The Count of Monte Cristo
“Julie,” said Madame Morrel, making a sign to the young man, “go and
tell your father that Maximilian has just arrived.”
The young lady rushed out of the apartment, but on the first step of
the staircase she found a man holding a letter in his hand.
“Are you not Mademoiselle Julie Morrel?” inquired the man, with a
strong Italian accent.
“Yes, sir,” replied Julie with hesitation; “what is your pleasure? I do
not know you.”
“Read this letter,” he said, handing it to her. Julie hesitated. “It
concerns the best interests of your father,” said the messenger.
The young girl hastily took the letter from him. She opened it quickly
and read:
“Go this moment to the Allées de Meilhan, enter the house No. 15, ask
the porter for the key of the room on the fifth floor, enter the
apartment, take from the corner of the mantelpiece a purse netted in
red silk, and give it to your father. It is important that he should
receive it before eleven o’clock. You promised to obey me implicitly.
Remember your oath.
“Sinbad the Sailor.”
The young girl uttered a joyful cry, raised her eyes, looked round to
question the messenger, but he had disappeared. She cast her eyes again
over the note to peruse it a second time, and saw there was a
postscript. She read:
“It is important that you should fulfil this mission in person and
alone. If you go accompanied by any other person, or should anyone else
go in your place, the porter will reply that he does not know anything
about it.”
This postscript decreased greatly the young girl’s happiness. Was there
nothing to fear? was there not some snare laid for her? Her innocence
had kept her in ignorance of the dangers that might assail a young girl
of her age. But there is no need to know danger in order to fear it;
indeed, it may be observed, that it is usually unknown perils that
inspire the greatest terror.
Julie hesitated, and resolved to take counsel. Yet, through a singular
impulse, it was neither to her mother nor her brother that she applied,
but to Emmanuel. She hastened down and told him what had occurred on
the day when the agent of Thomson & French had come to her father’s,
related the scene on the staircase, repeated the promise she had made,
and showed him the letter.
“You must go, then, mademoiselle,” said Emmanuel.
“Go there?” murmured Julie.
“Yes; I will accompany you.”
“But did you not read that I must be alone?” said Julie.
“And you shall be alone,” replied the young man. “I will await you at
the corner of the Rue du Musée, and if you are so long absent as to
make me uneasy, I will hasten to rejoin you, and woe to him of whom you
shall have cause to complain to me!”
“Then, Emmanuel?” said the young girl with hesitation, “it is your
opinion that I should obey this invitation?”
“Yes. Did not the messenger say your father’s safety depended upon it?”
“But what danger threatens him, then, Emmanuel?” she asked.
Emmanuel hesitated a moment, but his desire to make Julie decide
immediately made him reply.
“Listen,” he said; “today is the 5th of September, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“Today, then, at eleven o’clock, your father has nearly three hundred
thousand francs to pay?”
“Yes, we know that.”
“Well, then,” continued Emmanuel, “we have not fifteen thousand francs
in the house.”
“What will happen then?”
“Why, if today before eleven o’clock your father has not found someone
who will come to his aid, he will be compelled at twelve o’clock to
declare himself a bankrupt.”
“Oh, come, then, come!” cried she, hastening away with the young man.
During this time, Madame Morrel had told her son everything. The young
man knew quite well that, after the succession of misfortunes which had
befallen his father, great changes had taken place in the style of
living and housekeeping; but he did not know that matters had reached
such a point. He was thunderstruck. Then, rushing hastily out of the
apartment, he ran upstairs, expecting to find his father in his study,
but he rapped there in vain.
While he was yet at the door of the study he heard the bedroom door
open, turned, and saw his father. Instead of going direct to his study,
M. Morrel had returned to his bedchamber, which he was only this moment
quitting. Morrel uttered a cry of surprise at the sight of his son, of
whose arrival he was ignorant. He remained motionless on the spot,
pressing with his left hand something he had concealed under his coat.
Maximilian sprang down the staircase, and threw his arms round his
father’s neck; but suddenly he recoiled, and placed his right hand on
Morrel’s breast.
“Father,” he exclaimed, turning pale as death, “what are you going to
do with that brace of pistols under your coat?”
“Oh, this is what I feared!” said Morrel.
“Father, father, in Heaven’s name,” exclaimed the young man, “what are
these weapons for?”
“Maximilian,” replied Morrel, looking fixedly at his son, “you are a
man, and a man of honor. Come, and I will explain to you.”
And with a firm step Morrel went up to his study, while Maximilian
followed him, trembling as he went. Morrel opened the door, and closed
it behind his son; then, crossing the anteroom, went to his desk on
which he placed the pistols, and pointed with his finger to an open
ledger. In this ledger was made out an exact balance-sheet of his
affairs. Morrel had to pay, within half an hour, 287,500 francs. All he
possessed was 15,257 francs.
“Read!” said Morrel.
The young man was overwhelmed as he read. Morrel said not a word. What
could he say? What need he add to such a desperate proof in figures?
“And have you done all that is possible, father, to meet this
disastrous result?” asked the young man, after a moment’s pause.
“I have,” replied Morrel.
“You have no money coming in on which you can rely?”
“None.”
“You have exhausted every resource?”
