English
MonteCristowaited,accordingtohisusualcustom,untilDuprezhadsunghisfamous“Suivez–moi;”thenheroseandwentout.
Morreltookleaveofhimatthedoor,renewinghispromisetobewithhimthenextmorningatseveno’clock,andtobringEmmanuel.
Thenhesteppedintohiscoupe,calmandsmiling,andwasathomeinfiveminutes.
Noonewhoknewthecountcouldmistakehisexpressionwhen,onentering,hesaid,“Ali,bringmemypistolswiththeivorycross.”
Alibroughttheboxtohismaster,whoexaminedtheweaponswithasolicitudeverynaturaltoamanwhoisabouttointrusthislifetoalittlepowderandshot.
Thesewerepistolsofanespecialpattern,whichMonteCristohadhadmadefortargetpracticeinhisownroom.
Acapwassufficienttodriveoutthebullet,andfromtheadjoiningroomnoonewouldhavesuspectedthatthecountwas,assportsmenwouldsay,keepinghishandin.
Hewasjusttakingoneupandlookingforthepointtoaimatonalittleironplatewhichservedhimasatarget,whenhisstudydooropened,andBaptistinentered.
Beforehehadspokenaword,thecountsawinthenextroomaveiledwoman,whohadfollowedcloselyafterBaptistin,andnow,seeingthecountwithapistolinhishandandswordsonthetable,rushedin.
Baptistinlookedathismaster,whomadeasigntohim,andhewentout,closingthedoorafterhim.“Whoareyou,madame?”saidthecounttotheveiledwoman.
Thestrangercastonelookaroundher,tobecertainthattheywerequitealone;thenbendingasifshewouldhaveknelt,andjoiningherhands,shesaidwithanaccentofdespair,“Edmond,youwillnotkillmyson?”
Thecountretreatedastep,utteredaslightexclamation,andletfallthepistolheheld.
“Whatnamedidyoupronouncethen,MadamedeMorcerf?”saidhe.“Yours!”
criedshe,throwingbackherveil,—”yours,whichIalone,perhaps,havenotforgotten.
Edmond,itisnotMadamedeMorcerfwhoiscometoyou,itisMercedes.”
“Mercedesisdead,madame,”saidMonteCristo;“Iknownoonenowofthatname.”
“Mercedeslives,sir,andsheremembers,forshealonerecognizedyouwhenshesawyou,andevenbeforeshesawyou,byyourvoice,Edmond,—bythesimplesoundofyourvoice;andfromthatmomentshehasfollowedyoursteps,watchedyou,fearedyou,andsheneedsnottoinquirewhathandhasdealttheblowwhichnowstrikesM.deMorcerf.”
“Fernand,doyoumean?”repliedMonteCristo,withbitterirony;“sincewearerecallingnames,letusrememberthemall.”
MonteCristohadpronouncedthenameofFernandwithsuchanexpressionofhatredthatMercedesfeltathrillofhorrorrunthrougheveryvein.
“Yousee,Edmond,Iamnotmistaken,andhavecausetosay,‘Sparemyson!’”
“Andwhotoldyou,madame,thatIhaveanyhostileintentionsagainstyourson?”
“Noone,intruth;butamotherhastwofoldsight.Iguessedall;Ifollowedhimthiseveningtotheopera,and,concealedinaparquetbox,haveseenall.”
“Ifyouhaveseenall,madame,youknowthatthesonofFernandhaspubliclyinsultedme,”saidMonteCristowithawfulcalmness.
“Oh,forpity’ssake!”
“YouhaveseenthathewouldhavethrownhisgloveinmyfaceifMorrel,oneofmyfriends,hadnotstoppedhim.”
“Listentome,mysonhasalsoguessedwhoyouare,—heattributeshisfather’smisfortunestoyou.”
“Madame,youaremistaken,theyarenotmisfortunes,—itisapunishment.ItisnotIwhostrikeM.deMorcerf;itisprovidencewhichpunisheshim.”
“Andwhydoyourepresentprovidence?”criedMercedes.“Whydoyourememberwhenitforgets?
WhatareYaninaanditsviziertoyou,Edmond?
WhatinjuryhisFernandMondegodoneyouinbetrayingAliTepelini?”
“Ah,madame,”repliedMonteCristo,“allthisisanaffairbetweentheFrenchcaptainandthedaughterofVasiliki.
Itdoesnotconcernme,youareright;andifIhavesworntorevengemyself,itisnotontheFrenchcaptain,ortheCountofMorcerf,butonthefishermanFernand,thehusbandofMercedestheCatalane.”
