CHAPTER XLIII.
A LETTER FROM MONTE-CRISTO.
"MY DEAR CHILD:
"Twelve years have elapsed since that terrible day when, with theassistance of our dear friends in Algeria, I was enabled to save youfrom a most awful death. Since then many events have swept over my head,which is to-day becoming very gray.
"I am over sixty, and yet I hope to do a little more good in the world.But I must hasten.
"I have borne up against many misfortunes and great catastrophes, andone, even alone, prostrated me and deprived me of courage, and that wasthe death of your beloved mother. I realized then that I was only a man.I said to myself: 'Monte-Cristo, the color has fled from your cheek, thefire from your eye. You are in possession of old Faria's secrets andscience, but you are powerless against Death. You have triumphed overVillefort, Morcerf, Danglars, Benedetto and Maldar, but you cannottriumph over Death! Remember that you are only a man!'
"You were just sixteen, Esperance, when your mother was taken from us,and your tears fell with mine, but you said to yourself: 'My fatherremains!' But, my beloved son, something in that father died at thattime, or rather, I should say that something was born--hisself-confidence vanished forever, and doubt took its place. For manylong years, my son, your father deemed himself master of his owndestiny, and with a certain simplicity at which I smile to-day, hefancied that he could make all wills bend to his. From that momentwrinkles came to my brow and my hair grew white, and I cannot smoothaway those wrinkles, nor can my will, strong though it be, bring backthe color to my lips nor fire to my eyes. I have punished theevil-doers, but when I sought to repair the evil I had committed, I havenot always succeeded.
"I released the son of Mercedes from the fanatics of Ouargla, but twoyears later, in December, 1851, he fell, on the day of that'_attentat_,' which is not yet avenged.
"Where is Maximilian Morel, where is the daughter of Villefort, thegentle Valentine, whose happiness was dear to me? Did not they allperish in the frightful revolt of the Sepoys in India in 1859? It isclear to me that my love was powerless to protect.
"If I write this to you, my son, it is not with a wish to sadden you.But you are not only my son but my confessor, as well as my one joy andmy hope. From your mother you inherit generous instincts and a spirit ofdevotion. From me you have received vigor and energy, but I trust thatyou inherit none of my pride.
"When this letter reaches you I shall be far away. Yes, and I wish youto know why. There is a suggestion of weakness in your nature which Iwish to eradicate. When you are with me you do not do justice toyourself--you are content to walk in my shadow and see life through myeyes. But I desire to remind you that you have arrived at man's estate,and that you must live your own life and think your own thoughts. Youare free, you are twenty-two, and you are wealthy. You have, therefore,no reason to fear that any obstacles will be thrown in your path. Youhave no enemies--I have scattered them from your path. Think only ofmaking friends for yourself. I have had proteges rather than friends.
"I know you to be sincere and generous. Believe and give. It is goodsometimes for a man to make mistakes. True experience is made up oferrors. Do not be afraid of their consequences. But, nevertheless, becautious. Avoid the irreparable. To kiss is a crime, the only one,possibly, because it is the only one that cannot be repaired. If,however, you commit great faults, do not hesitate to acknowledge them.
"Make your own way through life, my son. I have left you that you may doso. You have near you devoted hearts. Coucon will never forsake you. Ihave taken my old Bertuccio with me. I did not wish you to think that Ihad left any one to watch you and report to me. In case of danger,summon Fanfar.
"Up to this time I feel that you have had no secrets from me. Your heartis free, let it be your guide. Remember that love, often greathappiness, is more often great sorrow.
"I love you, my son, though I leave you. I know not where I am going. Ilong to do good, and hope to find happiness.
"Dear, dear child! Oh! how I love you!
"MONTE-CRISTO."
The Son of Monte-Cristo Page 45