_ Meanwhile Monte Cristo had also returned to town with
Emmanuel and Maximilian. Their return was cheerful. Emmanuel
did not conceal his joy at the peaceful termination of the
affair, and was loud in his expressions of delight. Morrel,
in a corner of the carriage, allowed his brother-in-law's
gayety to expend itself in words, while he felt equal inward
joy, which, however, betrayed itself only in his
countenance. At the Barriere du Trone they met Bertuccio,
who was waiting there, motionless as a sentinel at his post.
Monte Cristo put his head out of the window, exchanged a few
words with him in a low tone, and the steward 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 of needless anxiety on my account or
yours."
"If it were not ridiculous to make a display of our triumph,
I would invite the count to our house; besides that, he
doubtless has some trembling heart to comfort. So we will
take leave of our friend, and let him hasten home."
"Stop a moment," said Monte Cristo; "do not let me lose both
my companions. Return, Emmanuel, to your charming wife, and
present my best compliments to her; and do you, Morrel,
accompany me to the Champs Elysees."
"Willingly," said Maximilian; "particularly as I have
business in that quarter."
"Shall we wait breakfast for you?" asked Emmanuel.
"No," replied the young man. The door was closed, and the
carriage proceeded. "See what good fortune I brought you!"
said Morrel, when he was alone with the count. "Have you not
thought so?"
"Yes," said Monte Cristo; "for that reason I wished to keep
you near me."
"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 sword suspended over his head."
"And I know he has fought two duels," said Morrel. "How can
you reconcile 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 of ordinary men, Morrel! Acknowledge, that if
Albert is brave, he cannot be a coward; he must then have
had some reason for acting as he did this morning, and
confess that his conduct is more heroic than otherwise."
"Doubtless, doubtless," said Morrel; "but I shall say, like
the Spaniard, `He has not been so brave to-day as he was
yesterday.'"
"You will breakfast with me, will you not, Morrel?" said the
count, to turn 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
the appetite, -- grief -- and as I am happy to see you very
cheerful, it is not that -- and love. Now after what you
told me this morning of your heart, I may 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 the secret.
"I showed you this morning that I had a heart, did I not,
count?" Monte Cristo only answered by extending his hand to
the young man. "Well," continued the latter, "since that
heart is no longer with you in the Bois de Vincennes, it is
elsewhere, and I must go and find it."
"Go," said the count deliberately; "go, dear friend, but
promise me if you meet with any obstacle to remember that I
have some power in this world, that I am happy to use that
power in the behalf of those I love, and that I love you,
Morrel."
"I will remember it," said the young man, "as selfish
children recollect their parents when they want their aid.
When I need your assistance, and the moment arrives, I will
come to you, count."
"Well, I rely upon your promise. Good-by, then."
"Good-by, till we meet again." They had arrived in the
Champs Elysees. Monte Cristo opened the carriage-door,
Morrel sprang out on the pavement, Bertuccio was waiting on
the steps. Morrel disappeared down the Avenue de Marigny,
and Monte Cristo 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 the letter we have seen, and gave it to the steward.
"Go," said he quickly. "But first, let Haidee be informed
that I have returned."
"Here I am," said the young girl, who at the sound of the
carriage had run down-stairs and whose face was radiant with
joy at seeing the count return safely. Bertuccio left. Every
transport of a daughter finding a father, all the delight of
a mistress seeing an adored lover, were felt by Haidee
during the first moments of this meeting, which she had so
eagerly expected. Doubtless, although less evident, Monte
Cristo's joy was not less intense. Joy to hearts which have
suffered long is like the dew on the ground after a long
drought; both the heart and the ground absorb that
benificent moisture falling on them, and nothing is
outwardly apparent.
Monte Cristo was beginning to think, what he had not for a
long time dared to believe, that there were two Mercedes in
the world, and he might yet be happy. His eye, elate with
happiness, was reading eagerly the tearful gaze of Haidee,
when suddenly the door opened. The count knit his brow. "M.
de Morcerf!" said Baptistin, as if that name sufficed for
his excuse. In fact, the count's face brightened.
