English
ThecountdepartedwithasadheartfromthehouseinwhichhehadleftMercedes,probablynevertobeholdheragain.
SincethedeathoflittleEdwardagreatchangehadtakenplaceinMonteCristo.
Havingreachedthesummitofhisvengeancebyalongandtortuouspath,hesawanabyssofdoubtyawningbeforehim.
Morethanthis,theconversationwhichhadjusttakenplacebetweenMercedesandhimselfhadawakenedsomanyrecollectionsinhisheartthathefeltitnecessarytocombatwiththem.
Amanofthecount’stemperamentcouldnotlongindulgeinthatmelancholywhichcanexistincommonminds,butwhichdestroyssuperiorones.
Hethoughthemusthavemadeanerrorinhiscalculationsifhenowfoundcausetoblamehimself.
“Icannothavedeceivedmyself,”hesaid;“Imustlookuponthepastinafalselight.What!”
hecontinued,“canIhavebeenfollowingafalsepath?
—cantheendwhichIproposedbeamistakenend?
—canonehourhavesufficedtoprovetoanarchitectthattheworkuponwhichhefoundedallhishopeswasanimpossible,ifnotasacrilegious,undertaking?
Icannotreconcilemyselftothisidea—itwouldmaddenme.
ThereasonwhyIamnowdissatisfiedisthatIhavenotaclearappreciationofthepast.
Thepast,likethecountrythroughwhichwewalk,becomesindistinctasweadvance.
Mypositionislikethatofapersonwoundedinadream;hefeelsthewound,thoughhecannotrecollectwhenhereceivedit.
Come,then,thouregenerateman,thouextravagantprodigal,thouawakenedsleeper,thouall–powerfulvisionary,thouinvinciblemillionaire,—onceagainreviewthypastlifeofstarvationandwretchedness,revisitthesceneswherefateandmisfortuneconducted,andwheredespairreceivedthee.
Toomanydiamonds,toomuchgoldandsplendor,arenowreflectedbythemirrorinwhichMonteCristoseekstobeholdDantes.
Hidethydiamonds,burythygold,shroudthysplendor,exchangerichesforpoverty,libertyforaprison,alivingbodyforacorpse!”
Ashethusreasoned,MonteCristowalkeddowntheRuedelaCaisserie.
Itwasthesamethroughwhich,twenty–fouryearsago,hehadbeenconductedbyasilentandnocturnalguard;thehouses,to–daysosmilingandanimated,wereonthatnightdark,mute,andclosed.
“Andyettheywerethesame,”murmuredMonteCristo,“onlynowitisbroaddaylightinsteadofnight;itisthesunwhichbrightenstheplace,andmakesitappearsocheerful.”
HeproceededtowardsthequaybytheRueSaint–Laurent,andadvancedtotheConsigne;itwasthepointwherehehadembarked.
Apleasure–boatwithstripedawningwasgoingby.
MonteCristocalledtheowner,whoimmediatelyroweduptohimwiththeeagernessofaboatmanhopingforagoodfare.
Theweatherwasmagnificent,andtheexcursionatreat.
Thesun,redandflaming,wassinkingintotheembraceofthewelcomingocean.
Thesea,smoothascrystal,wasnowandthendisturbedbytheleapingoffish,whichwerepursuedbysomeunseenenemyandsoughtforsafetyinanotherelement;whileontheextremevergeofthehorizonmightbeseenthefishermen’sboats,whiteandgracefulasthesea–gull,orthemerchantvesselsboundforCorsicaorSpain.
Butnotwithstandingtheserenesky,thegracefullyformedboats,andthegoldenlightinwhichthewholescenewasbathed,theCountofMonteCristo,wrappedinhiscloak,couldthinkonlyofthisterriblevoyage,thedetailsofwhichwereonebyonerecalledtohismemory.
ThesolitarylightburningattheCatalans;thatfirstsightoftheChateaud’If,whichtoldhimwhithertheywereleadinghim;thestrugglewiththegendarmeswhenhewishedtothrowhimselfoverboard;hisdespairwhenhefoundhimselfvanquished,andthesensationwhenthemuzzleofthecarbinetouchedhisforehead—allthesewerebroughtbeforehiminvividandfrightfulreality.
Likethestreamswhichtheheatofthesummerhasdriedup,andwhichaftertheautumnalstormsgraduallybeginoozingdropbydrop,sodidthecountfeelhisheartgraduallyfillwiththebitternesswhichformerlynearlyoverwhelmedEdmondDantes.
