The Count of Monte Cristo

  Your mother, Albert, knows that dear little house well.

  Recently, on my way to Paris, I came through Marseille. I went to see that house with its painful memories. And in the evening, with a spade, I probed the corner where I had buried my treasure. The iron box was still in the same place, no one had touched it. It is in the corner shaded by a fine fig-tree, which my father planted on the day of my birth.

  Well, Albert, this money, which was once intended to secure the life and tranquillity of the woman I loved, has now, by a strange and painful twist of fate, returned to its former use. Oh, please understand how I feel – I who could offer millions to that poor woman, and who am merely returning to her a scrap of black bread which has been hidden under my humble roof since the day when I was separated from her whom I loved.

  You are a generous man, Albert, but perhaps despite that you are blinded by pride or resentment. If you refuse me, if you ask someone else to do what I have the right to offer you, then I shall say that it was cruel of you to refuse the offer of life to your mother, from a man whose father was driven to starvation, despair and death by your father.

  When she had finished reading, Albert remained pale and motionless, waiting for his mother to make up her mind. She looked up to heaven with an indescribable expression and said: ‘I accept. He has the right to pay the dowry that I shall take into a convent.’ And putting the letter to her heart, she took her son’s arm and walked towards the stairs, perhaps with a firmer step than even she had expected.

  XCII

  SUICIDE

  Meanwhile Monte Cristo had also gone back into town with Emmanuel and Maximilien. Their return was merry. Emmanuel did not disguise his joy at seeing war replaced by peace and loudly proclaimed his philanthropic feelings. Morrel, seated in a corner of the carriage, let his brother-in-law’s merriment evaporate in words and kept his own joy to himself, allowing it to shine only in his look, though it was no less sincere.

  At the Barrière du Trône they met Bertuccio, who was waiting there as motionless as a sentry on duty. Monte Cristo put his head out and exchanged a few words with him; then the steward disappeared.

  ‘Count,’ said Emmanuel when they got to the Place Royale, ‘please drop me off at my front door, so that my wife will not have a single unnecessary moment of anxiety for either of us.’

  ‘If it was not ridiculous to go around proclaiming one’s triumph,’ said Morrel, ‘I should invite the count into our home. But he too has no doubt some anxious minds to put at rest. Here we are, Emmanuel. Let’s say goodbye to our friend and allow him to go on his way.’

  ‘One moment,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘Don’t deprive me in this way of both my companions together. Go in and see your wife, and give her my respects; and you, Morrel, come with me to the Champs-Elysées.’

  ‘Perfect,’ said Maximilien. ‘Particularly since I have something to attend to in your part of town, Count.’

  ‘Can we expect you for lunch?’ asked Emmanuel.

  ‘No,’ Morrel replied.

  The door closed and the carriage went on its way.

  ‘You see: I brought you good luck,’ said Morrel when he was alone with the count. ‘Did that occur to you?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘That’s why I always want to keep you by me.’

  ‘It’s a miracle!’ said Morrel, in answer to his own thoughts.

  ‘What is?’ asked Monte Cristo.

  ‘What has happened.’

  ‘Yes,’ the count said, smiling. ‘That’s the right word, Morrel: a miracle!’

  ‘Because Albert is brave enough.’

  ‘Very much so,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘I’ve seen him sleeping with a dagger hanging over his head.’

  ‘And I know that he has fought twice already, and very well,’ Morrel said. ‘So how does that square with his behaviour this morning?’

  ‘Your influence, again,’ said Monte Cristo, still smiling.

  ‘Lucky for Albert he’s not a soldier,’ said Morrel.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Excuses on the field!’ the young captain said, shaking his head.

  ‘Now, now,’ the count said gently. ‘Don’t let’s give way to these prejudices of ordinary people, Morrel. You must agree that, since Albert is brave, he cannot be a coward, so he must have had some reason to act as he did this morning; and that consequently his behaviour was more heroic than otherwise?’

  ‘No doubt,’ said Morrel. ‘But, like the Spaniard, I would say: He was not as brave today as he was yesterday.’

  ‘You’ll take lunch with me, won’t you, Morrel?’ the count said, to change the subject.

