?”
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Then he said aloud: “Listen, Morrel, I see your grief is great, but
still you do not like to risk your soul.” Morrel smiled sadly.
“Count,” he said, “I swear to you my soul is no longer my own.”
“Maximilian, you know I have no relation in the world. I have
accustomed myself to regard you as my son: well, then, to save my son,
I will sacrifice my life, nay, even my fortune.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, that you wish to quit life because you do not understand all
the enjoyments which are the fruits of a large fortune. Morrel, I
possess nearly a hundred millions and I give them to you; with such a
fortune you can attain every wish. Are you ambitious? Every career is
open to you. Overturn the world, change its character, yield to mad
ideas, be even criminal—but live.”
“Count, I have your word,” said Morrel coldly; then taking out his
watch, he added, “It is half-past eleven.”
“Morrel, can you intend it in my house, under my very eyes?”
“Then let me go,” said Maximilian, “or I shall think you did not love
me for my own sake, but for yours;” and he arose.
“It is well,” said Monte Cristo whose countenance brightened at these
words; “you wish it—you are inflexible. Yes, as you said, you are
indeed wretched and a miracle alone can cure you. Sit down, Morrel, and
wait.”
Morrel obeyed; the count arose, and unlocking a closet with a key
suspended from his gold chain, took from it a little silver casket,
beautifully carved and chased, the corners of which represented four
bending figures, similar to the Caryatides, the forms of women, symbols
of the angels aspiring to heaven.
He placed the casket on the table; then opening it took out a little
golden box, the top of which flew open when touched by a secret spring.
This box contained an unctuous substance partly solid, of which it was
impossible to discover the color, owing to the reflection of the
polished gold, sapphires, rubies, emeralds, which ornamented the box.
It was a mixed mass of blue, red, and gold.
The count took out a small quantity of this with a gilt spoon, and
offered it to Morrel, fixing a long steadfast glance upon him. It was
then observable that the substance was greenish.
“This is what you asked for,” he said, “and what I promised to give
you.”
“I thank you from the depths of my heart,” said the young man, taking
the spoon from the hands of Monte Cristo. The count took another spoon,
and again dipped it into the golden box. “What are you going to do, my
friend?” asked Morrel, arresting his hand.
“Well, the fact is, Morrel, I was thinking that I too am weary of life,
and since an opportunity presents itself——”
“Stay!” said the young man. “You who love, and are beloved; you, who
have faith and hope,—oh, do not follow my example. In your case it
would be a crime. Adieu, my noble and generous friend, adieu; I will go
and tell Valentine what you have done for me.”
And slowly, though without any hesitation, only waiting to press the
count’s hand fervently, he swallowed the mysterious substance offered
by Monte Cristo. Then they were both silent. Ali, mute and attentive,
brought the pipes and coffee, and disappeared. By degrees, the light of
the lamps gradually faded in the hands of the marble statues which held
them, and the perfumes appeared less powerful to Morrel. Seated
opposite to him, Monte Cristo watched him in the shadow, and Morrel saw
nothing but the bright eyes of the count. An overpowering sadness took
possession of the young man, his hands relaxed their hold, the objects
in the room gradually lost their form and color, and his disturbed
vision seemed to perceive doors and curtains open in the wall.
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“Friend,” he cried, “I feel that I am dying; thanks!”
He made a last effort to extend his hand, but it fell powerless beside
him. Then it appeared to him that Monte Cristo smiled, not with the
strange and fearful expression which had sometimes revealed to him the
secrets of his heart, but with the benevolent kindness of a father for
a child. At the same time the count appeared to increase in stature,
his form, nearly double its usual height, stood out in relief against
the red tapestry, his black hair was thrown back, and he stood in the
attitude of an avenging angel. Morrel, overpowered, turned around in
the armchair; a delicious torpor permeated every vein. A change of
ideas presented themselves to his brain, like a new design on the
kaleidoscope. Enervated, prostrate, and breathless, he became
unconscious of outward objects; he seemed to be entering that vague
delirium preceding death. He wished once again to press the count’s
hand, but his own was immovable. He wished to articulate a last
farewell, but his tongue lay motionless and heavy in his throat, like a
stone at the mouth of a sepulchre. Involuntarily his languid eyes
closed, and still through his eyelashes a well-known form seemed to
move amid the obscurity with which he thought himself enveloped.
The count had just opened a door. Immediately a brilliant light from
the next room, or rather from the palace adjoining, shone upon the room
in which he was gently gliding into his last sleep. Then he saw a woman
of marvellous beauty appear on the threshold of the door separating the
two rooms. Pale, and sweetly smiling, she looked like an angel of mercy
conjuring the angel of vengeance.