Clearsky,swift–flittingboats,andbrilliantsunshinedisappeared;theheavenswerehungwithblack,andthegiganticstructureoftheChateaud’Ifseemedlikethephantomofamortalenemy.
Astheyreachedtheshore,thecountinstinctivelyshrunktotheextremeendoftheboat,andtheownerwasobligedtocallout,inhissweetesttoneofvoice,“Sir,weareatthelanding.”
MonteCristorememberedthatonthatveryspot,onthesamerock,hehadbeenviolentlydraggedbytheguards,whoforcedhimtoascendtheslopeatthepointsoftheirbayonets.
ThejourneyhadseemedverylongtoDantes,butMonteCristofounditequallyshort.
Eachstrokeoftheoarseemedtoawakenanewthrongofideas,whichsprangupwiththeflyingsprayofthesea.
TherehadbeennoprisonersconfinedintheChateaud’IfsincetherevolutionofJuly;itwasonlyinhabitedbyaguard,keptthereforthepreventionofsmuggling.
Aconciergewaitedatthedoortoexhibittovisitorsthismonumentofcuriosity,onceasceneofterror.
Thecountinquiredwhetheranyoftheancientjailerswerestillthere;buttheyhadallbeenpensioned,orhadpassedontosomeotheremployment.
Theconciergewhoattendedhimhadonlybeentheresince1830.Hevisitedhisowndungeon.
Heagainbeheldthedulllightvainlyendeavoringtopenetratethenarrowopening.
Hiseyesresteduponthespotwherehadstoodhisbed,sincethenremoved,andbehindthebedthenewstonesindicatedwherethebreachmadebytheAbbeFariahadbeen.
MonteCristofelthislimbstremble;heseatedhimselfuponalogofwood.
“ArethereanystoriesconnectedwiththisprisonbesidestheonerelatingtothepoisoningofMirabeau?”
askedthecount;“arethereanytraditionsrespectingthesedismalabodes,—inwhichitisdifficulttobelievemencaneverhaveimprisonedtheirfellow–creatures?”
“Yes,sir;indeed,thejailerAntoinetoldmeoneconnectedwiththisverydungeon.”
MonteCristoshuddered;Antoinehadbeenhisjailer.
Hehadalmostforgottenhisnameandface,butatthementionofthenameherecalledhispersonasheusedtoseeit,thefaceencircledbyabeard,wearingthebrownjacket,thebunchofkeys,thejinglingofwhichhestillseemedtohear.
Thecountturnedaround,andfanciedhesawhiminthecorridor,renderedstilldarkerbythetorchcarriedbytheconcierge.
“Wouldyouliketohearthestory,sir?”
“Yes;relateit,”saidMonteCristo,pressinghishandtohishearttostillitsviolentbeatings;hefeltafraidofhearinghisownhistory.
“Thisdungeon,”saidtheconcierge,“was,itappears,sometimeagooccupiedbyaverydangerousprisoner,themoresosincehewasfullofindustry.
AnotherpersonwasconfinedintheChateauatthesametime,buthewasnotwicked,hewasonlyapoormadpriest.”
“Ah,indeed?—mad!”repeatedMonteCristo;“andwhatwashismania?”
“Heofferedmillionstoanyonewhowouldsethimatliberty.”
MonteCristoraisedhiseyes,buthecouldnotseetheheavens;therewasastoneveilbetweenhimandthefirmament.
HethoughtthattherehadbeennolessthickaveilbeforetheeyesofthosetowhomFariaofferedthetreasures.“Couldtheprisonersseeeachother?”heasked.
“Oh,no,sir,itwasexpresslyforbidden;buttheyeludedthevigilanceoftheguards,andmadeapassagefromonedungeontotheother.”
“Andwhichofthemmadethispassage?”
“Oh,itmusthavebeentheyoungman,certainly,forhewasstrongandindustrious,whiletheabbewasagedandweak;besides,hismindwastoovacillatingtoallowhimtocarryoutanidea.”
“Blindfools!”murmuredthecount.
“However,bethatasitmay,theyoungmanmadeatunnel,howorbywhatmeansnooneknows;buthemadeit,andthereistheevidenceyetremainingofhiswork.Doyouseeit?”andthemanheldthetorchtothewall.
