Chapter 112 The Departure
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THE
RECENT event formed the theme of conversation throughout all Paris.
Emmanuel and his wife conversed with natural astonishment in their little
apartment in the Rue Meslay upon the three successive, sudden, and most
unexpected catastrophes of Morcerf, Danglars, and Villefort. Maximilian,
who was paying them a visit, listened to their conversation, or rather was
present at it, plunged in his accustomed state of apathy.
"Indeed," said Julie, "might we not almost fancy, Emmanuel,
that those people, so rich, so happy but yesterday, had forgotten in their
prosperity that an evil genius--like the wicked fairies in Perrault's
stories who present themselves unbidden at a wedding or baptism--hovered
over them, and appeared all at once to revenge himself for their fatal
neglect?" "What
a dire misfortune!" said Emmanuel, thinking of Morcerf and Danglars. "What
dreadful sufferings!" said Julie, remembering Valentine, but whom,
with a delicacy natural to women, she did not name before her brother. "If
the Supreme Being has directed the fatal blow," said Emmanuel,
"it must be that he in his great goodness has perceived nothing in
the past lives of these people to merit mitigation of their awful
punishment." "Do
you not form a very rash judgment, Emmanuel?" said Julie. "When
my father, with a pistol in his hand, was once on the point of committing
suicide, had any one then said, 'This man deserves his misery,' would not
that person have been deceived?" "Yes;
but your father was not allowed to fall. A being was commissioned to
arrest the fatal hand of death about to descend on him." Emmanuel
had scarcely uttered these words when the sound of the bell was heard, the
well-known signal given by the porter that a visitor had arrived. Nearly
at the same instant the door was opened and the Count of Monte Cristo
appeared on the threshold. The young people uttered a cry of joy, while
Maximilian raised his head, but let it fall again immediately.
"Maximilian," said the count, without appearing to notice the
different impressions which his presence produced on the little circle,
"I come to seek you." "To
seek me?" repeated Morrel, as if awakening from a dream. "Yes,"
said Monte Cristo; "has it not been agreed that I should take you
with me, and did I not tell you yesterday to prepare for departure?" "I
am ready," said Maximilian; "I came expressly to wish them
farewell." "Whither
are you going, count?" asked Julie. "In
the first instance to Marseilles, madame." "To
Marseilles!" exclaimed the young couple. "Yes,
and I take your brother with me." "Oh,
count." said Julie, "will you restore him to us cured of his
melancholy?"--Morrel turned away to conceal the confusion of his
countenance. "You
perceive, then, that he is not happy?" said the count.
"Yes," replied the young woman; "and fear much that he
finds our home but a dull one." "I
will undertake to divert him," replied the count. "I
am ready to accompany you, sir," said Maximilian. "Adieu, my
kind friends! Emmanuel--Julie--farewell!" "How
farewell?" exclaimed Julie; "do you leave us thus, so suddenly,
without any preparations for your journey, without even a passport?" "Needless
delays but increase the grief of parting," said Monte Cristo,
"and Maximilian has doubtless provided himself with everything
requisite; at least, I advised him to do so." "I
have a passport, and my clothes are ready packed," said Morrel in his
tranquil but mournful manner. "Good,"
said Monte Cristo, smiling; "in these prompt arrangements we
recognize the order of a well-disciplined soldier." "And
you leave us," said Julie, "at a moment's warning? you do not
give us a day--no, not even an hour before your departure?" "My
carriage is at the door, madame, and I must be in Rome in five days."
"But
does Maximilian go to Rome?" exclaimed Emmanuel. "I
am going wherever it may please the count to take me," said Morrel,
with a smile full of grief; "I am under his orders for the next
month." "Oh,
heavens, how strangely he expresses himself, count!" said Julie. "Maximilian
goes with me," said the count, in his kindest and most persuasive
manner; "therefore do not make yourself uneasy on your brother's
account." "Once
more farewell, my dear sister; Emmanuel, adieu!" Morrel repeated. "His
carelessness and indifference touch me to the heart," said Julie.
