Chapter 117. The Fifth of October
It was about six o’clock in the evening; an opal-colored light, throughwhich an autumnal sun shed its golden rays, descended on the blue ocean.The heat of the day had gradually decreased, and a light breeze arose,seeming like the respiration of nature on awakening from the burningsiesta of the south. A delicious zephyr played along the coasts of theMediterranean, and wafted from shore to shore the sweet perfume ofplants, mingled with the fresh smell of the sea.
A light yacht, chaste and elegant in its form, was gliding amidst thefirst dews of night over the immense lake, extending from Gibraltar tothe Dardanelles, and from Tunis to Venice. The vessel resembled a swanwith its wings opened towards the wind, gliding on the water. Itadvanced swiftly and gracefully, leaving behind it a glittering stretchof foam. By degrees the sun disappeared behind the western horizon; butas though to prove the truth of the fanciful ideas in heathen mythology,its indiscreet rays reappeared on the summit of every wave, as if thegod of fire had just sunk upon the bosom of Amphitrite, who in vainendeavored to hide her lover beneath her azure mantle.
The yacht moved rapidly on, though there did not appear to be sufficientwind to ruffle the curls on the head of a young girl. Standing on theprow was a tall man, of a dark complexion, who saw with dilating eyesthat they were approaching a dark mass of land in the shape of a cone,which rose from the midst of the waves like the hat of a Catalan.
“Is that Monte Cristo?” asked the traveller, to whose orders the yachtwas for the time submitted, in a melancholy voice.
“Yes, your excellency,” said the captain, “we have reached it.”
“We have reached it!” repeated the traveller in an accent ofindescribable sadness.
Then he added, in a low tone, “Yes; that is the haven.”
And then he again plunged into a train of thought, the character ofwhich was better revealed by a sad smile, than it would have been bytears. A few minutes afterwards a flash of light, which was extinguishedinstantly, was seen on the land, and the sound of firearms reached theyacht.
“Your excellency,” said the captain, “that was the land signal, will youanswer yourself?”
“What signal?”
The captain pointed towards the island, up the side of which ascended avolume of smoke, increasing as it rose.
“Ah, yes,” he said, as if awaking from a dream. “Give it to me.”
The captain gave him a loaded carbine; the traveller slowly raised it,and fired in the air. Ten minutes afterwards, the sails were furled, andthey cast anchor about a hundred fathoms from the little harbor. The gigwas already lowered, and in it were four oarsmen and a coxswain. Thetraveller descended, and instead of sitting down at the stern of theboat, which had been decorated with a blue carpet for his accommodation,stood up with his arms crossed. The rowers waited, their oars halflifted out of the water, like birds drying their wings.
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“Give way,” said the traveller. The eight oars fell into the seasimultaneously without splashing a drop of water, and the boat, yieldingto the impulsion, glided forward. In an instant they found themselves ina little harbor, formed in a natural creek; the boat grounded on thefine sand.
“Will your excellency be so good as to mount the shoulders of two of ourmen, they will carry you ashore?” The young man answered this invitationwith a gesture of indifference, and stepped out of the boat; the seaimmediately rose to his waist.
“Ah, your excellency,” murmured the pilot, “you should not have done so;our master will scold us for it.”
The young man continued to advance, following the sailors, who chose afirm footing. Thirty strides brought them to dry land; the young manstamped on the ground to shake off the wet, and looked around forsomeone to show him his road, for it was quite dark. Just as he turned,a hand rested on his shoulder, and a voice which made him shudderexclaimed:
“Good-evening, Maximilian; you are punctual, thank you!”
“Ah, is it you, count?” said the young man, in an almost joyful accent,pressing Monte Cristo’s hand with both his own.
“Yes; you see I am as exact as you are. But you are dripping, my dearfellow; you must change your clothes, as Calypso said to Telemachus.Come, I have a habitation prepared for you in which you will soon forgetfatigue and cold.”
Monte Cristo perceived that the young man had turned around; indeed,Morrel saw with surprise that the men who had brought him had leftwithout being paid, or uttering a word. Already the sound of their oarsmight be heard as they returned to the yacht.
