The Count of Monte Cristo, Illustrated

by Alexandre Dumas

  Chapter 89. The Night

  Monte Cristo waited, according to his usual custom, until Duprez hadsung his famous “Suivez-moi!” then he rose and went out. Morrel tookleave of him at the door, renewing his promise to be with him the nextmorning at seven o’clock, and to bring Emmanuel. Then he stepped intohis coupé, calm and smiling, and was at home in five minutes. No one whoknew the count could mistake his expression when, on entering, he said:

  “Ali, bring me my pistols with the ivory cross.”

  Ali brought the box to his master, who examined the weapons with asolicitude very natural to a man who is about to intrust his life to alittle powder and shot. These were pistols of an especial pattern, whichMonte Cristo had had made for target practice in his own room. A cap wassufficient to drive out the bullet, and from the adjoining room no onewould have suspected that the count was, as sportsmen would say, keepinghis hand in.

  He was just taking one up and looking for the point to aim at on alittle iron plate which served him as a target, when his study dooropened, and Baptistin entered. Before he had spoken a word, the countsaw in the next room a veiled woman, who had followed closely afterBaptistin, and now, seeing the count with a pistol in his hand andswords on the table, rushed in. Baptistin looked at his master, who madea sign to him, and he went out, closing the door after him.

  “Who are you, madame?” said the count to the veiled woman.

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  The stranger cast one look around her, to be certain that they werequite alone; then bending as if she would have knelt, and joining herhands, she said with an accent of despair:

  “Edmond, you will not kill my son!”

  The count retreated a step, uttered a slight exclamation, and let fallthe pistol he held.

  “What name did you pronounce then, Madame de Morcerf?” said he.

  “Yours!” cried she, throwing back her veil,—“yours, which I alone,perhaps, have not forgotten. Edmond, it is not Madame de Morcerf who iscome to you, it is Mercédès.”

  “Mercédès is dead, madame,” said Monte Cristo; “I know no one now ofthat name.”

  “Mercédès lives, sir, and she remembers, for she alone recognized youwhen she saw you, and even before she saw you, by your voice, Edmond,—bythe simple sound of your voice; and from that moment she has followedyour steps, watched you, feared you, and she needs not to inquire whathand has dealt the blow which now strikes M. de Morcerf.”

  “Fernand, do you mean?” replied Monte Cristo, with bitter irony; “sincewe are recalling names, let us remember them all.” Monte Cristo hadpronounced the name of Fernand with such an expression of hatred thatMercédès felt a thrill of horror run through every vein.

  “You see, Edmond, I am not mistaken, and have cause to say, ‘Spare myson!’”

  “And who told you, madame, that I have any hostile intentions againstyour son?”

  “No one, in truth; but a mother has twofold sight. I guessed all; Ifollowed him this evening to the Opera, and, concealed in a parquet box,have seen all.”

  “If you have seen all, madame, you know that the son of Fernand haspublicly insulted me,” said Monte Cristo with awful calmness.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake!”

  “You have seen that he would have thrown his glove in my face if Morrel,one of my friends, had not stopped him.”

  “Listen to me, my son has also guessed who you are,—he attributes hisfather’s misfortunes to you.”

  “Madame, you are mistaken, they are not misfortunes,—it is a punishment.It is not I who strike M. de Morcerf; it is Providence which punisheshim.”

  “And why do you represent Providence?” cried Mercédès. “Why do youremember when it forgets? What are Yanina and its vizier to you, Edmond?What injury has Fernand Mondego done you in betraying Ali Tepelini?”

  “Ah, madame,” replied Monte Cristo, “all this is an affair between theFrench captain and the daughter of Vasiliki. It does not concern me, youare right; and if I have sworn to revenge myself, it is not on theFrench captain, or the Count of Morcerf, but on the fisherman Fernand,the husband of Mercédès the Catalane.”

  “Ah, sir!” cried the countess, “how terrible a vengeance for a faultwhich fatality made me commit!—for I am the only culprit, Edmond, and ifyou owe revenge to anyone, it is to me, who had not fortitude to bearyour absence and my solitude.”

  “But,” exclaimed Monte Cristo, “why was I absent? And why were youalone?”

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  “Because you had been arrested, Edmond, and were a prisoner.”

  “And why was I arrested? Why was I a prisoner?”

  “I do not know,” said Mercédès.

  “You do not, madame; at least, I hope not. But I will tell you. I wasarrested and became a prisoner because, under the arbor of La Réserve,the day before I was to marry you, a man named Danglars wrote thisletter, which the fisherman Fernand himself posted.”

