XCII. Le suicide.

XCII

Suicide.

Meanwhile Monte Cristo, too, had returned to the city with Emmanuel and Maximilien.

The return was cheerful. Emmanuel made no attempt to hide his joy at having seen peace succeed war, and openly confessed his philanthropic inclinations. Morrel, in a corner of the carriage, let his brother-in-law's gaiety evaporate in words, and kept for himself a joy no less sincere, but which shone only in his eyes.

At the Barrière du Trône they met Bertuccio: he was waiting there, motionless as a sentinel at his post.

Monte Cristo put his head out of the window, exchanged a few words with him in a low voice, and the steward disappeared.

"Count," said Emmanuel, as they reached the Place Royale, "pray have me set down at my door, so that my wife may not have a single moment's anxiety, either for you or for me."

"If it were not ridiculous to go displaying one's triumph," said Morrel, "I would invite the count to come in with us; but the count, no doubt, has trembling hearts to reassure as well. Here we are, Emmanuel; let us bid our friend farewell, and leave him to continue his way."

"One moment," said Monte Cristo; "do not thus deprive me at a single blow of both my companions. Go in to your charming wife, to whom I charge you to present all my compliments, and accompany me as far as the Champs-Élysées, Morrel."

"With pleasure," said Maximilien, "all the more so that I have business in your quarter, count."

"Will anyone wait for you for breakfast?" asked Emmanuel.

"No," said the young man.

The door closed, and the carriage continued on its way.

"See how I have brought you good fortune," said Morrel when he was alone with the count. "Had you not thought of that?"

"Indeed I had," said Monte Cristo; "that is why I should always like to keep you near me."

"It is miraculous!" continued Morrel, answering his own thought.

"What do you mean?" said Monte Cristo.

"What has just happened."

"Yes," replied the count with a smile; "you said the word, Morrel: it is miraculous!"

"For, after all," resumed Morrel, "Albert is brave."

"Very brave," said Monte Cristo; "I have seen him sleep with the dagger suspended over his head."

"And I know that he has fought twice, and fought very well," said Morrel; "reconcile that, then, with the conduct of this morning."

"Your influence, always," said Monte Cristo, smiling again.

"It is fortunate for Albert that he is not a soldier," said Morrel.

"Why so?"

"Excuses on the field of honor!" said the young captain, shaking his head.

"Come," said the count gently, "surely you are not falling into the prejudices of ordinary men, Morrel? Will you not admit that since Albert is brave, he cannot be a coward; that he must have had some reason for acting as he did this morning, and that consequently his conduct is rather heroic than otherwise?"

"No doubt, no doubt," answered Morrel; "but I shall say with the Spaniard: he has been less brave today than yesterday."

"You will breakfast with me, will you not, Morrel?" said the count, to cut the conversation short.

"Not so; I leave you at ten o'clock."

"Was your appointment, then, for breakfast?"

Morrel smiled and shook his head.

"But, after all, must you always breakfast somewhere?"

"Yet, if I am not hungry?" said the young man.

"Oh!" said the count, "I know but two feelings that thus take away the appetite: sorrow (and as I happily see you very cheerful, it is not that) and love. Now, from what you told me about your heart, I am permitted to believe..."

"Upon my word, count," replied Morrel gaily, "I do not say no."

"And you do not tell me this, Maximilien?" resumed the count in so lively a tone that one saw all the interest he would have taken in knowing the secret.

"You saw this morning that I had a heart, did you not, count?"

For answer Monte Cristo held out his hand to the young man.

"Well," continued the latter, "since that heart is no longer with you in the Bois de Vincennes, it is elsewhere, where I am going to find it again."

"Go," said the count slowly; "go, dear friend, but I beg you, if you should meet with any obstacle, remember that I have some power in this world, that I am happy to employ that power for the benefit of those I love, and that I love you, Morrel."

"Very well," said the young man; "I shall remember it as selfish children remember their parents when they have need of them. When I have need of you—and perhaps that moment will come—I shall apply to you, count."

"Very well; I hold you to your word. Farewell, then."

"Farewell."

