Chapter 112. The Departure
The recent events formed the theme of conversation throughout all Paris.Emmanuel and his wife conversed with natural astonishment in theirlittle apartment in the Rue Meslay upon the three successive, sudden,and most unexpected catastrophes of Morcerf, Danglars, and Villefort.Maximilian, who was paying them a visit, listened to their conversation,or rather was present at it, plunged in his accustomed state of apathy.
“Indeed,” said Julie, “might we not almost fancy, Emmanuel, that thosepeople, so rich, so happy but yesterday, had forgotten in theirprosperity that an evil genius—like the wicked fairies in Perrault’sstories who present themselves unbidden at a wedding or baptism—hoveredover them, and appeared all at once to revenge himself for their fatalneglect?”
“What a dire misfortune!” said Emmanuel, thinking of Morcerf andDanglars.
“What dreadful sufferings!” said Julie, remembering Valentine, but whom,with a delicacy natural to women, she did not name before her brother.
“If the Supreme Being has directed the fatal blow,” said Emmanuel, “itmust be that he in his great goodness has perceived nothing in the pastlives of these people to merit mitigation of their awful punishment.”
“Do you not form a very rash judgment, Emmanuel?” said Julie. “When myfather, with a pistol in his hand, was once on the point of committingsuicide, had anyone then said, ‘This man deserves his misery,’ would notthat person have been deceived?”
“Yes; but your father was not allowed to fall. A being was commissionedto arrest the fatal hand of death about to descend on him.”
Emmanuel had scarcely uttered these words when the sound of the bell washeard, the well-known signal given by the porter that a visitor hadarrived. Nearly at the same instant the door was opened and the Count ofMonte Cristo appeared on the threshold. The young people uttered a cryof joy, while Maximilian raised his head, but let it fall againimmediately.
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“Maximilian,” said the count, without appearing to notice the differentimpressions which his presence produced on the little circle, “I come toseek you.”
“To seek me?” repeated Morrel, as if awakening from a dream.
“Yes,” said Monte Cristo; “has it not been agreed that I should take youwith me, and did I not tell you yesterday to prepare for departure?”
“I am ready,” said Maximilian; “I came expressly to wish them farewell.”
“Whither are you going, count?” asked Julie.
“In the first instance to Marseilles, madame.”
“To Marseilles!” exclaimed the young couple.
“Yes, and I take your brother with me.”
“Oh, count.” said Julie, “will you restore him to us cured of hismelancholy?” Morrel turned away to conceal the confusion of hiscountenance.
“You perceive, then, that he is not happy?” said the count.
“Yes,” replied the young woman; “and fear much that he finds our homebut a dull one.”
“I will undertake to divert him,” replied the count.
“I am ready to accompany you, sir,” said Maximilian. “Adieu, my kindfriends! Emmanuel—Julie—farewell!”
“How farewell?” exclaimed Julie; “do you leave us thus, so suddenly,without any preparations for your journey, without even a passport?”
“Needless delays but increase the grief of parting,” said Monte Cristo,“and Maximilian has doubtless provided himself with everythingrequisite; at least, I advised him to do so.”
“I have a passport, and my clothes are ready packed,” said Morrel in histranquil but mournful manner.
“Good,” said Monte Cristo, smiling; “in these prompt arrangements werecognize the order of a well-disciplined soldier.”
“And you leave us,” said Julie, “at a moment’s warning? you do not giveus a day—no, not even an hour before your departure?”
“My carriage is at the door, madame, and I must be in Rome in fivedays.”
“But does Maximilian go to Rome?” exclaimed Emmanuel.
“I am going wherever it may please the count to take me,” said Morrel,with a smile full of grief; “I am under his orders for the next month.”
“Oh, heavens, how strangely he expresses himself, count!” said Julie.
“Maximilian goes with me,” said the count, in his kindest and mostpersuasive manner; “therefore do not make yourself uneasy on yourbrother’s account.”
“Once more farewell, my dear sister; Emmanuel, adieu!” Morrel repeated.
“His carelessness and indifference touch me to the heart,” said Julie.“Oh, Maximilian, Maximilian, you are certainly concealing something fromus.”
“Pshaw!” said Monte Cristo, “you will see him return to you gay,smiling, and joyful.”