“Ah,yes;Isee,”saidthecount,inavoicehoarsefromemotion.
“Theresultwasthatthetwomencommunicatedwithoneanother;howlongtheydidso,nobodyknows.Onedaytheoldmanfellillanddied.Nowguesswhattheyoungonedid?”
“Tellme.”
“Hecarriedoffthecorpse,whichheplacedinhisownbedwithitsfacetothewall;thenheenteredtheemptydungeon,closedtheentrance,andslippedintothesackwhichhadcontainedthedeadbody.Didyoueverhearofsuchanidea?”
MonteCristoclosedhiseyes,andseemedagaintoexperienceallthesensationshehadfeltwhenthecoarsecanvas,yetmoistwiththecolddewsofdeath,hadtouchedhisface.
Thejailercontinued:“Nowthiswashisproject.
HefanciedthattheyburiedthedeadattheChateaud’If,andimaginingtheywouldnotexpendmuchlaboronthegraveofaprisoner,hecalculatedonraisingtheearthwithhisshoulders,butunfortunatelytheirarrangementsattheChateaufrustratedhisprojects.
Theyneverburiedthedead;theymerelyattachedaheavycannon–balltothefeet,andthenthrewthemintothesea.Thisiswhatwasdone.
Theyoungmanwasthrownfromthetopoftherock;thecorpsewasfoundonthebednextday,andthewholetruthwasguessed,forthemenwhoperformedtheofficethenmentionedwhattheyhadnotdaredtospeakofbefore,thatatthemomentthecorpsewasthrownintothedeep,theyheardashriek,whichwasalmostimmediatelystifledbythewaterinwhichitdisappeared.”
Thecountbreathedwithdifficulty;thecolddropsrandownhisforehead,andhisheartwasfullofanguish.
“No,”hemuttered,“thedoubtIfeltwasbutthecommencementofforgetfulness;butherethewoundreopens,andtheheartagainthirstsforvengeance.
Andtheprisoner,”hecontinuedaloud,“washeeverheardofafterwards?”
“Oh,no;ofcoursenot.Youcanunderstandthatoneoftwothingsmusthavehappened;hemusteitherhavefallenflat,inwhichcasetheblow,fromaheightofninetyfeet,musthavekilledhiminstantly,orhemusthavefallenupright,andthentheweightwouldhavedraggedhimtothebottom,whereheremained—poorfellow!”
“Thenyoupityhim?”saidthecount.
“Mafoi,yes;thoughhewasinhisownelement.”
“Whatdoyoumean?”
“Thereportwasthathehadbeenanavalofficer,whohadbeenconfinedforplottingwiththeBonapartists.”
“Greatistruth,”mutteredthecount,“firecannotburn,norwaterdrownit!
Thusthepoorsailorlivesintherecollectionofthosewhonarratehishistory;histerriblestoryisrecitedinthechimney–corner,andashudderisfeltatthedescriptionofhistransitthroughtheairtobeswallowedbythedeep.”
Then,thecountaddedaloud,“Washisnameeverknown?”
“Oh,yes;butonlyasNo.34.”
“Oh,Villefort,Villefort,”murmuredthecount,“thisscenemustoftenhavehauntedthysleeplesshours!”
“Doyouwishtoseeanythingmore,sir?”saidtheconcierge.
“Yes,especiallyifyouwillshowmethepoorabbe’sroom.”
“Ah—No.27.”
“Yes;No.27.”repeatedthecount,whoseemedtohearthevoiceoftheabbeansweringhiminthoseverywordsthroughthewallwhenaskedhisname.
“Come,sir.”
“Wait,”saidMonteCristo,“Iwishtotakeonefinalglancearoundthisroom.”
“Thisisfortunate,”saidtheguide;“Ihaveforgottentheotherkey.”
“Goandfetchit.”
“Iwillleaveyouthetorch,sir.”
“No,takeitaway;Icanseeinthedark.”
“Why,youarelikeNo.34.Theysaidhewassoaccustomedtodarknessthathecouldseeapininthedarkestcornerofhisdungeon.”
“Hespentfourteenyearstoarriveatthat,”mutteredthecount.
Theguidecarriedawaythetorch.Thecounthadspokencorrectly.
Scarcelyhadafewsecondselapsed,erehesaweverythingasdistinctlyasbydaylight.
Thenhelookedaroundhim,andreallyrecognizedhisdungeon.