“All.”
“And in half an hour,” said Maximilian in a gloomy voice, “our name is
dishonored!”
“Blood washes out dishonor,” said Morrel.
“You are right, father; I understand you.” Then extending his hand
towards one of the pistols, he said, “There is one for you and one for
me—thanks!”
Morrel caught his hand. “Your mother—your sister! Who will support
them?”
A shudder ran through the young man’s frame. “Father,” he said, “do you
reflect that you are bidding me to live?”
“Yes, I do so bid you,” answered Morrel, “it is your duty. You have a
calm, strong mind, Maximilian. Maximilian, you are no ordinary man. I
make no requests or commands; I only ask you to examine my position as
if it were your own, and then judge for yourself.”
The young man reflected for a moment, then an expression of sublime
resignation appeared in his eyes, and with a slow and sad gesture he
took off his two epaulets, the insignia of his rank.
“Be it so, then, my father,” he said, extending his hand to Morrel,
“die in peace, my father; I will live.”
Morrel was about to cast himself on his knees before his son, but
Maximilian caught him in his arms, and those two noble hearts were
pressed against each other for a moment.
“You know it is not my fault,” said Morrel.
20057m
Maximilian smiled. “I know, father, you are the most honorable man I
have ever known.”
“Good, my son. And now there is no more to be said; go and rejoin your
mother and sister.”
“My father,” said the young man, bending his knee, “bless me!” Morrel
took the head of his son between his two hands, drew him forward, and
kissing his forehead several times said:
“Oh, yes, yes, I bless you in my own name, and in the name of three
generations of irreproachable men, who say through me, ‘The edifice
which misfortune has destroyed, Providence may build up again.’ On
seeing me die such a death, the most inexorable will have pity on you.
To you, perhaps, they will accord the time they have refused to me.
Then do your best to keep our name free from dishonor. Go to work,
labor, young man, struggle ardently and courageously; live, yourself,
your mother and sister, with the most rigid economy, so that from day
to day the property of those whom I leave in your hands may augment and
fructify. Reflect how glorious a day it will be, how grand, how solemn,
that day of complete restoration, on which you will say in this very
office, ‘My father died because he could not do what I have this day
done; but he died calmly and peaceably, because in dying he knew what I
should do.’”
“My father, my father!” cried the young man, “why should you not live?”
“If I live, all would be changed; if I live, interest would be
converted into doubt, pity into hostility; if I live I am only a man
who has broken his word, failed in his engagements—in fact, only a
bankrupt. If, on the contrary, I die, remember, Maximilian, my corpse
is that of an honest but unfortunate man. Living, my best friends would
avoid my house; dead, all Marseilles will follow me in tears to my last
home. Living, you would feel shame at my name; dead, you may raise your
head and say, ‘I am the son of him you killed, because, for the first
time, he has been compelled to break his word.’”
The young man uttered a groan, but appeared resigned.
“And now,” said Morrel, “leave me alone, and endeavor to keep your
mother and sister away.”
“Will you not see my sister once more?” asked Maximilian. A last but
final hope was concealed by the young man in the effect of this
interview, and therefore he had suggested it. Morrel shook his head. “I
saw her this morning, and bade her adieu.”
“Have you no particular commands to leave with me, my father?” inquired
Maximilian in a faltering voice.
“Yes; my son, and a sacred command.”
“Say it, my father.”
“The house of Thomson & French is the only one who, from humanity, or,
it may be, selfishness—it is not for me to read men’s hearts—has had
any pity for me. Its agent, who will in ten minutes present himself to
receive the amount of a bill of 287,500 francs, I will not say granted,
but offered me three months. Let this house be the first repaid, my
son, and respect this man.”
“Father, I will,” said Maximilian.
“And now, once more, adieu,” said Morrel. “Go, leave me; I would be
alone. You will find my will in the secretaire in my bedroom.”
The young man remained standing and motionless, having but the force of
will and not the power of execution.
“Hear me, Maximilian,” said his father. “Suppose I were a soldier like
you, and ordered to carry a certain redoubt, and you knew I must be
killed in the assault, would you not say to me, as you said just now,
‘Go, father; for you are dishonored by delay, and death is preferable
to shame!’”
“Yes, yes,” said the young man, “yes;” and once again embracing his
father with convulsive pressure, he said, “Be it so, my father.”
And he rushed out of the study. When his son had left him, Morrel
remained an instant standing with his eyes fixed on the door; then
putting forth his arm, he pulled the bell. After a moment’s interval,
Cocles appeared.
It was no longer the same man—the fearful revelations of the three last
days had crushed him. This thought—the house of Morrel is about to stop
payment—bent him to the earth more than twenty years would otherwise
have done.
“My worthy Cocles,” said Morrel in a tone impossible to describe, “do
you remain in the antechamber. When the gentleman who came three months
ago—the agent of Thomson & French—arrives, announce his arrival to me.”
Cocles made no reply; he made a sign with his head, went into the
anteroom, and seated himself. Morrel fell back in his chair, his eyes
fixed on the clock; there were seven minutes left, that was all. The
hand moved on with incredible rapidity, he seemed to see its motion.
What passed in the mind of this man at the supreme moment of his agony