The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas
‘Is there nothing you will miss?’ Monte Cristo asked.
‘No,’ Morrel replied.
‘Not even me?’ the count asked, with deep feeling.
Morrel stopped, his clear eye suddenly clouded, then shone with even greater brilliance. A large tear rolled from it and left a silver trace across his cheek.
‘What!’ the count exclaimed. ‘There is something you will regret leaving on earth, yet you want to die!’
‘Oh, I beg you,’ Morrel cried in a weak voice. ‘Not a word, Count, do not prolong my agony.’
The count feared that Morrel was weakening, and this belief momentarily revived the terrible doubt that had already once struck him in the Château d’If. ‘I am engaged in giving this man back his happiness,’ he thought. ‘I consider that restitution is a weight thrown back into the scales in the opposite tray from the one where I cast evil. Now, suppose I am wrong and this man is not unhappy enough to deserve happiness. Alas, what would happen to me – I, who am unable to atone for evil except by doing good?’
‘Listen to me, Morrel,’ he said. ‘Your grief is immense, I can see that; but you believe in God; perhaps you do not wish to risk the salvation of your soul?’
Morrel smiled sadly: ‘Count,’ he said, ‘you know that I do not exaggerate; but, I swear, my soul is no longer my own.’
‘Listen, Morrel,’ the count said. ‘I have no living relative, as you know. I have grown accustomed to thinking of you as my son. Well, to save my son, I would sacrifice my life and, even more readily, my fortune.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, Morrel, that you want to leave life because you do not know all the pleasures that life gives to the very rich. Morrel, I possess nearly a hundred million; you can have it. With that much money you could achieve anything you desire. Are you ambitious? Every career is open to you. Stir up the world, change it, commit any kind of folly, be a criminal if you must, but live!’
‘Count, I have your word,’ the young man replied coldly. ‘And,’ he added, taking out his watch, ‘it is half-past eleven.’
‘Could you do such a thing, Morrel, in my house, before my eyes?’
‘Then let me leave,’ Maximilien said, his face clouding. ‘Or I shall think you don’t love me for myself, but for you.’ And he got up.
‘Very well, then,’ said Monte Cristo, his face lightening at these words. ‘You want it, Morrel, and you are immovable. Yes, you are profoundly unhappy and, as you said, only a miracle could cure you. Sit down, and wait.’
The young man obeyed. Monte Cristo got up in his turn and went to open a carefully locked cupboard, the key to which he wore on a gold chain. He took out a little silver casket, magnificently sculpted and modelled with four arched figures at the four corners, like pining caryatids, shaped like women, symbols of angels reaching for heaven.
He put the casket down on the table, then opened it, taking out a little gold box, the lid of which was raised by pressure on a hidden spring.
This box contained a half-congealed, oily substance, its colour indefinable because of the shining gold and the sapphires, rubies and emeralds encrusting it. It was like a shimmering mass of blue, purple and gold.
The count took a small quantity of the substance on an enamelled spoon and offered it to Morrel, fixing his eyes on him. Only now could it be seen that the substance was green in colour.
‘This is what you asked me for,’ he said. ‘This is what I promised you.’
‘While I still have life,’ the young man said, taking the spoon from Monte Cristo’s hands, ‘I thank you from the bottom of my heart.’
The count took a second spoon and dipped once more into the gold box.
‘What are you doing, my dear friend?’ Morrel asked, grasping his hand.
‘Why, Morrel,’ the other said, with a smile. ‘God forgive me, but I think that I am as weary of life as you are, and while the opportunity presents itself…’
‘Stop!’ the young man cried. ‘Oh, you who love and are loved, you who can trust in hope, oh, don’t you do what I am about to do. For you, it would be a crime. Farewell, my noble and generous friend. I shall tell Valentine all that you have done for me.’ And slowly, without any more hesitation than a pressure on the left hand which he was holding out to the count, Morrel swallowed – or, rather, savoured – the mysterious substance that Monte Cristo had offered him.