“Yes,”hesaid,“thereisthestoneuponwhichIusedtosit;thereistheimpressionmadebymyshouldersonthewall;thereisthemarkofmybloodmadewhenonedayIdashedmyheadagainstthewall.
Oh,thosefigures,howwellIrememberthem!
Imadethemonedaytocalculatetheageofmyfather,thatImightknowwhetherIshouldfindhimstillliving,andthatofMercedes,toknowifIshouldfindherstillfree.
Afterfinishingthatcalculation,Ihadaminute’shope.
Ididnotreckonuponhungerandinfidelity!”andabitterlaughescapedthecount.
Hesawinfancytheburialofhisfather,andthemarriageofMercedes.
Ontheothersideofthedungeonheperceivedaninscription,thewhitelettersofwhichwerestillvisibleonthegreenwall.
”’OGod,’”heread,”’preservemymemory!’
Oh,yes,”hecried,“thatwasmyonlyprayeratlast;Inolongerbeggedforliberty,butmemory;Idreadedtobecomemadandforgetful.
OGod,thouhastpreservedmymemory;Ithankthee,Ithankthee!”
Atthismomentthelightofthetorchwasreflectedonthewall;theguidewascoming;MonteCristowenttomeethim.
“Followme,sir;”andwithoutascendingthestairstheguideconductedhimbyasubterraneouspassagetoanotherentrance.
There,again,MonteCristowasassailedbyamultitudeofthoughts.
Thefirstthingthatmethiseyewasthemeridian,drawnbytheabbeonthewall,bywhichhecalculatedthetime;thenhesawtheremainsofthebedonwhichthepoorprisonerhaddied.
Thesightofthis,insteadofexcitingtheanguishexperiencedbythecountinthedungeon,filledhisheartwithasoftandgratefulsentiment,andtearsfellfromhiseyes.
“Thisiswherethemadabbewaskept,sir,andthatiswheretheyoungmanentered;”andtheguidepointedtotheopening,whichhadremainedunclosed.
“Fromtheappearanceofthestone,”hecontinued,“alearnedgentlemandiscoveredthattheprisonersmighthavecommunicatedtogetherfortenyears.Poorthings!Thosemusthavebeentenwearyyears.”
Dantestooksomelouisfromhispocket,andgavethemtothemanwhohadtwiceunconsciouslypitiedhim.
Theguidetookthem,thinkingthemmerelyafewpiecesoflittlevalue;butthelightofthetorchrevealedtheirtrueworth.
“Sir,”hesaid,“youhavemadeamistake;youhavegivenmegold.”
“Iknowit.”Theconciergelookeduponthecountwithsurprise.“Sir,”hecried,scarcelyabletobelievehisgoodfortune—”sir,Icannotunderstandyourgenerosity!”
“Oh,itisverysimple,mygoodfellow;Ihavebeenasailor,andyourstorytouchedmemorethanitwouldothers.”
“Then,sir,sinceyouaresoliberal,Ioughttoofferyousomething.”
“Whathaveyoutooffertome,myfriend?Shells?Straw–work?Thankyou!”
“No,sir,neitherofthose;somethingconnectedwiththisstory.”
“Really?Whatisit?”
“Listen,”saidtheguide;“Isaidtomyself,‘Somethingisalwaysleftinacellinhabitedbyoneprisonerforfifteenyears,’soIbegantosoundthewall.”
“Ah,”criedMonteCristo,rememberingtheabbe’stwohiding–places.
“Aftersomesearch,Ifoundthatthefloorgaveahollowsoundneartheheadofthebed,andatthehearth.”
“Yes,”saidthecount,“yes.”
“Iraisedthestones,andfound”—
“Arope–ladderandsometools?”
“Howdoyouknowthat?”askedtheguideinastonishment.
“Idonotknow—Ionlyguessit,becausethatsortofthingisgenerallyfoundinprisoners’cells.”
“Yes,sir,arope–ladderandtools.”
“Andhaveyouthemyet?”
“No,sir;Isoldthemtovisitors,whoconsideredthemgreatcuriosities;butIhavestillsomethingleft.”
“Whatisit?”askedthecount,impatiently.
“Asortofbook,writtenuponstripsofcloth.”
“Goandfetchit,mygoodfellow;andifitbewhatIhope,youwilldowell.”
“Iwillrunforit,sir;”andtheguidewentout.
