Chapter 116.00: Chapter 117. The Fifth of October

Chapter 117. The Fifth of October

It was about six o’clock
in the evening; an opal-colored light, through which an autumnal sun shed its
golden rays, descended on the blue ocean. The heat of the day had gradually
decreased, and a light breeze arose, seeming like the respiration of nature on
awakening from the burning siesta of the south. A delicious zephyr played along
the coasts of the Mediterranean, and wafted from shore to shore the sweet
perfume of plants, mingled with the fresh smell of the sea.

A light yacht, chaste and elegant in its form, was gliding amidst the first
dews of night over the immense lake, extending from Gibraltar to the
Dardanelles, and from Tunis to Venice. The vessel resembled a swan with its
wings opened towards the wind, gliding on the water. It advanced swiftly and
gracefully, leaving behind it a glittering stretch of foam. By degrees the sun
disappeared behind the western horizon; but as though to prove the truth of the
fanciful ideas in heathen mythology, its indiscreet rays reappeared on the
summit of every wave, as if the god of fire had just sunk upon the bosom of
Amphitrite, who in vain endeavored to hide her lover beneath her azure mantle.

The yacht moved rapidly on, though there did not appear to be sufficient wind
to ruffle the curls on the head of a young girl. Standing on the prow was a
tall man, of a dark complexion, who saw with dilating eyes that they were
approaching a dark mass of land in the shape of a cone, which rose from the
midst of the waves like the hat of a Catalan.

“Is that Monte Cristo?”
asked the traveller, to whose orders the yacht was for
the time submitted, in a melancholy voice.

“Yes, your excellency,”
said the captain, “we have reached it.”

“We have reached it!”
repeated the traveller in an accent of indescribable
sadness.

Then he added, in a low tone, “Yes; that is the haven.”

And then he again plunged into a train of thought, the character of which was
better revealed by a sad smile, than it would have been by tears. A few minutes
afterwards a flash of light, which was extinguished instantly, was seen on the
land, and the sound of firearms reached the yacht.

“Your excellency,”
said the captain, “that was the land signal, will you answer
yourself?”

“What signal?”

The captain pointed towards the island, up the side of which ascended a volume
of smoke, increasing as it rose.

“Ah, yes,”
he said, as if awaking from a dream. “Give it to me.”

The captain gave him a loaded carbine; the traveller slowly raised it, and
fired in the air. Ten minutes afterwards, the sails were furled, and they cast
anchor about a hundred fathoms from the little harbor. The gig was already
lowered, and in it were four oarsmen and a coxswain. The traveller descended,
and instead of sitting down at the stern of the boat, which had been decorated
with a blue carpet for his accommodation, stood up with his arms crossed. The
rowers waited, their oars half lifted out of the water, like birds drying their
wings.

“Give way,”
said the traveller. The eight oars fell into the sea simultaneously
without splashing a drop of water, and the boat, yielding to the impulsion,
glided forward. In an instant they found themselves in a little harbor, formed
in a natural creek; the boat grounded on the fine sand.

“Will your excellency be so good as to mount the shoulders of two of our men,
they will carry you ashore?”
The young man answered this invitation with a
gesture of indifference, and stepped out of the boat; the sea immediately rose
to his waist.

“Ah, your excellency,”
murmured the pilot, “you should not have done so; our
master will scold us for it.”

The young man continued to advance, following the sailors, who chose a firm
footing. Thirty strides brought them to dry land; the young man stamped on the
ground to shake off the wet, and looked around for someone to show him his
road, for it was quite dark. Just as he turned, a hand rested on his shoulder,
and a voice which made him shudder exclaimed:

“Good-evening, Maximilian; you are punctual, thank you!”

“Ah, is it you, count?”
said the young man, in an almost joyful accent,
pressing Monte Cristo’s hand with both his own.

“Yes; you see I am as exact as you are. But you are dripping, my dear fellow;
you must change your clothes, as Calypso said to Telemachus. Come, I have a
habitation prepared for you in which you will soon forget fatigue and cold.”

Monte Cristo perceived that the young man had turned around; indeed, Morrel saw
with surprise that the men who had brought him had left without being paid, or
uttering a word. Already the sound of their oars might be heard as they
returned to the yacht.