Maximilian cast a look of disdain, almost of anger, on the count.
“We must leave you,” said Monte Cristo.
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“Before you quit us, count,” said Julie, “will you permit us to expressto you all that the other day——”
“Madame,” interrupted the count, taking her two hands in his, “all thatyou could say in words would never express what I read in your eyes; thethoughts of your heart are fully understood by mine. Like benefactors inromances, I should have left you without seeing you again, but thatwould have been a virtue beyond my strength, because I am a weak andvain man, fond of the tender, kind, and thankful glances of my fellow-creatures. On the eve of departure I carry my egotism so far as to say,‘Do not forget me, my kind friends, for probably you will never see meagain.’”
“Never see you again?” exclaimed Emmanuel, while two large tears rolleddown Julie’s cheeks, “never behold you again? It is not a man, then, butsome angel that leaves us, and this angel is on the point of returningto heaven after having appeared on earth to do good.”
“Say not so,” quickly returned Monte Cristo—“say not so, my friends;angels never err, celestial beings remain where they wish to be. Fate isnot more powerful than they; it is they who, on the contrary, overcomefate. No, Emmanuel, I am but a man, and your admiration is as unmeritedas your words are sacrilegious.”
And pressing his lips on the hand of Julie, who rushed into his arms, heextended his other hand to Emmanuel; then tearing himself from thisabode of peace and happiness, he made a sign to Maximilian, who followedhim passively, with the indifference which had been perceptible in himever since the death of Valentine had so stunned him.
“Restore my brother to peace and happiness,” whispered Julie to MonteCristo. And the count pressed her hand in reply, as he had done elevenyears before on the staircase leading to Morrel’s study.
“You still confide, then, in Sinbad the Sailor?” asked he, smiling.
“Oh, yes,” was the ready answer.
“Well, then, sleep in peace, and put your trust in the Lord.”
As we have before said, the post-chaise was waiting; four powerfulhorses were already pawing the ground with impatience, while Ali,apparently just arrived from a long walk, was standing at the foot ofthe steps, his face bathed in perspiration.
“Well,” asked the count in Arabic, “have you been to see the old man?”Ali made a sign in the affirmative.
“And have you placed the letter before him, as I ordered you to do?”
The slave respectfully signalized that he had.
“And what did he say, or rather do?” Ali placed himself in the light, sothat his master might see him distinctly, and then imitating in hisintelligent manner the countenance of the old man, he closed his eyes,as Noirtier was in the custom of doing when saying “Yes.”
“Good; he accepts,” said Monte Cristo. “Now let us go.”
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These words had scarcely escaped him, when the carriage was on its way,and the feet of the horses struck a shower of sparks from the pavement.Maximilian settled himself in his corner without uttering a word. Halfan hour had passed when the carriage stopped suddenly; the count hadjust pulled t
he silken check-string, which was fastened to Ali’s finger.The Nubian immediately descended and opened the carriage door. It was alovely starlight night—they had just reached the top of the hillVillejuif, from whence Paris appears like a sombre sea tossing itsmillions of phosphoric waves into light—waves indeed more noisy, morepassionate, more changeable, more furious, more greedy, than those ofthe tempestuous ocean,—waves which never rest as those of the seasometimes do,—waves ever dashing, ever foaming, ever ingulfing whatfalls within their grasp.
The count stood alone, and at a sign from his hand, the carriage went onfor a short distance. With folded arms, he gazed for some time upon thegreat city. When he had fixed his piercing look on this modern Babylon,which equally engages the contemplation of the religious enthusiast, thematerialist, and the scoffer,—
“Great city,” murmured he, inclining his head, and joining his hands asif in prayer, “less than six months have elapsed since first I enteredthy gates. I believe that the Spirit of God led my steps to thee andthat he also enables me to quit thee in triumph; the secret cause of mypresence within thy walls I have confided alone to him who only has hadthe power to read my heart. God only knows that I retire from theewithout pride or hatred, but not without many regrets; he only knowsthat the power confided to me has never been made subservient to mypersonal good or to any useless cause. Oh, great city, it is in thypalpitating bosom that I have found that which I sought; like a patientminer, I have dug deep into thy very entrails to root out evil thence.Now my work is accomplished, my mission is terminated, now thou canstneither afford me pain nor pleasure. Adieu, Paris, adieu!”
