Chapter 92. The Suicide
Meanwhile Monte Cristo had also returned to town with Emmanuel andMaximilian. Their return was cheerful. Emmanuel did not conceal his joyat the peaceful termination of the affair, and was loud in hisexpressions of delight. Morrel, in a corner of the carriage, allowed hisbrother-in-law’s gayety to expend itself in words, while he felt equalinward joy, which, however, betrayed itself only in his countenance.
At the Barrière du Trône they met Bertuccio, who was waiting there,motionless as a sentinel at his post. Monte Cristo put his head out ofthe window, exchanged a few words with him in a low tone, and thesteward disappeared.
“Count,” said Emmanuel, when they were at the end of the Place Royale,“put me down at my door, that my wife may not have a single moment ofneedless anxiety on my account or yours.”
“If it were not ridiculous to make a display of our triumph, saidMorrel, I would invite the count to our house; besides that, hedoubtless has some trembling heart to comfort. So we will take leave ofour friend, and let him hasten home.”
“Stop a moment,” said Monte Cristo; “do not let me lose both mycompanions. Return, Emmanuel, to your charming wife, and present my bestcompliments to her; and do you, Morrel, accompany me to the Champs-Élysées.”
“Willingly,” said Maximilian; “particularly as I have business in thatquarter.”
“Shall we wait breakfast for you?” asked Emmanuel.
“No,” replied the young man. The door was closed, and the carriageproceeded. “See what good fortune I brought you!” said Morrel, when hewas alone with the count. “Have you not thought so?”
“Yes,” said Monte Cristo; “for that reason I wished to keep you nearme.”
“It is miraculous!” continued Morrel, answering his own thoughts.
“What?” said Monte Cristo.
“What has just happened.”
“Yes,” said the Count, “you are right—it is miraculous.”
“For Albert is brave,” resumed Morrel.
“Very brave,” said Monte Cristo; “I have seen him sleep with a swordsuspended over his head.”
“And I know he has fought two duels,” said Morrel. “How can youreconcile that with his conduct this morning?”
“All owing to your influence,” replied Monte Cristo, smiling.
“It is well for Albert he is not in the army,” said Morrel.
“Why?”
“An apology on the ground!” said the young captain, shaking his head.
“Come,” said the count mildly, “do not entertain the prejudices ofordinary men, Morrel! Acknowledge, that if Albert is brave, he cannot bea coward; he must then have had some reason for acting as he did thismorning, and confess that his conduct is more heroic than otherwise.”
“Doubtless, doubtless,” said Morrel; “but I shall say, like theSpaniard, ‘He has not been so brave today as he was yesterday.’”
“You will breakfast with me, will you not, Morrel?” said the count, toturn the conversation.
“No; I must leave you at ten o’clock.”
“Your engagement was for breakfast, then?” said the count.
Morrel smiled, and shook his head.
“Still you must breakfast somewhere.”
“But if I am not hungry?” said the young man.
“Oh,” said the count, “I only know two things which destroy theappetite,—grief—and as I am happy to see you very cheerful, it is notthat—and love. Now after what you told me this morning of your heart, Imay believe——”
“Well, count,” replied Morrel gayly, “I will not dispute it.”
“But you will not make me your confidant, Maximilian?” said the count,in a tone which showed how gladly he would have been admitted to thesecret.
“I showed you this morning that I had a heart, did I not, count?” MonteCristo only answered by extending his hand to the young man. “Well,”continued the latter, “since that heart is no longer with you in theBois de Vincennes, it is elsewhere, and I must go and find it.”
“Go,” said the count deliberately; “go, dear friend, but promise me ifyou meet with any obstacle to remember that I have some power in thisworld, that I am happy to use that power in the behalf of those I love,and that I love you, Morrel.”
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“I will remember it,” said the young man, “as selfish children recollecttheir parents when they want their aid. When I need your assistance, andthe moment arrives, I will come to you, count.”
“Well, I rely upon your promise. Good-bye, then.”
“Good-bye, till we meet again.”
They had arrived in the Champs-Élysées. Monte Cristo opened thecarriage-door, Morrel sprang out on the pavement, Bertuccio was waitingon the steps. Morrel disappeared down the Avenue de Marigny, and MonteCristo hastened to join Bertuccio.
“Well?” asked he.
“She is going to leave her house,” said the steward.
“And her son?”
“Florentin, his valet, thinks he is going to do the same.”
“Come this way.” Monte Cristo took Bertuccio into his study, wrote theletter we have seen, and gave it to the steward. “Go,” said he quickly.“But first, let Haydée be informed that I have returned.”
“Here I am,” said the young girl, who at the sound of the carriage hadrun downstairs and whose face was radiant with joy at seeing the countreturn safely. Bertuccio left. Every transport of a daughter finding afather, all the delight of a mistress seeing an adored lover, were feltby Haydée during the first moments of this meeting, which she had soeagerly expected. Doubtless, although less evident, Monte Cristo’s joywas not less intense. Joy to hearts which have suffered long is like thedew on the ground after a long drought; both the heart and the groundabsorb that beneficent moisture falling on them, and nothing isoutwardly apparent.