“Oh, yes,” said the count, “you are looking for the sailors.”
“Yes, I paid them nothing, and yet they are gone.”
“Never mind that, Maximilian,” said Monte Cristo, smiling. “I have madean agreement with the navy, that the access to my island shall be freeof all charge. I have made a bargain.”
Morrel looked at the count with surprise. “Count,” he said, “you are notthe same here as in Paris.”
“How so?”
“Here you laugh.” The count’s brow became clouded.
“You are right to recall me to myself, Maximilian,” he said; “I wasdelighted to see you again, and forgot for the moment that all happinessis fleeting.”
“Oh, no, no, count,” cried Maximilian, seizing the count’s hands, “praylaugh; be happy, and prove to me, by your indifference, that life isendurable to sufferers. Oh, how charitable, kind, and good you are; youaffect this gayety to inspire me with courage.”
“You are wrong, Morrel; I was really happy.”
“Then you forget me, so much the better.”
“How so?”
“Yes; for as the gladiator said to the emperor, when he entered thearena, ‘He who is about to die salutes you.’”
“Then you are not consoled?” asked the count, surprised.
“Oh,” exclaimed Morrel, with a glance full of bitter reproach, “do youthink it possible that I could be?”
“Listen,” said the count. “Do you understand the meaning of my words?You cannot take me for a commonplace man, a mere rattle, emitting avague and senseless noise. When I ask you if you are consoled, I speakto you as a man for whom the human heart has no secrets. Well, Morrel,let us both examine the depths of your heart. Do you still feel the samefeverish impatience of grief which made you start like a wounded lion?Have you still that devouring thirst which can only be appeased in thegrave? Are you still actuated by the regret which drags the living tothe pursuit of death; or are you only suffering from the prostration offatigue and the weariness of hope deferred? Has the loss of memoryrendered it impossible for you to weep? Oh, my dear friend, if this bethe case,—if you can no longer weep, if your frozen heart be dead, ifyou put all your trust in God, then, Maximilian, you are consoled—do notcomplain.”
“Count,” said Morrel, in a firm and at the same time soft voice, “listento me, as to a man whose thoughts are raised to heaven, though heremains on earth; I come to die in the arms of a friend. Certainly,there are people whom I love. I love my sister Julie,—I love her husbandEmmanuel; but I require a strong mind to smile on my last moments. Mysister would be bathed in tears and fainting; I could not bear to seeher suffer. Emmanuel would tear the weapon from my hand, and alarm thehouse with his cries. You, count, who are more than mortal, will, I amsure, lead me to death by a pleasant path, will you not?”
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“My friend,” said the count, “I have still one doubt,—are you weakenough to pride yourself upon your sufferings?”
“No, indeed,—I am calm,” said Morrel, giving his hand to the count; “mypulse does not beat slower or faster than usual. No, I feel that I havereached the goal, and I will go no farther. You told me to wait andhope; do you know what you did, unfortunate adviser? I waited a month,or rather I suffered for a month! I did hope (man is a poor wretchedcreature), I did hope. What I cannot tell,—something wonderful, anabsurdity, a miracle,—of what nature he alone can tell who has mingledwith our reason that f
olly we call hope. Yes, I did wait—yes, I didhope, count, and during this quarter of an hour we have been talkingtogether, you have unconsciously wounded, tortured my heart, for everyword you have uttered proved that there was no hope for me. Oh, count, Ishall sleep calmly, deliciously in the arms of death.”
Morrel uttered these words with an energy which made the count shudder.
“My friend,” continued Morrel, “you named the fifth of October as theend of the period of waiting,—today is the fifth of October,” he tookout his watch, “it is now nine o’clock,—I have yet three hours to live.”
“Be it so,” said the count, “come.” Morrel mechanically followed thecount, and they had entered the grotto before he perceived it. He felt acarpet under his feet, a door opened, perfumes surrounded him, and abrilliant light dazzled his eyes. Morrel hesitated to advance; hedreaded the enervating effect of all that he saw. Monte Cristo drew himin gently.