“Ah,sir!”criedthecountess,“howterribleavengeanceforafaultwhichfatalitymademecommit!
—forIamtheonlyculprit,Edmond,andifyouowerevengetoanyone,itistome,whohadnotfortitudetobearyourabsenceandmysolitude.”
“But,”exclaimedMonteCristo,“whywasIabsent?Andwhywereyoualone?”
“Becauseyouhadbeenarrested,Edmond,andwereaprisoner.”
“AndwhywasIarrested?WhywasIaprisoner?”
“Idonotknow,”saidMercedes.“Youdonot,madame;atleast,Ihopenot.ButIwilltellyou.
Iwasarrestedandbecameaprisonerbecause,underthearborofLaReserve,thedaybeforeIwastomarryyou,amannamedDanglarswrotethisletter,whichthefishermanFernandhimselfposted.”
MonteCristowenttoasecretary,openedadrawerbyaspring,fromwhichhetookapaperwhichhadlostitsoriginalcolor,andtheinkofwhichhadbecomeofarustyhue—thisheplacedinthehandsofMercedes.
ItwasDanglars’lettertotheking’sattorney,whichtheCountofMonteCristo,disguisedasaclerkfromthehouseofThomson&French,hadtakenfromthefileagainstEdmondDantes,onthedayhehadpaidthetwohundredthousandfrancstoM.deBoville.
Mercedesreadwithterrorthefollowinglines:—
“Theking’sattorneyisinformedbyafriendtothethroneandreligionthatoneEdmondDantes,secondincommandonboardthePharaon,thisdayarrivedfromSmyrna,afterhavingtouchedatNaplesandPorto–Ferrajo,isthebearerofaletterfromMurattotheusurper,andofanotherletterfromtheusurpertotheBonapartistclubinParis.
Amplecorroborationofthisstatementmaybeobtainedbyarrestingtheabove–mentionedEdmondDantes,whoeithercarriestheletterforParisaboutwithhim,orhasitathisfather’sabode.
Shoulditnotbefoundinpossessionofeitherfatherorson,thenitwillassuredlybediscoveredinthecabinbelongingtothesaidDantesonboardthePharaon.”
“Howdreadful!”saidMercedes,passingherhandacrossherbrow,moistwithperspiration;“andthatletter”—
“Iboughtitfortwohundredthousandfrancs,madame,”saidMonteCristo;“butthatisatrifle,sinceitenablesmetojustifymyselftoyou.”
“Andtheresultofthatletter”—
“Youwellknow,madame,wasmyarrest;butyoudonotknowhowlongthatarrestlasted.
YoudonotknowthatIremainedforfourteenyearswithinaquarterofaleagueofyou,inadungeonintheChateaud’If.
YoudonotknowthateverydayofthosefourteenyearsIrenewedthevowofvengeancewhichIhadmadethefirstday;andyetIwasnotawarethatyouhadmarriedFernand,mycalumniator,andthatmyfatherhaddiedofhunger!”
“Canitbe?”criedMercedes,shuddering.
“ThatiswhatIheardonleavingmyprisonfourteenyearsafterIhadenteredit;andthatiswhy,onaccountofthelivingMercedesandmydeceasedfather,IhavesworntorevengemyselfonFernand,and—Ihaverevengedmyself.”
“AndyouaresuretheunhappyFernanddidthat?”
“Iamsatisfied,madame,thathedidwhatIhavetoldyou;besides,thatisnotmuchmoreodiousthanthataFrenchmanbyadoptionshouldpassovertotheEnglish;thataSpaniardbybirthshouldhavefoughtagainsttheSpaniards;thatastipendiaryofAlishouldhavebetrayedandmurderedAli.
Comparedwithsuchthings,whatistheletteryouhavejustread?
—alover’sdeception,whichthewomanwhohasmarriedthatmanoughtcertainlytoforgive;butnotsotheloverwhowastohavemarriedher.
Well,theFrenchdidnotavengethemselvesonthetraitor,theSpaniardsdidnotshootthetraitor,Aliinhistombleftthetraitorunpunished;butI,betrayed,sacrificed,buried,haverisenfrommytomb,bythegraceofGod,topunishthatman.
Hesendsmeforthatpurpose,andhereIam.”
Thepoorwoman’sheadandarmsfell;herlegsbentunderher,andshefellonherknees.
“Forgive,Edmond,forgiveformysake,wholoveyoustill!”
Thedignityofthewifecheckedthefervoroftheloverandthemother.
Herforeheadalmosttouchedthecarpet,whenthecountsprangforwardandraisedher.