Monte Cristo was beginning to think, what he had not for a long timedared to believe, that there were two Mercédès in the world, and hemight yet be happy. His eye, elate with happiness, was reading eagerlythe tearful gaze of Haydée, when suddenly the door opened. The countknit his brow.
“M. de Morcerf!” said Baptistin, as if that name sufficed for hisexcuse. In fact, the count’s face brightened.
“Which,” asked he, “the viscount or the count?”
“The count.”
“Oh,” exclaimed Haydée, “is it not yet over?”
“I know not if it is finished, my beloved child,” said Monte Cristo,taking the young girl’s hands; “but I do know you have nothing more tofear.”
“But it is the wretched——”
“That man cannot injure me, Haydée,” said Monte Cristo; “it was his sonalone that there was cause to fear.”
“And what I have suffered,” said the young girl, “you shall never know,my lord.”
Monte Cristo smiled. “By my father’s tomb,” said he, extending his handover the head of the young girl, “I swear to you, Haydée, that if anymisfortune happens, it will not be to me.”
“I believe you, my lord, as implicitly as if God had spoken to me,” saidthe young girl, presenting her forehead to him. Monte Cristo pressed onthat pure beautiful forehead a kiss which made two hearts throb at once,the one violently, the other secretly.
“Oh,” murmured the count, “shall I then be permitted to love again? AskM. de Morcerf into the drawing-room,” said he to Baptistin, while he ledthe beautiful Greek girl to a private staircase.
We must explain this visit, which although expected by Monte Cristo, isunexpected to our readers. While Mercédès, as we have said, was making asimilar inventory of her property to Albert’s, while she was arrangingher jewels, shutting her drawers, collecting her keys, to leaveeverything in perfect order, she did not perceive a pale and sinisterface at a glass door which threw light into the passage, from whicheverything could be both seen and heard. He who was thus looking,without being heard or seen, probably heard and saw all that passed inMadame de Morcerf’s apartments. From that
glass door the pale-faced manwent to the count’s bedroom and raised with a constricted hand thecurtain of a window overlooking the courtyard. He remained there tenminutes, motionless and dumb, listening to the beating of his own heart.For him those ten minutes were very long. It was then Albert, returningfrom his meeting with the count, perceived his father watching for hisarrival behind a curtain, and turned aside. The count’s eye expanded; heknew Albert had insulted the count dreadfully, and that in every countryin the world such an insult would lead to a deadly duel. Albert returnedsafely—then the count was revenged.
An indescribable ray of joy illumined that wretched countenance like thelast ray of the sun before it disappears behind the clouds which bearthe aspect, not of a downy couch, but of a tomb. But as we have said, hewaited in vain for his son to come to his apartment with the account ofhis triumph. He easily understood why his son did not come to see himbefore he went to avenge his father’s honor; but when that was done, whydid not his son come and throw himself into his arms?
It was then, when the count could not see Albert, that he sent for hisservant, who he knew was authorized not to conceal anything from him.Ten minutes afterwards, General Morcerf was seen on the steps in a blackcoat with a military collar, black pantaloons, and black gloves. He hadapparently given previous orders, for as he reached the bottom step hiscarriage came from the coach-house ready for him. The valet threw intothe carriage his military cloak, in which two swords were wrapped, and,shutting the door, he took his seat by the side of the coachman. Thecoachman stooped down for his orders.
“To the Champs-Élysées,” said the general; “the Count of Monte Cristo’s.Hurry!”
The horses bounded beneath the whip; and in five minutes they stoppedbefore the count’s door. M. de Morcerf opened the door himself, and asthe carriage rolled away he passed up the walk, rang, and entered theopen door with his servant.
A moment afterwards, Baptistin announced the Count of Morcerf to MonteCristo, and the latter, leading Haydée aside, ordered that Morcerf beasked into the drawing-room. The general was pacing the room the thirdtime when, in turning, he perceived Monte Cristo at the door.
“Ah, it is M. de Morcerf,” said Monte Cristo quietly; “I thought I hadnot heard aright.”
“Yes, it is I,” said the count, whom a frightful contraction of the lipsprevented from articulating freely.
“May I know the cause which procures me the pleasure of seeing M. deMorcerf so early?”
“Had you not a meeting with my son this morning?” asked the general.
“I had,” replied the count.
“And I know my son had good reasons to wish to fight with you, and toendeavor to kill you.”
“Yes, sir, he had very good ones; but you see that in spite of them hehas not killed me, and did not even fight.”
“Yet he considered you the cause of his father’s dishonor, the cause ofthe fearful ruin which has fallen on my house.”
“It is true, sir,” said Monte Cristo with his dreadful calmness; “asecondary cause, but not the principal.”
“Doubtless you made, then, some apology or explanation?”
“I explained nothing, and it is he who apologized to me.”
“But to what do you attribute this conduct?”
“To the conviction, probably, that there was one more guilty than I.”
“And who was that?”
“His father.”
“That may be,” said the count, turning pale; “but you know the guilty donot like to find themselves convicted.”
“I know it, and I expected this result.”
“You expected my son would be a coward?” cried the count.
