The Count of Monte Cristo

He was a fine, tall, slim young fellow of eighteen or twenty, with black eyes, and hair as dark as a raven’s wing; and his whole appearance bespoke that calmness and resolution peculiar to men accustomed from their cradle to contend with danger.

Yes, said Danglars, darting at Edmond a look gleaming with hate.

‘Ah, yes,’ he said, ‘I know them. The Morrels have been shipowners from father to son; and there was a Morrel who served in the same regiment with me when I was in garrison at Valence.’

“Without her captain!” cried Dantès, his eyes sparkling with animation; “pray mind what you say, for you are touching on the most secret wishes of my heart.”

We will leave Danglars struggling with the demon of hatred, and endeavoring to insinuate in the ear of the shipowner some evil suspicions against his comrade.

“So that you have lived for three months on sixty francs,” muttered Edmond.

The young man remarked the greedy glance which shone in the dark eyes of his neighbor.

“If we choose,” replied Danglars, “he will remain what he is; and perhaps become even less than he is.”

For three or four centuries they have remained upon this small promontory, on which they had settled like a flight of seabirds, without mixing with the Marseillaise population.

“Fernand,” cried Mercédès, “I believed you were good-hearted, and I was mistaken! Fernand, you are wicked to call to your aid jealousy and the anger of God!”

Fernand, pale and trembling, drew back, like a traveller at the sight of a serpent, and fell into a chair beside him.

During this time Danglars fixed his piercing glance on the young man, on whose heart Caderousse’s words fell like molten lead.

Fernand, probably excited beyond bearing, pricked by Danglars, as the bull is by the bandilleros, was about to rush out; for he had risen from his seat, and seemed to be collecting himself to dash headlong upon his rival.

“Ah, this letter gives me an idea—a capital idea! Ah; Dantès, my friend, you are not yet registered number one on board the good ship Pharaon;”

Absence severs as well as death, and if the walls of a prison were between Edmond and Mercédès they would be as effectually separated as if he lay under a tombstone.

I have always had more dread of a pen, a bottle of ink, and a sheet of paper, than of a sword or pistol.

Danglars looked back and saw Fernand stoop, pick up the crumpled paper, and putting it into his pocket then rush out of the arbor towards Pillon.

Fernand, whose lips wore their usual sinister smile, was pale and abstracted; occasionally, however, a deep flush would overspread his countenance, and a nervous contraction distort his features.

Happiness is like the enchanted palaces we read of in our childhood, where fierce, fiery dragons defend the entrance and approach; and monsters of all shapes and kinds, requiring to be overcome ere victory is ours.

Mercédès looked pleased and gratified, while Fernand grasped the handle of his knife with a convulsive clutch.

At the same instant his ear caught a sort of indistinct sound on the stairs, followed by the measured tread of soldiery, with the clanking of swords and military accoutrements.

The prisoner heard the cry, which sounded like the sob of a broken heart, and leaning from the coach he called out, “Good-bye, Mercédès—we shall soon meet again!”

“Hope!” faintly murmured Fernand, but the word seemed to die away on his pale agitated lips, and a convulsive spasm passed over his countenance.

“Be silent, you simpleton!” cried Danglars, grasping him by the arm, “or I will not answer even for your own safety.”

My only fear is the chance of Dantès being released. But, there, he is in the hands of Justice; and she will take her own.

It was not over the downfall of the man, but over the defeat of the Napoleonic idea, that they rejoiced, and in this they foresaw for themselves the bright and cheering prospect of a revivified political existence.

Napoleon is the Mahomet of the West, and is worshipped by his commonplace but ambitious followers, not only as a leader and lawgiver, but also as the personification of equality.

“Oh, M. de Villefort,” cried a beautiful young creature, “do try and get up some famous trial while we are at Marseilles. I never was in a law-court; I am told it is so very amusing!”

No; my pride is to see the accused pale, agitated, and as though beaten out of all composure by the fire of my eloquence.

If you wish to see me the king’s attorney, you must desire for me some of those violent and dangerous diseases from the cure of which so much honor redounds to the physician.

“To give you pleasure, my sweet Renée, I promise to show all the lenity in my power; but if the charges brought against this Bonapartist hero prove correct, why, then, you really must give me leave to order his head to be cut off.”

Now, in spite of the nobility of his countenance, the command of which, like a finished actor, he had carefully studied before the glass, it was by no means easy for him to assume an air of judicial severity.

He also was on the point of being married, and he was summoned from his own happiness to destroy that of another.

Alas, sir, I never had any opinions. I am hardly nineteen; I know nothing; I have no part to play.

Had a thunderbolt fallen into the room, Villefort could not have been more stupefied.

“Oh, if he knows the contents of this!” murmured he, “and that Noirtier is the father of Villefort, I am lost!”

The commissary took up an iron mallet and knocked thrice, every blow seeming to Dantès as if struck on his heart.

The prisoner’s first feeling was of joy at again breathing the pure air—for air is freedom; but he soon sighed, for he passed before La Réserve, where he had that morning been so happy, and now through the open windows came the laughter and revelry of a ball.

This gloomy fortress, which has for more than three hundred years furnished food for so many wild legends, seemed to Dantès like a scaffold to a malefactor.

Dantès was alone in darkness and in silence—cold as the shadows that he felt breathe on his burning forehead.

“Mark this; if you refuse at least to tell Mercédès I am here, I will some day hide myself behind the door, and when you enter I will dash out your brains with this stool.”

I tell you, marquis, my fortune is made if I only reach the Tuileries the first, for the king will not forget the service I do him.

But remorse is not thus banished; like Virgil’s wounded hero, he carried the arrow in his wound, and, arrived at the salon, Villefort uttered a sigh that was almost a sob, and sank into a chair.

Danglars was one of those men born with a pen behind the ear, and an inkstand in place of a heart.

“And you, sire, prevent me from sleeping with your security.”

“Now, you must agree that these are indubitable symptoms of insanity.” “Or of wisdom, my dear baron—or of wisdom,” said Louis XVIII., laughing.

I told you Villefort was ambitious, and to attain this ambition Villefort would sacrifice everything, even his father.

At this instant the minister of police appeared at the door, pale, trembling, and as if ready to faint.

I have, during those five-and-twenty years, spared no pains to understand the people of France and the interests which were confided to me; and now, when I see the fruition of my wishes almost within reach, the power I hold in my hands bursts and shatters me to atoms!

Oh, I would rather mount the scaffold of my brother, Louis XVI., than thus descend the staircase at the Tuileries driven away by ridicule.

Villefort, who looked as if his very life hung on the speaker’s lips, turned alternately red and pale.

“It is he!” said Villefort, turning pale.

“Father, your coolness makes me shudder.”

In politics, my dear fellow, you know, as well as I do, there are no men, but ideas—no feelings, but interests; in politics we do not kill a man, we only remove an obstacle, that is all.

At these words he rose, and put off his frock-coat and cravat, went towards a table on which lay his son’s toilet articles, lathered his face, took a razor, and, with a firm hand, cut off the compromising whiskers.

The soldiers you believe to be dying with hunger, worn out with fatigue, ready to desert, gather like atoms of snow about the rolling ball as it hastens onward.

Morrel expected Villefort would be dejected; he found him as he had found him six weeks before, calm, firm, and full of that glacial politeness, that most insurmountable barrier which separates the well-bred from the vulgar man.

It is sometimes essential to government to cause a man’s disappearance without leaving any traces, so that no written forms or documents may defeat their wishes.

Dantès must be crushed to gratify Villefort’s ambition.

Dantès in his cell heard the noise of preparation,—sounds that at the depth where he lay would have been inaudible to any but the ear of a prisoner, who could hear the splash of the drop of water that every hour fell from the roof of his dungeon.

“So much the better for him,—he will suffer less,” said the inspector. He was, as this remark shows, a man full of philanthropy, and in every way fit for his office.

The door closed; but this time a fresh inmate was left with Dantès—hope.

That proves, returned the abbé, that you are like those of Holy Writ, who having eyes see not, and having ears hear not.

This horrible place contained fifty cells; their inhabitants were designated by the numbers of their cell, and the unhappy young man was no longer called Edmond Dantès—he was now number 34.