  ‘No, I’m afraid I must leave you at ten o’clock.’

  ‘So your appointment is for lunch?’

  Morrel smiled and shook his head.

  ‘But you must eat somewhere.’

  ‘But suppose I am not hungry?’

  ‘Ah,’ said the count, ‘I know of only two things which can spoil one’s appetite like that: pain – and since, I’m pleased to say, you seem very happy, it can’t be that – and love. Moreover, in view of what you told me about your affections, I may perhaps surmise…’

  ‘I won’t deny it, Count,’ Morrel said merrily.

  ‘But you’re not telling me about it, Maximilien?’ the count said, in a tone of voice that showed how curious he was to learn the secret.

  ‘Didn’t I show you this morning that I have a heart?’

  In reply, Monte Cristo offered the young man his hand.

  ‘Well,’ he continued, ‘as that heart is no longer with you in the Bois de Vincennes, it is somewhere else, and I am going to recover it.’

  ‘Go on, then,’ the count said slowly. ‘Go, my dear friend, but do this for me: if you should encounter any obstacle, remember that I have some power in this world, that I am happy to use it for the benefit of those I love, and that I love you, Morrel.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the young man said. ‘I shall remember it as selfish children remember their parents when they need them. When I need you, Count – and that time may come – I shall ask for your help.’

  ‘Very well, I have your word. Goodbye, now.’

  ‘Au revoir.’

  They had reached the door of the house on the Champs-Elysées. Monte Cristo opened the door and Morrel jumped on to the pavement. Bertuccio was waiting at the steps. Morrel vanished down the Avenue de Marigny and Monte Cristo walked quickly over to Bertuccio. ‘Well?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, she is leaving her house,’ said the steward.

  ‘And her son?’

  ‘Florentin, his valet, thinks he will do the same.’

  ‘Come with me.’

  Monte Cristo took Bertuccio into his study, wrote the letter that we have already seen and gave it to the steward. ‘Go, and go quickly,’ he said, adding: ‘Oh, and have Haydée told that I am back.’

  ‘I am here,’ said the girl, who had already come down at the sound of the carriage, her face shining with joy at seeing the count safe and sound. Bertuccio went out.

  In the first moments after this return which she had awaited with such impatience, Haydée experienced all the emotion of a daughter reunited with a dear father and all the delirium of a mistress greeting an adored lover. And Monte Cristo’s joy, though less expansive, was no less great. For hearts which have long suffered, happiness is like dew on soil parched by the sun: both heart and earth absorb this beneficial rain as it falls on them, and nothing appears on the surface. For some days, Monte Cristo had realized something that for a long time he had not dared to believe, which is that there were two Mercédès in the world, and he could once more be happy.

  His eyes, burning with gladness, were eagerly fixed on those of Haydée, when suddenly the door opened. The count frowned.

  ‘Monsieur de Morcerf!’ said Baptistin, as if the name itself were enough to excuse the interruption. And the count’s face did, indeed, lighten. ‘Which one?’ he asked. ‘Viscount or Count?’

  ‘The count.?
??

  ‘My God!’ Haydée exclaimed. ‘Is it not over yet?’

  ‘I do not know if it is finished, my dearest child,’ Monte Cristo said, taking the young woman’s hands. ‘What I do know is that you have nothing to fear.’

  ‘But this is the wretch…’

  ‘The man is powerless against me, Haydée,’ Monte Cristo said. ‘The time to fear was when I had to deal with his son.’

  ‘You will never know, master, how I suffered,’ she said.

  He smiled and put a hand on her head. ‘I swear on my father’s grave,’ he said, ‘that if anyone is to suffer, it will not be me!’

  ‘I believe you, my Lord, as if God were speaking to me,’ she said, offering him her forehead. Monte Cristo gave her pure and beautiful brow a kiss that made two hearts beat together, one urgently, the other in silence.

  ‘Oh, God!’ the count murmured. ‘Will you then let me love again…’ He took the young Greek woman towards a concealed staircase and said to Baptistin: ‘Show the Comte de Morcerf into the drawing-room.’