They had arrived at the gate of the house in the Champs-Élysées; Monte Cristo opened the door. Morrel sprang to the pavement.

Bertuccio was waiting on the steps.

Morrel disappeared by the Avenue de Marigny, and Monte Cristo walked quickly toward Bertuccio.

"Well?" he asked.

"Well," answered the steward, "she is about to leave her house."

"And her son?"

"Florentin, her valet, thinks he is going to do the same."

"Come."

Monte Cristo took Bertuccio into his study, wrote the letter we have seen, and gave it to the steward.

"Go," he said, "and make haste; by the way, have Haydée told that I have returned."

"Here I am," said the young girl, who, at the sound of the carriage, had already come down, and whose face was radiant with joy at seeing the count safe and sound.

Bertuccio went out.

All the transports of a daughter seeing again a beloved father, all the raptures of a mistress seeing again an adored lover, Haydée experienced during the first moments of that return which she had awaited with such impatience.

Certainly, though less expansive, the joy of Monte Cristo was no less great; joy, for hearts that have long suffered, is like the dew for lands parched by the sun; heart and earth absorb that beneficent rain which falls upon them, and nothing of it appears without. For some days past Monte Cristo had understood a thing which for a long time he had not dared believe—that there were two Mercédès in the world, that he might yet be happy.

His eye, ardent with happiness, plunged eagerly into Haydée's moist glances, when suddenly the door opened. The count frowned.

"M. de Morcerf!" said Baptistin, as if that single word contained his excuse.

Indeed, the count's face brightened.

"Which," he asked, "the viscount or the count?"

"The count."

"My God!" cried Haydée, "is it not yet over?"

"I know not if it is over, my beloved child," said Monte Cristo, taking the young girl's hands; "but what I know is that you have nothing to fear."

"Oh! and yet the wretch..."

"That man can do nothing against me, Haydée," said Monte Cristo; "it was when I had to deal with his son that there was cause for fear."

"Ah, what I suffered," said the young girl, "you will never know, my lord."

Monte Cristo smiled.

"By the tomb of my father!" said Monte Cristo, laying his hand on the young girl's head, "I swear to you that if any misfortune occurs, it will not be to me."

"I believe you, my lord, as if God spoke to me," said the young girl, offering her forehead to the count.

Monte Cristo deposited on that pure and beautiful forehead a kiss which made two hearts beat at once, the one violently, the other dully.

"Oh, my God!" murmured the count, "would you then permit that I might yet love!... Show M. le Comte de Morcerf into the salon," said he to Baptistin, while conducting the beautiful Greek toward a concealed staircase.

A word of explanation as to this visit, perhaps expected by Monte Cristo, but assuredly unexpected by our readers.

While Mercédès, as we have said, was making in her house the sort of inventory which Albert had made in his, while she was arranging her jewels, closing her drawers, gathering her keys together, so as to leave everything in perfect order, she had not perceived that a pale and sinister face had come to appear at the glass of a door which let light into the corridor; from there, not only could one see, but one could hear. He who looked thus, most probably unseen and unheard, saw then, and heard then, all that passed in Mme de Morcerf's apartment.

From that glass door, the man with the pale face passed into the bedroom of the Comte de Morcerf, and, arriving there, raised with a contracted hand the curtain of a window looking out upon the courtyard. He remained there ten minutes thus, motionless, silent, listening to the beating of his own heart. For him ten minutes was long indeed.

It was then that Albert, returning from his appointment, caught sight of his father, who was watching for his return behind a curtain, and turned away his head.

The count's eye dilated: he knew that Albert's insult to Monte Cristo had been terrible, that such an insult, in every country in the world, entailed a duel to the death. Now, Albert was returning safe and sound; therefore the count was avenged.

A flash of unspeakable joy illuminated that lugubrious face, as does a last ray of sunlight before losing itself in the clouds, which seem less its couch than its tomb.

But, as we have said, he waited in vain for the young man to come up to his apartment to render an account of his triumph. That his son, before fighting, had not wished to see the father whose honor he was about to avenge, is understandable; but, the father's honor avenged, why did not this son come to throw himself into his arms?