"Oh, Maximilian, Maximilian, you are certainly concealing something
from us." "Pshaw!"
said Monte Cristo, "you will see him return to you gay, smiling, and
joyful." Maximilian
cast a look of disdain, almost of anger, on the count. "We
must leave you," said Monte Cristo. "Before
you quit us, count," said Julie, "will you permit us to express
to you all that the other day"-- "Madame,"
interrupted the count, taking her two hands in his, "all that you
could say in words would never express what I read in your eyes; the
thoughts of your heart are fully understood by mine. Like benefactors in
romances, I should have left you without seeing you again, but that would
have been a virtue beyond my strength, because I am a weak and vain man,
fond of the tender, kind, and thankful glances of my fellow-creatures. On
the eve of departure I carry my egotism so far as to say, 'Do not forget
me, my kind friends, for probably you will never see me again.'" "Never
see you again?" exclaimed Emmanuel, while two large tears rolled down
Julie's cheeks, "never behold you again? It is not a man, then, but
some angel that leaves us, and this angel is on the point of returning to
heaven after having appeared on earth to do good." "Say
not so," quickly returned Monte Cristo--"say not so, my friends;
angels never err, celestial beings remain where they wish to be. Fate is
not more powerful than they; it is they who, on the contrary, overcome
fate. No, Emmanuel, I am but a man, and your admiration is as unmerited as
your words are sacrilegious." And pressing his lips on the hand of
Julie, who rushed into his arms, he extended his other hand to Emmanuel;
then tearing himself from this abode of peace and happiness, he made a
sign to Maximilian, who followed him passively, with the indifference
which had been perceptible in him ever since the death of Valentine had so
stunned him. "Restore my brother to peace and happiness,"
whispered Julie to Monte Cristo. And the count pressed her hand in reply,
as he had done eleven years before on the staircase leading to Morrel's
study. "You
still confide, then, in Sinbad the Sailor?" asked he, smiling. "Oh,
yes," was the ready answer. "Well,
then, sleep in peace, and put your trust in heaven." As we have
before said, the postchaise was waiting; four powerful horses were already
pawing the ground with impatience, while Ali, apparently just arrived from
a long walk, was standing at the foot of the steps, his face bathed in
perspiration. "Well," asked the count in Arabic, "have you
been to see the old man?" Ali made a sign in the affirmative. "And
have you placed the letter before him, as I ordered you to do?" The
slave respectfully signalized that he had. "And what did he say, or
rather do?" Ali placed himself in the light, so that his master might
see him distinctly, and then imitating in his intelligent manner the
countenance of the old man, he closed his eyes, as Noirtier was in the
custom of doing when saying "Yes." "Good;
he accepts," said Monte Cristo. "Now let us go." These
words had scarcely escaped him, when the carriage was on its way, and the
feet of the horses struck a shower of sparks from the pavement. Maximilian
settled himself in his corner without uttering a word. Half an hour had
passed when the carriage stopped suddenly; the count had just pulled the
silken check-string, which was fastened to Ali's finger. The Nubian
immediately descended and opened the carriage door. It was a lovely
starlight night--they had just reached the top of the hill Villejuif, from
whence Paris appears like a sombre sea tossing its millions of phosphoric
waves into light--waves indeed more noisy, more passionate, more
changeable, more furious, more greedy, than those of the tempestuous
ocean,--waves which never rest as those of the sea sometimes do,--waves
ever dashing, ever foaming, ever ingulfing what falls within their grasp.
The count stood alone, and at a sign from his hand, the carriage went on
for a short distance. With folded arms, he gazed for some time upon the
great city. When he had fixed his piercing look on this modern Babylon,
which equally engages the contemplation of the religious enthusiast, the
materialist, and the scoffer,--"Great city," murmured he,
inclining his head, and joining his hands as if in prayer, "less than
six months have elapsed since first I entered thy gates. I believe that
the Spirit of God led my steps to thee and that he also enables me to quit
thee in triumph; the secret cause of my presence within thy walls I have
confided alone to him who only has had the power to read my heart. God
only knows that I retire from thee without pride or hatred, but not
without many regrets; he only knows that the power confided to me has
never been made subservient to my personal good or to any useless cause.