“Oh, yes,”
said the count, “you are looking for the sailors.”

“Yes, I paid them nothing, and yet they are gone.”

“Never mind that, Maximilian,”
said Monte Cristo, smiling. “I have made an
agreement with the navy, that the access to my island shall be free of all
charge. I have made a bargain.”

Morrel looked at the count with surprise. “Count,” he said, “you are not the
same here as in Paris.”

“How so?”

“Here you laugh.”
The count’s brow became clouded.

“You are right to recall me to myself, Maximilian,”
he said; “I was delighted
to see you again, and forgot for the moment that all happiness is fleeting.”

“Oh, no, no, count,”
cried Maximilian, seizing the count’s hands, “pray laugh;
be happy, and prove to me, by your indifference, that life is endurable to
sufferers. Oh, how charitable, kind, and good you are; you affect this gayety
to inspire me with courage.”

“You are wrong, Morrel; I was really happy.”

“Then you forget me, so much the better.”

“How so?”

“Yes; for as the gladiator said to the emperor, when he entered the arena, ‘He
who is about to die salutes you.’”

“Then you are not consoled?”
asked the count, surprised.

“Oh,”
exclaimed Morrel, with a glance full of bitter reproach, “do you think it
possible that I could be?”

“Listen,”
said the count. “Do you understand the meaning of my words? You
cannot take me for a commonplace man, a mere rattle, emitting a vague and
senseless noise. When I ask you if you are consoled, I speak to you as a man
for whom the human heart has no secrets. Well, Morrel, let us both examine the
depths of your heart. Do you still feel the same feverish impatience of grief
which made you start like a wounded lion? Have you still that devouring thirst
which can only be appeased in the grave? Are you still actuated by the regret
which drags the living to the pursuit of death; or are you only suffering from
the prostration of fatigue and the weariness of hope deferred? Has the loss of
memory rendered it impossible for you to weep? Oh, my dear friend, if this be
the case,—if you can no longer weep, if your frozen heart be dead, if you put
all your trust in God, then, Maximilian, you are consoled—do not complain.”

“Count,”
said Morrel, in a firm and at the same time soft voice, “listen to me,
as to a man whose thoughts are raised to heaven, though he remains on earth; I
come to die in the arms of a friend. Certainly, there are people whom I love. I
love my sister Julie,—I love her husband Emmanuel; but I require a strong mind
to smile on my last moments. My sister would be bathed in tears and fainting; I
could not bear to see her suffer. Emmanuel would tear the weapon from my hand,
and alarm the house with his cries. You, count, who are more than mortal, will,
I am sure, lead me to death by a pleasant path, will you not?”

“My friend,”
said the count, “I have still one doubt,—are you weak enough to
pride yourself upon your sufferings?”

“No, indeed,—I am calm,”
said Morrel, giving his hand to the count; “my pulse
does not beat slower or faster than usual. No, I feel that I have reached the
goal, and I will go no farther. You told me to wait and hope; do you know what
you did, unfortunate adviser? I waited a month, or rather I suffered for a
month! I did hope (man is a poor wretched creature), I did hope. What I cannot
tell,—something wonderful, an absurdity, a miracle,—of what nature he alone can
tell who has mingled with our reason that folly we call hope. Yes, I did
wait—yes, I did hope, count, and during this quarter of an hour we have been
talking together, you have unconsciously wounded, tortured my heart, for every
word you have uttered proved that there was no hope for me. Oh, count, I shall
sleep calmly, deliciously in the arms of death.”

Morrel uttered these words with an energy which made the count shudder.

“My friend,”
continued Morrel, “you named the fifth of October as the end of
the period of waiting,—today is the fifth of October,” he took out his watch,

“it is now nine o’clock,—I have yet three hours to live.”

“Be it so,”
said the count, “come.” Morrel mechanically followed the count, and
they had entered the grotto before he perceived it. He felt a carpet under his
feet, a door opened, perfumes surrounded him, and a brilliant light dazzled his
eyes. Morrel hesitated to advance; he dreaded the enervating effect of all that
he saw. Monte Cristo drew him in gently.