He sighed for the galleys, with the infamous costume, the chain, and the brand on the shoulder. The galley-slaves breathed the fresh air of heaven, and saw each other. They were very happy.

No sooner had this idea taken possession of him than he became more composed, arranged his couch to the best of his power, ate little and slept less, and found existence almost supportable, because he felt that he could throw it off at pleasure, like a worn-out garment.

It was the last yearning for life contending with the resolution of despair; then his dungeon seemed less sombre, his prospects less desperate.

At the first blow the sound ceased, as if by magic.

Dantès had but one resource, which was to break the jug, and with one of the sharp fragments attack the wall.

Edmond had not heard anyone speak save his jailer for four or five years; and a jailer is no man to a prisoner—he is a living door, a barrier of flesh and blood adding strength to restraints of oak and iron.

“I have made a mistake owing to an error in my plans. I took the wrong angle, and have come out fifteen feet from where I intended.”

He was, perhaps, about to regain his liberty; at the worst, he would have a companion, and captivity that is shared is but half captivity.

“Fifty feet!” responded Dantès, almost terrified.

I forget this sometimes, and there are even moments when my mental vision transports me beyond these walls, and I fancy myself at liberty.

Dantès held down his head, that the other might not see how joy at the thought of having a companion outweighed the sympathy he felt for the failure of the abbé’s plans.

But the sight of an old man clinging to life with so desperate a courage, gave a fresh turn to his ideas, and inspired him with new courage.

I have thought it no sin to bore through a wall, or destroy a staircase; but I cannot so easily persuade myself to pierce a heart or take away a life.

For very important notes, for which closer attention is required, I pricked one of my fingers, and wrote with my own blood.

Each word that fell from his companion’s lips seemed fraught with the mysteries of science, as worthy of digging out as the gold and diamonds in the mines of Guzerat and Golconda.

Dantès laid the different things he had been looking at on the table, and stood with his head drooping on his breast, as though overwhelmed by the perseverance and strength of Faria’s mind.

Compression is needed to explode gunpowder. Captivity has brought my mental faculties to a focus; and you are well aware that from the collision of clouds electricity is produced—from electricity, lightning, from lightning, illumination.

But these forces increase as we go higher, so that we have a spiral which in defiance of reason rests upon the apex and not on the base.

Dantès drew back, and gazed on the abbé with a sensation almost amounting to terror.

“Yes; and remember that two-legged tigers and crocodiles are more dangerous than the others.”

“I regret now,” said he, “having helped you in your late inquiries, or having given you the information I did.” “Why so?” inquired Dantès. “Because it has instilled a new passion in your heart—that of vengeance.”

“He shall be both blind and deaf,” replied the young man, with an air of determination that made his companion shudder.

Dantès looked in fear and wonder at the livid countenance of Faria, whose eyes, already dull and sunken, were surrounded by purple circles, while his lips were white as those of a corpse, and his very hair seemed to stand on end.

When I become quite motionless, cold, and rigid as a corpse, then, and not before,—be careful about this,—force open my teeth with the knife.

“My son,” said the abbé, “you, who are a sailor and a swimmer, must know as well as I do that a man so loaded would sink before he had done fifty strokes.”

“By the blood of Christ I swear never to leave you while you live.”

This idea was one of vengeance to me, and I tasted it slowly in the night of my dungeon and the despair of my captivity.

“You thought to escape my munificence, but it is in vain. Listen to me.”

The lion bit the hand thus favored, and at the end of twenty-four hours, the bite was mortal.

Cæsar, poisoned at the same time, escaped by shedding his skin like a snake; but the new skin was spotted by the poison till it looked like a tiger’s.

But beneath my fingers, as if by magic, in proportion as the fire ascended, I saw yellowish characters appear on the paper.

I guessed the rest; measuring the length of the lines by those of the paper, and divining the hidden meaning by means of what was in part revealed, as we are guided in a cavern by the small ray of light above us.

Dantès’ countenance became gloomy, for the oath of vengeance he had taken recurred to his memory, and he reflected how much ill, in these times, a man with thirteen or fourteen millions could do to his enemies.

Believe me, and take comfort, this is better for me than tons of gold and cases of diamonds, even were they not as problematical as the clouds we see in the morning floating over the sea.

You will no longer have half a dead body tied to you as a drag to all your movements.

“Monte Cristo, forget not Monte Cristo!” And he fell back on the bed.

Strange shadows passed over the countenance of the dead man, and at times gave it the appearance of life.

There was heard the crackling of burning flesh, of which the peculiar and nauseous smell penetrated even behind the wall where Dantès was listening in horror.

Since none but the dead pass freely from this dungeon, let me take the place of the dead!

From time to time chills ran through his whole body, and clutched his heart in a grasp of ice.

Dantès felt himself flung into the air like a wounded bird, falling, falling, with a rapidity that made his blood curdle.

He could not see it, but he felt its presence.

It seemed to him that the island trembled to its base, and that it would, like a vessel at anchor, break moorings, and bear him off into the centre of the storm.

He rose on the waves, making signs of distress; but no one on board saw him, and the vessel stood on another tack.

He rose again to the surface, struggled with the last desperate effort of a drowning man, uttered a third cry, and felt himself sinking, as if the fatal cannon shot were again tied to his feet.

A small white cloud, which had attracted Dantès’ attention, crowned the summit of the bastion of the Château d’If.

He was instantly struck with the idea that he had on board his vessel one whose coming and going, like that of kings, was accompanied with salutes of artillery.

Moreover, from being so long in twilight or darkness, his eyes had acquired the faculty of distinguishing objects in the night, common to the hyena and the wolf.

Dantès was on the way he desired to follow, and was moving towards the end he wished to achieve; his heart was in a fair way of petrifying in his bosom.

He pointed out to him the bearings of the coast, explained to him the variations of the compass, and taught him to read in that vast book opened over our heads which they call heaven, and where God writes in azure with letters of diamonds.

If he closed his eyes, he saw Cardinal Spada’s letter written on the wall in characters of flame—if he slept for a moment the wildest dreams haunted his brain.

Never did a gamester, whose whole fortune is staked on one cast of the die, experience the anguish which Edmond felt in his paroxysms of hope.

At this moment hope makes me despise their riches, which seem to me contemptible.

Edmond’s foot slipped, and they saw him stagger on the edge of a rock and disappear.

Then Dantès rose more agile and light than the kid among the myrtles and shrubs of these wild rocks, took his gun in one hand, his pickaxe in the other, and hastened towards the rock on which the marks he had noted terminated.

A huge snake, like the guardian demon of the treasure, rolled himself along in darkening coils, and disappeared.

Dantès redoubled his efforts; he seemed like one of the ancient Titans, who uprooted the mountains to hurl against the father of the gods.

The pickaxe struck for a moment with a dull sound that drew out of Dantès’ forehead large drops of perspiration.

He then closed his eyes as children do in order that they may see in the resplendent night of their own imagination more stars than are visible in the firmament; then he re-opened them, and stood motionless with amazement.

It was a night of joy and terror, such as this man of stupendous emotions had already experienced twice or thrice in his lifetime.

Edmond preserved the most admirable self-command, not suffering the faintest indication of a smile to escape him at the enumeration of all the benefits he would have reaped had he been able to quit the island.

The boat, indeed, seemed to be animated with almost human intelligence, so promptly did it obey the slightest touch.

At this spot, so pregnant with fond and filial remembrances, his heart beat almost to bursting, his knees tottered under him, a mist floated over his sight, and had he not clung for support to one of the trees, he would inevitably have fallen to the ground.

The eyes of Edmond were suffused in tears as he reflected that on that spot the old man had breathed his last, vainly calling for his son.

Each stalk served as a perch for a grasshopper, which regaled the passers-by through this Egyptian scene with its strident, monotonous note.

“Hush, La Carconte. It is God’s pleasure that things should be so.”

The priest gazed on the person addressing him with a long and searching gaze—there even seemed a disposition on his part to court a similar scrutiny on the part of the innkeeper.

“He died a more wretched, hopeless, heart-broken prisoner than the felons who pay the penalty of their crimes at the galleys of Toulon.”

The sharp gaze of Caderousse was instantly directed towards the priest’s garments, as though hoping to discover the location of the treasure.