His look wandered over the vast plain like that of some genius of thenight; he passed his hand over his brow, got into the carriage, the doorwas closed on him, and the vehicle quickly disappeared down the otherside of the hill in a whirlwind of dust and noise.
Ten leagues were passed and not a single word was uttered. Morrel wasdreaming, and Monte Cristo was looking at the dreamer.
“Morrel,” said the count to him at length, “do you repent havingfollowed me?”
“No, count; but to leave Paris——”
“If I thought happiness might await you in Paris, Morrel, I would haveleft you there.”
“Valentine reposes within the walls of Paris, and to leave Paris is likelosing her a second time.”
“Maximilian,” said the count, “the friends that we have lost do notrepose in the bosom of the earth, but are buried deep in our hearts, andit has been thus ordained that we may always be accompanied by them. Ihave two friends, who in this way never depart from me; the one who gaveme being, and the other who conferred knowledge and intelligence on me.Their spirits live in me. I consult them when doubtful, and if I ever doany good, it is due to their beneficent counsels. Listen to the voice ofyour heart, Morrel, and ask it whether you ought to preserve thismelancholy exterior towards me.”
“My friend,” said Maximilian, “the voice of my heart is very sorrowful,and promises me nothing but misfortune.”
“It is the way of weakened minds to see everything through a blackcloud. The soul forms its own horizons; your soul is darkened, andconsequently the sky of the future appears stormy and unpromising.”
“That may possibly be true,” said Maximilian, and he again subsided intohis thoughtful mood.
The journey was performed with that marvellous rapidity which theunlimited power of the count ever commanded. Towns fled from them likeshadows on their path, and trees shaken by the first winds of autumnseemed like giants madly rushing on to meet them, and retreating asrapidly when once reached. The following morning they arrived atChâlons, where the count’s steamboat waited for them. Without the lossof an instant, the carriage was placed on board and the two travellersembarked without delay. The boat was built for speed; her two paddle-wheels were like two wings with which she skimmed the water like a bird.
Morrel was not insensible to that sensation of delight which isgenerally experienced in passing rapidly through the air, and the windwhich occasionally raised the hair from his forehead seemed on the pointof dispelling momentarily the clouds collected there.
As the distance increased between the travellers and Paris, almostsuperhuman serenity appeared to surround the count; he might have beentaken for an exile about to revisit his native land.
Ere long Marseilles presented herself to view,—Marseilles, white,fervid, full of life and energy,—Marseilles, the younger sister of Tyreand Carthage, the successor to them in the empire of theMediterranean,—Marseilles, old, yet always young. Powerful memories werestirred within them by the sight of the round tower, Fort Saint-Nicolas,the City Hall designed by Puget,28 the port with its brick quays, wherethey had both played in childhood, and it was with one accord that theystopped on the Canebière.
A vessel was setting sail for Algiers, on board of which the bustleusually attending departure prevailed. The passengers and theirrelations crowded on the deck, friends taking a tender but sorrowfulleave of each other, some weeping, others noisy in their grief, thewhole forming a spectacle that might be exciting even to those whowitnessed similar sights daily, but which had no power to disturb thecurrent of thought that had taken possession of the mind of Maximilianfrom the moment he had set foot on the broad pavement of the quay.
“Here,” said he, leaning heavily on the arm of Monte Cristo,—“here isthe spot where my father stopped, when the Pharaon entered the port; itwas here that the good old man, whom you saved from death and dishonor,threw himself into my arms. I yet feel his warm tears on my face, andhis were not the only tears shed, for many who witnessed our meetingwept also.”
Monte Cristo gently smiled and said,—“I was there;” at the same timepointing to the corner of a street. As he spoke, and in the verydirection he indicated, a groan, expressive of bitter grief, was heard,and a woman was seen waving her hand to a passenger on board the vesselabout to sail. Monte Cristo looked at her with an emotion that must havebeen remarked by Morrel had not his eyes been fixed on the vessel.
“Oh, heavens!” exclaimed Morrel, “I do not deceive myself—that young manwho is waving his hat, that youth in the uniform of a lieutenant, isAlbert de Morcerf!”
