“In truth I am a most unhappy woman, and all alone in the world,” replied Mercédès. “My son was all I had, and he too has left me.”
“He has acted rightly, madame,” replied the Count. “He is a noble-hearted soul who realizes that every man owes a tribute to his country; some their talents, others their industry, others their blood. Had he remained beside you, he would have led a useless life. In struggling against adversity, he will become great and powerful and will change his adversity into prosperity. Let him remake a future for himself and for you, madame, and I venture to say you are leaving it in safe hands.”
“I shall never enjoy the prosperity of which you speak,” said the poor woman, shaking her head sadly, “but from the bottom of my heart I pray God to grant it to my son. There has been so much sorrow in my life that I feel my grave is not far distant. You have done well, Count, in bringing me back to the spot where I was once so happy. One should wait for death there, where one has found happiness.”
“Alas!” said Monte Cristo, “your words fall heavily on my heart, and they are all the more bitter and cutting since you have every reason to hate me. It is I who am the cause of all your misfortunes; why do you pity me instead of reproaching me?”
“Hate you! Reproach you, Edmond! Hate and reproach the man who saved my son’s life, for I know it was your intention to kill the son of whom Monsieur de Morcerf was so proud, was it not? Look at me and you will see whether I bear the semblance of a reproach against you.”
The Count looked up and fixed his gaze on Mercédès, who, half rising from her seat, stretched her hands toward him.
“Oh, look at me,” she continued in tones of deep melancholy. “My eyes are no longer bright, as in the days when I smiled upon Edmond Dantès, who was waiting for me at the window of this garret where his father lived. Since then many sorrowful days have passed and made a gulf between that time and now. Reproach you! Hate you, Edmond! my friend! No, it is myself that I hate and reproach!” she cried, wringing her hands and raising her eyes to Heaven. “Ah, but I have been sorely punished . . . I had faith, innocence, and love—everything that makes for supreme happiness, yet, unhappy wretch that I am, I doubted God’s goodness!”
Monte Cristo silently took her hand.
“No, my friend, do not touch me,” she said, gently withdrawing it. “You have spared me, yet of all I am the most to blame. All the others were prompted by hatred, cupidity, or selfishness, but cowardice was at the root of all my actions. No, do not take my hand, Edmond; you wish to say some kind and affectionate words, I know, but keep them for someone else. I am not worthy of them. See—see how misfortune has silvered my hair. I have shed so many tears that dark rings encircle my eyes; my forehead is covered with wrinkles. You, on the contrary, are still young, Edmond; you are still handsome and dignified. That is because you have preserved your faith and your strength: you trusted in God, and He has sustained you. I was a coward; I denied Him, and He has forsaken me.”
Mercédès burst into tears; her woman’s heart was breaking in the clash of her memories. Monte Cristo took her hand and kissed it respectfully, but she knew that it was a kiss without feeling, such as he would have imprinted on the marble statue of a saint.
“No, Mercédès,” said he, “you must form a better opinion of yourself. You are a good and noble woman, and you disarmed me by your sorrow; but behind me there was concealed an invisible and offended God, Whose agent I was and Who did not choose to withhold the blow I had aimed. I call God to witness, at Whose feet I have prostrated myself every day for the last ten years, that I have offered the sacrifice of my life and my life-long projects to you. But, and I say it with pride, Mercédès, God had need of me and my life was spared. The first part of my life passed away amid terrible misfortunes, cruel sufferings, desertion on the part of those who loved me, persecution by those who did not know me. Then after captivity, solitude, and tribulation, I was suddenly restored to fresh air and liberty, and I became the possessor of a large fortune, so dazzling and fabulous, that I could only conclude that God had sent it me for some great purpose. I looked upon this wealth as a sacred charge. From that time I did not experience a single hour’s peace: I felt myself pushed onward like a cloud of fire sent from Heaven to burn the cities of the wicked. I habituated my body to the most violent exercise, and my spirit to the severest trials. I taught my arm to slay, my eyes to behold suffering, my lips to smile at the most terrible sights. From being a kind and confiding nature, I made myself into a vindictive, treacherous and wicked man. Then I set forth on the path that was opened up to me; I conquered space and I have reached my goal: woe to those I encountered on my way!”