“Starvation!” exclaimed the abbé, springing from his seat. “Why, the vilest animals are not suffered to die by such a death as that.”

I cannot help being more frightened at the idea of the malediction of the dead than the hatred of the living.

The jewel is worth at least fifty thousand francs.

The persons of whom I am about to talk are rich and powerful, and if they only laid the tips of their fingers on me, I should break to pieces like glass.

I was there, too, and I never shall forget the old man’s smile at this prescription.

“Of hunger, sir, of hunger,” said Caderousse. “I am as certain of it as that we two are Christians.”

“And it is thus heaven recompenses virtue, sir,” added Caderousse. “You see, I, who never did a bad action but that I have told you of—am in destitution... while Fernand and Danglars are rolling in wealth.”

Happiness or unhappiness is the secret known but to one’s self and the walls—walls have ears but no tongue.

“Disappeared,” said Caderousse, “yes, as the sun disappears, to rise the next day with still more splendor.”

She learned drawing, music—everything. Besides, I believe, between ourselves, she did this in order to distract her mind, that she might forget; and she only filled her head in order to alleviate the weight on her heart.

“I will swear to you by my soul’s salvation, my faith as a Christian, I have told everything to you as it occurred, and as the recording angel will tell it to the ear of God at the day of the last judgment!”

“I only ask a brokerage.” “Of course, that is perfectly just,” cried M. de Boville. “The commission I ask is quite different.”

“You may imagine the amazement of the fugitive when he found himself flung headlong over the rocks! I should like to have seen his face at that moment.”

He folded up the accusation quietly, and put it as quietly in his pocket; read the examination, and saw that the name of Noirtier was not mentioned in it.

Everything was as we have said, a question of arithmetic to Cocles, and during twenty years he had always seen all payments made with such exactitude, that it seemed as impossible to him that the house should stop payment, as it would to a miller that the river that had so long turned his mill should cease to flow.

At the sight of the stranger, M. Morrel closed the ledger, arose, and offered a seat to the stranger; and when he had seen him seated, resumed his own chair.

“In business, sir,” said he, “one has no friends, only correspondents.”

“Thanks, my God,” said he, “at least thou strikest but me alone.”

‘I will blow the brains out of the first man who leaves the pump,’ said he.

“No more money? Then you must not pay us; we can scud, like the Pharaon, under bare poles.”

Julie uttered a faint cry, blushed like a rose, and leaned against the baluster.

And Morrel was right, for he returned home crushed by the humiliation of a refusal.

She would have questioned him as he passed by her, but the worthy creature hastened down the staircase with unusual precipitation, and only raised his hands to heaven and exclaimed, 'Oh, mademoiselle, mademoiselle, what a dreadful misfortune!'

“Nothing, my dear,” replied the unhappy man, the tears starting to his eyes at this simple question,—“nothing, only I want it.”

“Father,” he exclaimed, turning pale as death, “what are you going to do with that brace of pistols under your coat?”

“If I live, all would be changed; if I live, interest would be converted into doubt, pity into hostility; if I live I am only a man who has broken his word, failed in his engagements—in fact, only a bankrupt.”

He placed the muzzle of the pistol between his teeth. Suddenly he heard a cry—it was his daughter’s voice.

Morrel fell back in his chair, his strength was failing him; his understanding weakened by such events, refused to comprehend such incredible, unheard-of, fabulous facts.

I have been heaven’s substitute to recompense the good—now the god of vengeance yields to me his power to punish the wicked!

Soon the water rushes out of the scupper-holes like a whale spouting, the vessel gives a last groan, spins round and round, and disappears, forming a vast whirlpool in the ocean, and then all is over, so that in five minutes nothing but the eye of God can see the vessel where she lies at the bottom of the sea.

As they drew near the island seemed to lift from the sea, and the air was so clear that they could already distinguish the rocks heaped on one another, like cannon balls in an arsenal.

“I mean that they have killed an enemy, which is a very different thing,” returned the captain.

Franz coolly cocked both barrels. Gaetano then exchanged a few words with this man which the traveller did not understand, but which evidently concerned him.

“That you are blindfolded, and do not take off the bandage until he himself bids you.”

“Decidedly,” muttered Franz, “this is an Arabian Nights’ adventure.”

His pallor was so peculiar, that it seemed to pertain to one who had been long entombed, and who was incapable of resuming the healthy glow and hue of life.

Although Sinbad pronounced these words with much calmness, his eyes gave forth gleams of extraordinary ferocity.

Ah! responded Sinbad, laughing with his singular laugh, which displayed his white and sharp teeth.

Nature subdued must yield in the combat, the dream must succeed to reality, and then the dream reigns supreme, then the dream becomes life, and life becomes the dream.

At length the boat touched the shore, but without effort, without shock, as lips touch lips; and he entered the grotto amidst continued strains of most delicious melody.

Lips of stone turned to flame, breasts of ice became like heated lava, so that to Franz, yielding for the first time to the sway of the drug, love was a sorrow and voluptuousness a torture.

Thus every now and then he saw in fancy amid the sailors, seated on a rock, or undulating in the vessel, one of the shadows which had shared his dream with looks and kisses.

Yet he did not leave a foot of this granite wall, as impenetrable as futurity, without strict scrutiny.

All the rest of the year the city is in that state of dull apathy, between life and death, which renders it similar to a kind of station between this world and the next—a sublime spot, a resting-place full of poetry and character.

“Ah, the devil, no,” cried Albert; “I came to Rome to see the Carnival, and I will, though I see it on stilts.”

When we show a friend a city one has already visited, we feel the same pride as when we point out a woman whose lover we have been.

“No, for it would be useless. What could you do against a dozen bandits who spring out of some pit, ruin, or aqueduct, and level their pieces at you?”

The innkeeper turned to Franz with an air that seemed to say, “Your friend is decidedly mad.”

The same evening, when the flock was safe at the farm, the little Luigi hastened to the smith at Palestrina, took a large nail, heated and sharpened it, and formed a sort of stylus.

Teresa alone ruled by a look, a word, a gesture, this impetuous character, which yielded beneath the hand of a woman, and which beneath the hand of a man might have broken, but could never have been bended.

The bandit’s laws are positive; a young girl belongs first to him who carries her off, then the rest draw lots for her, and she is abandoned to their brutality until death relieves her sufferings.

The two brigands looked at each other for a moment—the one with a smile of lasciviousness on his lips, the other with the pallor of death on his brow.

A woman lay on the ground, her head resting on the knees of a man, who was seated by her; as he raised his head, the woman’s face became visible.

He found the old man suspended from one of the branches of the oak which shaded his daughter’s grave.

Cucumetto was a cunning fiend, and had assumed the form of a brigand instead of a serpent, and this look from Teresa showed to him that she was a worthy daughter of Eve.

He followed with his eye each movement of Teresa and her cavalier; when their hands touched, he felt as though he should swoon; every pulse beat with violence, and it seemed as though a bell were ringing in his ears.

The young girl, much astonished, raised her head to look at him, but his face was so gloomy and terrible that her words froze to her lips.

‘Luigi Vampa,’ replied the shepherd, with the same air as he would have replied, Alexander, King of Macedon. ‘And yours?’

He had just expired, with clenched hands, his mouth in a spasm of agony, and his hair on end in the sweat of death.

‘I have killed your chief, Cucumetto, whose dress I now wear; and I set fire to the villa San-Felice to procure a wedding-dress for my betrothed.’

At the sixtieth minute of this hour, if the money is not forthcoming, he blows out the prisoner’s brains with a pistol-shot, or plants his dagger in his heart, and that settles the account.

The pale moonlight played and flickered like the unearthly gleam from the eyes of the wandering dead.

The man who had performed this daring act with so much indifference wore the Transtevere costume.

I said, my good fellow, that I would do more single-handed by the means of gold than you and all your troop could effect with stilettos, pistols, carbines, and blunderbusses included.

And then, my good fellow, use your daggers in any way you please, and I further promise you to be there as a spectator of your prowess.

It was more especially when this man was speaking in a manner half jesting, half bitter, that Franz’s ear recalled most vividly the deep sonorous, yet well-pitched voice that had addressed him in the grotto of Monte Cristo.