Oh, great city, it is in thy palpitating bosom that I have found that
which I sought; like a patient miner, I have dug deep into thy very
entrails to root out evil thence. Now my work is accomplished, my mission
is terminated, now thou canst neither afford me pain nor pleasure. Adieu,
Paris, adieu!" His
look wandered over the vast plain like that of some genius of the night;
he passed his hand over his brow, got into the carriage, the door was
closed on him, and the vehicle quickly disappeared down the other side of
the hill in a whirlwind of noise and dust. Ten
leagues were passed and not a single word was uttered. Morrel
was dreaming, and Monte Cristo was looking at the dreamer. "Morrel,"
said the count to him at length, "do you repent having followed
me?" "No,
count; but to leave Paris"-- "If
I thought happiness might await you in Paris, Morrel, I would have left
you there." "Valentine
reposes within the walls of Paris, and to leave Paris is like losing her a
second time." "Maximilian,"
said the count, "the friends that we have lost do not repose in the
bosom of the earth, but are buried deep in our hearts, and it has been
thus ordained that we may always be accompanied by them. I have two
friends, who in this way never depart from me; the one who gave me being,
and the other who conferred knowledge and intelligence on me. Their
spirits live in me. I consult them when doubtful, and if I ever do any
good, it is due to their beneficent counsels. Listen to the voice of your
heart, Morrel, and ask it whether you ought to preserve this melancholy
exterior towards me." "My
friend," said Maximilian, "the voice of my heart is very
sorrowful, and promises me nothing but misfortune." "It
is the way of weakened minds to see everything through a black cloud. The
soul forms its own horizons; your soul is darkened, and consequently the
sky of the future appears stormy and unpromising." "That
may possibly be true," said Maximilian, and he again subsided into
his thoughtful mood. The
journey was performed with that marvellous rapidity which the unlimited
power of the count ever commanded. Towns fled from them like shadows on
their path, and trees shaken by the first winds of autumn seemed like
giants madly rushing on to meet them, and retreating as rapidly when once
reached. The following morning they arrived at Chalons, where the count's
steamboat waited for them. Without the loss of an instant, the carriage
was placed on board and the two travellers embarked without delay. The
boat was built for speed; her two paddle-wheels were like two wings with
which she skimmed the water like a bird. Morrel was not insensible to that
sensation of delight which is generally experienced in passing rapidly
through the air, and the wind which occasionally raised the hair from his
forehead seemed on the point of dispelling momentarily the clouds
collected there. As
the distance increased between the travellers and Paris, almost superhuman
serenity appeared to surround the count; he might have been taken for an
exile about to revisit his native land. Ere long Marseilles presented
herself to view,--Marseilles, white, fervid, full of life and
energy,--Marseilles, the younger sister of Tyre and Carthage, the
successor to them in the empire of the Mediterranean,--Marseilles, old,
yet always young. Powerful memories were stirred within them by the sight
of the round tower, Fort Saint-Nicolas, the City Hall designed by Puget,
the port with its brick quays, where they had both played in childhood,
and it was with one accord that they stopped on the Cannebiere. A vessel
was setting sail for Algiers, on board of which the bustle usually
attending departure prevailed. The passengers and their relations crowded
on the deck, friends taking a tender but sorrowful leave of each other,
some weeping, others noisy in their grief, the whole forming a spectacle
that might be exciting even to those who witnessed similar sights daily,
but which had no power to disturb the current of thought that had taken
possession of the mind of Maximilian from the moment he had set foot on
the broad pavement of the quay. "Here,"
said he, leaning heavily on the arm of Monte Cristo,--"here is the
spot where my father stopped, when the Pharaon entered the port; it was
here that the good old man, whom you saved from death and dishonor, threw
himself into my arms. I yet feel his warm tears on my face, and his were
not the only tears shed, for many who witnessed our meeting wept
also." Monte Cristo gently smiled and said,--"I was there;"
at the same time pointing to the corner of a street. As he spoke, and in
the very direction he indicated, a groan, expressive of bitter grief, was
heard, and a woman was seen waving her hand to a passenger on board the
vessel about to sail. Monte Cristo looked at her with an emotion that must
have been remarked by Morrel had not his eyes been fixed on the vessel. "Oh,
heavens!" exclaimed Morrel, "I do not deceive myself--that young
man who is waving his hat, that youth in the uniform of a lieutenant, is
Albert de Morcerf!" "Yes,"
said Monte Cristo, "I recognized him." "How
so?--you were looking the other way." the count smiled, as he was in
the habit of doing when he did not want to make any reply, and he again
turned towards the veiled woman, who soon disappeared at the corner of the
street. Turning to his friend,--"Dear Maximilian," said the
count, "have you nothing to do in this land?" "I
have to weep over the grave of my father," replied Morrel in a broken
voice. "Well,
then, go,--wait for me there, and I will soon join you." "You