Thenthecountkneltdownbythesideofthebed,whichdeathhadconvertedintoanaltar.
“Oh,secondfather,”heexclaimed,“thouwhohastgivenmeliberty,knowledge,riches;thouwho,likebeingsofasuperiorordertoourselves,couldstunderstandthescienceofgoodandevil;ifinthedepthsofthetombtherestillremainsomethingwithinuswhichcanrespondtothevoiceofthosewhoareleftonearth;ifafterdeaththesouleverrevisittheplaceswherewehavelivedandsuffered,—then,nobleheart,sublimesoul,thenIconjuretheebythepaternallovethoudidstbearme,bythefilialobedienceIvowedtothee,grantmesomesign,somerevelation!
Removefrommetheremainsofdoubt,which,ifitchangenottoconviction,mustbecomeremorse!”
Thecountbowedhishead,andclaspedhishandstogether.
“Here,sir,”saidavoicebehindhim.
MonteCristoshuddered,andarose.TheconciergeheldoutthestripsofclothuponwhichtheAbbeFariahadspreadtherichesofhismind.
ThemanuscriptwasthegreatworkbytheAbbeFariauponthekingdomsofItaly.
Thecountseizedithastily,hiseyesimmediatelyfellupontheepigraph,andheread,”’Thoushalttearoutthedragons’teeth,andshalltramplethelionsunderfoot,saiththeLord.’”
“Ah,”heexclaimed,“hereismyanswer.Thanks,father,thanks.”Andfeelinginhispocket,hetookthenceasmallpocket–book,whichcontainedtenbank–notes,eachof1,000.francs.
“Here,”hesaid,“takethispocket–book.”
“Doyougiveittome?”
“Yes;butonlyonconditionthatyouwillnotopenittillIamgone;”andplacinginhisbreastthetreasurehehadjustfound,whichwasmorevaluabletohimthantherichestjewel,herushedoutofthecorridor,andreachinghisboat,cried,“ToMarseilles!”
Then,ashedeparted,hefixedhiseyesuponthegloomyprison.
“Woe,”hecried,“tothosewhoconfinedmeinthatwretchedprison;andwoetothosewhoforgotthatIwasthere!”
AsherepassedtheCatalans,thecountturnedaroundandburyinghisheadinhiscloakmurmuredthenameofawoman.
Thevictorywascomplete;twicehehadovercomehisdoubts.
Thenamehepronounced,inavoiceoftenderness,amountingalmosttolove,wasthatofHaidee.
Onlanding,thecountturnedtowardsthecemetery,wherehefeltsureoffindingMorrel.
He,too,tenyearsago,hadpiouslysoughtoutatomb,andsoughtitvainly.
He,whoreturnedtoFrancewithmillions,hadbeenunabletofindthegraveofhisfather,whohadperishedfromhunger.
Morrelhadindeedplacedacrossoverthespot,butithadfallendownandthegrave–diggerhadburntit,ashedidalltheoldwoodinthechurchyard.
Theworthymerchanthadbeenmorefortunate.
Dyinginthearmsofhischildren,hehadbeenbythemlaidbythesideofhiswife,whohadprecededhimineternitybytwoyears.
Twolargeslabsofmarble,onwhichwereinscribedtheirnames,wereplacedoneithersideofalittleenclosure,railedin,andshadedbyfourcypress–trees.
Morrelwasleaningagainstoneofthese,mechanicallyfixinghiseyesonthegraves.
Hisgriefwassoprofoundthathewasnearlyunconscious.
“Maximilian,”saidthecount,“youshouldnotlookonthegraves,butthere;”andhepointedupwards.
“Thedeadareeverywhere,”saidMorrel;“didyounotyourselftellmesoasweleftParis?”
“Maximilian,”saidthecount,“youaskedmeduringthejourneytoallowyoutoremainsomedaysatMarseilles.Doyoustillwishtodoso?”
“Ihavenowishes,count;onlyIfancyIcouldpassthetimelesspainfullyherethananywhereelse.”
“Somuchthebetter,forImustleaveyou;butIcarryyourwordwithme,doInot?”
“Ah,count,Ishallforgetit.”
“No,youwillnotforgetit,becauseyouareamanofhonor,Morrel,becauseyouhavetakenanoath,andareabouttodosoagain.”
“Oh,count,havepityuponme.Iamsounhappy.”