“Enough, Edmond, enough,” said Mercédès. “Now bid me farewell, Edmond. We must part.”
“Before I leave you, Mercédès, is there nothing I can do for you?” asked Monte Cristo.
“I have but one desire, Edmond—my son’s happiness.”
“Pray to God, who alone disposes over life and death, to spare his life, and I will do the rest. And for yourself, Mercédès?”
“I need nothing for myself. I live, as it were, between two graves. The one is that of Edmond Dantès, who died many years ago. Ah! how I loved him! The other grave belongs to the man Edmond Dantès killed; I approve of the deed, but I must pray for the dead man.”
“Your son shall be happy, madame,” the Count repeated.
“Then I also shall be as happy as it is possible for me to be.”
“But . . . what are you going to do?”
“All I am fit for now is to pray. I do not need to work; I have the little treasure you buried and which has been found in the spot you indicated. There will be much gossip as to who I am, what I do, and how I subsist, but what does that matter? Those are questions which concern but God, you, and me.”
“Mercédès,” said the Count, “I do not wish to reproach you, but you have taken an exaggerated view as to your sacrifice of the fortune amassed by Monsieur de Morcerf. By rights half of it was yours in virtue of your vigilance and economy.”
“I know what you are going to propose. I cannot accept it, Edmond; my son would not permit it.”
“I will not do anything without Albert’s approval. I will make myself acquainted with his intentions and shall submit to them. But if he agrees to what I propose, will you follow his example?”
“You know, Edmond, that I have no longer any reasoning powers, and no will, unless it be the will not to take any decision. My will has been swept away by the storms that have raged over my head. I am as helpless in God’s hands as a sparrow in the talons of an eagle. Since He does not wish me to die, I live; if He sends me help, it is because He so desires, and I shall accept it.”
Monte Cristo bowed his head under the vehemence of her grief. “Will you not say au revoir to me?” he said, holding out his hand.
“On the contrary, I do say au revoir,” Mercédès replied, solemnly pointing to Heaven, “and that is a proof that I still hope.”
She touched the Count’s hand with her own trembling fingers, ran up the stairs, and disappeared from his sight. Monte Cristo left the house with heavy steps. But Mercédès did not see him; her eyes were searching in the far distance for the ship that was carrying her son toward the vast ocean. Nevertheless her voice almost involuntarily murmured softly: “Edmond! Edmond!”
The Count went with a heavy heart from the house where he had taken leave of Mercédès, in all probability never to see her again, and turned his steps toward the cemetery where Morrel was awaiting him.
Ten years previously, he had also sought piously for a grave in this same cemetery, but he had sought in vain. He who had returned to France with millions of money had been unable to find the grave of his father, who had died of hunger. Morrel had had a cross erected, but it had fallen down, and the sexton had burnt it with the rubbish. The worthy merchant had been more fortunate. He had died in the arms of his children, and by them had been laid beside his wife, who had preceded him
into eternity by two years.
Two large marble slabs, on which were engraved their names, were standing side by side in a little railed-in enclosure shaded by four cypresses.
Maximilian was leaning against one of these trees staring at the two graves with unseeing eyes. He was obviously deeply affected.
“Maximilian, it is not on those graves you should look, but there!” said the Count, pointing to the sky.
“The dead are everywhere,” said Morrel. “Did you not tell me so yourself when you made me leave Paris?”
“On the journey, Maximilian, you asked me to let you stay a few days at Marseilles. Is that still your wish?”
“I have no longer any wishes, Count, but I think the time of waiting would pass less painfully here than anywhere.”
“All the better, Maximilian, for I must leave you, but I have your word, have I not?”
“I shall forget it, Count, I know I shall.”