Alas, poor Albert! None of those interesting adventures fell in his way; the lovely Genoese, Florentines, and Neapolitans were all faithful, if not to their husbands, at least to their lovers.

All I can say is, if ever I should get such a chance, the living should be my theme.

I believe, on my soul, that they never mean to finish it.

Of this he took no heed, but was, as far as appearances might be trusted, enjoying soft repose and bright celestial dreams.

He looks more like a corpse permitted by some friendly grave-digger to quit his tomb for a while, and revisit this earth of ours, than anything human.

For heaven’s sake, do not serve as a conductor between that man and me.

Upon my soul, these women would puzzle the very Devil to read them aright.

“That is what I call an elegant mode of attack,” said Albert, “You were quite correct in what you said, Signor Pastrini. The Count of Monte Cristo is unquestionably a man of first-rate breeding and knowledge of the world.”

The next day must clear up every doubt; and unless his near neighbor and would-be friend, the Count of Monte Cristo, possessed the ring of Gyges, and by its power was able to render himself invisible, it was very certain he could not escape this time.

The first-named malefactor will be mazzolato, the second culprit decapitato.

Franz remained, in a manner, spellbound on his chair; for in the person of him who had just entered he recognized not only the mysterious visitant to the Colosseum, and the occupant of the box at the Teatro Argentina, but also his extraordinary host of Monte Cristo.

My first sentiment was horror, the second indifference, the third curiosity.

Do you think the reparation that society gives you is sufficient when it interposes the knife of the guillotine between the base of the occiput and the trapezal muscles of the murderer?

“The scaffold forms part of the fête.”

Think of the eighty thousand applauding spectators, the sage matrons who took their daughters, and the charming Vestals who made with the thumb of their white hands the fatal sign that said, ‘Come, despatch the dying.’

Two men, seated on the movable plank on which the victim is laid, were eating their breakfasts, while waiting for the criminal.

His nostrils dilated like those of a wild beast that scents its prey, and his lips, half opened, disclosed his white teeth, small and sharp like those of a jackal.

Oh, man, man—race of crocodiles, how well do I recognize you there, and that at all times you are worthy of yourselves!

The count was erect and triumphant, like the Avenging Angel!

Franz and Albert were like men who, to drive away a violent sorrow, have recourse to wine, and who, as they drink and become intoxicated, feel a thick veil drawn between the past and the present.

“On my word,” said Franz, “you are wise as Nestor and prudent as Ulysses, and your fair Circe must be very skilful or very powerful if she succeed in changing you into a beast of any kind.”

“Well,” said she, hardly giving Franz time to sit down, “it seems you have nothing better to do than to make the acquaintance of this new Lord Ruthven, and you are already the best friends in the world.”

I see my vampire is only some millionaire, who has taken the appearance of Lara in order to avoid being confounded with M. de Rothschild.

Albert was charmed with the count’s manners, and he was only prevented from recognizing him for a perfect gentleman by reason of his varied knowledge.

“Tuesday evening, at seven o’clock, descend from your carriage opposite the Via dei Pontefici, and follow the Roman peasant who snatches your torch from you.”

Truly, a Byronic hero! Franz could not, we will not say see him, but even think of him without imagining his stern head upon Manfred’s shoulders, or beneath Lara’s helmet.

It was a human storm, made up of a thunder of cries, and a hail of sweetmeats, flowers, eggs, oranges, and nosegays.

It seemed as though Rome, under the magic breath of some demon of the night, had suddenly changed into a vast tomb.

“Who can tell? The night is gloomy, and the Tiber is very near the Via Macello.”

“If by six in the morning the four thousand piastres are not in my hands, by seven o’clock the Count Albert will have ceased to live.”

“Se alle sei della mattina le quattro mile piastre non sono nelle mie mani, alla sette il conte Alberto avrà cessato di vivere.”

Beppo put a brace of pistols to his head, the coachman pulled up and did the same.

Finally he disappeared in the midst of the tall red herbage, which seemed like the bristling mane of an enormous lion.

In a moment all the bandits were on their feet, and twenty carbines were levelled at the count.

“Why have you caused me thus to fail in my word towards a gentleman like the count, who has all our lives in his hands?”

And he put out his hand to the Count, who shuddered as he gave his own, but who nevertheless did give it.

Franz was considering the singular shudder that had passed over the Count of Monte Cristo at the moment when he had been, in some sort, forced to give his hand to Albert.

I have only to ask you, my dear M. de Morcerf—whether you undertake, upon my arrival in France, to open to me the doors of that fashionable world of which I know no more than a Huron or a native of Cochin-China?

It was the first time the hand of Franz had come in contact with that of the mysterious individual before him, and unconsciously he shuddered at its touch, for it felt cold and icy as that of a corpse.

“Well,” said he, when Franz had concluded, “what do you find to object to in all you have related? The count is fond of travelling, and, being rich, possesses a vessel of his own.”

My good fellow, you must have lost your senses to think it possible I could act with such cold-blooded policy.

It was a little entrance that seemed never to have been opened since the house was built, so entirely was it covered with dust and dirt; but the well-oiled hinges and locks told quite another story.

On the walls, over the doors, on the ceiling, were swords, daggers, Malay creeses, maces, battle-axes; gilded, damasked, and inlaid suits of armor; dried plants, minerals, and stuffed birds, their flame-colored wings outspread in motionless flight, and their beaks forever open.

I am hungry, feed me; I am bored, amuse me.

“My dear friend,” said Lucien with an air of sovereign contempt, “do I ever read the papers?”

You marry a money-bag label, it is true; well, but what does that matter? It is better to have a blazon less and a figure more on it.

One seized me by the hair (that is why I now wear it so short, for no one knows what may happen), the other swung a yataghan, and I already felt the cold steel on my neck.

'I think him capable of everything.'

Well, do you know if the persons you see there are rich or poor, if their sacks of wheat are not rubies or diamonds?

This man has often made me shudder; and one day when we were viewing an execution, I thought I should faint, more from hearing the cold and calm manner in which he spoke of every description of torture, than from the sight of the executioner and the culprit.

At these words it was still possible to observe in Monte Cristo the concentrated look, changing color, and slight trembling of the eyelid that show emotion.

I had it hollowed out, which reduced its value, but rendered it more commodious for the purpose I intended.

I never seek to protect a society which does not protect me, and which I will even say, generally occupies itself about me only to injure me.

Sinbad the Sailor is your baptismal appellation, and yet the first day you set foot in Paris you instinctively display the greatest virtue, or rather the chief defect, of us eccentric Parisians,—that is, you assume the vices you have not, and conceal the virtues you possess.

If the stranger expected to produce an effect on Morrel, he was not mistaken—Maximilian started as if he had been electrified.

He is black, and cannot speak,” returned Monte Cristo. “It is Ali!” cried Albert, in the midst of the general surprise.

“Oh, we have three millions for our police; it is true they are almost always spent beforehand, but, no matter, we shall still have fifty thousand francs to spend for this purpose.”

The light was so faint in the room that Albert did not perceive the pallor that spread itself over the count’s visage, or the nervous heaving of his chest and shoulders.

It would have required the penetration of Œdipus or the Sphinx to have divined the irony the count concealed beneath these words, apparently uttered with the most polite suavity.

Monte Cristo saw him advance towards him without making a single step. It seemed as if his feet were rooted to the ground, and his eyes on the Count of Morcerf.

The count bowed again, but lower than before; He was even paler than Mercédès.

Albert could not see the face of the countess, as it was covered with a thin veil she had put on her head, and which fell over her features in misty folds, but it seemed to him as though her voice had altered.

I shall reply that I really do look upon him as one of Byron’s heroes, whom misery has marked with a fatal brand.

The countess bent her head, as if beneath a heavy wave of bitter thoughts.

At these words Bertuccio turned pale. “And where is Auteuil?” asked the count.

“To Auteuil!” cried Bertuccio, whose copper complexion became livid—“I go to Auteuil?”

Bertuccio’s forehead was covered with perspiration; however, he obeyed, and, leaning out of the window, he cried to the coachman,—“Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28.”

But he who was addressed stood there, stupefied, bewildered, stunned; his haggard eyes glanced around, as if in search of the traces of some terrible event, and with his clenched hands he seemed striving to shut out horrible recollections.

