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.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 withbuilt 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.
(* Pierre Puget, the sculptor-architect, was born at Marseilles
in 1622.)
"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