  Monte Cristo went to a secretaire, opened a drawer by a spring, fromwhich he took a paper which had lost its original color, and the ink ofwhich had become of a rusty hue—this he placed in the hands of Mercédès.It was Danglars’ letter to the king’s attorney, which the Count of MonteCristo, disguised as a clerk from the house of Thomson & French, hadtaken from the file against Edmond Dantès, on the day he had paid thetwo hundred thousand francs to M. de Boville. Mercédès read with terrorthe following lines:

  “The king’s attorney is informed by a friend to the throne and religionthat one Edmond Dantès, second in command on board the Pharaon, this dayarrived from Smyrna, after having touched at Naples and Porto-Ferrajo,is the bearer of a letter from Murat to the usurper, and of anotherletter from the usurper to the Bonapartist club in Paris. Amplecorroboration of this statement may be obtained by arresting the above-mentioned Edmond Dantès, who either carries the letter for Paris aboutwith him, or has it at his father’s abode. Should it not be found inpossession of either father or son, then it will assuredly be discoveredin the cabin belonging to the said Dantès on board the Pharaon.”

  “How dreadful!” said Mercédès, passing her hand across her brow, moistwith perspiration; “and that letter——”

  “I bought it for two hundred thousand francs, madame,” said MonteCristo; “but that is a trifle, since it enables me to justify myself toyou.”

  “And the result of that letter——”

  “You well know, madame, was my arrest; but you do not know how long thatarrest lasted. You do not know that I remained for fourteen years withina quarter of a league of you, in a dungeon in the Château d’If. You donot know that every day of those fourteen years I renewed the vow ofvengeance which I had made the first day; and yet I was not aware thatyou had married Fernand, my calumniator, and that my father had died ofhunger!”

  “Can it be?” cried Mercédès, shuddering.

  “That is what I heard on leaving my prison fourteen years after I hadentered it; and that is why, on account of the living Mercédès and mydeceased father, I have sworn to revenge myself on Fernand, and—I haverevenged myself.”

  “And you are sure the unhappy Fernand did that?”

  “I am satisfied, madame, that he did what I have told you; besides, thatis not much more odious than that a Frenchman by adoption should passover to the English; that a Spaniard by birth should have fought againstthe Spaniards; that a stipendiary of Ali should have betrayed andmurdered Ali. Compared with such things, what is the letter you havejust read?—a lover’s deception, which the woman who has married that manought certainly to forgive; but not so the lover who was to have marriedher. Well, the French did not avenge themselves on the traitor, theSpaniards did not shoot the traitor, Ali in his tomb left the traitorunpunished; but I, betrayed, sacrificed, buried, have risen from mytomb, by the grace of God, to punish that man. He sends me for thatpurpose, and here I am.”

  The poor woman’s head and arms fell; her legs bent under her, and shefell on her knees.

  “Forgive, Edmond, forgive for my sake, who love you still!�
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  The dignity of the wife checked the fervor of the lover and the mother.Her forehead almost touched the carpet, when the count sprang forwardand raised her. Then seated on a chair, she looked at the manlycountenance of Monte Cristo, on which grief and hatred still impressed athreatening expression.

  “Not crush that accursed race?” murmured he; “abandon my purpose at themoment of its accomplishment? Impossible, madame, impossible!”

  “Edmond,” said the poor mother, who tried every means, “when I call youEdmond, why do you not call me Mercédès?”

  “Mercédès!” repeated Monte Cristo; “Mercédès! Well yes, you are right;that name has still its charms, and this is the first time for a longperiod that I have pronounced it so distinctly. Oh, Mercédès, I haveuttered your name with the sigh of melancholy, with the groan of sorrow,with the last effort of despair; I have uttered it when frozen withcold, crouched on the straw in my dungeon; I have uttered it, consumedwith heat, rolling on the stone floor of my prison. Mercédès, I mustrevenge myself, for I suffered fourteen years,—fourteen years I wept, Icursed; now I tell you, Mercédès, I must revenge myself.”

  The count, fearing to yield to the entreaties of her he had so ardentlyloved, called his sufferings to the assistance of his hatred.

  “Revenge yourself, then, Edmond,” cried the poor mother; “but let yourvengeance fall on the culprits,—on him, on me, but not on my son!”

  “It is written in the good book,” said Monte Cristo, “that the sins ofthe fathers shall fall upon their children to the third and fourthgeneration. Since God himself dictated those words to his prophet, whyshould I seek to make myself better than God?”

  “Edmond,” continued Mercédès, with her arms extended towards the count,“since I first knew you, I have adored your name, have respected yourmemory. Edmond, my friend, do not compel me to tarnish that noble andpure image reflected incessantly on the mirror of my heart. Edmond, ifyou knew all the prayers I have addressed to God for you while I thoughtyou were living and since I have thought you must be dead! Yes, dead,alas! I imagined your dead body buried at the foot of some gloomy tower,or cast to the bottom of a pit by hateful jailers, and I wept! Whatcould I do for you, Edmond, besides pray and weep? Listen; for ten yearsI dreamed each night the same dream. I had been told that you hadendeavored to escape; that you had taken the place of another prisoner;that you had slipped into the winding sheet of a dead body; that you hadbeen thrown alive from the top of the Château d’If, and that the cry youuttered as you dashed upon the rocks first revealed to your jailers thatthey were your murderers. Well, Edmond, I swear to you, by the head ofthat son for whom I entreat your pity,—Edmond, for ten years I saw everynight every detail of that frightful tragedy, and for ten years I heardevery night the cry which awoke me, shuddering and cold. And I, too,Edmond—oh! believe me—guilty as I was—oh, yes, I, too, have sufferedmuch!”