“Why should we not spend the last three hours remaining to us of life, like
those ancient Romans, who when condemned by Nero, their emperor and heir, sat
down at a table covered with flowers, and gently glided into death, amid the
perfume of heliotropes and roses?”

Morrel smiled. “As you please,” he said; “death is always death,—that is
forgetfulness, repose, exclusion from life, and therefore from grief.”

He sat down, and Monte Cristo placed himself opposite to him. They were in the
marvellous dining-room before described, where the statues had baskets on their
heads always filled with fruits and flowers. Morrel had looked carelessly
around, and had probably noticed nothing.

“Let us talk like men,”
he said, looking at the count.

“Go on!”

“Count,”
said Morrel, “you are the epitome of all human knowledge, and you seem
like a being descended from a wiser and more advanced world than ours.”

“There is something true in what you say,”
said the count, with that smile
which made him so handsome; “I have descended from a planet called grief.”

“I believe all you tell me without questioning its meaning; for instance, you
told me to live, and I did live; you told me to hope, and I almost did so. I am
almost inclined to ask you, as though you had experienced death, ‘is it painful
to die?’”

Monte Cristo looked upon Morrel with indescribable tenderness. “Yes,” he said,

“yes, doubtless it is painful, if you violently break the outer covering which
obstinately begs for life. If you plunge a dagger into your flesh, if you
insinuate a bullet into your brain, which the least shock disorders,—then
certainly, you will suffer pain, and you will repent quitting a life for a
repose you have bought at so dear a price.”

“Yes; I know that there is a secret of luxury and pain in death, as well as in
life; the only thing is to understand it.”

“You have spoken truly, Maximilian; according to the care we bestow upon it,
death is either a friend who rocks us gently as a nurse, or an enemy who
violently drags the soul from the body. Some day, when the world is much older,
and when mankind will be masters of all the destructive powers in nature, to
serve for the general good of humanity; when mankind, as you were just saying,
have discovered the secrets of death, then that death will become as sweet and
voluptuous as a slumber in the arms of your beloved.”

“And if you wished to die, you would choose this death, count?”

“Yes.”

Morrel extended his hand. “Now I understand,” he said, “why you had me brought
here to this desolate spot, in the midst of the ocean, to this subterranean
palace; it was because you loved me, was it not, count? It was because you
loved me well enough to give me one of those sweet means of death of which we
were speaking; a death without agony, a death which allows me to fade away
while pronouncing Valentine’s name and pressing your hand.”

“Yes, you have guessed rightly, Morrel,”
said the count, “that is what I
intended.”

“Thanks; the idea that tomorrow I shall no longer suffer, is sweet to my
heart.”

“Do you then regret nothing?”

“No,”
replied Morrel.

“Not even me?”
asked the count with deep emotion. Morrel’s clear eye was for
the moment clouded, then it shone with unusual lustre, and a large tear rolled
down his cheek.

“What,”
said the count, “do you still regret anything in the world, and yet
die?”

“Oh, I entreat you,”
exclaimed Morrel in a low voice, “do not speak another
word, count; do not prolong my punishment.”

The count fancied that he was yielding, and this belief revived the horrible
doubt that had overwhelmed him at the Château d’If.

“I am endeavoring,”
he thought, “to make this man happy; I look upon this
restitution as a weight thrown into the scale to balance the evil I have
wrought. Now, supposing I am deceived, supposing this man has not been unhappy
enough to merit happiness. Alas, what would become of me who can only atone for
evil by doing good?”

Then he said aloud: “Listen, Morrel, I see your grief is great, but still you
do not like to risk your soul.” Morrel smiled sadly.

“Count,”
he said, “I swear to you my soul is no longer my own.”

“Maximilian, you know I have no relation in the world. I have accustomed myself
to regard you as my son: well, then, to save my son, I will sacrifice my life,
nay, even my fortune.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, that you wish to quit life because you do not understand all the
enjoyments which are the fruits of a large fortune. Morrel, I possess nearly a
hundred millions and I give them to you; with such a fortune you can attain
every wish. Are you ambitious? Every career is open to you. Overturn the world,
change its character, yield to mad ideas, be even criminal—but live.”