I have always observed, that the devil most obstinate to be expelled is a secret.

This is not chance, for chance, in this case, is too much like providence.

As I entered Nîmes, I literally waded in blood; at every step you encountered dead bodies and bands of murderers, who killed, plundered, and burned.

But he was a man of stone. I approached him, and said in a low voice, ‘Well, since you know the Corsicans so well, you know that they always keep their word.’

I descended rapidly; although I had not seen Villefort’s face, I recognized him by the beating of my heart.

I felt his blood gush over my face, but I was intoxicated, I was delirious, and the blood refreshed, instead of burning me.

‘Console thyself, sister; Israel is dead, but he is avenged.’

The proverb was but too correct as regarded Benedetto, and even in his infancy he manifested the worst disposition.

‘You cannot beat me,’ said he; ‘you have no right, for you are not my father.’

I sprang into the hold, opened a port, and dropped into the river, dived, and only rose at intervals to breathe.

The jeweller examined attentively the interior of the inn and the apparent poverty of the persons who were about to sell him a diamond that seemed to have come from the casket of a prince.

At the sight of the diamond, which was as large as a hazel-nut, La Carconte’s eyes sparkled with cupidity.

The thunder growled in the distance; but it was apparently not heard by the jeweller, Caderousse, or La Carconte, absorbed as they were all three with the demon of gain.

The woman, especially, was hideous; her usual feverish tremulousness was intensified, her countenance had become livid, and her eyes resembled burning coals.

Caderousse, meanwhile, continued to pace the room in gloomy silence, sedulously avoiding the sight of his guest; but as soon as the stranger had completed his repast, the agitated innkeeper went eagerly

La Carconte still kept her eyes fixed on her husband, but as he made no sign of changing his position, she extended her hard, bony hand, and touched him on the forehead.

It seemed to me as if the rain must have penetrated through the flooring of the room above, for some kind of moisture appeared to fall, drop by drop, upon my forehead, and when I passed my hand across my brow, I felt that it was wet and clammy.

I discovered that the thick warm drops that had so bedewed me as I lay beneath the staircase must have been the blood of La Carconte.

My voluntary confession of the assassination at Auteuil proved to him that I had not committed that of which I stood accused.

Two held poor Assunta, who, unable to conceive that any harm was intended to her, smiled in the face of those who were soon to become her executioners.

I have no fear of ghosts, and I have never heard it said that so much harm had been done by the dead during six thousand years as is wrought by the living in a single day.

She raised the hand extended towards her to her lips, and kissed it with a mixture of love and respect.

How comes it that all do not retreat in aversion at sight of that flat, receding, serpent-like forehead, round, vulture-shaped head, and sharp-hooked nose, like the beak of a buzzard?

It seems, sir steward, that you have yet to learn that all things are to be sold to such as care to pay the price.

Ali has many faults mixed with most excellent qualities. He cannot possibly serve you as a pattern for your conduct, not being, as you are, a paid servant, but a mere slave—a dog, who, should he fail in his duty towards me, I should not discharge from my service, but kill.

‘I took the trouble this morning to call on the pretended count—if he were a real count he wouldn’t be so rich.’

“I see; to your domestics you are ‘my lord,’ the journalists style you ‘monsieur,’ while your constituents call you ‘citizen.’ These are distinctions very suitable under a constitutional government.”

A million? Excuse my smiling when you speak of a sum I am in the habit of carrying in my pocket-book or dressing-case.

And the count, while pronouncing these latter words, accompanied them with one of those ghastly smiles that used to strike terror into poor Franz d’Epinay.

M. Danglars, however, entertained the most sovereign contempt for the simple elegance of his wife’s favorite sitting-room, where, by the way, he was never permitted to intrude, unless, indeed, he excused his own appearance by ushering in some more agreeable visitor than himself.

I need but mention one fact to make all the ladies in Paris court his notice, and that is, that he has come to take up his abode in Paris for a year, during which brief period he proposes to spend six millions of money.

Some madman or fool, bent upon ruining himself as fast as he can, actually sent his steward to me to purchase them at any cost.

The domestic peace of this family is henceforth in my hands. Now, then, to play another master-stroke, by which I shall gain the heart of both husband and wife—delightful!

Ali had promptly seized the nostrils of the second horse, and held them in his iron grasp, till the beast, snorting with pain, sunk beside his companion.

“His life, madame, belongs not to him; it is mine, in return for my having myself saved him from death.”

The child stuck out his lips and turned away his head in a disdainful manner, saying, “He’s too ugly.”

You will find your horses in bad condition, from the results of this accident; they seem thoroughly stupefied, as if sulky and vexed at having been conquered by man.

Pretend to think well of yourself, and the world will think well of you, an axiom a hundred times more useful in society nowadays than that of the Greeks, 'Know thyself.'

His funeral appearance was only mitigated by the slight line of red ribbon which passed almost imperceptibly through his button-hole, and appeared like a streak of blood traced with a delicate brush.

“Why, in truth, sir,” was Monte Cristo’s reply, “man is but an ugly caterpillar for him who studies him through a solar microscope; but you said, I think, that I had nothing else to do.”

The nations took Attila, who was doomed to destroy them, for a conqueror similar to other conquerors, and it was necessary for both to reveal their missions, that they might be known and acknowledged; one was compelled to say, ‘I am the angel of the Lord’; and the other, ‘I am the hammer of God,’ in order that the divine essence in both might be revealed.

My kingdom is bounded only by the world, for I am not an Italian, or a Frenchman, or a Hindu, or an American, or a Spaniard—I am a cosmopolite.

I wish to be Providence myself, for I feel that the most beautiful, noblest, most sublime thing in the world, is to recompense and punish.

M. Noirtier, for whom France was a vast chess-board, from which pawns, rooks, knights, and queens were to disappear, so that the king was checkmated—M. Noirtier, the redoubtable, was the next morning poor M. Noirtier, the helpless old man.

The faithful Nubian walked on tiptoe towards the door, holding his breath, lest its faintest sound should dissipate his master’s happy reverie.

“Why demand permission ere you enter? Are you no longer my master, or have I ceased to be your slave?”

“The tree forsakes not the flower—the flower falls from the tree.”

There was a study for Emmanuel, who never studied, and a music-room for Julie, who never played.

‘Julie,’ said he to her, ‘Cocles has just given me the last rouleau of a hundred francs; that completes the 250,000 francs we had fixed as the limits of our gains.’

The count’s cheeks became scarlet, and he coughed, in order to have an excuse for putting his handkerchief to his mouth.

'Monsieur,' returned Maximilian, raising the glass cover, and respectfully kissing the silken purse, 'this has touched the hand of a man who saved my father from suicide, us from ruin, and our name from shame and disgrace.'

‘Maximilian, it was Edmond Dantès!’ At these words the count’s paleness, which had for some time been increasing, became alarming; he could not speak.

“His voice went to my heart,” observed Julie; “and two or three times I fancied that I had heard it before.”

But the eye of love had already seen, even through the narrow chinks of the wooden palisades, the movement of the white robe, and observed the fluttering of the blue sash.

I am on my own ground, and have an undoubted right to place a ladder against the wall, and to look over when I please, without having any apprehensions of being taken off by the police as a suspicious character.

Oh, how bitter a fate is mine, to serve either as a victim or an enemy to all who are stronger than myself, while my only friend and supporter is a living corpse!

The world, however, is mistaken; my father abandons me from utter indifference, while my mother-in-law detests me with a hatred so much the more terrible because it is veiled beneath a continual smile.

The aristocracy of the lance has allied itself with the nobility of the cannon.

Oh, he laughed, and in that singular manner so peculiar to himself—half-malicious, half-ferocious; he almost immediately got up and took his leave.

Maximilian leaped at one bound into his crop of lucern, which he began to pull up in the most ruthless way, under the pretext of being occupied in weeding it.

“And M. de Monte Cristo, King of China, Emperor of Cochin-China,” said the young imp, looking slyly towards his sister.

We discoursed a long time, madame, on different subjects; of Perugino, of Raphael, of manners, customs, of the famous aqua Tofana, of which they had told you, I think you said, that certain individuals in Perugia had preserved the secret.