“Is it heaven that opens before me?” thought the dying man; “that angel
resembles the one I have lost.”
Monte Cristo pointed out Morrel to the young woman, who advanced
towards him with clasped hands and a smile upon her lips.
“Valentine, Valentine!” he mentally ejaculated; but his lips uttered no
sound, and as though all his strength were centred in that internal
emotion, he sighed and closed his eyes. Valentine rushed towards him;
his lips again moved.
“He is calling you,” said the count; “he to whom you have confided your
destiny—he from whom death would have separated you, calls you to him.
Happily, I vanquished death. Henceforth, Valentine, you will never
again be separated on earth, since he has rushed into death to find
you. Without me, you would both have died. May God accept my atonement
in the preservation of these two existences!”
Valentine seized the count’s hand, and in her irresistible impulse of
joy carried it to her lips.
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“Oh, thank me again!” said the count; “tell me till you are weary, that
I have restored you to happiness; you do not know how much I require
this assurance.”
“Oh, yes, yes, I thank you with all my heart,” said Valentine; “and if
you doubt the sincerity of my gratitude, oh, then, ask Haydée! ask my
beloved sister Haydée, who ever since our departure from France, has
caused me to wait patiently for this happy day, while talking to me of
you.”
“You then love Haydée?” asked Monte Cristo with an emotion he in vain
endeavored to dissimulate.
“Oh, yes, with all my soul.”
“Well, then, listen, Valentine,” said the count; “I have a favor to ask
of you.”
“Of me? Oh, am I happy enough for that?”
“Yes; you have called Haydée your sister,—let her become so indeed,
Valentine; render her all the gratitude you fancy that you owe to me;
protect her, for” (the count’s voice was thick with emotion)
“henceforth she will be alone in the world.”
“Alone in the world!” repeated a voice behind the count, “and why?”
Monte Cristo turned around; Haydée was standing pale, motionless,
looking at the count with an expression of fearful amazement.
“Because tomorrow, Haydée, you will be free; you will then assume your
proper position in society, for I will not allow my destiny to
overshadow yours. Daughter of a prince, I restore to you the riches and
name of your father.”
Haydée became pale, and lifting her transparent hands to heaven,
exclaimed in a voice stifled with tears, “Then you leave me, my lord?”
“Haydée, Haydée, you are young and beautiful; forget even my name, and
be happy.”
“It is well,” said Haydée; “your order shall be executed, my lord; I
will forget even your name, and be happy.” And she stepped back to
retire.
“Oh, heavens,” exclaimed Valentine, who was supporting the head of
Morrel on her shoulder, “do you not see how pale she is? Do you not see
how she suffers?”
Haydée answered with a heartrending expression,
“Why should he understand this, my sister? He is my master, and I am
his slave; he has the right to notice nothing.”
The count shuddered at the tones of a voice which penetrated the inmost
recesses of his heart; his eyes met those of the young girl and he
could not bear their brilliancy.
“Oh, heavens,” exclaimed Monte Cristo, “can my suspicions be correct?
Haydée, would it please you not to leave me?”
“I am young,” gently replied Haydée; “I love the life you have made so
sweet to me, and I should be sorry to die.”
“You mean, then, that if I leave you, Haydée——”
“I should die; yes, my lord.”
“Do you then love me?”
“Oh, Valentine, he asks if I love him. Valentine, tell him if you love
Maximilian.”
The count felt his heart dilate and throb; he opened his arms, and
Haydée, uttering a cry, sprang into them.
“Oh, yes,” she cried, “I do love you! I love you as one loves a father,
brother, husband! I love you as my life, for you are the best, the
noblest of created beings!”
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“Let it be, then, as you wish, sweet angel; God has sustained me in my
struggle with my enemies, and has given me this reward; he will not let
me end my triumph in suffering; I wished to punish myself, but he has
pardoned me. Love me then, Haydée! Who knows? perhaps your love will
make me forget all that I do not wish to remember.”
“What do you mean, my lord?”
“I mean that one word from you has enlightened me more than twenty
years of slow experience; I have but you in the world, Haydée; through
you I again take hold on life, through you I shall suffer, through you
rejoice.”
“Do you hear him, Valentine?” exclaimed Haydée; “he says that through
me he will suffer—through _me_, who would yield my life for his.”
The count withdrew for a moment. “Have I discovered the truth?” he
said; “but whether it be for recompense or punishment, I accept my
fate. Come, Haydée, come!” and throwing his arm around the young girl’s
waist, he pressed the hand of Valentine, and disappeared.
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An hour had nearly passed, during which Valentine, breathless and
motionless, watched steadfastly over Morrel. At length she felt his
heart beat, a faint breath played upon his lips, a slight shudder,
announcing the return of life, passed through the young man’s frame. At