Thenseatedonachair,shelookedatthemanlycountenanceofMonteCristo,onwhichgriefandhatredstillimpressedathreateningexpression.“Notcrushthataccursedrace?”
murmuredhe;“abandonmypurposeatthemomentofitsaccomplishment?Impossible,madame,impossible!”
“Edmond,”saidthepoormother,whotriedeverymeans,“whenIcallyouEdmond,whydoyounotcallmeMercedes?”
“Mercedes!”repeatedMonteCristo;“Mercedes!
Wellyes,youareright;thatnamehasstillitscharms,andthisisthefirsttimeforalongperiodthatIhavepronounceditsodistinctly.
Oh,Mercedes,Ihaveutteredyournamewiththesighofmelancholy,withthegroanofsorrow,withthelasteffortofdespair;Ihaveuttereditwhenfrozenwithcold,crouchedonthestrawinmydungeon;Ihaveutteredit,consumedwithheat,rollingonthestonefloorofmyprison.
Mercedes,Imustrevengemyself,forIsufferedfourteenyears,—fourteenyearsIwept,Icursed;nowItellyou,Mercedes,Imustrevengemyself.”
Thecount,fearingtoyieldtotheentreatiesofherhehadsoardentlyloved,calledhissufferingstotheassistanceofhishatred.
“Revengeyourself,then,Edmond,”criedthepoormother;“butletyourvengeancefallontheculprits,—onhim,onme,butnotonmyson!”
“Itiswritteninthegoodbook,”saidMonteCristo,“thatthesinsofthefathersshallfallupontheirchildrentothethirdandfourthgeneration.
SinceGodhimselfdictatedthosewordstohisprophet,whyshouldIseektomakemyselfbetterthanGod?”
“Edmond,”continuedMercedes,withherarmsextendedtowardsthecount,“sinceIfirstknewyou,Ihaveadoredyourname,haverespectedyourmemory.
Edmond,myfriend,donotcompelmetotarnishthatnobleandpureimagereflectedincessantlyonthemirrorofmyheart.
Edmond,ifyouknewalltheprayersIhaveaddressedtoGodforyouwhileIthoughtyouwerelivingandsinceIhavethoughtyoumustbedead!Yes,dead,alas!
Iimaginedyourdeadbodyburiedatthefootofsomegloomytower,orcasttothebottomofapitbyhatefuljailers,andIwept!
WhatcouldIdoforyou,Edmond,besidesprayandweep?
Listen;fortenyearsIdreamedeachnightthesamedream.
Ihadbeentoldthatyouhadendeavoredtoescape;thatyouhadtakentheplaceofanotherprisoner;thatyouhadslippedintothewindingsheetofadeadbody;thatyouhadbeenthrownalivefromthetopoftheChateaud’If,andthatthecryyouutteredasyoudashedupontherocksfirstrevealedtoyourjailersthattheywereyourmurderers.
Well,Edmond,Isweartoyou,bytheheadofthatsonforwhomIentreatyourpity,—Edmond,fortenyearsIsaweverynighteverydetailofthatfrightfultragedy,andfortenyearsIheardeverynightthecrywhichawokeme,shudderingandcold.AndI,too,Edmond—oh!
believeme—guiltyasIwas—oh,yes,I,too,havesufferedmuch!”
“Haveyouknownwhatitistohaveyourfatherstarvetodeathinyourabsence?”
criedMonteCristo,thrustinghishandsintohishair;“haveyouseenthewomanyoulovedgivingherhandtoyourrival,whileyouwereperishingatthebottomofadungeon?”
“No,”interruptedMercedes,“butIhaveseenhimwhomIlovedonthepointofmurderingmyson.”
Mercedesutteredthesewordswithsuchdeepanguish,withanaccentofsuchintensedespair,thatMonteCristocouldnotrestrainasob.
Thelionwasdaunted;theavengerwasconquered.“Whatdoyouaskofme?”saidhe,—”yourson’slife?Well,heshalllive!”
MercedesutteredacrywhichmadethetearsstartfromMonteCristo’seyes;butthesetearsdisappearedalmostinstantaneously,for,doubtless,Godhadsentsomeangeltocollectthem—farmorepreciousweretheyinhiseyesthantherichestpearlsofGuzeratandOphir.
“Oh,”saidshe,seizingthecount’shandandraisingittoherlips;“oh,thankyou,thankyou,Edmond!NowyouareexactlywhatIdreamtyouwere,—themanIalwaysloved.Oh,nowImaysayso!”
“Somuchthebetter,”repliedMonteCristo;“asthatpoorEdmondwillnothavelongtobelovedbyyou.Deathisabouttoreturntothetomb,thephantomtoretireindarkness.”
