The Count of Monte Cristo
wall. My first care was to run to the door; he had left the key in it,
taking the simple precaution of turning it twice in the lock. Nothing,
then, preventing my escape by this means, I examined the grounds. The
garden was long and narrow; a stretch of smooth turf extended down the
middle, and at the corners were clumps of trees with thick and massy
foliage, that made a background for the shrubs and flowers. In order to
go from the door to the house, or from the house to the door, M. de
Villefort would be obliged to pass by one of these clumps of trees.
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“It was the end of September; the wind blew violently. The faint
glimpses of the pale moon, hidden momentarily by masses of dark clouds
that were sweeping across the sky, whitened the gravel walks that led
to the house, but were unable to pierce the obscurity of the thick
shrubberies, in which a man could conceal himself without any fear of
discovery. I hid myself in the one nearest to the path Villefort must
take, and scarcely was I there when, amidst the gusts of wind, I
fancied I heard groans; but you know, or rather you do not know, your
excellency, that he who is about to commit an assassination fancies
that he hears low cries perpetually ringing in his ears. Two hours
passed thus, during which I imagined I heard moans repeatedly. Midnight
struck. As the last stroke died away, I saw a faint light shine through
the windows of the private staircase by which we have just descended.
The door opened, and the man in the mantle reappeared.
“The terrible moment had come, but I had so long been prepared for it
that my heart did not fail in the least. I drew my knife from my pocket
again, opened it, and made ready to strike. The man in the mantle
advanced towards me, but as he drew near I saw that he had a weapon in
his hand. I was afraid, not of a struggle, but of a failure. When he
was only a few paces from me, I saw that what I had taken for a weapon
was only a spade. I was still unable to divine for what reason M. de
Villefort had this spade in his hands, when he stopped close to the
thicket where I was, glanced round, and began to dig a hole in the
earth. I then perceived that he was hiding something under his mantle,
which he laid on the grass in order to dig more freely. Then, I
confess, curiosity mingled with hatred; I wished to see what Villefort
was going to do there, and I remained motionless, holding my breath.
Then an idea crossed my mind, which was confirmed when I saw the
procureur lift from under his mantle a box, two feet long, and six or
eight inches deep. I let him place the box in the hole he had made,
then, while he stamped with his feet to remove all traces of his
occupation, I rushed on him and plunged my knife into his breast,
exclaiming:
“‘I am Giovanni Bertuccio; thy death for my brother’s; thy treasure for
his widow; thou seest that my vengeance is more complete than I had
hoped.’
“I know not if he heard these words; I think he did not, for he fell
without a cry. I felt his blood gush over my face, but I was
intoxicated, I was delirious, and the blood refreshed, instead of
burning me. In a second I had disinterred the box; then, that it might
not be known I had done so, I filled up the hole, threw the spade over
the wall, and rushed through the door, which I double-locked, carrying
off the key.”
“Ah,” said Monte Cristo “it seems to me this was nothing but murder and
robbery.”
“No, your excellency,” returned Bertuccio; “it was a vendetta followed
by restitution.”
“And was the sum a large one?”
“It was not money.”
“Ah, I recollect,” replied the count; “did you not say something of an
infant?”
“Yes, excellency; I hastened to the river, sat down on the bank, and
with my knife forced open the lock of the box. In a fine linen cloth
was wrapped a new-born child. Its purple visage, and its violet-colored
hands showed that it had perished from suffocation, but as it was not
yet cold, I hesitated to throw it into the water that ran at my feet.
After a moment I fancied that I felt a slight pulsation of the heart,
and as I had been assistant at the hospital at Bastia, I did what a
doctor would have done—I inflated the lungs by blowing air into them,
and at the expiration of a quarter of an hour, it began to breathe, and
cried feebly. In my turn I uttered a cry, but a cry of joy.
“‘God has not cursed me then,’ I cried, ‘since he permits me to save
the life of a human creature, in exchange for the life I have taken
away.’”
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“And what did you do with the child?” asked Monte Cristo. “It was an
embarrassing load for a man seeking to escape.”
“I had not for a moment the idea of keeping it, but I knew that at
Paris there was an asylum where they receive such creatures. As I
passed the city gates I declared that I had found the child on the
road, and I inquired where the asylum was; the box confirmed my
statement, the linen proved that the infant belonged to wealthy
parents, the blood with which I was covered might have proceeded from
the child as well as from anyone else. No objection was raised, but
they pointed out the asylum, which was situated at the upper end of the
Rue d’Enfer, and after having taken the precaution of cutting the linen
in two pieces, so that one of the two letters which marked it was on
the piece wrapped around the child, while the other remained in my
possession, I rang the bell, and fled with all speed. A fortnight after
I was at Rogliano, and I said to Assunta:
“‘Console thyself, sister; Israel is dead, but he is avenged.’
“She demanded what I meant, and when I had told her all,—‘Giovanni,’
said she, ‘you should have brought this child with you; we would have
replaced the parents it has lost, have called it Benedetto, and then,
in consequence of this good action, God would have blessed us.’ In
reply I gave her the half of the linen I had kept in order to reclaim
him if we became rich.”