leave me, then?" "Yes; I also have a pious visit to pay." Morrel
allowed his hand to fall into that which the count extended to him; then
with an inexpressibly sorrowful inclination of the head he quitted the
count and bent his steps to the east of the city. Monte Cristo remained on
the same spot until Maximilian was out of sight; he then walked slowly
towards the Allижes de Meillan to seek out a small
house with which our readers were made familiar at the beginning of this
story. It yet stood, under the shade of the fine avenue of lime-trees,
which forms one of the most frequent walks of the idlers of Marseilles,
covered by an immense vine, which spreads its aged and blackened branches
over the stone front, burnt yellow by the ardent sun of the south. Two
stone steps worn away by the friction of many feet led to the door, which
was made of three planks; the door had never been painted or varnished, so
great cracks yawned in it during the dry season to close again when the
rains came on. The house, with all its crumbling antiquity and apparent
misery, was yet cheerful and picturesque, and was the same that old Dantииs formerly inhabited--the only difference being that
the old man occupied merely the garret, while the whole house was now
placed at the command of Mercижdииs by the count. The
woman whom the count had seen leave the ship with so much regret entered
this house; she had scarcely closed the door after her when Monte Cristo
appeared at the corner of a street, so that he found and lost her again
almost at the same instant. The worn out steps were old acquaintances of
his; he knew better than any one else how to open that weather-beaten door
with the large headed nail which served to raise the latch within. He
entered without knocking, or giving any other intimation of his presence,
as if he had been a friend or the master of the place. At the end of a
passage paved with bricks, was a little garden, bathed in sunshine, and
rich in warmth and light. In this garden Mercижdииs had found, at the place indicated by the count,
the sum of money which he, through a sense of delicacy, had described as
having been placed there twenty-four years previously. The trees of the
garden were easily seen from the steps of the street-door. Monte Cristo,
on stepping into the house, heard a sigh that was almost a deep sob; he
looked in the direction whence it came, and there under an arbor of
Virginia jessamine, with its thick foliage and beautiful long purple
flowers, he saw Mercижdииs seated, with her head bowed, and weeping bitterly.
She had raised her veil, and with her face hidden by her hands was giving
free scope to the sighs and tears which had been so long restrained by the
presence of her son. Monte Cristo advanced a few steps, which were heard
on the gravel. Mercижdииs raised her head, and uttered a
cry of terror on beholding a man before her. "Madame,"
said the count, "it is no longer in my power to restore you to
happiness, but I offer you consolation; will you deign to accept it as
coming from a friend?" "I
am, indeed, most wretched," replied Mercижdииs.
"Alone in the world, I had but my son, and he has left me!" "He
possesses a noble heart, madame," replied the count, "and he has
acted rightly. He feels that every man owes a tribute to his country; some
contribute their talents, others their industry; these devote their blood,
those their nightly labors, to the same cause. Had he remained with you,
his life must have become a hateful burden, nor would he have participated
in your griefs. He will increase in strength and honor by struggling with
adversity, which he will convert into prosperity. Leave him to build up
the future for you, and I venture to say you will confide it to safe
hands." "Oh,"
replied the wretched woman, mournfully shaking her head, "the
prosperity of which you speak, and which, from the bottom of my heart, I
pray God in his mercy to grant him, I can never enjoy. The bitter cup of
adversity has been drained by me to the very dregs, and I feel that the
grave is not far distant. You have acted kindly, count, in bringing me
back to the place where I have enjoyed so much bliss. I ought to meet
death on the same spot where happiness was once all my own." "Alas,"
said Monte Cristo, "your words sear and embitter my heart, the more
so as you have every reason to hate me. I have been the cause of all your
misfortunes; but why do you pity, instead of blaming me? You render me
still more unhappy--" "Hate
you, blame you--you, Edmond! Hate, reproach, the man that has spared my
son's life! For was it not your fatal and sanguinary intention to destroy
that son of whom M. de Morcerf was so proud? Oh, look at me closely, and
discover if you can even the semblance of a reproach in me." The
count looked up and fixed his eyes on Mercижdииs, who arose partly from her seat
and extended both her hands towards him. "Oh, look at me,"
continued she, with a feeling of profound melancholy, "my eyes no
longer dazzle by their brilliancy, for the time has long fled since I used
to smile on Edmond Dantииs,
who anxiously looked out for me from the window of yonder garret, then
inhabited by his old father. Years of grief have created an abyss between
those days and the present. I neither reproach you nor hate you, my
friend. Oh, no, Edmond, it is myself that I blame, myself that I hate! Oh,
miserable creature that I am!" cried she, clasping her hands, and
raising her eyes to heaven. "I once possessed piety, innocence, and
love, the three ingredients of the happiness of angels, and now what am
I?" Monte Cristo approached her, and silently took her hand.