"Which," asked he, "the viscount or the count?"
"The count."
"Oh," exclaimed Haidee, "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 to fear."
"But it is the wretched" --
"That man cannot injure me, Haidee," said Monte Cristo; "it
was his son alone 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 hand over the head of the
young girl, "I swear to you, Haidee, that if any misfortune
happens, it will not be to me."
"I believe you, my lord, as implicitly as if God had spoken
to me," said the young girl, presenting her forehead to him.
Monte Cristo pressed on that pure beautiful forehead a kiss
which made two hearts throb at once, the one violently, the
other heavily. "Oh," murmured the count, "shall I then be
permitted to love again? Ask M. de Morcerf into the
drawing-room," said he to Baptistin, while he led the
beautiful Greek girl to a private staircase.
We must explain this visit, which although expected by Monte
Cristo, is unexpected to our readers. While Mercedes, as we
have said, was making a similar inventory of her property to
Albert's, while she was arranging her jewels, shutting her
drawers, collecting her keys, to leave everything in perfect
order, she did not perceive a pale and sinister face at a
glass door which threw light into the passage, from which
everything could be both seen and heard. He who was thus
looking, without being heard or seen, probably heard and saw
all that passed in Madame de Morcerf's apartments. From that
glass door the pale-faced man went to the count's bedroom
and raised with a constricted hand the curtain of a window
overlooking the court-yard. He remained there ten minutes,
motionless and dumb, listening to the beating of his own
heart. For him those ten minutes were very long. It was then
Albert, returning from his meeting with the count, perceived
his father watching for his arrival behind a curtain, and
turned aside. The count's eye expanded; he knew Albert had
insulted the count dreadfully, and that in every country in
the world such an insult would lead to a deadly duel. Albert
returned safely -- then the count was revenged.
An indescribable ray of joy illumined that wretched
countenance like the last ray of the sun before it
disappears behind the clouds which bear the aspect, not of a
downy couch, but of a tomb. But as we have said, he waited
in vain for his son to come to his apartment with the
account of his triumph. He easily understood why his son did
not come to see him before he went to avenge his father's
honor; but when that was done, why did not his son come and
throw himself into his arms?
It was then, when the count could not see Albert, that he
sent for his servant, who he knew was authorized not to
conceal anything from him. Ten minutes afterwards, General
Morcerf was seen on the steps in a black coat with a
military collar, black pantaloons, and black gloves. He had
apparently given previous orders, for as he reached the
bottom step his carriage came from the coach-house ready for
him. The valet threw into the carriage his military cloak,
in which two swords were wrapped, and, shutting the door, he
took his seat by the side of the coachman. The coachman
stooped down for his orders.
"To the Champs Elysees," said the general; "the Count of
Monte Cristo's. Hurry!" The horses bounded beneath the whip;
and in five minutes they stopped before the count's door. M.
de Morcerf opened the door himself, and as the carriage
rolled away he passed up the walk, rang, and entered the
open door with his servant.
A moment afterwards, Baptistin announced the Count of
Morcerf to Monte Cristo, and the latter, leading Haidee
aside, ordered that Morcerf be asked into the drawing-room.
The general was pacing the room the third time when, in
turning, he perceived Monte Cristo at the door. "Ah, it is
M. de Morcerf," said Monte Cristo quietly; "I thought I had
not heard aright."
"Yes, it is I," said the count, whom a frightful contraction
of the lips prevented from articulating freely.
"May I know the cause which procures me the pleasure of
seeing M. de Morcerf 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 to endeavor to kill you."
"Yes, sir, he had very good ones; but you see that in spite
of them he has not killed me, and did not even fight."
"Yet he considered you the cause of his father's dishonor,
the cause of the fearful ruin which has fallen on my house."
"It is true, sir," said Monte Cristo with his dreadful
calmness; "a secondary 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 do not 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 within reach of that sword, and does not fight, is a
coward! Why is he not here that I may tell him so?"
"Sir." replied Monte Cristo coldly, "I did not expect that
you had come here to relate to me your little family
affairs. Go and tell M. Albert that, and he may know what to
answer you."