“Ihaveknownamanmuchmoreunfortunatethanyou,Morrel.”
“Impossible!”
“Alas,”saidMonteCristo,“itistheinfirmityofournaturealwaystobelieveourselvesmuchmoreunhappythanthosewhogroanbyoursides!”
“Whatcanbemorewretchedthanthemanwhohaslostallhelovedanddesiredintheworld?”
“Listen,Morrel,andpayattentiontowhatIamabouttotellyou.
Iknewamanwholikeyouhadfixedallhishopesofhappinessuponawoman.
Hewasyoung,hehadanoldfatherwhomheloved,abetrothedbridewhomheadored.
Hewasabouttomarryher,whenoneofthecapricesoffate,—whichwouldalmostmakeusdoubtthegoodnessofprovidence,ifthatprovidencedidnotafterwardsrevealitselfbyprovingthatallisbutameansofconductingtoanend,—oneofthosecapricesdeprivedhimofhismistress,ofthefutureofwhichhehaddreamed(forinhisblindnessheforgothecouldonlyreadthepresent),andcasthimintoadungeon.”
“Ah,”saidMorrel,“onequitsadungeoninaweek,amonth,orayear.”
“Heremainedtherefourteenyears,Morrel,”saidthecount,placinghishandontheyoungman’sshoulder.Maximilianshuddered.
“Fourteenyears!”hemuttered—”Fourteenyears!”repeatedthecount.“Duringthattimehehadmanymomentsofdespair.Healso,Morrel,likeyou,consideredhimselftheunhappiestofmen.”
“Well?”askedMorrel.
“Well,attheheightofhisdespairGodassistedhimthroughhumanmeans.
Atfirst,perhaps,hedidnotrecognizetheinfinitemercyoftheLord,butatlasthetookpatienceandwaited.
Onedayhemiraculouslylefttheprison,transformed,rich,powerful.
Hisfirstcrywasforhisfather;butthatfatherwasdead.”
“Myfather,too,isdead,”saidMorrel.
“Yes;butyourfatherdiedinyourarms,happy,respected,rich,andfullofyears;hisfatherdiedpoor,despairing,almostdoubtfulofprovidence;andwhenhissonsoughthisgravetenyearsafterwards,histombhaddisappeared,andnoonecouldsay,‘Theresleepsthefatheryousowellloved.’”
“Oh!”exclaimedMorrel.
“Hewas,then,amoreunhappysonthanyou,Morrel,forhecouldnotevenfindhisfather’sgrave.”
“Butthenhehadthewomanhelovedstillremaining?”
“Youaredeceived,Morrel,thatwoman”—
“Shewasdead?”
“Worsethanthat,shewasfaithless,andhadmarriedoneofthepersecutorsofherbetrothed.Yousee,then,Morrel,thathewasamoreunhappyloverthanyou.”
“Andhashefoundconsolation?”
“Hehasatleastfoundpeace.”
“Anddoesheeverexpecttobehappy?”
“Hehopesso,Maximilian.”Theyoungman’sheadfellonhisbreast.
“Youhavemypromise,”hesaid,afteraminute’spause,extendinghishandtoMonteCristo.“Onlyremember”—
“Onthe5thofOctober,Morrel,IshallexpectyouattheIslandofMonteCristo.
Onthe4thayachtwillwaitforyouintheportofBastia,itwillbecalledtheEurus.
Youwillgiveyournametothecaptain,whowillbringyoutome.Itisunderstood—isitnot?”
“But,count,doyourememberthatthe5thofOctober”—
“Child,”repliedthecount,“nottoknowthevalueofaman’sword!Ihavetoldyoutwentytimesthatifyouwishtodieonthatday,Iwillassistyou.Morrel,farewell!”
“Doyouleaveme?”
“Yes;IhavebusinessinItaly.Ileaveyoualonewithyourmisfortunes,andwithhope,Maximilian.”
“Whendoyouleave?”
“Immediately;thesteamerwaits,andinanhourIshallbefarfromyou.Willyouaccompanymetotheharbor,Maximilian?”
“Iamentirelyyours,count.”Morrelaccompaniedthecounttotheharbor.
Thewhitesteamwasascendinglikeaplumeoffeathersfromtheblackchimney.
Thesteamersoondisappeared,andinanhourafterwards,asthecounthadsaid,wasscarcelydistinguishableinthehorizonamidstthefogsofthenight.
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