“Why should we not spend the last three hours remaining to us of life,like those ancient Romans, who when condemned by Nero, their emperor andheir, sat down at a table covered with flowers, and gently glided intodeath, amid the perfume of heliotropes and roses?”
Morrel smiled. “As you please,” he said; “death is always death,—that isforgetfulness, repose, exclusion from life, and therefore from grief.”
He sat down, and Monte Cristo placed himself opposite to him. They werein the marvellous dining-room before described, where the statues hadbaskets on their heads always filled with fruits and flowers. Morrel hadlooked carelessly around, and had probably noticed nothing.
“Let us talk like men,” he said, looking at the count.
“Go on!”
“Count,” said Morrel, “you are the epitome of all human knowledge, andyou seem like a being descended from a wiser and more advanced worldthan ours.”
“There is something true in what you say,” said the count, with thatsmile which made him so handsome; “I have descended from a planet calledgrief.”
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“I believe all you tell me without questioning its meaning; forinstance, you told me to live, and I did live; you told me to hope, andI almost did so. I am almost inclined to ask you, as though you hadexperienced death, ‘is it painful to die?’”
Monte Cristo looked upon Morrel with indescribable tenderness. “Yes,” hesaid, “yes, doubtless it is painful, if you violently break the outercovering which obstinately begs for life. If you plunge a dagger intoyour flesh, if you insinuate a bullet into your brain, which the leastshock disorders,—then certainly, you will suffer pain, and you willrepent quitting a life for a repose you have bought at so dear a price.”
“Yes; I know that there is a secret of luxury and pain in death, as wellas in life; the only thing is to understand it.”
“You have spoken truly, Maximilian; according to the care we bestow uponit, death is either a friend who rocks us gently as a nurse, or an enemywho violently drags the soul from the body. Some day, when the world ismuch older, and when mankind will be masters of all the destructivepowers in nature, to serve for the general good of humanity; whenmankind, as you were just saying, have discovered the secrets of death,then that death will become as sweet and voluptuous as a slumber in thearms of your beloved.”
“And if you wished to die, you would choose this death, count?”
“Yes.”
Morrel extended his hand. “Now I understand,” he said, “why you had mebrought here to this desolate spot, in the midst of the ocean, to thissubterranean palace; it was because you loved me, was it not, count? Itwas because you loved me well enough to give me one of those sweet meansof death of which we were speaking; a death without agony, a death whichallows me to fade away while pronouncing Valentine’s name and pressingyour hand.”
“Yes, you have guessed rightly, Morrel,” said the count, “that is what Iintended.”
“Thanks; the idea that tomorrow I shall no longer suffer, is sweet to myheart.”
“Do you then regret nothing?”
“No,” replied Morrel.
“Not even me?” asked the count with deep emotion. Morrel’s clear eye wasfor the moment clouded, then it shone with unusual lustre, and a largetear rolled down his cheek.
“What,” said the count, “do you still regret anything in the world, andyet die?”
“Oh, I entreat you,” exclaimed Morrel in a low voice, “do not speakanother word, count; do not prolong my punishment.”
The count fancied that he was yielding, and this belief revived thehorrible doubt that had overwhelmed him at the Château d’If.
“I am endeavoring,” he thought, “to make this man happy; I look uponthis restitution as a weight thrown into the scale to balance the evil Ihave wrought. Now, supposing I am deceived, supposing this man has notbeen unhappy enough to merit happiness. Alas, what would become of mewho can only atone for evil by doing good?”
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Then he said aloud: “Listen, Morrel, I see your grief is great, butstill you do not like to risk your soul.” Morrel smiled sadly.
“Count,” he said, “I swear to you my soul is no longer my own.”
“Maximilian, you know I have no relation in the world. I have accustomedmyself to regard you as my son: well, then, to save my son, I willsacrifice my life, nay, even my fortune.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, that you wish to quit life because you do not understand allthe enjoyments which are the fruits of a large fortune. Morrel, Ipossess nearly a hundred millions and I give them to you; with such afortune you can attain every wish. Are you ambitious? Every career isopen to you. Overturn the world, change its character, yield to madideas, be even criminal—but live.”