  A word of explanation may be needed: this visit, though Monte Cristo had expected it, will no doubt come as a surprise to our readers.

  While Mercédès, as we mentioned, was in her apartments making the same sort of inventory as Albert had done in his house, sorting through her jewels, closing her drawers and collecting her keys, so as to leave everything in perfect order, she did not notice a sinister bloodless face appear in the glass window of a door designed to let light enter the corridor; from that point, one could hear as well as see. So it seems more than likely that the person who was watching there, without himself being seen or heard, saw and heard all that went on in Mme de Morcerf’s.

  From the glass door the pale-faced man went into the Comte de Morcerf’s bedroom and, once there, restively lifted the curtain on a window overlooking the courtyard. He stayed there for ten minutes, motionless, silent, listening to the beating of his own heart. It was a long time for him, ten minutes.

  It was at this point that Albert, returning from his appointment, saw his father watching for him to return behind the curtain, and turned his head.

  The count’s eyes opened wide. He knew that Albert’s insult to Monte Cristo had been fearful and that, in every country in the world, such an insult would be followed by a duel to the death. So, if Albert was returning safe and sound, then he was avenged.

  An unspeakable ray of joy lit his dreary face, like a last ray of sunshine from the sun disappearing into clouds which seem less like its bed than its tomb. But, as we said, he waited in vain for the young man to come up to his apartments to proclaim his triumph to his father. It was understandable that his son, before going out to fight, had not wanted to see the father whose honour he was to avenge; but, once that had been done, why did the son not come and throw himself into his arms?

  At this point, since he could not see Albert, the count sent for his servant. As we know, Albert told the servant to hide nothing from him.

  Ten minutes later, General de Morcerf appeared on the front steps wearing a black coat, with a military collar, black trousers and black gloves. It appears that he had already given orders because he had hardly put his foot on the last step when his carriage appeared, fully harnessed, out of the coachhouse and drew up in front of him. His valet then arrived with a military cloak, stiffened by the two swords wrapped inside it, which he threw into the carriage; then he closed the door and sat down beside the coachman.

  The latter bent over the side of the barouche to take his orders. ‘To the Champs-Elysées!’ the general said. ‘To the Count of Monte Cristo’s. Hurry!’

  The horses leapt forward under the whip and, five minutes later, pulled up in front of the count’s house.

  M. de Morcerf opened the door himself and, while the carriage was still moving, jumped down like a young man on to the path, rang, then vanished with his servant through the open door. A second later, Baptistin was announcing him to Monte Cristo and the latter, after showing Haydée out, gave the order to let M. de Morcerf into the drawing-room. The general had paced three times the full length of the room when he turned around and saw Monte Cristo standing on the threshold.

  ‘Oh! It’s Monsieur de Morcerf,’ Monte Cristo said, calmly. ‘I thought I had misheard.’

  ‘Yes, it is I,’ the count said with a frightful contraction of the mouth that prevented him from pronouncing the words clearly.

  ‘Now all I need to know,’ Monte Cristo said, ‘is what brings me the pleasure of seeing the Comte de Morcerf at such an early hour.’

  ‘Did you have a meeting with my son this morning, sir?’ the general asked.

  ‘So you know about that?’ the count replied.

  ‘I also know that my son had good reason for wishing to fight you and doing his best to kill you.’

  ‘Indeed, Monsieur, he had very good reason. But you see that, even so, he did not kill me, or even fight me.’

  ‘Yet he considered you to be the cause of his father’s dishonour and of the frightful catastrophe that is at the moment afflicting my house.’

  ‘That is so, Monsieur,’ said Monte Cristo with dreadful imperturbability. ‘A secondary cause, perhaps, and not the main one.’

  ‘So you must have made some excuse to him or given some explanation?’

  ‘I gave him no explanation and he was the one to make his excuses.’

  ‘How do you explain that behaviour?’

  ‘Probably by his conviction that there was a more guilty man in all this than I.’

  ‘Who was that man?’

  ‘His father.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the count, blanching. ‘But you know that the guilty man does not like to hear himself convicted of his crime?’

  ‘I do… So I was expecting what has happened.’