"No," said she, withdrawing it gently--"no, my friend,
touch me not. You have spared me, yet of all those who have fallen under
your vengeance I was the most guilty. They were influenced by hatred, by
avarice, and by self-love; but I was base, and for want of courage acted
against my judgment. Nay, do not press my hand, Edmond; you are thinking,
I am sure, of some kind speech to console me, but do not utter it to me,
reserve it for others more worthy of your kindness. See" (and she
exposed her face completely to view)--"see, misfortune has silvered
my hair, my eyes have shed so many tears that they are encircled by a rim
of purple, and my brow is wrinkled. You, Edmond, on the contrary,--you are
still young, handsome, dignified; it is because you have had faith;
because you have had strength, because you have had trust in God, and God
has sustained you. But as for me, I have been a coward; I have denied God
and he has abandoned me." Mercижdииs burst into tears; her woman's heart was breaking
under its load of memories. Monte Cristo took her hand and imprinted a
kiss on it; but she herself felt that it was a kiss of no greater warmth
than he would have bestowed on the hand of some marble statue of a saint.
"It often happens," continued she, "that a first fault
destroys the prospects of a whole life. I believed you dead; why did I
survive you? What good has it done me to mourn for you eternally in the
secret recesses of my heart?--only to make a woman of thirty-nine look
like a woman of fifty. Why, having recognized you, and I the only one to
do so--why was I able to save my son alone? Ought I not also to have
rescued the man that I had accepted for a husband, guilty though he were?
Yet I let him die! What do I say? Oh, merciful heavens, was I not
accessory to his death by my supine insensibility, by my contempt for him,
not remembering, or not willing to remember, that it was for my sake he
had become a traitor and a perjurer? In what am I benefited by
accompanying my son so far, since I now abandon him, and allow him to
depart alone to the baneful climate of Africa? Oh, I have been base,
cowardly, I tell you; I have abjured my affections, and like all renegades
I am of evil omen to those who surround me!" "No,
Mercижdииs," said Monte Cristo,
"no; you judge yourself with too much severity. You are a
noble-minded woman, and it was your grief that disarmed me. Still I was
but an agent, led on by an invisible and offended Deity, who chose not to
withhold the fatal blow that I was destined to hurl. I take that God to
witness, at whose feet I have prostrated myself daily for the last ten
years, that I would have sacrificed my life to you, and with my life the
projects that were indissolubly linked with it. But--and I say it with
some pride, Mercижdииs--God
needed me, and I lived. Examine the past and the present, and endeavor to
dive into futurity, and then say whether I am not a divine instrument. The
most dreadful misfortunes, the most frightful sufferings, the abandonment
of all those who loved me, the persecution of those who did not know me,
formed the trials of my youth; when suddenly, from captivity, solitude,
misery, I was restored to light and liberty, and became the possessor of a
fortune so brilliant, so unbounded, so unheard-of, that I must have been
blind not to be conscious that God had endowed me with it to work out his
own great designs. From that time I looked upon this fortune as something
confided to me for an especial purpose. Not a thought was given to a life
which you once, Mercижdииs, had the power to render blissful; not one hour of
peaceful calm was mine; but I felt myself driven on like an exterminating
angel. Like adventurous captains about to embark on some enterprise full
of danger, I laid in my provisions, I loaded my weapons, I collected every
means of attack and defence; I inured my body to the most violent
exercises, my soul to the bitterest trials; I taught my arm to slay, my
eyes to behold excruciating sufferings, and my mouth to smile at the most
horrid spectacles. Good-natured, confiding, and forgiving as I had been, I
became revengeful, cunning, and wicked, or rather, immovable as fate. Then