“Yes,” said Monte Cristo, “I recognized him.”
“How so?—you were looking the other way.”
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The count smiled, as he was in the habit of doing when he did not wantto make any reply, and he again turned towards the veiled woman, whosoon disappeared at the corner of the street. Turning to his friend:
“Dear Maximilian,” said the count, “have you nothing to do in thisland?”
“I have to weep over the grave of my father,” replied Morrel in a brokenvoice.
“Well, then, go,—wait for me there, and I will soon join you.”
“You leave me, then?”
“Yes; I also have a pious visit to pay.”
Morrel allowed his hand to fall into that which the count extended tohim; then with an inexpressibly sorrowful inclination of the head hequitted the count and bent his steps to the east of the city. MonteCristo remained on the same spot until Maximilian was out of sight; hethen walked slowly towards the Allées de Meilhan to seek out a smallhouse with which our readers were made familiar at the beginning of thisstory.
It yet stood, under the shade of the fine avenue of lime-trees, whichforms one of the most frequent walks of the idlers of Marseilles,covered by an immense vine, which spreads its aged and blackenedbranches over the stone front, burnt yellow by the ardent sun of thesouth. Two stone steps worn away by the friction of many feet led to thedoor, which was made of three planks; the door had never been painted orvarnished, so great cracks yawned in it during the dry season to closeagain when the rains came on. The house, with all its crumblingantiquity and apparent misery, was yet cheerful and picturesque, and wasthe same that old Dantès formerly inhabited—the only difference beingthat the old man occupied merely the garret, while the whole house wasnow placed at the command o
f Mercédès by the count.
The woman whom the count had seen leave the ship with so much regretentered this house; she had scarcely closed the door after her whenMonte Cristo appeared at the corner of a street, so that he found andlost her again almost at the same instant. The worn out steps were oldacquaintances of his; he knew better than anyone else how to open thatweather-beaten door with the large headed nail which served to raise thelatch within. He entered without knocking, or giving any otherintimation of his presence, as if he had been a friend or the master ofthe place. At the end of a passage paved with bricks, was a littlegarden, bathed in sunshine, and rich in warmth and light. In this gardenMercédès had found, at the place indicated by the count, the sum ofmoney which he, through a sense of delicacy, had described as havingbeen placed there twenty-four years previously. The trees of the gardenwere easily seen from the steps of the street-door.
Monte Cristo, on stepping into the house, heard a sigh that was almost adeep sob; he looked in the direction whence it came, and there under anarbor of Virginia jessamine,29 with its thick foliage and beautiful longpurple flowers, he saw Mercédès seated, with her head bowed, and weepingbitterly. She had raised her veil, and with her face hidden by her handswas giving free scope to the sighs and tears which had been so longrestrained by the presence of her son.
Monte Cristo advanced a few steps, which were heard on the gravel.Mercédès raised her head, and uttered a cry of terror on beholding a manbefore her.
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“Madame,” said the count, “it is no longer in my power to restore you tohappiness, but I offer you consolation; will you deign to accept it ascoming from a friend?”
“I am, indeed, most wretched,” replied Mercédès. “Alone in the world, Ihad but my son, and he has left me!”
“He possesses a noble heart, madame,” replied the count, “and he hasacted rightly. He feels that every man owes a tribute to his country;some contribute their talents, others their industry; these devote theirblood, those their nightly labors, to the same cause. Had he remainedwith you, his life must have become a hateful burden, nor would he haveparticipated in your griefs. He will increase in strength and honor bystruggling with adversity, which he will convert into prosperity. Leavehim to build up the future for you, and I venture to say you willconfide it to safe hands.”
“Oh,” replied the wretched woman, mournfully shaking her head, “theprosperity of which you speak, and which, from the bottom of my heart, Ipray God in his mercy to grant him, I can never enjoy. The bitter cup ofadversity has been drained by me to the very dregs, and I feel that thegrave is not far distant. You have acted kindly, count, in bringing meback to the place where I have enjoyed so much bliss. I ought to meetdeath on the same spot where happiness was once all my own.”