Then both men fell silent. Ali, noiseless and attentive, brought tobacco and pipes, served coffee and then vanished.
Little by little the lamps paled in the hands of the marble statues holding them and the perfume from the censers seemed less pervasive to Morrel. Opposite him, Monte Cristo was watching him through the dark, and he could see nothing except the burning of the count’s eyes.
The young man was overwhelmed with an immense pain. He felt the hookah fall from his hands and the objects around him gradually lost their shape and colour. His clouded eyes seemed to see doors and curtains opening in the walls.
‘My friend,’ he said, ‘I feel I am dying. Thank you.’
He made one last effort to hold out his hand, but it fell, powerless, beside him.
And now it seemed to him that Monte Cristo was smiling, no longer with that strange and terrifying smile that had several times allowed him to glimpse the mysteries of that profound soul, but with the tender compassion of a father towards the follies of his child.
At the same time the count was growing before his eyes. His figure almost doubled in size, outlined against the red hangings; he had thrown back his black hair and stood proudly like one of those avenging angels with which the wicked are threatened on Judgement Day.
Morrel, beaten, overwhelmed, slumped back in his chair. A silky torpor filled his every vein. His mind was refurnished, as it were, by a change of thoughts, just like a new pattern appearing in a kaleidoscope. Lying back, panting, excited, he felt nothing more living in him apart from this dream. He seemed to be plunging directly into the vague delirium that precedes that other unknown, called death.
Once again he tried to reach out to take the count’s hand, but this time his own would not even budge. He tried to utter a last goodbye, but his tongue turned heavily in his mouth, like a stone blocking the entrance to a sepulchre. Hard as he tried, he could not keep his languid eyes open; yet behind their lids there was an image that he recognized despite the darkness which he felt had enveloped him. It was the count, who had just opened the door.
At once, an immense burst of light flooded from an adjoining room – or, rather, a wonderful palace – into the room where Morrel was abandoning himself to his gentle death-throes. And then, on the threshold of that other chamber, between the two rooms, he saw a woman of miraculous beauty. Pale and sweetly smiling, she seemed like an angel of mercy casting out the angel of vengeance.
‘Is heaven already opening its gate to me?’ thought the dying man. ‘This angel is like the one I lost.’
Monte Cristo pointed the young woman to the sofa where Morrel was lying, and she stepped forward with her hands clasped and smiling lips. ‘Valentine! Valentine!’ Morrel cried, in the depths of his soul. But his throat did not utter a sound and, as though all his strength had been concentrated on that inner feeling, he gave a sigh and closed his eyes.
Valentine dashed forward. Morrel’s lips moved again.
‘He is calling you,’ said the count. ‘He is calling you from the depth of his sleep, the man to whom you have entrusted your fate and from whom death tried to separate you; but fortunately I was there and I overcame death. Valentine, from now on you must never be separated on this earth because, to rejoin you, he would leap into his grave. Without me, you would both have died. I give you back to one another; may God credit me with these two lives that I have saved!’
Valentine clasped Monte Cristo by the hand and, with an irresistible burst of joy, put it to her lips.
‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘Thank me. Oh, tell me over and over again, never tire of telling me that I h
‘Oh, yes, I thank you with all my soul!’ Valentine said. ‘And if you doubt the sincerity of my thanks, ask Haydée, ask my dear sister Haydée, who has made me wait patiently since our departure from France, talking to me of you, until this happy day that has now dawned.’
‘Do you love Haydée?’ Monte Cristo asked, with ill-disguised emotion.
‘Oh, yes, with all my heart!’
‘Then, Valentine, listen to me,’ said the count. ‘I have a favour to beg of you.’
‘Of me! Good heavens, am I fortunate enough for that?’
‘You called Haydée your sister. Let her be your sister indeed, Valentine. Give her everything that you think you owe to me. Protect her, you and Morrel, because…’ (and here the count’s voice was almost stifled in his throat) ‘… because from now on she will be alone in the world.’
‘Alone in the world!’ repeated a voice from behind the place where the count was standing. ‘Why?’