The poor old gentleman is entirely helpless; the mind alone is still active in this human machine, and that is faint and flickering, like the light of a lamp about to expire.

Science becomes, in their hands, not only a defensive weapon, but still more frequently an offensive one; the one serves against all their physical sufferings, the other against all their enemies.

Amongst us a simpleton, possessed by the demon of hate or cupidity, goes straight to the grocer’s or druggist’s and purchases five or six grammes of arsenic—a dose which would make a mammoth or mastodon burst.

Yet man will never be perfect until he learns to create and destroy; he does know how to destroy, and that is half the battle.

The fowl had not been poisoned—she had died of apoplexy. Apoplexy is a rare disease among fowls, I believe, but very common among men.

After every action requiring exertion, it is conscience that saves us, for it supplies us with a thousand good excuses, of which we alone are judges.

One drop will restore life, as you have seen; five or six will inevitably kill, and in a way the more terrible inasmuch as, poured into a glass of wine, it would not in the slightest degree affect its flavor.

To no class of persons is the presentation of a gratuitous opera-box more acceptable than to the wealthy millionaire, who still hugs economy while boasting of carrying a king’s ransom in his waistcoat pocket.

I should have liked something more in the manner of the Venus of Milo or Capua; but this chase-loving Diana, continually surrounded by her nymphs, gives me a sort of alarm lest she should some day bring on me the fate of Actæon.

She, indeed, reminded one of Diana, as Château-Renaud observed, but her bearing was more haughty and resolute.

“Why, our Lord Ruthven—the Vampire of the Salle Argentina!”

The second act passed away during one continued buzz of voices—one deep whisper—intimating that some great and universally interesting event had occurred.

The Countess G—— insists upon it that he is a vampire.

Oh, it is well enough as the production of a human composer, sung by featherless bipeds, to quote the late Diogenes.

The quick eye of Monte Cristo however, marked his coming; and a slight though meaning smile passed over his lips.

“Wretch!” exclaimed Haydée, her eyes flashing with rage; “he sold my father to the Turks, and the fortune he boasts of was the price of his treachery!”

Madame Danglars, not being able personally to examine in detail the domestic economy and household arrangements of a man who gave away horses worth 30,000 francs and who went to the opera with a Greek slave wearing diamonds to the amount of a million of money, had deputed those eyes, by which she was accustomed to see.

“I think, rather than give pain to my dear mother, I would run the risk of offending the count.”

Cause her to lose a hundred thousand francs, and that would teach her prudence.

You were only a charming man before, but, if you accede to my proposal, you will be adorable.

I wish to do away with that mysterious reputation that you have given me, my dear viscount; it is tiresome to be always acting Manfred.

‘Lucullus dines with Lucullus,’ that is quite sufficient.

“Was I a major?” timidly asked the old soldier.

The bottle was covered with spiders’ webs, and all the other signs which indicate the age of wine more truly than do wrinkles on a man’s face.

“His poor mother,” murmured the major, trying to get the lachrymal gland in operation, so as to moisten the corner of his eye with a false tear.

“And I am still mourning her loss,” exclaimed the major, drawing from his pocket a checked handkerchief, and alternately wiping first the left and then the right eye.

The major’s eyes sparkled brilliantly. 'It is 40,000 francs which I now owe you,' said Monte Cristo.

The count from the moment of first entering the drawing-room, had not once lost sight of the expression of the young man’s countenance; he had admired the assurance of his look and the firmness of his voice.

I have been treated by these kidnappers very much as the slaves were treated in Asia Minor, whose masters made them grammarians, doctors, and philosophers, in order that they might fetch a higher price in the Roman market.

Your history is quite a romance, and the world, which delights in romances in yellow covers, strangely mistrusts those which are bound in living parchment, even though they be gilded like yourself.

And the two men embraced each other after the fashion of actors on the stage; that is to say, each rested his head on the other’s shoulder.

“My dear M. Cavalcanti,” said Andrea, taking the major by the arm in a confidential manner, “how much are you paid for being my father?”

We must play the game to the end, and consent to be blindfolded.

“There go two miscreants;” said he, “it is a pity they are not really related!”—then, after an instant of gloomy reflection, “Come, I will go to see the Morrels,” said he; “I think that disgust is even more sickening than hatred.”

It is that indefinable charm which is to a woman what perfume is to the flower and flavor to the fruit, for the beauty of either is not the only quality we seek.

You can form no idea of the expression of that old man’s eye when he looks at me, the only person in the world whom he loves, and, I had almost said, by whom he is beloved in return.

I feel as if it were ordained that this man should be associated with all the good which the future may have in store for me, and sometimes it really seems as if his eye was able to see what was to come, and his hand endowed with the power of directing events according to his own will.

His smile is so sweet when he addresses me, that I forget it ever can be bitter to others.

I perceive some hidden plot in the arrangement—something, in fact, more than is apparent on a casual view of the subject.

Maximilian uttered a cry of delight, and, springing forwards, seized the hand extended towards him, and imprinted on it a fervent and impassioned kiss.

In short, his whole appearance produced on the mind the impression of a corpse with living eyes, and nothing could be more startling than to observe the expression of anger or joy suddenly lighting up these organs, while the rest of the rigid and marble-like features were utterly deprived of the power of participation.

Noirtier’s look was furious; it was very evident that something desperate was passing in the old man’s mind, for a cry of anger and grief rose in his throat, and not being able to find vent in utterance, appeared almost to choke him.

And this look expressed a feeling of strong indignation, mixed with profound contempt.

At these words there appeared in Noirtier’s eye an expression of such deep meaning that the young girl thought she could read these words there: “You are mistaken; I can still do much for you.”

Noirtier made no answer. The invalid’s eye remained fixed, by which expression he intended to intimate that his resolution was unalterable.

At this letter the eloquent eye of Noirtier gave her notice that she was to stop.

Never had the struggle between mind and matter been more apparent than now, and if it was not a sublime, it was, at least, a curious spectacle.

The winking of the eyes which answered this speech was most decided and terrible, and expressed a feeling almost amounting to hatred.

“I do not wish it,” said the eye of her grandfather.

By the help of his eyes, which are still full of life, and, as you perceive, possess the power of inflicting mortal injury.

Nevertheless, it is necessary that my will should be respected in my family, and that the folly of an old man and the caprice of a child should not be allowed to overturn a project which I have entertained for so many years.

But the count completely baffled the procureur, and prevented him from discovering anything beneath the never-varying smile he was so constantly in the habit of assuming.

'Rue de la Fontaine!' exclaimed Villefort in an agitated tone; 'at what number?'

I had often seen one placed at the end of a road on a hillock, and in the light of the sun its black arms, bending in every direction, always reminded me of the claws of an immense beetle.

It is the insect with black claws, and the awful word which I wish to retain in my imagination in all its purity and all its importance.

Every man has a devouring passion in his heart, as every fruit has its worm; that of the telegraph man was horticulture.

I am a machine then, and nothing else, and so long as I work, nothing more is required of me.

The shot told; red with fever, while the large drops fell from his brow, the man executed, one after the other, the three signs given by the count, in spite of the frightful contortions of the right-hand correspondent.

The man looked at the bank-notes, felt them, counted them, turned pale, then red, then rushed into his room to drink a glass of water, but he had no time to reach the water-jug, and fainted in the midst of his dried herbs.

The house, awakened from its long sleep, like the sleeping beauty in the wood, lived, sang, and bloomed like the houses we have long cherished, and in which, when we are forced to leave them, we leave a part of our souls.

But nothing escaped the count’s notice, and he observed a little note, passed with the facility that indicates frequent practice, from the hand of Madame Danglars to that of the minister’s secretary.

I am fond of these jars, upon which, perhaps, misshapen, frightful monsters have fixed their cold, dull eyes, and in which myriads of small fish have slept, seeking a refuge from the pursuit of their enemies.

Bertuccio, without answering, pointed to Villefort with something of the gesture Macbeth uses to point out Banquo.

Madame Danglars had started when Villefort, on the count’s invitation, offered his arm; and Villefort felt that his glance was uneasy beneath his gold spectacles, when he felt the arm of the baroness press upon his own.

It was also considered a luxury to have them alive, it being an amusing sight to see them die, for, when dying, they change color three or four times.