“No, you will not forget it, for you are, above all things, a man of honour, Morrel; you have sworn to wait and will now renew your oath.”
“Have pity on me, Count, I am so unhappy!”
“I have known a man unhappier than you, Morrel.”
“What man is there unhappier than he who has lost the only being he loved on earth?”
“Listen, Morrel, and fix your whole mind on what I am going to tell you. I once knew a man who, like you, had set all his hopes of happiness upon a woman. He was young; he had an old father whom he loved, and a sweetheart whom he adored. He was about to marry her, when suddenly he was overtaken by one of those caprices of fate which would make us doubt in the goodness of God, if He did not reveal Himself later by showing us that all is but a means to an end. This man was deprived of his liberty, of the woman he loved, of the future of which he had dreamed and which he believed was his, and plunged into the depths of a dungeon. He stayed there fourteen years, Morrel. Fourteen years!” repeated the Count. “And during those fourteen years he suffered many an hour of despair. Like you, Morrel, he also thought he was the unhappiest of men, and sought to take his life.”
“Well?” asked Morrel.
“Well, when he was at the height of his despair, God revealed Himself to him through another human being. It takes a long time for eyes that are swollen with weeping to see clearly, and at first, perhaps, he did not comprehend this infinite mercy, but at length he took patience and waited. One day he miraculously left his tomb, transfigured, rich and powerful. His first cry was for his father, but his father was dead! When his son sought his grave, ten years after his death, even that had disappeared, and no one could say to him: ‘There rests in the Lord the father who so dearly loved you!’ That man, therefore, was unhappier than you, for he did not even know where to look for his father’s grave.”
“But then he still had the woman he loved.”
“You are wrong, Morrel. This woman was faithless. She married one of the persecutors of her betrothed. You see, Morrel, that in this again he was unhappier than you.”
“And did this man find consolation?”
“At all events he found peace.”
“Is it possible for this man ever to be happy again?”
“He hopes so.”
The young man bowed his head, and after a moment’s silence he gave Monte Cristo his hand, saying: “You have my promise, Count, but remember . . .”
“I shall expect you on the Isle of Monte Cristo on the fifth of October, Morrel. On the fourth, a yacht named the Eurus will be waiting for you in the Port of Bastia. Give your name to the captain, and he will bring you to me. That is quite definite, is it not?”
“It is, Count, and I shall do as you say. You are leaving me?”
“Yes, I have business in Italy. I am leaving you alone with your grief.”
“When are you going?”
“At once. The steamboat is waiting for me, and in an hour I shall be far from you. Will you go with me as far as the harbour?”
“I am entirely at your service.”
Morrel accompanied the Count to the harbour. The smoke was already issuing from the black funnel like an immense plume. The boat got under weigh, and an hour later, as Monte Cristo had said, the same feather of white smoke was scarcely discernible on the horizon as it mingled with the first mists of the night.
Chapter LXXI
THE FIFTH OF OCTOBER
It was about six o’clock in the evening; an opalescent light through which the autumn sun shed a golden ray descended on the sea. The heat of the day had gradually diminished into that delicious freshness which seems like nature’s breathing after the burning siesta of the afternoon, and a light breeze was bringing to the shores of the Mediterranean the sweet perfume of trees and plants mingled with the salt smell of the sea.
A small yacht, elegant in shape, was drifting in the evening air over this immense lake, like some swan opening its wings to the wind and gliding through the water. It advanced rapidly, although there seemed hardly sufficient wind to ruffle the curls of a young maiden.
Standing on the prow, a tall dark man was watching the approach of land, a cone-shaped mass, which appeared to rise out of the water like a huge Catalan hat.
“Is that Monte Cristo?” he asked of the skipper in a voice full of sadness.
“Yes, Your Excellency,” replied the latter. “We are there.”
Ten minutes later, with sails furled, they anchored a hundred feet from the little harbour. The cutter was ready with four oarsmen and the pilot. The eight oars dipped together without a splash, and the boat glided rapidly onward. A moment later they found themselves in a small natural creek and ran aground on fine sand.