  “Have you known what it is to have your father starve to death in yourabsence?” cried Monte Cristo, thrusting his hands into his hair; “haveyou seen the woman you loved giving her hand to your rival, while youwere perishing at the bottom of a dungeon?”

  “No,” interrupted Mercédès, “but I have seen him whom I loved on thepoint of murdering my son.”

  Mercédès uttered these words with such deep anguish, with an accent ofsuch intense despair, that Monte Cristo could not restrain a sob. Thelion was daunted; the avenger was conquered.

  “What do you ask of me?” said he,—“your son’s life? Well, he shalllive!”

  Mercédès uttered a cry which made the tears start from Monte Cristo’seyes; but these tears disappeared almost instantaneously, for,doubtless, God had sent some angel to collect them—far more preciouswere they in his eyes than the richest pearls of Guzerat and Ophir.

  “Oh,” said she, seizing the count’s hand and raising it to her lips;“oh, thank you, thank you, Edmond! Now you are exactly what I dreamt youwere,—the man I always loved. Oh, now I may say so!”

  “So much the better,” replied Monte Cristo; “as that poor Edmond willnot have long to be loved by you. Death is about to return to the tomb,the phantom to retire in darkness.”

  “What do you say, Edmond?”

  “I say, since you command me, Mercédès, I must die.”

  “Die? and why so? Who talks of dying? Whence have you these ideas ofdeath?”

  “You do not suppose that, publicly outraged in the face of a wholetheatre, in the presence of your friends and those of yourson—challenged by a boy who will glory in my forgiveness as if it were avictory—you do not suppose that I can for one moment wish to live. WhatI most loved after you, Mercédès, was myself, my dignity, and thatstrength which rendered me superior to other men; that strength was mylife. With one word you have crushed it, and I die.”

  “But the duel will not take place, Edmond, since you forgive?”

  “It will take place,” said Monte Cristo, in a most solemn tone; “butinstead of your son’s blood to stain the ground, mine will flow.”

  Mercédès shrieked, and sprang towards Monte Cristo, but, suddenlystopping, “Edmond,” said she, “there is a God above us, since you liveand since I have seen you again; I trust to him from my heart. Whilewaiting his assistance I trust to your word; you have said that my sonshould live, have you not?”

  “Yes, madame, he shall live,” said Monte Cristo, surprised that withoutmore emotion Mercédès had accepted the heroic sacrifice he made for her.Mercédès extended her hand to the count.

  “Edmond,” said she, and her eyes were wet with tears while looking athim to whom she spoke, “how noble it is of you, how great the action youhave just performed, how sublime to have taken pity on a poor woman whoappealed to you with every chance against her, Alas, I am grown old withgrief more than with years, and cannot now remind my Edmond by a smile,or by a look, of that Mercédès whom he once spent so many hours incontemplating. Ah, believe me, Edmond, as I told you, I too havesuffered much; I repeat, it is melancholy to pass one’s life withouthaving one joy to recall, without preserving a single hope; but thatproves that all is not yet over. No, it is not finished; I feel it bywhat remains in my heart. Oh, I repeat it, Edmond; what you have justdone is beautiful—it is grand; it is sublime.”

  “Do you say so now, Mercédès?—then what would you say if you knew theextent of the sacrifice I make to you? Suppose that the Supreme Being,after having created the world and fertilized chaos, had paused in thework to spare an angel the tears that might one day flow for mortal sinsfrom her immortal eyes; suppose that when everything was in readinessand the moment had come for God to look upon his work and see that itwas good—suppose he had snuffed out the sun and tossed the world backinto eternal night—then—even then, Mercédès, you could not imagine whatI lose in sacrificing my life at this moment.”

  Mercédès looked at the count in a way which expressed at the same timeher astonishment, her admiration, and her gratitude. Monte Cristopressed his forehead on his burning hands, as if his brain could nolonger bear alone the weight of its thoughts.

  “Edmond,” said Mercédès, “I have but one word more to say to you.”

  The count smiled bitterly.

  “Edmond,” continued she, “you will see that if my face is pale, if myeyes are dull, if my beauty is gone; if Mercédès, in short, no longerresembles her former self in her features, you will see that her heartis still the same. Adieu, then, Edmond; I have nothing more to ask ofheaven—I have seen you again, and have found you as noble and as greatas formerly you were. Adieu, Edmond, adieu, and thank you.”

  But the count did not answer. Mercédès opened the door of the study andhad disappeared before he had recovered from the painful and profoundreverie into which his thwarted vengeance had plunged him.

  The clock of the Invalides struck one when the carriage which conveyedMadame de Morcerf rolled away on the pavement of the Champs-Élysées, andmade Monte Cristo raise his head.

  “What a fool I was,” said he, “not to tear
my heart out on the day whenI resolved to avenge myself!”