  ‘You were expecting my son to prove himself a coward!’ the count exclaimed.

  ‘Monsieur Albert de Morcerf is not a coward,’ said Monte Cristo.

  ‘A man who has a sword in his hand and, within reach of that sword, his mortal enemy… If such a man does not fight, he is a coward! If only he were here for me to tell him so!’

  ‘Monsieur,’ the Count of Monte Cristo replied coldly, ‘I assume that you did not come to see me to inform me of these trifling family matters. Go and tell Monsieur Albert; he will know how to answer you.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ the general said, with a smile that vanished as soon as it had appeared. ‘No, you are right, I did not come here for that! I came to tell you that I too regard you as my enemy. I came to tell you that I hate you instinctively, that it seems to me that I have always known you, and always hated you! And finally, since the young people of today do not fight, then we shall have to. Do you agree, Monsieur?’

  ‘Absolutely. So when I said that I was expecting what has happened, I was referring to the honour of your visit.’

  ‘So much the better, then. Your preparations are made?’

  ‘They always are, Monsieur.’

  ‘You know that we shall fight until one of us is dead?’ the general said, his teeth clenched with rage.

  ‘Until one of us is dead,’ the Count of Monte Cristo repeated, gently nodding his head.

  ‘Come on, then. We need no witnesses.’

  ‘Indeed, no,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘We know one another so well!’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said the count. ‘We don’t know one another at all.’

  ‘Come now,’ Monte Cristo replied, with the same infuriating lack of emotion. ‘Aren’t you the soldier Fernand who deserted on the eve of the battle of Waterloo? Aren’t you the Lieutenant Fernand who served as a guide and spy for the French army in Spain? Aren’t you the Colonel Fernand who betrayed, sold and murdered his benefactor, Ali? And all these Fernands, did they not finally amount to: Lieutenant-General, Comte de Morcerf, peer of France?’

  ‘Ah!’ the general cried, the words striking him like a hot iron. ‘You wretch! Do you reproach me with my shame at the moment when you may be abou
t to kill me? No, I did not say that I was unknown to you. I know very well, demon, that you have penetrated the darkness of the past and read every page of my life – though I cannot tell by the light of what torch! But perhaps there is still more honour in me, in my disgrace, than in you, for all your arrogant exterior. No, no, I admit that I am known to you, but I do not know you, you adventurer, smothered in gold and precious stones! In Paris you call yourself the Count of Monte Cristo. In Italy, Sinbad the Sailor. In Malta – who knows what? I have forgotten. What I ask from you is your real name. I want to know your true name, in the midst of these hundred false names, so that I can say it on the field of combat as I plunge my sword in your heart.’

  The Count of Monte Cristo went terribly pale; his wild eyes burned with angry fire. He rushed out into the study adjoining his bedroom and, in less than a second, tearing off his cravat, his coat and his waistcoat, he put on a small sailor’s jacket and a sailor’s hat, only partly covering his long black hair.

  Dressed in this way, he returned, fearful, implacable, walking in front of the general with his arms crossed. The other had understood nothing of his disappearance, but was waiting for him and, feeling his teeth chatter and his legs give way under him, took a step back and stopped only when he reached a table which provided some support for his clenched hands.

  ‘Fernand!’ Monte Cristo cried. ‘Of my hundred names, I shall need to tell you only one to strike you down. But you can already guess that name, can’t you? Or, rather, you can recall it. For in spite of all my woes, in spite of all my tortures, I can now show you a face rejuvenated by the joy of revenge, a face that you must have seen often in your dreams since your marriage… your marriage to my fiancée, Mercédès!’

  The general, his head thrown back, his hands held out, his eyes staring, watched this dreadful spectacle in silence. Then, reaching out for the wall and leaning on it, he slid slowly along it to the door, out of which he retreated backwards, giving this one, single, lugubrious, lamentable, heart-rending cry: ‘Edmond Dantès!’

  Then, with sighs in which there was nothing human, he dragged himself to the front porch of the house, crossed the courtyard like a drunken man and fell into the arms of his valet, simply muttering in an unintelligible voice: ‘Home, home!’