Monte Cristo turned and saw Haydée, pale and ice-cold, giving him a look of utter disbelief.
‘Because tomorrow, my child, you will be free,’ he replied. ‘Because you will resume your proper place in the world and because I do not want my fate to cloud your own. You are the daughter of a prince: I am restoring your father’s wealth and your father’s name to you!’
Haydée’s face was drained of colour. She opened her translucent hands like a virgin recommending her soul to God, and said, in a voice harsh with tears: ‘So, my Lord, you are leaving me?’
‘Haydée, Haydée, you are young and beautiful. Forget even my name, and be happy.’
‘Very well,’ said Haydée. ‘Your orders will be carried out, my lord. I shall forget even your name, and I shall be happy.’ And she took a pace backwards, to leave the room.
‘Oh, my God!’ cried Valentine, who was supporting Morrel’s numbed head on her shoulder. ‘Can’t you see how pale she is? Don’t you realize what she is suffering?’
Haydée addressed her with a heartrending expression on her face: ‘How do you expect him to understand me, my sister? He is my master, and I his slave. He has the right to see nothing.’
The count shuddered at the tone of this voice, which awoke the deepest fibres of his being. His eyes met those of the young woman and could not bear to look into them. ‘My God, my God!’ he said. ‘Can what you hinted to me be true? Haydée, would you be happy then not to leave me?’
‘I am young,’ she answered softly. ‘I love life, which you have always made so pleasant for me. I should be sorry to die.’
‘Do you mean that if I were to leave you, Haydée…’
‘Yes, my Lord, I should die!’
‘Do you love me, then?’
‘Oh, Valentine, he asks if I love him! Tell him: do you love Maximilien?’
The count felt his breast swell and his heart fill. He opened his arms and Haydée threw herself into them with a cry. ‘Oh, yes! Oh, yes I love you!’ she said. ‘I love you as one loves a father, a brother, a husband! I love you as one loves life, and loves God, for you are to me the most beautiful, the best and greatest of created beings!’
‘Let it be as you will, my sweet angel!’ said the count. ‘God, who roused me against my enemies and gave me victory, God, I can see, does not wish my victory to end with that regret. I wished to punish myself, but God wants to pardon me. So, love me, Haydée! Who knows? Perhaps your love will make me forget what I have to forget.’
‘What are you saying, my Lord?’ the young woman asked.
‘I am saying that a word from you, Haydée, enlightened me more than twenty years of sage wisdom. I have only you left in the world, Haydée. It is through you that I am attached to life; through you I can suffer and through you I can be happy.’
‘Do you hear that, Valentine?’ Haydée cried. ‘He says that through me he can suffer! Through me, when I would give my life for him!’
The count thought for a moment. ‘Have I understood the truth? Oh, God! What matter! Reward or punishment, I accept my fate. Come, Haydée, come…’ And putting his arm round the young woman’s waist, he pressed Valentine’s hand and disappeared.
About an hour passed in which, breathing heavily and staring, unable to speak, Valentine remained by Morrel’s side. Finally she felt his heart beat, a barely perceptible breath passed his lips and the young man’s whole body was shaken by that slight shudder which indicates returning life. Finally his eyes opened, though at first they stared wildly. Then sight returned, sharp and true, and, with it, feeling; and, with feeling, pain.
‘Oh!’ he wailed in a desperate voice. ‘I am still alive! The count deceived me!’ And his hand reached for a knife on the table.
‘My friend,’ said Valentine, with her irresistible smile, ‘wake up and look towards me.’
Morrel gave a great cry and, delirious, full of doubt, dazzled as though by some celestial vision, he fell on both knees…
The next day, with the first rays of sunlight, Morrel and Valentine were walking arm in arm on the shore, Valentine telling Morrel how Monte Cristo had appeared in her room, how he had revealed everything to her, how he had made her unveil the criminal and, finally, how he had miraculously saved her from death, while letting everyone believe that she was dead.
They had found the door to the grotto open and had gone out. The last stars were still shining in the blue of the morning sky. And, in the half-light of a cluster of rocks, Morrel saw a man waiting for a sign to come over to them. He pointed him out to Valentine.