“Count, I have your word,” said Morrel coldly; then taking out hiswatch, he added, “It is half-past eleven.”
“Morrel, can you intend it in my house, under my very eyes?”
“Then let me go,” said Maximilian, “or I shall think you did not love mefor my own sake, but for yours;” and he arose.
“It is well,” said Monte Cristo whose countenance brightened at thesewords; “you wish it—you are inflexible. Yes, as you said, you are indeedwretched and a miracle alone can cure you. Sit down, Morrel, and wait.”
Morrel obeyed; the count arose, and unlocking a closet with a keysuspended from his gold chain, took from it a little silver casket,beautifully carved and chased, the corners of which represented fourbending figures, similar to the Caryatides, the forms of women, symbolsof the angels aspiring to heaven.
He placed the casket on the table; then opening it took out a littlegolden box, the top of which flew open when touched by a secret spring.This box contained an unctuous substance partly solid, of which it wasimpossible to discover the color, owing to the reflection of thepolished gold, sapphires, rubies, emeralds, which ornamented the box. Itwas a mixed mass of blue, red, and gold.
The count took out a small quantity of this with a gilt spoon, andoffered it to Morrel, fixing a long steadfast glance upon him. It wasthen observable that the substance was greenish.
“This is what you asked for,” he said, “and what I promised to giveyou.”
“I thank you from the depths of my heart,” said the young man, takingthe spoon from the hands of Monte Cristo. The count took another spoon,and again dipped it into the golden box. “What are you going to do, myfriend?” asked Morrel, arresting his hand.
“Well, the fact is, Morrel, I was thinking that I too am weary of life,and since an opportunity presents itself——”
“Stay!” said the young man. “You who love, and are beloved; you, whohave faith and hope,—oh, do not follow my example. In your case it wouldbe a crime. Adieu, my noble and generous friend, adieu; I will go andtell Valentine what you have done for me.”
And slowly, though without any hesitation, only waiting to press thecount’s hand fervently, he swallowed the mysterious substance offered byMonte Cristo. Then they were both silent. Ali, mute and attentive,
brought the pipes and coffee, and disappeared. By degrees, the light ofthe lamps gradually faded in the hands of the marble statues which heldthem, and the perfumes appeared less powerful to Morrel. Seated oppositeto him, Monte Cristo watched him in the shadow, and Morrel saw nothingbut the bright eyes of the count. An overpowering sadness tookpossession of the young man, his hands relaxed their hold, the objectsin the room gradually lost their form and color, and his disturbedvision seemed to perceive doors and curtains open in the wall.
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“Friend,” he cried, “I feel that I am dying; thanks!”
He made a last effort to extend his hand, but it fell powerless besidehim. Then it appeared to him that Monte Cristo smiled, not with thestrange and fearful expression which had sometimes revealed to him thesecrets of his heart, but with the benevolent kindness of a father for achild. At the same time the count appeared to increase in stature, hisform, nearly double its usual height, stood out in relief against thered tapestry, his black hair was thrown back, and he stood in theattitude of an avenging angel. Morrel, overpowered, turned around in thearmchair; a delicious torpor permeated every vein. A change of ideaspresented themselves to his brain, like a new design on thekaleidoscope. Enervated, prostrate, and breathless, he becameunconscious of outward objects; he seemed to be entering that vaguedelirium preceding death. He wished once again to press the count’shand, but his own was immovable. He wished to articulate a lastfarewell, but his tongue lay motionless and heavy in his throat, like astone at the mouth of a sepulchre. Involuntarily his languid eyesclosed, and still through his eyelashes a well-known form seemed to moveamid the obscurity with which he thought himself enveloped.
The count had just opened a door. Immediately a brilliant light from thenext room, or rather from the palace adjoining, shone upon the room inwhich he was gently gliding into his last sleep. Then he saw a woman ofmarvellous beauty appear on the threshold of the door separating the tworooms. Pale, and sweetly smiling, she looked like an angel of mercyconjuring the angel of vengeance.