Villefort and Madame Danglars remained for a moment, as if rooted to their seats; they questioned each other with vague and stupid glances.

And those two crayon portraits, that have faded from the dampness; do they not seem to say, with their pale lips and staring eyes, ‘We have seen’?

Monte Cristo felt the arm of Madame Danglars stiffen, while that of Villefort trembled.

He contemplated with unspeakable delight the large diamond which shone on the major’s little finger.

But instead of either of these, he saw nothing but a strange face, sunburnt, and encircled by a beard, with eyes brilliant as carbuncles, and a smile upon the mouth which displayed a perfect set of white teeth, pointed and sharp as the wolf’s or jackal’s.

“You do not speak affectionately to me, Benedetto, my old friend, that is not right—take care, or I may become troublesome.”

No, no, my boy; I prefer remaining honorably in the capital.

The two friends, as we see, were worthy of and understood one another.

Debray was petrified, not only to hear Danglars speak so calmly and politely, but because it was apparent that beneath outward politeness there really lurked a determined spirit of opposition to anything his wife might wish to do.

“It is extraordinary,” he said, when the door was closed behind him, “how easily these husbands, whom we ridicule, gain an advantage over us.”

I only know one thing I dislike more, which is the sound of your voice.

Either the diplomatist must give his lessons gratis, and I will tolerate him, or he must never set his foot again in my house;—do you understand, madame?

I am brutal,—I not only allow it, but boast of it; it is one of the reasons of my success in commercial business.

Melancholy in a capitalist, like the appearance of a comet, presages some misfortune to the world.

No, you have not;—well, you are right, for if you indulged in such reflections, you would never risk your principal, which is to the speculator what the skin is to civilized man.

The first time I saw him he appeared to me like an old lieutenant who had grown mouldy under his epaulets.

“Because it is the air she always breathed in her youth.” Monte Cristo took no notice of this ill-natured remark.

“I have been made a baron, so that I actually am one; he made himself a count, so that he is not one at all.”

“And I,” he said, “I feel that my place is not in the judge’s seat, but on the prisoner’s stool.”

I mean that M. de Monte Cristo, digging underneath these trees, found neither skeleton nor chest, because neither of them was there!

Always the same—always the child’s corpse, coming every night in my dreams, rising from the earth, and hovering over the grave with menacing look and gesture.

I opened the door, and saw the pale moon shedding a long stream of white light on the spiral staircase like a spectre, I leaned against the wall, and nearly shrieked.

“You understand, then, that if it were so,” said he, rising in his turn, and approaching the baroness, to speak to her in a lower tone, “we are lost.”

“But now I will begin with more perseverance and fury than ever, since fear urges me, not my conscience.”

Those who would, as it were, force a passage to his heart, found an impassable barrier.

You would expose the self-love of another with a hatchet, but you shrink if your own is attacked with a needle.

“The Comtesse de Morcerf?” said Monte Cristo, starting.

One of his peculiarities was never to speak a word of French, which he however wrote with great facility.

At this moment the abbé pressed down his side of the shade and so raised it on the other, throwing a bright light on the stranger’s face, while his own remained obscured.

“And why has the count bought a rock?” “For the sake of being a count.”

‘Aw?’ said Lord Wilmore, with that tone which is only known to natives of Great Britain.

Lord Wilmore, having heard the door close after him, returned to his bedroom, where with one hand he pulled off his light hair, his red whiskers, his false jaw, and his wound, to resume the black hair, dark complexion, and pearly teeth of the Count of Monte Cristo.

“Seventeen!” replied Albert. “I only mean that the count seems the rage, and that you are the seventeenth person that has asked me the same question.”

Nothing more is wanting than to arrest the count as a vagabond, on the pretext of his being too rich.

“His talent? I believe he thrusts pins through the heads of rabbits, he makes fowls eat madder, and punches the spinal marrow out of dogs with whalebone.”

“That the count has never been willing to partake of food under the roof of M. de Morcerf.”

The count almost staggered at these simple words; then he fixed his eyes on Mercédès. It was only a momentary glance, but it seemed to the countess to have lasted for a century, so much was expressed in that one look.

The countess dashed the grapes into the nearest thicket, with a gesture of despair. “Inflexible man!” she murmured.

‘Foul deeds will rise, Though all the earth o’erwhelm them, to men’s eyes;’ but, like a phosphoric light, they rise but to mislead.

I was soon aroused by a piercing shriek, as from a person suffering in his dreams, and he suddenly threw his head back violently.

For nothing frightens old people so much as when death relaxes its vigilance over them for a moment in order to strike some other old person.

“I know what I am saying,” continued the marchioness; “I must hurry you, so that, as she has no mother, she may at least have a grandmother to bless her marriage.”

I saw, I tell you, silently enter, a white figure.

“It is the first time I ever saw her in this condition,” said Valentine; “and this morning she frightened me so that I thought her mad.”

At the sound of that carriage I shuddered; soon I heard steps on the staircase, which terrified me as much as the footsteps of the commander did Don Juan.

“I am free,” replied Maximilian, “and rich enough to support you. I swear to make you my lawful wife before my lips even shall have approached your forehead.”

I had thought to gain heaven, and now I have lost it.

“I am resolved not to die of remorse, but rather of shame. Live, Maximilian, and I will be yours.”

Valentine had approached, or rather, had placed her lips so near the fence, that they nearly touched those of Morrel, which were pressed against the other side of the cold and inexorable barrier.

Never did a man deeply in love allow the clocks to go on peacefully; Morrel tormented his so effectually that they struck eight at half-past six.

The slightest rustling of the foliage, the least whistling of the wind, attracted his attention, and drew the perspiration to his brow.

“I mean that behind the misfortune which has just happened to you, there is another, perhaps, still greater.”

“During the three-quarters of an hour that the struggle continued, I watched the convulsions and the death of Madame de Saint-Méran, and am thoroughly convinced that not only did her death proceed from poison, but I could also specify the poison.”

Let us bury this terrible secret in the deepest recesses of our hearts; I am willing, if anyone should suspect this, that my silence on the subject should be imputed to my ignorance.

A heart overwhelmed with one great grief is insensible to minor emotions.

“Well, grandpapa,” said Valentine, kneeling before him, and pointing to Maximilian, “I love him, and will be only his; were I compelled to marry another, I would destroy myself.”

It was an imposing sight to witness this old man, apparently a mere useless burden, becoming the sole protector, support, and adviser of the lovers who were both young, beautiful, and strong.

A smile lit up the old man’s face, a strange smile of the eyes in a paralyzed face.

I think he must have made an agreement with death to outlive all his heirs, and he appears likely to succeed.

But tell me, what is life? Is it not a halt in Death’s anteroom?

He saw Franz and M. de Villefort get into the same mourning coach, and thought this meeting foreboded evil.

Valentine was so pale one might trace the blue veins from her temples, round her eyes and down her cheeks.

Valentine rose quickly, and was hastening joyfully towards the door, when M. de Villefort altered his intention.

Villefort’s impatience during this scene made the perspiration roll from his forehead, and Franz was stupefied.

“Our coachman is a member of the club,” said the president; “we shall be driven by a State-Councillor.”

“And you, sir,” continued the president, with a calmness still more terrible than the general’s anger, “I advise you not to touch your sword.”

“General,” said the chief of the assembly, “one man may insult fifty—it is the privilege of weakness.”

The light made the two swords appear like flashes of lightning; as for the men, they were scarcely perceptible, the darkness was so great.

“You?” cried Franz, whose hair stood on end; “you, M. Noirtier—you killed my father?”

Not one of these glances, nor one sigh, was lost on her; they might have been said to fall on the shield of Minerva, which some philosophers assert protected sometimes the breast of Sappho.

“Hem,” thought Monte Cristo, “he begins to conceal his losses; a month since he boasted of them.”

M. Albert would not do us the honor to be jealous; he does not like Eugénie sufficiently.

See him there, cold as marble and proud like his father.

Monte Cristo turned away to conceal the expression of pity which passed over his features, but which was gone in a moment.

He has plunged a thousand daggers into my heart, tragedy-weapons, I own, which instead of wounding sheathe their points in their own handles, but daggers which he nevertheless believed to be real and deadly.