“Alas,” said Monte Cristo, “your words sear and embitter my heart, themore so as you have every reason to hate me. I have been the cause ofall your misfortunes; but why do you pity, instead of blaming me? Yourender me still more unhappy——”
“Hate you, blame you—you, Edmond! Hate, reproach, the man that hasspared my son’s life! For was it not your fatal and sanguinary intentionto destroy that son of whom M. de Morcerf was so proud? Oh, look at meclosely, and discover, if you can, even the semblance of a reproach inme.”
The count looked up and fixed his eyes on Mercédès, who arose partlyfrom her seat and extended both her hands towards him.
“Oh, look at me,” continued she, with a feeling of profound melancholy,“my eyes no longer dazzle by their brilliancy, for the time has longfled since I used to smile on Edmond Dantès, who anxiously looked outfor me from the window of yonder garret, then inhabited by his oldfather. Years of grief have created an abyss between those days and thepresent. I neither reproach you nor hate you, my friend. Oh, no, Edmond,it is myself that I blame, myself that I hate! Oh, miserable creaturethat I am!” cried she, clasping her hands, and raising her eyes toheaven. “I once possessed piety, innocence, and love, the threeingredients of the happiness of angels, and now what am I?”
Monte Cristo approached her, and silently took her hand.
“No,” said she, withdrawing it gently—“no, my friend, touch me not. Youhave spared me, yet of all those who have fallen under your vengeance Iwas the most guilty. They were influenced by hatred, by avarice, and byself-love; but I was base, and for want of courage acted against myjudgment. Nay, do not press my hand, Edmond; you are thinking, I amsure, of some kind speech to console me, but do not utter it to me,reserve it for others more worthy of your kindness. See” (and sheexposed her face completely to view)—“see, misfortune has silvered myhair, my eyes have shed so many tears that they are encircled by a rimof purple, and my brow is wrinkled. You, Edmond, on the contrary,—youare still young, handsome, dignified; it is because you have had faith;because you have had strength, because you have had trust in God, andGod has sustained you. But as for me, I have been a coward; I havedenied God and he has abandoned me.”
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Mercédès burst into tears; her woman’s heart was breaking under its loadof memories. Monte Cristo took her hand and imprinted a kiss on it; butshe herself felt that it was a kiss of no greater warmth than he wouldhave bestowed on the hand of some marble statue of a saint.
“It often happens,” continued she, “that a first fault destroys theprospects of a whole life. I believed you dead; why did I survive you?What good has it done me to mourn for you eternally in the secretrecesses of my heart?—only to make a woman of thirty-nine look like awoman of fifty. Why, having recognized you, and I the only one to doso—why was I able to save my son alone? Ought I not also to have rescuedthe man that I had accepted for a husband, guilty though he were? Yet Ilet him die! What do I say? Oh, merciful heavens, was I not accessory tohis death by my supine insensibility, by my contempt for him, notremembering, or not willing to remember, that it was for my sake he hadbecome a traitor and a perjurer? In what am I benefited by accompanyingmy son so far, since I now abandon him, and allow him to depart alone tothe baneful climate of Africa? Oh, I have been base, cowardly, I tellyou; I have abjured my affections, and like all renegades I am of evilomen to those who surround me!”
“No, Mercédès,” said Monte Cristo, “no; you judge yourself with too muchseverity. You are a noble-minded woman, and it was your grief thatdisarmed me. Still I was but an agent, led on by an invisible andoffended Deity, who chose not to withhold the fatal blow that I wasdestined to hurl. I take that God to witness, at whose feet I haveprostrated myself daily for the last ten years, that I would havesacrificed my life to you, and with my life the projects that wereindissolubly linked with it. But—and I say it with some pride,Mercédès—God needed me, and I lived. Examine the past and the present,and endeavor to dive into futurity, and then say whether I am not adivine instrument. The most dreadful misfortunes, the most frightfulsufferings, the abandonment of all those who loved me, the persecutionof those who did not know me, formed the trials of my youth; whensuddenly, from captivity, solitude, misery, I was restored to light andliberty, and became the possessor of a fortune so brilliant, sounbounded, so unheard-of, that I must have been blind not to beconscious that God had endowed me with it to work out his own greatdesigns. From that time I looked upon this fortune as something confidedto me for a particular purpose. Not a thought was given to a life whichyou once, Mercédès, had the power to render blissful; not one hour ofpeaceful calm was mine; but I felt myself driven on like anexterminating angel. Like adventurous captains about to embark on someenterprise full of danger, I laid in my provisions, I loaded my weapons,I collected every means of attack and defence; I inured my body to themost violent exercises, my soul to the bitterest trials; I taught my armto slay, my eyes to behold excruciating sufferings, and my mouth tosmile at the most horrid spectacles. Good-natured, confiding, andforgiving as I had been, I became revengeful, cunning, and wicked, orrather, immovable as fate. Then I launched out into the path that wasopened to me. I overcame every obstacle, and reached
the goal; but woeto those who stood in my pathway!”