“If Your Excellency will get on to the shoulders of two of our men they will carry you to dry land,” said the pilot. The young man’s answer was a shrug of complete indifference as he swung himself out of the boat into the water.
“Ah, Excellency!” cried the pilot. “That is wrong of you! The master will scold us.”
The young man continued to follow the two sailors, and after about thirty steps reached the shore, where he stood and peered into the darkness. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, and a voice startled him by saying: “Good evening, Maximilian. You are very punctual.”
“It is you, Count!” cried the young man, delightedly pressing Monte Cristo’s two hands in his.
“Yes, and, as you see, as punctual as you are. But you are drenched, my friend; come, there is a house prepared for you, where you will forget cold and fatigue.”
The sailors were dismissed, and the two friends proceeded on their way. They walked for some time in silence, each busy with his own thoughts. Presently Morrel, with a sigh, turned to his companion: “I am come,” said he, “to say to you as the gladiator would say to the Roman Emperor: ‘He who is about to die salutes you.’”
“You have not found consolation then?” Monte Cristo asked, with a strange look.
“Did you really think I could?” Morrel said with great bitterness. “Listen to me, Count, as to one whose spirit lives in Heaven while his body still walks the earth. I am come to die in the arms of a friend. It is true there are those I love, my sister and her husband, Emmanuel, but I have need of strong arms and one who will smile on me during my last moments. I have your word, Count. You will conduct me to the gates of death by pleasant paths, will you not? Oh, Count, how peacefully and contentedly I shall sleep in the arms of death!”
Morrel said the last words with such determination that the Count trembled.
Seeing that Monte Cristo was silent, Morrel continued: “My friend, you named the fifth of October as the day on which my trial should end. It is to-day the fifth of October . . . I have but a short while to live.”
“So be it,” said Monte Cristo. “Come with me.”
Morrel followed the Count mechanically, and they had entered the grotto before he perceived it. There was a carpet under his feet; a door opened, exhaling fragrant perfumes, and a bright light dazzled his eyes. Morrel
paused, not venturing to advance. He mistrusted the enervating delights that surrounded him. Monte Cristo gently drew him in.
He sat down, and Morrel took a seat opposite him.
They were in a wonderful dining-room, where the marble statues bore baskets on their heads laden with flowers and fruit. Morrel looked at everything in a vague way, though it is even possible he did not see anything.
“Count, you are the essence of all human knowledge,” he resumed, “and you make me think you have descended from a more advanced and wiser world than ours. Tell me, is it painful to die?”
Monte Cristo looked at Morrel with indescribable tenderness. “Yes, it is undoubtedly painful when you violently break this mortal coil that obstinately demands to live. According as we have lived, death is either a friend who rocks us as gently as a nurse, or an enemy who violently tears the soul from the body.”
“I understand now why you have brought me here to this deserted isle in the middle of an ocean; to this subterranean palace, which is a sepulchre such as would awaken envy in the heart of a Pharaoh. It is because you love me, is it not, Count? Because you love me well enough to give me a death without agony; a death which will permit me to glide away, holding your hand and murmuring the name of Valentine.”
“Yes, yes, you have guessed aright, Morrel,” said the Count simply. “That is what I intended. Now,” he said to himself, “I must bring this young man back to happiness; he has passed through enough sorrow to merit happiness at last.” Then aloud he added: “Listen to me, Morrel; I see that your grief is overwhelming. As you know, I have no one in the world to call my own. I have learned to regard you as my son, and to save that son I would sacrifice my life, nay, even my fortune.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that you wish to leave this world because you do not know all the pleasures a large fortune can give. Morrel, I have nearly a hundred millions; I give them to you. With such a fortune nothing is denied you. Have you ambitions? Every career is opened to you. Turn the world upside down, change its character, let no mad scheme be too mad for you, become a criminal if it is necessary—but live!”