I launched out into the path that was opened to me. I overcame every
obstacle, and reached the goal; but woe to those who stood in my
pathway!" "Enough,"
said Mercижdииs; "enough, Edmond! Believe
me, that she who alone recognized you has been the only one to comprehend
you; and had she crossed your path, and you had crushed her like glass,
still, Edmond, still she must have admired you! Like the gulf between me
and the past, there is an abyss between you, Edmond, and the rest of
mankind; and I tell you freely that the comparison I draw between you and
other men will ever be one of my greatest tortures. No, there is nothing
in the world to resemble you in worth and goodness! But we must say
farewell, Edmond, and let us part." "Before
I leave you, Mercижdииs, have you no request to
make?" said the count. "I
desire but one thing in this world, Edmond,--the happiness of my
son." "Pray
to the Almighty to spare his life, and I will take upon myself to promote
his happiness." "Thank
you, Edmond." "But
have you no request to make for yourself, Mercижdииs?"
"For
myself I want nothing. I live, as it were, between two graves. One is that
of Edmond Dantииs,
lost to me long, long since. He had my love! That word ill becomes my
faded lip now, but it is a memory dear to my heart, and one that I would
not lose for all that the world contains. The other grave is that of the
man who met his death from the hand of Edmond Dantииs.
I approve of the deed, but I must pray for the dead." "Your
son shall be happy, Mercижdииs," repeated the count. "Then
I shall enjoy as much happiness as this world can possibly confer." "But
what are your intentions?" "To
say that I shall live here, like the Mercижdииs
of other times, gaining my bread by labor, would not be true, nor would
you believe me. I have no longer the strength to do anything but to spend
my days in prayer. However, I shall have no occasion to work, for the
little sum of money buried by you, and which I found in the place you
mentioned, will be sufficient to maintain me. Rumor will probably be busy
respecting me, my occupations, my manner of living--that will signify but
little." "Mercижdииs," said the count, "I do not say it to
blame you, but you made an unnecessary sacrifice in relinquishing the
whole of the fortune amassed by M. de Morcerf; half of it at least by
right belonged to you, in virtue of your vigilance and economy." "I
perceive what you are intending to propose to me; but I cannot accept it,
Edmond--my son would not permit it." "Nothing
shall be done without the full approbation of Albert de Morcerf. I will
make myself acquainted with his intentions and will submit to them. But if
he be willing to accept my offers, will you oppose them?" "You
well know, Edmond, that I am no longer a reasoning creature; I have no
will, unless it be the will never to decide. I have been so overwhelmed by
the many storms that have broken over my head, that I am become passive in
the hands of the Almighty, like a sparrow in the talons of an eagle. I
live, because it is not ordained for me to die. If succor be sent to me, I
will accept it." "Ah,
madame," said Monte Cristo, "you should not talk thus! It is not
so we should evince our resignation to the will of heaven; on the
contrary, we are all free agents." "Alas!"
exclaimed Mercижdииs, "if it were so, if I
possessed free-will, but without the power to render that will
efficacious, it would drive me to despair." Monte Cristo dropped his
head and shrank from the vehemence of her grief. "Will you not even
say you will see me again?" he asked. "On
the contrary, we shall meet again," said Mercижdииs, pointing to heaven with solemnity. "I tell
you so to prove to you that I still hope." And after pressing her own
trembling hand upon that of the count, Mercижdииs
rushed up the stairs and disappeared. Monte Cristo slowly left the house
and turned towards the quay. But Mercижdииs
did not witness his departure, although she was seated at the little
window of the room which had been occupied by old Dantииs. Her eyes were straining to see the ship which was
carrying her son over the vast sea; but still her voice involuntarily
murmured softly, "Edmond, Edmond, Edmond!" |
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