“Is it heaven that opens before me?” thought the dying man; “that angelresembles the one I have lost.”
Monte Cristo pointed out Morrel to the young woman, who advanced towardshim with clasped hands and a smile upon her lips.
“Valentine, Valentine!” he mentally ejaculated; but his lips uttered nosound, and as though all his strength were centred in that internalemotion, he sighed and closed his eyes. Valentine rushed towards him;his lips again moved.
“He is calling you,” said the count; “he to whom you have confided yourdestiny—he from whom death would have separated you, calls you to him.Happily, I vanquished death. Henceforth, Valentine, you will never againbe separated on earth, since he has rushed into death to find you.Without me, you would both have died. May God accept my atonement in thepreservation of these two existences!”
Valentine seized the count’s hand, and in her irresistible impulse ofjoy carried it to her lips.
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“Oh, thank me again!” said the count; “tell me till you are weary, thatI have restored you to happiness; you do not know how much I requirethis assurance.”
“Oh, yes, yes, I thank you with all my heart,” said Valentine; “and ifyou doubt the sincerity of my gratitude, oh, then, ask Haydée! ask mybeloved sister Haydée, who ever since our departure from France, hascaused me to wait patiently for this happy day, while talking to me ofyou.”
“You then love Haydée?” asked Monte Cristo with an emotion he in vainendeavored to dissimulate.
“Oh, yes, with all my soul.”
“Well, then, listen, Valentine,” said the count; “I have a favor to askof you.”
“Of me? Oh, am I happy enough for that?”
“Yes; you have called Haydée your sister,—let her become so indeed,Valentine; render her all the gratitude you fancy that you owe to me;protect her, for” (the count’s voice was thick with emotion) “henceforthshe will be alone in the world.”
“Alone in the world!” repeated a voice behind the count, “and why?”
Monte Cristo turned around; Haydée was standing pale, motionless,looking at the count with an expression of fearful amazement.
“Because tomorrow, Haydée, you will be free; you will then assume yourproper position in society, for I will not allow my destiny toovershadow yours. Daughter of a prince, I restore to you the riches andname of your father.”
Haydée became pale, and lifting her transparent hands to heaven,exclaimed in a voice stifled with tears, “Then you leave me, my lord?”
“Haydée, Haydée, you are young and beautiful; forget even my name, andbe happy.”
“It is well,” said Haydée; “your order shall be executed, my lord; Iwill forget even your name, and be happy.” And she stepped back toretire.
“Oh, heavens,” exclaimed Valentine, who was supporting the head ofMorrel on her shoulder, “do you not see how pale she is? Do you not seehow she suffers?”
Haydée answered with a heartrending expression,
“Why should he understand this, my sister? He is my master, and I am hisslave; he has the right to notice nothing.”
The count shuddered at the tones of a voice which penetrated the inmostrecesses of his heart; his eyes met those of the young girl and he couldnot bear their brilliancy.
“Oh, heavens,” exclaimed Monte Cristo, “can my suspicions be correct?Haydée, would it please you not to leave me?”
“I am young,” gently replied Haydée; “I love the life you have made sosweet to me, and I should be sorry to die.”
“You mean, then, that if I leave you, Haydée——”
“I should die; yes, my lord.”
“Do you then love me?”
“Oh, Valentine, he asks if I love him. Valentine, tell him if you loveMaximilian.”
The count felt his heart dilate and throb; he opened his arms, andHaydée, uttering a cry, sprang into them.
“Oh, yes,” she cried, “I do love you! I love you as one loves a father,brother, husband! I love you as my life, for you are the best, thenoblest of created beings!”
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“Let it be, then, as you wish, sweet angel; God has sustained me in mystruggle with my enemies, and has given me this reward; he will not letme end my triumph in suffering; I wished to punish myself, but he haspardoned me. Love me then, Haydée! Who knows? perhaps your love willmake me forget all that I do not wish to remember.”
“What do you mean, my lord?”
“I mean that one word from you has enlightened me more than twenty yearsof slow experience; I have but you in the world, Haydée; through you Iagain take hold on life, through you I shall suffer, through yourejoice.”