‘Oh, that’s Jacopo,’ she said, motioning to him to join them. ‘The captain of the yacht.’
‘Do you have something to tell us?’ Morrel asked.
‘I have this letter to give you on behalf of the count.’
‘From the count!’ the two young people exclaimed in unison.
‘Yes, read it.’
Morrel opened the letter and read:
MY DEAR MAXIMILIEN,
There is a felucca lying at anchor for you. Jacopo will take you to Leghorn where Monsieur Noirtier is awaiting his granddaughter, whom he wishes to bless before she follows you to the altar. Everything that is in this grotto, my friend, my house in the Champs-Elysées and my little country house in Le Tréport are a wedding present from Edmond Dantès to the son of his master, Morrel. Mademoiselle de Villefort must have half of it, because I beg her to give the poor people of Paris whatever money she has coming to her from her father, who has become mad, and her brother, who died last September with her stepmother.
Tell the angel who will watch over your life, Morrel, to pray sometimes for a man who, like Satan, momentarily thought himself the equal of God and who, with all the humility of a Christian, came to realize that in God’s hands alone reside supreme power and infinite wisdom. These prayers may perhaps ease the remorse that he takes with him in the depth of his heart.
As for you, Morrel, this is the whole secret of my behaviour towards you: there is neither happiness nor misfortune in this world, there is merely the comparison between one state and another, nothing more. Only someone who has suffered the deepest misfortune is capable of experiencing the heights of felicity. Maximilien, you must needs have wished to die, to know how good it is to live.
So, do live and be happy, children dear to my heart, and never forget that, until the day when God deigns to unveil the future to mankind, all human wisdom is contained in these two words: ‘wait’ and ‘hope’!
Your friend
EDMOND DANTÈS
Count of Monte Cristo.
While he was reading this letter, which informed her of her father’s madness and the death of her brother, neither of which she had known until then, Valentine went pale and gave a painful sigh; tears, no less touching for being silent, ran down her cheeks. She had purchased her happiness at a high price.
Morrel looked around him anxiously. ‘But the count really is being too generous,’ he said. ‘Valentine wi
Jacopo pointed to the horizon.
‘Why! What do you mean?’ Valentine asked. ‘Where is the count? Where is Haydée?’
‘Look,’ said Jacopo.
The two young people looked in the direction towards which the sailor was pointing and, on the dark-blue line on the horizon that separated the sky from the Mediterranean, they saw a white sail, as large as a gull’s wing.
‘He is gone!’ cried Morrel. ‘Gone! Farewell, my friend! My father!’
‘Yes, he is gone,’ Valentine muttered. ‘Farewell, my friend! Farewell, my sister!’
‘Who knows if we shall ever see them again?’ Morrel said, wiping away a tear.
‘My dearest,’ said Valentine, ‘has the count not just told us that all human wisdom was contained in these two words – “wait” and “hope”?’
Notes
I
MARSEILLE – ARRIVAL
1. Fort Saint-Jean: The entrance to the old harbour at Marseille is guarded by two forts, the Fort Saint-Jean on the north and the Fort Saint-Nicholas on the south. The Pharo lies west of the Fort Saint-Nicholas, and Les Catalans south-west. In the standard text, some place-names are misspelt (‘Morgion’ for ‘Morgiou’, etc.). These have been corrected, to accord with Schopp (1993).
The new harbour was under construction, north of Fort Saint-Jean, at the time when the novel was published. The city rises away from the old harbour, or Vieux Port, forming – in the words of Murray’s Handbook for Travellers in France (London, 1847) ‘a basin or amphitheatre, terminating only with the encircling chain of hills. From this disposition of the ground, the port becomes the sewer of the city – the receptacle of all its filth, stagnating in a tideless sea and under a burning sun… The stench emanating from it at times is consequently intolerable, except for natives…’
On the whole, Marseille was not considered attractive for tourists, and Dumas’ novel did a good deal to enhance its image.