“What letters were marked on the linen?” said Monte Cristo.
“An H and an N, surmounted by a baron’s coronet.”
“By heaven, M. Bertuccio, you make use of heraldic terms; where did you
study heraldry?”
“In your service, excellency, where everything is learned.”
“Go on, I am curious to know two things.”
“What are they, your excellency?”
“What became of this little boy? for I think you told me it was a boy,
M. Bertuccio.”
“No excellency, I do not recollect telling you that.”
“I thought you did; I must have been mistaken.”
“No, you were not, for it was in reality a little boy. But your
excellency wished to know two things; what was the second?”
“The second was the crime of which you were accused when you asked for
a confessor, and the Abbé Busoni came to visit you at your request in
the prison at Nîmes.”
“The story will be very long, excellency.”
“What matter? you know I take but little sleep, and I do not suppose
you are very much inclined for it either.” Bertuccio bowed, and resumed
his story.
“Partly to drown the recollections of the past that haunted me, partly
to supply the wants of the poor widow, I eagerly returned to my trade
of smuggler, which had become more easy since that relaxation of the
laws which always follows a revolution. The southern districts were
ill-watched in particular, in consequence of the disturbances that were
perpetually breaking out in Avignon, Nîmes, or Uzès. We profited by
this respite on the part of the government to make friends everywhere.
Since my brother’s assassination in the streets of Nîmes, I had never
entered the town; the result was that the innkeeper with whom we were
connected, seeing that we would no longer come to him, was forced to
come to us, and had established a branch to his inn, on the road from
Bellegarde to Beaucaire, at the sign of the Pont du Gard. We had thus,
at Aigues-Mortes, Martigues, or Bouc, a dozen places where we left our
goods, and where, in case of necessity, we concealed ourselves from the
gendarmes and custom-house officers. Smuggling is a profitable trade,
when a certain degree of vigor and intelligence is employed; as for
myself, brought up in the mountains, I had a double motive for fearing
the gendarmes and custom-house officers, as my appearance before the
judges would cause an inquiry, and an inquiry always looks back into
the past. And in my past life they might find something far more grave
than the selling of smuggled cigars, or barrels of brandy without a
permit. So, preferring death to capture, I accomplished the most
astonishing deeds, and which, more than once, showed me that the too
great care we take of our bodies is the only obstacle to the success of
those projects which require rapid decision, and vigorous and
determined execution. In reality, when you have once devoted your life
to your enterprises, you are no longer the equal of other men, or,
rather, other men are no longer your equals, and whosoever has taken
this resolution, feels his strength and resources doubled.”
“Philosophy, M. Bertuccio,” interrupted the count; “you have done a
little of everything in your life.”
“Oh, excellency!”
“No, no; but philosophy at half-past ten at night is somewhat late; yet
I have no other observation to make, for what you say is correct, which
is more than can be said for all philosophy.”
“My journeys became more and more extensive and more productive.
Assunta took care of all, and our little fortune increased. One day as
I was setting off on an expedition, ‘Go,’ said she; ‘at your return I
will give you a surprise.’ I questioned her, but in vain; she would
tell me nothing, and I departed. Our expedition lasted nearly six
weeks; we had been to Lucca to take in oil, to Leghorn for English
cottons, and we ran our cargo without opposition, and returned home
full of joy. When I entered the house, the first thing I beheld in the
middle of Assunta’s chamber was a cradle that might be called sumptuous
compared with the rest of the furniture, and in it a baby seven or
eight months old. I uttered a cry of joy; the only moments of sadness I
had known since the assassination of the procureur were caused by the
recollection that I had abandoned this child. For the assassination
itself I had never felt any remorse. Poor Assunta had guessed all. She
had profited by my absence, and furnished with the half of the linen,
and having written down the day and hour at which I had deposited the
child at the asylum, had set off for Paris, and had reclaimed it. No
objection was raised, and the infant was given up to her. Ah, I
confess, your excellency, when I saw this poor creature sleeping
peacefully in its cradle, I felt my eyes filled with tears. ‘Ah,
Assunta,’ cried I, ‘you are an excellent woman, and Heaven will bless
you.’”
“This,” said Monte Cristo, “is less correct than your philosophy,—it is
only faith.”
“Alas, your excellency is right,” replied Bertuccio, “and God made this
infant the instrument of our punishment. Never did a perverse nature
declare itself more prematurely, and yet it was not owing to any fault
in his bringing up. He was a most lovely child, with large blue eyes,
of that deep color that harmonizes so well with the blond complexion;
only his hair, which was too light, gave his face a most singular
expression, and added to the vivacity of his look, and the malice of
his smile.
“Unfortunately, there is a proverb which says that ‘red is either
altogether good or altogether bad.’ The proverb was but too correct as
regarded Benedetto, and even in his infancy he manifested the worst
disposition. It is true that the indulgence of his foster-mother
encouraged him. This child, for whom my poor sister would go to the
town, five or six leagues off, to purchase the earliest fruits and the
most tempting sweetmeats, preferred to Palma grapes or Genoese