“Do you hear him, Valentine?” exclaimed Haydée; “he says that through mehe will suffer—through me, who would yield my life for his.”
The count withdrew for a moment. “Have I discovered the truth?” he said;“but whether it be for recompense or punishment, I accept my fate. Come,Haydée, come!” and throwing his arm around the young girl’s waist, hepressed the hand of Valentine, and disappeared.
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An hour had nearly passed, during which Valentine, breathless andmotionless, watched steadfastly over Morrel. At length she felt hisheart beat, a faint breath played upon his lips, a slight shudder,announcing the return of life, passed through the young man’s frame. Atlength his eyes opened, but they were at first fixed and expressionless;then sight returned, and with it feeling and grief.
“Oh,” he cried, in an accent of despair, “the count has deceived me; Iam yet living;” and extending his hand towards the table, he seized aknife.
“Dearest,” exclaimed Valentine, with her adorable smile, “awake, andlook at me!” Morrel uttered a loud exclamation, and frantic, doubtful,dazzled, as though by a celestial vision, he fell upon his knees.
The next morning at daybreak, Valentine and Morrel were walking arm-in-arm on the seashore, Valentine relating how Monte Cristo had appear
ed inher room, explained everything, revealed the crime, and, finally, how hehad saved her life by enabling her to simulate death.
They had found the door of the grotto opened, and gone forth; on theazure dome of heaven still glittered a few remaining stars.
Morrel soon perceived a man standing among the rocks, apparentlyawaiting a sign from them to advance, and pointed him out to Valentine.
“Ah, it is Jacopo,” she said, “the captain of the yacht;” and shebeckoned him towards them.
“Do you wish to speak to us?” asked Morrel.
“I have a letter to give you from the count.”
“From the count!” murmured the two young people.
“Yes; read it.”
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Morrel opened the letter, and read:
“My Dear Maximilian,
“There is a felucca for you at anchor. Jacopo will carry you to Leghorn,where Monsieur Noirtier awaits his granddaughter, whom he wishes tobless before you lead her to the altar. All that is in this grotto, myfriend, my house in the Champs-Élysées, and my château at Tréport, arethe marriage gifts bestowed by Edmond Dantès upon the son of his oldmaster, Morrel. Mademoiselle de Villefort will share them with you; forI entreat her to give to the poor the immense fortune reverting to herfrom her father, now a madman, and her brother who died last Septemberwith his mother. Tell the angel who will watch over your future destiny,Morrel, to pray sometimes for a man, who, like Satan, thought himselffor an instant equal to God, but who now acknowledges with Christianhumility that God alone possesses supreme power and infinite wisdom.Perhaps those prayers may soften the remorse he feels in his heart. Asfor you, Morrel, this is the secret of my conduct towards you. There isneither happiness nor misery in the world; there is only the comparisonof one state with another, nothing more. He who has felt the deepestgrief is best able to experience supreme happiness. We must have feltwhat it is to die, Morrel, that we may appreciate the enjoyments ofliving.
“Live, then, and be happy, beloved children of my heart, and neverforget that until the day when God shall deign to reveal the future toman, all human wisdom is summed up in these two words,—‘Wait andhope.’—Your friend,
“Edmond Dantès, Count of Monte Cristo.”
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During the perusal of this letter, which informed Valentine for thefirst time of the madness of her father and the death of her brother,she became pale, a heavy sigh escaped from her bosom, and tears, not theless painful because they were silent, ran down her cheeks; herhappiness cost her very dear.
Morrel looked around uneasily.
“But,” he said, “the count’s generosity is too overwhelming; Valentinewill be satisfied with my humble fortune. Where is the count, friend?Lead me to him.”
Jacopo pointed towards the horizon.
“What do you mean?” asked Valentine. “Where is the count?—where isHaydée?”
“Look!” said Jacopo.
The eyes of both were fixed upon the spot indicated by the sailor, andon the blue line separating the sky from the Mediterranean Sea, theyperceived a large white sail.