“Count, I have your word,”
said Morrel coldly; then taking out his watch, he
added, “It is half-past eleven.”

“Morrel, can you intend it in my house, under my very eyes?”

“Then let me go,”
said Maximilian, “or I shall think you did not love me for my
own sake, but for yours;” and he arose.

“It is well,”
said Monte Cristo whose countenance brightened at these words;

“you wish it—you are inflexible. Yes, as you said, you are indeed wretched and
a miracle alone can cure you. Sit down, Morrel, and wait.”

Morrel obeyed; the count arose, and unlocking a closet with a key suspended
from his gold chain, took from it a little silver casket, beautifully carved
and chased, the corners of which represented four bending figures, similar to
the Caryatides, the forms of women, symbols of the angels aspiring to heaven.

He placed the casket on the table; then opening it took out a little golden
box, the top of which flew open when touched by a secret spring. This box
contained an unctuous substance partly solid, of which it was impossible to
discover the color, owing to the reflection of the polished gold, sapphires,
rubies, emeralds, which ornamented the box. It was a mixed mass of blue, red,
and gold.

The count took out a small quantity of this with a gilt spoon, and offered it
to Morrel, fixing a long steadfast glance upon him. It was then observable that
the substance was greenish.

“This is what you asked for,”
he said, “and what I promised to give you.”

“I thank you from the depths of my heart,”
said the young man, taking the spoon
from the hands of Monte Cristo. The count took another spoon, and again dipped
it into the golden box. “What are you going to do, my friend?” asked Morrel,
arresting his hand.

“Well, the fact is, Morrel, I was thinking that I too am weary of life, and
since an opportunity presents itself——”

“Stay!”
said the young man. “You who love, and are beloved; you, who have faith
and hope,—oh, do not follow my example. In your case it would be a crime.
Adieu, my noble and generous friend, adieu; I will go and tell Valentine what
you have done for me.”

And slowly, though without any hesitation, only waiting to press the count’s
hand fervently, he swallowed the mysterious substance offered by Monte Cristo.
Then they were both silent. Ali, mute and attentive, brought the pipes and
coffee, and disappeared. By degrees, the light of the lamps gradually faded in
the hands of the marble statues which held them, and the perfumes appeared less
powerful to Morrel. Seated opposite to him, Monte Cristo watched him in the
shadow, and Morrel saw nothing but the bright eyes of the count. An
overpowering sadness took possession of the young man, his hands relaxed their
hold, the objects in the room gradually lost their form and color, and his
disturbed vision seemed to perceive doors and curtains open in the wall.

“Friend,”
he cried, “I feel that I am dying; thanks!”

He made a last effort to extend his hand, but it fell powerless beside him.
Then it appeared to him that Monte Cristo smiled, not with the strange and
fearful expression which had sometimes revealed to him the secrets of his
heart, but with the benevolent kindness of a father for a child. At the same
time the count appeared to increase in stature, his form, nearly double its
usual height, stood out in relief against the red tapestry, his black hair was
thrown back, and he stood in the attitude of an avenging angel. Morrel,
overpowered, turned around in the armchair; a delicious torpor permeated every
vein. A change of ideas presented themselves to his brain, like a new design on
the kaleidoscope. Enervated, prostrate, and breathless, he became unconscious
of outward objects; he seemed to be entering that vague delirium preceding
death. He wished once again to press the count’s hand, but his own was
immovable. He wished to articulate a last farewell, but his tongue lay
motionless and heavy in his throat, like a stone at the mouth of a sepulchre.
Involuntarily his languid eyes closed, and still through his eyelashes a
well-known form seemed to move amid the obscurity with which he thought himself
enveloped.

The count had just opened a door. Immediately a brilliant light from the next
room, or rather from the palace adjoining, shone upon the room in which he was
gently gliding into his last sleep. Then he saw a woman of marvellous beauty
appear on the threshold of the door separating the two rooms. Pale, and sweetly
smiling, she looked like an angel of mercy conjuring the angel of vengeance.

“Is it heaven that opens before me?”
thought the dying man; “that angel
resembles the one I have lost.”

Monte Cristo pointed out Morrel to the young woman, who advanced towards him
with clasped hands and a smile upon her lips.