“Whatdoyousay,Edmond?”
“Isay,sinceyoucommandme,Mercedes,Imustdie.”
“Die?andwhyso?Whotalksofdying?Whencehaveyoutheseideasofdeath?”
“Youdonotsupposethat,publiclyoutragedinthefaceofawholetheatre,inthepresenceofyourfriendsandthoseofyourson—challengedbyaboywhowillgloryinmyforgivenessasifitwereavictory—youdonotsupposethatIcanforonemomentwishtolive.
WhatImostlovedafteryou,Mercedes,wasmyself,mydignity,andthatstrengthwhichrenderedmesuperiortoothermen;thatstrengthwasmylife.
Withonewordyouhavecrushedit,andIdie.”
“Buttheduelwillnottakeplace,Edmond,sinceyouforgive?”
“Itwilltakeplace,”saidMonteCristo,inamostsolemntone;“butinsteadofyourson’sbloodtostaintheground,minewillflow.”
Mercedesshrieked,andsprangtowardsMonteCristo,but,suddenlystopping,“Edmond,”saidshe,“thereisaGodaboveus,sinceyouliveandsinceIhaveseenyouagain;Itrusttohimfrommyheart.
WhilewaitinghisassistanceItrusttoyourword;youhavesaidthatmysonshouldlive,haveyounot?”
“Yes,madame,heshalllive,”saidMonteCristo,surprisedthatwithoutmoreemotionMercedeshadacceptedtheheroicsacrificehemadeforher.Mercedesextendedherhandtothecount.
“Edmond,”saidshe,andhereyeswerewetwithtearswhilelookingathimtowhomshespoke,“hownobleitisofyou,howgreattheactionyouhavejustperformed,howsublimetohavetakenpityonapoorwomanwhoappealedtoyouwitheverychanceagainsther,Alas,Iamgrownoldwithgriefmorethanwithyears,andcannotnowremindmyEdmondbyasmile,orbyalook,ofthatMercedeswhomheoncespentsomanyhoursincontemplating.
Ah,believeme,Edmond,asItoldyou,Itoohavesufferedmuch;Irepeat,itismelancholytopassone’slifewithouthavingonejoytorecall,withoutpreservingasinglehope;butthatprovesthatallisnotyetover.
No,itisnotfinished;Ifeelitbywhatremainsinmyheart.
Oh,Irepeatit,Edmond;whatyouhavejustdoneisbeautiful—itisgrand;itissublime.”
“Doyousaysonow,Mercedes?—thenwhatwouldyousayifyouknewtheextentofthesacrificeImaketoyou?
SupposethattheSupremeBeing,afterhavingcreatedtheworldandfertilizedchaos,hadpausedintheworktospareanangelthetearsthatmightonedayflowformortalsinsfromherimmortaleyes;supposethatwheneverythingwasinreadinessandthemomenthadcomeforGodtolookuponhisworkandseethatitwasgood—supposehehadsnuffedoutthesunandtossedtheworldbackintoeternalnight—then—eventhen,Mercedes,youcouldnotimaginewhatIloseinsacrificingmylifeatthismoment.”
Mercedeslookedatthecountinawaywhichexpressedatthesametimeherastonishment,heradmiration,andhergratitude.
MonteCristopressedhisforeheadonhisburninghands,asifhisbraincouldnolongerbearalonetheweightofitsthoughts.
“Edmond,”saidMercedes,“Ihavebutonewordmoretosaytoyou.”Thecountsmiledbitterly.
“Edmond,”continuedshe,“youwillseethatifmyfaceispale,ifmyeyesaredull,ifmybeautyisgone;ifMercedes,inshort,nolongerresemblesherformerselfinherfeatures,youwillseethatherheartisstillthesame.
Adieu,then,Edmond;Ihavenothingmoretoaskofheaven—Ihaveseenyouagain,andhavefoundyouasnobleandasgreatasformerlyyouwere.Adieu,Edmond,adieu,andthankyou.”
Butthecountdidnotanswer.Mercedesopenedthedoorofthestudyandhaddisappearedbeforehehadrecoveredfromthepainfulandprofoundreveryintowhichhisthwartedvengeancehadplungedhim.
TheclockoftheInvalidesstruckonewhenthecarriagewhichconveyedMadamedeMorcerfawayrolledonthepavementoftheChamps–Elysees,andmadeMonteCristoraisehishead.
“WhatafoolIwas,”saidhe,“nottotearmyheartoutonthedaywhenIresolvedtoavengemyself!”
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