It was then that the count, unable to see Albert, sent for his servant. We know that Albert had authorized him to hide nothing from the count.

Ten minutes later, the General de Morcerf was seen appearing on the steps, clad in a black frock-coat, with a military collar, black trousers, black gloves. He had given, it would seem, previous orders; for, scarcely had he touched the last step of the perron, than his carriage, fully harnessed, came out of the coach-house and stopped before him.

His valet then came to throw into the carriage a military cloak, stiffened by the two swords it enveloped; then, closing the door, he seated himself beside the coachman.

The coachman leaned forward over the carriage to ask for orders:

"To the Champs-Élysées," said the general, "to the Count de Monte Cristo's. Quick!"

The horses bounded under the lash that enveloped them; five minutes later they stopped before the count's house.

M. de Morcerf opened the door himself, and, the carriage still rolling, sprang like a young man into the side-alley, rang, and disappeared into the open door with his servant.

A second later, Baptistin announced to M. de Monte Cristo the Comte de Morcerf, and Monte Cristo, escorting Haydée, gave orders that the Comte de Morcerf be shown into the salon.

The general was pacing the salon for the third time in its full length, when, turning, he perceived Monte Cristo standing on the threshold.

"Ah! it is M. de Morcerf," said Monte Cristo tranquilly; "I thought I had heard amiss."

"Yes, it is I myself," said the count, with a frightful contraction of the lips which prevented him from articulating distinctly.

"I have then but to learn now," said Monte Cristo, "the cause which procures me the pleasure of seeing M. le Comte de Morcerf so early."

"You had a meeting with my son this morning, sir?" said the general.

"You know that?" replied the count.

"And I know also that my son had good reasons for wishing to fight with you and to do all he could to kill you."

"Indeed, sir, he had very good ones! but you see that, despite those reasons, he did not kill me, and even that he did not fight."

"And yet he regarded you as the cause of his father's dishonor, as the cause of the frightful ruin which at this moment overwhelms my house."

"That is true, sir," said Monte Cristo, with his terrible calm; "a secondary cause, for example, and not a principal one."

"No doubt you made him some apology or gave him some explanation?"

"I gave him no explanation, and it is he who apologized to me."

"And to what do you attribute this conduct?"

"To the conviction, probably, that there was in all this a man more guilty than I."

"And who was that man?"

"His father."

"Be it so," said the count, turning pale; "but you know that the guilty one does not like to hear himself convicted of guilt."

"I know... Therefore I expected what is happening at this moment."

"You expected that my son was a coward!" cried the count.

"M. Albert de Morcerf is not a coward," said Monte Cristo.

"A man who holds a sword in his hand, a man who, within reach of that sword, holds a mortal enemy—that man, if he does not fight, is a coward! Why is he not here, that I might tell him so!"

"Sir," replied Monte Cristo coldly, "I do not presume that you came to me to tell me your little family affairs. Go say that to M. Albert; perhaps he will know how to answer you."

"Oh! no, no," replied the general with a smile vanished as soon as born; "no, you are right, I did not come for that! I came to tell you that I, too, regard you as my enemy! I came to tell you that I hate you by instinct! that it seems to me I have always known you, always hated you! And that, finally, since the young men of this century no longer fight, it is for us to fight... Is that your opinion, sir?"

"Perfectly. Also, when I told you that I had foreseen what was happening to me, it was of the honor of your visit that I spoke."

"So much the better... your preparations are made, then?"

"They always are, sir."

"You know that we shall fight to the death of one of us?" said the general, his teeth clenched with rage.

"To the death of one of us," repeated the Count de Monte Cristo, making a slight downward movement of his head.

"Let us go, then; we have no need of witnesses."

"Indeed," said Monte Cristo, "it is useless; we know each other so well!"

"On the contrary," said the count, "it is that we do not know each other."

"Bah!" said Monte Cristo, with the same despairing phlegm; "let us see. Are you not the soldier Fernand who deserted on the eve of the battle of Waterloo? Are you not the lieutenant Fernand who served as guide and spy to the French army in Spain? Are you not the colonel Fernand who betrayed, sold, and assassinated his benefactor Ali? And have not all those Fernands together made the lieutenant-general Count de Morcerf, peer of France?"