“Valentine, Valentine!”
he mentally ejaculated; but his lips uttered no sound,
and as though all his strength were centred in that internal emotion, he sighed
and closed his eyes. Valentine rushed towards him; his lips again moved.

“He is calling you,”
said the count; “he to whom you have confided your
destiny—he from whom death would have separated you, calls you to him. Happily,
I vanquished death. Henceforth, Valentine, you will never again be separated on
earth, since he has rushed into death to find you. Without me, you would both
have died. May God accept my atonement in the preservation of these two
existences!”

Valentine seized the count’s hand, and in her irresistible impulse of joy
carried it to her lips.

“Oh, thank me again!”
said the count; “tell me till you are weary, that I have
restored you to happiness; you do not know how much I require this assurance.”

“Oh, yes, yes, I thank you with all my heart,”
said Valentine; “and if you
doubt the sincerity of my gratitude, oh, then, ask Haydée! Ask my beloved
sister Haydée, who ever since our departure from France, has caused me to wait
patiently for this happy day, while talking to me of you.”

“You then love Haydée?”
asked Monte Cristo with an emotion he in vain
endeavored to dissimulate.

“Oh, yes, with all my soul.”

“Well, then, listen, Valentine,”
said the count; “I have a favor to ask of
you.”

“Of me? Oh, am I happy enough for that?”

“Yes; you have called Haydée your sister,—let her become so indeed, Valentine;
render her all the gratitude you fancy that you owe to me; protect her, for”

(the count’s voice was thick with emotion) “henceforth she will be alone in the
world.”

“Alone in the world!”
repeated a voice behind the count, “and why?”

Monte Cristo turned around; Haydée was standing pale, motionless, looking at
the count with an expression of fearful amazement.

“Because tomorrow, Haydée, you will be free; you will then assume your proper
position in society, for I will not allow my destiny to overshadow yours.
Daughter of a prince, I restore to you the riches and name of your father.”

Haydée became pale, and lifting her transparent hands to heaven, exclaimed in a
voice stifled with tears, “Then you leave me, my lord?”

“Haydée, Haydée, you are young and beautiful; forget even my name, and be
happy.”

“It is well,”
said Haydée; “your order shall be executed, my lord; I will
forget even your name, and be happy.” And she stepped back to retire.

“Oh, heavens,”
exclaimed Valentine, who was supporting the head of Morrel on
her shoulder, “do you not see how pale she is? Do you not see how she suffers?”

Haydée answered with a heartrending expression,

“Why should he understand this, my sister? He is my master, and I am his slave;
he has the right to notice nothing.”

The count shuddered at the tones of a voice which penetrated the inmost
recesses of his heart; his eyes met those of the young girl and he could not
bear their brilliancy.

“Oh, heavens,”
exclaimed Monte Cristo, “can my suspicions be correct? Haydée,
would it please you not to leave me?”

“I am young,”
gently replied Haydée; “I love the life you have made so sweet to
me, and I should be sorry to die.”

“You mean, then, that if I leave you, Haydée——”

“I should die; yes, my lord.”

“Do you then love me?”

“Oh, Valentine, he asks if I love him. Valentine, tell him if you love
Maximilian.”

The count felt his heart dilate and throb; he opened his arms, and Haydée,
uttering a cry, sprang into them.

“Oh, yes,”
she cried, “I do love you! I love you as one loves a father,
brother, husband! I love you as my life, for you are the best, the noblest of
created beings!”

“Let it be, then, as you wish, sweet angel; God has sustained me in my struggle
with my enemies, and has given me this reward; he will not let me end my
triumph in suffering; I wished to punish myself, but he has pardoned me. Love
me then, Haydée! Who knows? Perhaps your love will make me forget all that I do
not wish to remember.”

“What do you mean, my lord?”

“I mean that one word from you has enlightened me more than twenty years of
slow experience; I have but you in the world, Haydée; through you I again take
hold on life, through you I shall suffer, through you rejoice.”

“Do you hear him, Valentine?”
exclaimed Haydée; “he says that through me he
will suffer—through _me_, who would yield my life for his.”