"Oh, no, no," said the general, smiling faintly, "I did not
come for that purpose; you are right. I came to tell you
that I also look upon you as my enemy. I came to tell you
that I hate you instinctively; that it seems as if I had
always known you, and always hated you; and, in short, since
the young people of the present day will not fight, it
remains for us to do so. Do you think so, sir?"
"Certainly. And when I told you I had foreseen the result,
it is the honor 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 clinched with rage. "Until one
of us dies," repeated Monte Cristo, moving his head slightly
up and down.
"Let us start, then; we need no witnesses."
"Very true," said Monte Cristo; "it is unnecessary, we know
each other so well!"
"On the contrary," said the count, "we know so little of
each other."
"Indeed?" said Monte Cristo, with the same indomitable
coolness; "let us see. Are you not the soldier Fernand who
deserted on the eve of the battle of Waterloo? Are you not
the Lieutenant Fernand who served as guide and spy to the
French army in Spain? Are you not the Captain Fernand who
betrayed, sold, and murdered his benefactor, Ali? And have
not all these Fernands, united, made Lieutenant-General, the
Count of Morcerf, peer of France?"
"Oh," cried the general, as it branded with a hot iron,
"wretch, -- to reproach me with my shame when about,
perhaps, to kill me! No, I did not say I was a stranger to
you. I know well, demon, that you have penetrated into the
darkness of the past, and that you have read, by the light
of what torch I know not, every page of my life; but perhaps
I may be 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 sewn up in gold and
jewellery. You call yourself in Paris the Count of Monte
Cristo; in Italy, Sinbad the Sailor; in Malta, I forget
what. But it 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 I plunge my sword through your
heart."
The Count of Monte Cristo turned dreadfully pale; his eye
seemed to burn with a devouring fire. He leaped towards a
dressing-room near his bedroom, and in less than a moment,
tearing off his cravat, his coat and waistcoat, he put on a
sailor's jacket and hat, from beneath which rolled his long
black hair. He returned thus, formidable and implacable,
advancing with his arms crossed on his breast, towards the
general, who could not understand why he had disappeared,
but who on seeing him again, and feeling his teeth chatter
and his legs sink under him, drew back, and only stopped
when he found a table to support his clinched hand.
"Fernand," cried he, "of my hundred names I need only tell
you one, to overwhelm you! But you guess it now, do you not?
-- or, rather, you remember it? For, notwithstanding all my
sorrows and my tortures, I show you to-day a face which the
happiness of revenge makes young again -- a face you must
often have seen in your dreams since your marriage with
Mercedes, my betrothed!"
The general, with his head thrown back, hands extended, gaze
fixed, looked silently at this dreadful apparition; then
seeking the wall to support 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 Dantes!" Then, with sighs which
were unlike any human sound, he dragged himself to the door,
reeled across the court-yard, and falling into the arms of
his valet, he said in a voice scarcely intelligible, --
"Home, home." The fresh air and the shame he felt at having
exposed himself before his servants, partly recalled his
senses, but the ride was short, and as he drew near his
house all his wretchedness revived. He stopped at a short
distance from the house and alighted.
The door was wide open, a hackney-coach was standing in the
middle of the yard -- a strange sight before so noble a
mansion; the count looked at it with terror, but without
daring to inquire its meaning, he rushed towards his
apartment. Two persons were coming down the stairs; he had
only time to creep into an alcove to avoid them. It was
Mercedes leaning on her son's arm and leaving the house.
They passed close by the unhappy being, who, concealed
behind the damask curtain, almost felt Mercedes dress brush
past 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 general drew himself up, clinging to the
curtain; he uttered the most dreadful sob which ever escaped
from the bosom of a father abandoned at the same time by his
wife and son. He soon heard the clatter of the iron step of
the hackney-coach, then the coachman's voice, and then the
rolling of the heavy vehicle shook the windows. He darted to
his bedroom to see once more all he had loved in the world;
but the hackney-coach drove on and the head of neither
Mercedes nor her son appeared at the window to take 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
gateway a report was heard, and a thick smoke escaped
through one of the panes of the window, which was broken by
the explosion. _