"Oh!" cried the general, struck by these words as by a red-hot iron; "oh! wretch, who reproachest me with my shame at the very moment perhaps when you are about to kill me! No, I did not say that I was unknown to you; I know well, demon, that you have penetrated into the night of the past, and that you have read there, by the light of what torch I knew not, every page of my life! but perhaps there is yet more honor in me, in my opprobrium, than in you beneath your pompous appearances. No, no, I know you; but it is you whom I know not, adventurer bedizened with gold and jewels! You have called yourself in Paris the Count de Monte Cristo; in Italy, Sindbad the Sailor; at Malta, what do I know? I have forgotten. But it is your real name that I ask of you, it is your true name that I wish to know, amid your hundred names, so that I may pronounce it on the field of combat at the moment when I thrust my sword into your heart."

The Count de Monte Cristo grew pale in a terrible manner; his tawny eye kindled with a devouring fire; he made a bound toward the cabinet adjoining his room, and in less than a second, tearing off his cravat, his frock-coat and his waistcoat, he donned a small sailor's jacket and put on a sailor's hat, beneath which his long black hair fell loose.

He returned thus, frightful, implacable, walking with arms crossed toward the general, who had understood nothing of his disappearance, who awaited him, and who, feeling his teeth chatter and his legs give way beneath him, recoiled a step and stopped only on finding against a table a support for his clenched hand.

"Fernand!" he cried to him, "of my hundred names, I should need to tell you but one to strike you with thunder; but that name, you guess it, do you not? or rather you recall it? for, despite all my sorrows, all my torments, I show you today a face which the happiness of vengeance has made young again, a face which you must have seen full often in your dreams since your marriage... with Mercédès, my betrothed!"

The general, his head thrown back, his hands outstretched, his gaze fixed, devoured in silence that terrible spectacle; then, seeking the wall as a support, he slipped slowly along it to the door, by which he went out backward, uttering only this lugubrious, lamentable, heart-rending cry:

"Edmond Dantès!"

Then, with sighs that had nothing human in them, he dragged himself to the peristyle of the house, crossed the courtyard like a drunken man, and fell into the arms of his valet, murmuring only in an unintelligible voice:

"To the hotel! to the hotel!"

On the way, the cool air and the shame caused him by the attention of his servants restored him to the power of collecting his thoughts; but the drive was short, and, as he drew nearer his home, the count felt all his griefs renew themselves.

A few steps from the house, the count had the carriage stop and got down. The door of the hotel stood wide open; a hackney-coach, much surprised at being called to this magnificent dwelling, stood in the middle of the courtyard; the count looked at this hackney-coach with dread, but without daring to question anyone, and rushed into his apartment.

Two persons were descending the staircase; he had only time to throw himself into a closet to avoid them.

It was Mercédès, leaning on her son's arm, who were both leaving the hotel.

They passed within two fingers' breadth of the unhappy man, who, hidden behind the damask portière, was in some sort brushed by the silk robe of Mercédès, and who felt upon his face the warm breath of these words pronounced by his son:

"Courage, mother! Come, come, we are no longer here at home."

The words died away, the steps receded.

The general straightened up, suspended by his clenched hands to the damask curtain; he repressed the most horrible sob that ever issued from a father's breast, abandoned at once by his wife and by his son...

Soon he heard the iron door of the hackney-coach slam, then the voice of the coachman, then the rolling of the heavy vehicle shook the windowpanes; then he rushed into his bedroom to see once more all that he had loved in the world; but the hackney-coach departed without the head of Mercédès or that of Albert appearing at the window, to give to the solitary house, to give to the father and husband abandoned, the last look, the farewell and the regret, that is to say, the pardon.

Therefore, at the very moment when the wheels of the hackney-coach shook the pavement of the vault, a gunshot rang out, and a dark smoke issued from one of the panes of that bedroom window, broken by the force of the explosion.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”