The count withdrew for a moment. “Have I discovered the truth?” he said; “but
whether it be for recompense or punishment, I accept my fate. Come, Haydée,
come!” and throwing his arm around the young girl’s waist, he pressed the hand
of Valentine, and disappeared.

An hour had nearly passed, during which Valentine, breathless and motionless,
watched steadfastly over Morrel. At length she felt his heart beat, a faint
breath played upon his lips, a slight shudder, announcing the return of life,
passed through the young man’s frame. At length his eyes opened, but they were
at first fixed and expressionless; then sight returned, and with it feeling and
grief.

“Oh,”
he cried, in an accent of despair, “the count has deceived me; I am yet
living;” and extending his hand towards the table, he seized a knife.

“Dearest,”
exclaimed Valentine, with her adorable smile, “awake, and look at
me!” Morrel uttered a loud exclamation, and frantic, doubtful, dazzled, as
though by a celestial vision, he fell upon his knees.

The next morning at daybreak, Valentine and Morrel were walking arm-in-arm on
the seashore, Valentine relating how Monte Cristo had appeared in her room,
explained everything, revealed the crime, and, finally, how he had saved her
life by enabling her to simulate death.

They had found the door of the grotto opened, and gone forth; on the azure dome
of heaven still glittered a few remaining stars.

Morrel soon perceived a man standing among the rocks, apparently awaiting a
sign from them to advance, and pointed him out to Valentine.

“Ah, it is Jacopo,”
she said, “the captain of the yacht;” and she beckoned him
towards them.

“Do you wish to speak to us?”
asked Morrel.

“I have a letter to give you from the count.”

“From the count!”
murmured the two young people.

“Yes; read it.”

Morrel opened the letter, and read:

“My Dear Maximilian,

“There is a felucca for you at anchor. Jacopo will carry you to Leghorn, where
Monsieur Noirtier awaits his granddaughter, whom he wishes to bless before you
lead her to the altar. All that is in this grotto, my friend, my house in the
Champs-Élysées, and my château at Tréport, are the marriage gifts bestowed by
Edmond Dantès upon the son of his old master, Morrel. Mademoiselle de Villefort
will share them with you; for I entreat her to give to the poor the immense
fortune reverting to her from her father, now a madman, and her brother who
died last September with his mother. Tell the angel who will watch over your
future destiny, Morrel, to pray sometimes for a man, who, like Satan, thought
himself for an instant equal to God, but who now acknowledges with Christian
humility that God alone possesses supreme power and infinite wisdom. Perhaps
those prayers may soften the remorse he feels in his heart. As for you, Morrel,
this is the secret of my conduct towards you. There is neither happiness nor
misery in the world; there is only the comparison of one state with another,
nothing more. He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience
supreme happiness. We must have felt what it is to die, Morrel, that we may
appreciate the enjoyments of living.

“Live, then, and be happy, beloved children of my heart, and never forget that
until the day when God shall deign to reveal the future to man, all human
wisdom is summed up in these two words,—‘_Wait and hope_.’—Your friend,

“Edmond Dantès, _Count of Monte Cristo_.”

During the perusal of this letter, which informed Valentine for the first time
of the madness of her father and the death of her brother, she became pale, a
heavy sigh escaped from her bosom, and tears, not the less painful because they
were silent, ran down her cheeks; her happiness cost her very dear.

Morrel looked around uneasily.

“But,”
he said, “the count’s generosity is too overwhelming; Valentine will be
satisfied with my humble fortune. Where is the count, friend? Lead me to him.”

Jacopo pointed towards the horizon.

“What do you mean?”
asked Valentine. “Where is the count? —where is Haydée?”

“Look!”
said Jacopo.

The eyes of both were fixed upon the spot indicated by the sailor, and on the
blue line separating the sky from the Mediterranean Sea, they perceived a large
white sail.

“Gone,”
said Morrel; “gone! —adieu, my friend—adieu, my father!”

“Gone,”
murmured Valentine; “adieu, my sweet Haydée—adieu, my sister!”

“Who can say whether we shall ever see them again?”
said Morrel with tearful
eyes.

“Darling,”
replied Valentine, “has not the count just told us that all human
wisdom is summed up in two words:

“‘_Wait and hope_ (Fac et spera)!’”

---