“It is not to be called amiability, it is her duty; a slave does not dictate to a master.”

Albert had proceeded no farther than the door, where he remained rooted to the spot, being completely fascinated by the sight of such surpassing beauty.

I am quite bewildered, and it is natural that it should be so. Here I am in the heart of Paris; but a moment ago I heard the rumbling of the omnibuses and the tinkling of the bells of the lemonade-sellers, and now I feel as if I were suddenly transported to the East.

I, childlike, amused myself by playing with his long white beard which descended to his girdle, or with the diamond-hilt of the scimitar attached to his girdle.

This voice made everyone bow before it, resembling in its effect the wind passing over a field of wheat, by its superior strength forcing every ear to yield obeisance.

He stood watch day and night with a lance provided with a lighted slowmatch in his hand, and he had orders to blow up everything—kiosk, guards, women, gold, and Ali Tepelini himself—at the first signal given by my father.

Oh, how distinctly I remember that kiss!—it was the last he ever gave me, and I feel as if it were still warm on my forehead.

One single, solitary light was burning there, and it appeared like a star set in a heaven of blackness; it was Selim’s flaming lance.

‘It is well,’ said he, kissing it; ‘it is my master’s ring!’ And throwing the match on the ground, he trampled on it and extinguished it.

My father answered with a loud laugh, which was more frightful than even threats would have been, and he had not ceased when two reports of a pistol were heard; he had fired them himself, and had killed two men.

‘This is the head of Ali Tepelini, Pasha of Yanina.’

'We are saved!' said Valentine. 'Saved?' repeated Morrel, not being able to conceive such intense happiness; 'by whom?'

The old man looked at her with that stern and forbidding expression with which he was accustomed to receive her.

“Count,” said the banker, “things are constantly occurring in the world to induce us to lay aside our most established opinions, or at all events to cause us to remodel them according to the change of circumstances.”

The count bit his lips till the blood almost started, to prevent the ebullition of anger which his proud and irritable temper scarcely allowed him to restrain.

“Very good,” observed Danglars, after having read the paragraph; “here is a little article on Colonel Fernand, which, if I am not mistaken, would render the explanation which the Comte de Morcerf required of me perfectly unnecessary.”

“Those are really aces and twos which you see, but my shots have turned them into threes, fives, sevens, eights, nines, and tens.”

If one’s lot is cast among fools, it is necessary to study folly.

“What a singular being you are!—you will not interfere in anything.” “You are right—that is the principle on which I wish to act.”

“He is merely my father,” said Albert—“M. Fernand Mondego, Count of Morcerf, an old soldier who has fought in twenty battles and whose honorable scars they would denounce as badges of disgrace.”

“Very well, my dear sir; then I consent to cut throats with you.”

But, alas, I have heard it said that hearts inflamed by obstacles to their desire grew cold in time of security;

The rigors which had attacked Barrois gradually increased, the features of the face became quite altered, and the convulsive movement of the muscles appeared to indicate the approach of a most serious nervous disorder.

One might by the fearful swelling of the veins of his forehead and the contraction of the muscles round the eye, trace the terrible conflict which was going on between the living energetic mind and the inanimate and helpless body.

“I have eaten nothing; I only drank a glass of my master’s lemonade—that’s all;” and Barrois turned towards Noirtier, who, immovably fixed in his armchair, was contemplating this terrible scene without allowing a word or a movement to escape him.

A groan from Barrois, accompanied by a yawn which seemed to crack the very jawbones, attracted the attention of M. d’Avrigny.

The sediment first took a blue shade, then from the color of sapphire it passed to that of opal, and from opal to emerald.

Oh, man, the most selfish of all animals, the most personal of all creatures, who believes the earth turns, the sun shines, and death strikes for him alone,—an ant cursing God from the top of a blade of grass!

The bare idea would kill me—would drive me like a madman to dig my heart out with my finger-nails!

It appeared to him as if a slight gloomy smile had passed over her thin lips, like a meteor seen passing inauspiciously between two clouds in a stormy sky.

Danglars felt as much overcome with joy as the miser who finds a lost treasure, or as the shipwrecked mariner who feels himself on solid ground instead of in the abyss which he expected would swallow him up.

Andrea turned pale, but as it was dark his pallor was not perceptible.

He was truly crying, but it would have been difficult to say whether joy or the onions produced the greatest effect on the lachrymal glands of the old innkeeper of the Pont-du-Gard.

“The appetite grows by what it feeds on,” said Caderousse, grinning and

Andrea did more than tremble this time, he turned pale.

Caderousse was filled with wonder; the young man’s words sounded to him like metal, and he thought he could hear the rushing of cascades of louis.

“Yellow boys?” said Caderousse; “no, I thank you. Exactly; and he who changes them will follow friend Caderousse, lay hands on him, and demand what farmers pay him their rent in gold.”

“I was mistaken; but those thieves of jewellers imitate so well that it is no longer worthwhile to rob a jeweller’s shop—it is another branch of industry paralyzed.”

From his past life, from his resolution to shrink from nothing, the count had acquired an inconceivable relish for the contests in which he had engaged, sometimes against nature, that is to say, against God, and sometimes against the world, that is, against the devil.

Inured as men may be to danger, forewarned as they may be of peril, they understand, by the fluttering of the heart and the shuddering of the frame, the enormous difference between a dream and a reality, between the project and the execution.

The count soon heard the rattling of a bunch of skeleton keys, such as the locksmith brings when called to force a lock, and which thieves call nightingales, doubtless from the music of their nightly song when they grind against the bolt.

“The abbé, the abbé!” murmured he, clenching his fists, and his teeth chattering.

To Caderousse’s great astonishment, the knife, instead of piercing the count’s breast, flew back blunted.

“Then I shall believe God has forgiven you, and I will forgive you too.”

“My God!” he exclaimed, “thy vengeance is sometimes delayed, but only that it may fall the more effectually.”

“No; for I saw God’s justice placed in the hands of Benedetto, and should have thought it sacrilege to oppose the designs of Providence.”

“I?” said the count, with a smile which petrified the dying man, “when you had just broken your knife against the coat of mail which protected my breast!”

“One!” said the count mysteriously, his eyes fixed on the corpse, disfigured by so awful a death.

“Pardon me, my friend, that man was your father!”

Albert seized them with a convulsive hand, tore them in pieces, and trembling lest the least vestige should escape and one day appear to confront him, he approached the wax-light, always kept burning for cigars, and burned every fragment.

I think nothing, my friend; but all things are possible. By the way——

I love the sea as a mistress, and pine if I do not often see her.

The count put his head out of the window and whistled, and the horses appeared to fly.

There are words which close a conversation with an iron door; such was the count’s “yes.”

“Poor young man,” said Monte Cristo in a low voice; “it is then true that the sin of the father shall fall on the children to the third and fourth generation.”

Thus the terrible secret, which Beauchamp had so generously destroyed, appeared again like an armed phantom.

Moral wounds have this peculiarity,—they may be hidden, but they never close; always painful, always ready to bleed when touched, they remain fresh and open in the heart.

Albert passed his hand over his forehead, as if to try his strength, as a man who is preparing to defend his life proves his shield and bends his sword.

M. de Morcerf turned pale, and clenched his hands on the papers he held.

As for the count, he could not have been more overwhelmed if a thunderbolt had fallen at his feet and opened an immense gulf before him.

The count could only stare, and his gaze, fixed as if unconsciously on Haydée, seemed one of fire and blood.

Assassin, assassin, assassin, you have still on your brow your master’s blood!

I must discover who pursues me with this hatred, and when I have found him I shall kill him, or he will kill me.

Before this day closes, if M. Danglars is guilty, he shall cease to live, or I shall die. Pardieu, Beauchamp, mine shall be a splendid funeral!

“No; it is not you who have directly made this exposure and brought this sorrow on us, but you hypocritically provoked it.”

“My friend,” said Morcerf, with a sweet smile, “that is what I wish. The happiest thing that could occur to me, would be to die in my father’s stead; that would save us all.”

“Do you say M. de Monte Cristo is our enemy?” replied Mercédès, becoming paler than the sheet which covered her.

The count, in his survey of the pit, encountered a pale face and threatening eyes, which evidently sought to gain his attention.