“M. Albert de Morcerf is no coward!” said Monte Cristo.
“A man who holds a sword in his hand, and sees a mortal enemy withinreach of that sword, and does not fight, is a coward! Why is he not herethat I may tell him so?”
“Sir,” replied Monte Cristo coldly, “I did not expect that you had comehere to relate to me your little family affairs. Go and tell M. Albertthat, and he may know what to answer you.”
“Oh, no, no,” said the general, smiling faintly, “I did not come forthat purpose; you are right. I came to tell you that I also look uponyou as my enemy. I came to tell you that I hate you instinctively; thatit seems as if I had always known you, and always hated you; and, inshort, since the young people of the present day will not fight, itremains for us to do so. Do you think so, sir?”
“Certainly. And when I told you I had foreseen the result, it is thehonor of your visit I alluded to.”
“So much the better. Are you prepared?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You know that we shall fight till one of us is dead,” said the general,whose teeth were clenched with rage.
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“Until one of us dies,” repeated Monte Cristo, moving his head slightlyup and down.
“Let us start, then; we need no witnesses.”
“Very true,” said Monte Cristo; “it is unnecessary, we know each otherso well!”
“On the contrary,” said the count, “we know so little of each other.”
“Indeed?” said Monte Cristo, with the same indomitable coolness; “let ussee. Are you not the soldier Fernand who deserted on the eve of thebattle of Waterloo? Are you not the Lieutenant Fernand who served asguide and spy to the French army in Spain? Are you not the CaptainFernand who betrayed, sold, and murdered his benefactor, Ali? And havenot all these Fernands, united, made Lieutenant-General, the Count ofMorcerf, peer of France?”
“Oh,” cried the general, as if branded with a hot iron, “wretch,—toreproach me with my shame when about, perhaps, to kill me! No, I did notsay I was a stranger to you. I know well, demon, that you havepenetrated into the darkness of the past, and that you have read, by thelight of what torch I know not, every page of my life; but perhaps I maybe more honorable in my shame than you under your pompous coverings.No—no, I am aware you know me; but I know you only as an adventurer sewnup in gold and jewellery. You call yourself, in Paris, the Count ofMonte Cristo; in Italy, Sinbad the Sailor; in Malta, I forget what. Butit is your real name I want to know, in the midst of your hundred names,that I may pronounce it when we meet to fight, at the moment when Iplunge my sword through your heart.”
The Count of Monte Cristo turned dreadfully pale; his eye seemed to burnwith a devouring fire. He leaped towards a dressing-room near hisbedroom, and in less than a moment, tearing off his cravat, his coat andwaistcoat, he put on a sailor’s jacket and hat, from beneath whichrolled his long black hair. He returned thus, formidable and implacable,advancing with his arms crossed on his breast, towards the general, whocould not understand why he had disappeared, but who on seeing himagain, and feeling his teeth chatter and his legs sink under him, drewback, and only stopped when he found a table to support his clenchedhand.
“Fernand,” cried he, “of my hundred names I need only tell you one, tooverwhelm you! But you guess it now, do you not?—or, rather, youremember it? For, notwithstanding all my sorrows and my tortures, I showyou today a face which the happiness of revenge makes young again—a faceyou must often have seen in your dreams since your marriage withMercédès, my betrothed!”
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The general, with his head thrown back, hands extended, gaze fixed,looked silently at this dreadful apparition; then seeking the wall tosupport him, he glided along close to it until he reached the door,through which he went out backwards, uttering this single mournful,lamentable, distressing cry:
“Edmond Dantès!”
Then, with sighs which were unlike any human sound, he dragged himselfto the door, reeled across the courtyard, and falling into the arms ofhis valet, he said in a voice scarcely intelligible,—“Home, home.”
The fresh air and the shame he felt at having exposed himself before hisservants, partly recalled his senses, but the ride was short, and as hedrew near his house all his wretchedness revived. He stopped at a shortdistance from the ho
use and alighted. The door was wide open, a hackney-coach was standing in the middle of the yard—a strange sight before sonoble a mansion; the count looked at it with terror, but without daringto inquire its meaning, he rushed towards his apartment.
Two persons were coming down the stairs; he had only time to creep intoan alcove to avoid them. It was Mercédès leaning on her son’s arm andleaving the house. They passed close by the unhappy being, who,concealed behind the damask curtain, almost felt Mercédès dress brushpast him, and his son’s warm breath, pronouncing these words:
“Courage, mother! Come, this is no longer our home!”
The words died away, the steps were lost in the distance. The generaldrew himself up, clinging to the curtain; he uttered the most dreadfulsob which ever escaped from the bosom of a father abandoned at the sametime by his wife and son. He soon heard the clatter of the iron step ofthe hackney-coach, then the coachman’s voice, and then the rolling ofthe heavy vehicle shook the windows. He darted to his bedroom to seeonce more all he had loved in the world; but the hackney-coach drove onand the head of neither Mercédès nor her son appeared at the window totake a last look at the house or the deserted father and husband.
And at the very moment when the wheels of that coach crossed the gatewaya report was heard, and a thick smoke escaped through one of the panesof the window, which was broken by the explosion.
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