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“Enough,” said Mercédès; “enough, Edmond! Believe me, that she who alonerecognized you has been the only one to comprehend you; and had shecrossed your path, and you had crushed her like glass, still, Edmond,still she must have admired you! Like the gulf between me and the past,there is an abyss between you, Edmond, and the rest of mankind; and Itell you freely that the comparison I draw between you and other menwill ever be one of my greatest tortures. No, there is nothing in theworld to resemble you in worth and goodness! But we must say farewell,Edmond, and let us part.”
“Before I leave you, Mercédès, have you no request to make?” said thecount.
“I desire but one thing in this world, Edmond,—the happiness of my son.”
“Pray to the Almighty to spare his life, and I will take upon myself topromote his happiness.”
“Thank you, Edmond.”
“But have you no request to make for yourself, Mercédès?”
“For myself I want nothing. I live, as it were, between two graves. Oneis that of Edmond Dantès, lost to me long, long since. He had my love!That word ill becomes my faded lip now, but it is a memory dear to myheart, and one that I would not lose for all that the world contains.The other grave is that of the man who met his death from the hand ofEdmond Dantès. I approve of the deed, but I must pray for the dead.”
“Your son shall be happy, Mercédès,” repeated the count.
“Then I shall enjoy as much happiness as this world can possiblyconfer.”
“But what are your intentions?”
Mercédès smiled sadly.
“To say that I shall live here, like the Mercédès of other times,gaining my bread by labor, would not be true, nor would you believe me.I have no longer the strength to do anything but to spend my days inprayer. However, I shall have no occasion to work, for the little sum ofmoney buried by you, and which I found in the place you mentioned, willbe sufficient to maintain me. Rumor will probably be busy respecting me,my occupations, my manner of living—that will signify but little, thatconcerns God, you, and myself.”
“Mercédès,” said the count, “I do not say it to blame you, but you madean unnecessary sacrifice in relinquishing the whole of the fortuneamassed by M. de Morcerf; half of it at least by right belonged to you,in virtue of your vigilance and economy.”
“I perceive what you are intending to propose to me; but I cannot acceptit, Edmond—my son would not permit it.”
“Nothing shall be done without the full approbation of Albert deMorcerf. I will make myself acquainted with his intentions and willsubmit to them. But if he be willing to accept my offers, will youoppose them?”
“You well know, Edmond, that I am no longer a reasoning creature; I haveno will, unless it be the will never to decide. I have been sooverwhelmed by the many storms that have broken over my head, that I ambecome passive in the hands of the Almighty, like a sparrow in thetalons of an eagle. I live, because it is not ordained for me to die. Ifsuccor be sent to me, I will accept it.”
“Ah, madame,” said Monte Cristo, “you should not talk thus! It is not sowe should evince our resignation to the will of heaven; on the contrary,we are all free agents.”
“Alas!” exclaimed Mercédès, “if it were so, if I possessed free-will,but without the power to render that will efficacious, it would drive meto despair.”
Monte Cristo dropped his head and shrank from the vehemence of hergrief.
“Will you not even say you will see me again?” he asked.
“On the contrary, we shall meet again,” said Mercédès, pointing toheaven with solemnity. “I tell you so to prove to you that I stillhope.”
And after pressing her own trembling hand upon that of the count,Mercédès rushed up the stairs and disappeared. Monte Cristo slowly leftthe house and turned towards the quay. But Mercédès did not witness hisdeparture, although she was seated at the little window of the roomwhich had been occupied by old Dantès. Her eyes were straining to seethe ship which was carrying her son over the vast sea; but still hervoice involuntarily murmured softly:
“Edmond, Edmond, Edmond!”