“Gone,” said Morrel; “gone!—adieu, my friend—adieu, my father!”
“Gone,” murmured Valentine; “adieu, my sweet Haydée—adieu, my sister!”
“Who can say whether we shall ever see them again?” said Morrel withtearful eyes.
“Darling,” replied Valentine, “has not the count just told us that allhuman wisdom is summed up in two words:
“‘Wait and hope (Fac et spera)!’”
FOOTNOTES:
1 (return) [ “The wicked are great drinkers of water; As the floodproved once for all.”]
2 (return) [ $2,600,000 in 1894.]
3 (return) [ Knocked on the head.]
4 (return) [ Beheaded.]
5 (return) [ Scott, of course: “The son of an ill-fated sire, and thefather of a yet more unfortunate family, bore in his looks that cast ofinauspicious melancholy by which the physiognomists of that timepretended to distinguish those who were predestined to a violent andunhappy death.”—The Abbot, ch. xxii.]
6 (return) [ Guillotine.]
7 (return) [ Dr. Guillotin got the idea of his famous machine fromwitnessing an execution in Italy.]
8 (return) [ Brucea ferruginea.]
9 (return) [ ‘Money and sanctity, Each in a moiety.’]
10 (return) [ Elisabeth de Rossan, Marquise de Ganges, was one of thefamous women of the court of Louis XIV. where she was known as “La BelleProvençale.” She was the widow of the Marquis de Castellane when shemarried de Ganges, and having the misfortune to excite the enmity of hernew brothers-in-law, was forced by them to take poison; and theyfinished her off with pistol and dagger.—Ed.]
11 (return) [ Magistrate and orator of great eloquence—chancellor ofFrance under Louis XV.]
12 (return) [ Jacques-Louis David, a famous French painter (1748-1825).]
13 (return) [ Ali Pasha, “The Lion,” was born at Tepelini, an Albanianvillage at the foot of the Klissoura Mountains, in 1741. By diplomacyand success in arms he became almost supreme ruler of Albania, Epirus,and adjacent territory. Having aroused the enmity of the Sultan, he wasproscribed and put to death by treachery in 1822, at the age ofeighty.—Ed.]
14 (return) [ Greek militiamen in the war for independence.—Ed.]
15 (return) [ A Turkish pasha in command of the troops of aprovince.—Ed.]
16 (return) [ The god of fruitfulness in Grecian mythology. In Crete hewas supposed to be slain in winter with the decay of vegetation and torevive in the spring. Haydée’s learned reference is to the behavior ofan actor in the Dionysian festivals.—Ed.]
17 (return) [ The Genoese conspirator.]
18 (return) [ Lake Maggiore.]
19 (return) [ In the old Greek legend the Atreidae, or children ofAtreus, were doomed to punishment because of the abominable crime oftheir father. The Agamemnon of Aeschylus is based on this legend.]
20 (return) [ The performance of the civil marriage.]
21 (return) [ In Molière’s comedy, Le Misanthrope.]
22 (return) [ Literally, “the basket,” because wedding gifts wereoriginally brought in such a receptacle.]
23 (return) [ Germain Pillon was a famous French sculptor (1535-1598).His best known work is “The Three Graces,” now in the Louvre.]
24 (return) [ Frédérick Lemaître—French actor (1800-1876). RobertMacaire is the hero of two favorite melodramas—“Chien de Montargis” and“Chien d’Aubry”—and the name is applied to bold criminals as a term ofderision.]
25 (return) [ The Spahis are French cavalry reserved for service inAfrica.]
26 (return) [ Savate: an old shoe.]
27 (return) [ Guilbert de Pixérécourt, French dramatist (1773-1844).]
28 (return) [ Gaspard Puget, the sculptor-architect, was born atMarseilles in 1615.]
29 (return) [ The Carolina—not Virginia—jessamine, gelsemiumsempervirens (properly speaking not a jessamine at all) has yellowblossoms. The reference is no doubt to the Wistaria frutescens.—Ed.]
30 (return) [ The miser in Molière’s comedy of L’Avare.—Ed.]
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