examined, scrutinized, but found nothing, or at least very little;
not exceeding a few thousand crowns in plate, and about the same in
ready money; but the nephew had time to say to his wife before he
expired: `Look well among my uncle's papers; there is a will.'
"They sought even more thoroughly than the august heirs had
done, but it was fruitless. There were two palaces and a vineyard
behind the Palatine Hill; but in these days landed property had not
much value, and the two palaces and the vineyard remained to the
family since they were beneath the rapacity of the pope and his
son. Months and years rolled on. Alexander VI. died, poisoned, —
you know by what mistake. Caesar, poisoned at the same time,
escaped by shedding his skin like a snake; but the new skin was
spotted by the poison till it looked like a tiger's. Then,
compelled to quit Rome, he went and got himself obscurely killed in
a night skirmish, scarcely noticed in history. After the pope's
death and his son's exile, it was supposed that the Spada family
would resume the splendid position they had held before the
cardinal's time; but this was not the case. The Spadas remained in
doubtful ease, a mystery hung over this dark affair, and the public
rumor was, that Caesar, a better politician than his father, had
carried off from the pope the fortune of the two cardinals. I say
the two, because Cardinal Rospigliosi, who had not taken any
precaution, was completely despoiled.
"Up to this point," said Faria, interrupting the thread of his
narrative, "this seems to you very meaningless, no doubt, eh?"
"Oh, my friend," cried Dantes, "on the contrary, it seems as if
I were reading a most interesting narrative; go on, I beg of
you."
"I will."
"The family began to get accustomed to their obscurity. Years
rolled on, and amongst the descendants some were soldiers, others
diplomatists; some churchmen, some bankers; some grew rich, and
some were ruined. I come now to the last of the family, whose
secretary I was — the Count of Spada. I had often heard himsecretary I was — the Count of Spada. I had often heard him
complain of the disproportion of his rank with his fortune; and I
advised him to invest all he had in an annuity. He did so, and thus
doubled his income. The celebrated breviary remained in the family,
and was in the count's possession. It had been handed down from
father to son; for the singular clause of the only will that had
been found, had caused it to be regarded as a genuine relic,
preserved in the family with superstitious veneration. It was an
illuminated book, with beautiful Gothic characters, and so weighty
with gold, that a servant always carried it before the cardinal on
days of great solemnity.
"At the sight of papers of all sorts, — titles, contracts,
parchments, which were kept in the archives of the family, all
descending from the poisoned cardinal, I in my turn examined the
immense bundles of documents, like twenty servitors, stewards,
secretaries before me; but in spite of the most exhaustive
researches, I found — nothing. Yet I had read, I had even written a
precise history of the Borgia family, for the sole purpose of
assuring myself whether any increase of fortune had occurred to
them on the death of the Cardinal Caesar Spada; but could only
trace the acquisition of the property of the Cardinal Rospigliosi,
his companion in misfortune.
"I was then almost assured that the inheritance had neither
profited the Borgias nor the family, but had remained unpossessed
like the treasures of the Arabian Nights, which slept in the bosom
of the earth under the eyes of the genie. I searched, ransacked,
counted, calculated a thousand and a thousand times the income and
expenditure of the family for three hundred years. It was useless.
I remained in my ignorance, and the Count of Spada in his poverty.
My patron died. He had reserved from his annuity his family papers,
his library, composed of five thousand volumes, and his famous
breviary. All these he bequeathed to me, with a thousand Romanbreviary. All these he bequeathed to me, with a thousand Roman
crowns, which he had in ready money, on condition that I would have
anniversary masses said for the repose of his soul, and that I
would draw up a genealogical tree and history of his house. All
this I did scrupulously. Be easy, my dear Edmond, we are near the
conclusion.
"In 1807, a month before I was arrested, and a fortnight after
the death of the Count of Spada, on the 25th of December (you will
see presently how the date became fixed in my memory), I was
reading, for the thousandth time, the papers I was arranging, for
the palace was sold to a stranger, and I was going to leave Rome
and settle at Florence, intending to take with me twelve thousand
francs I possessed, my library, and the famous breviary, when,
tired with my constant labor at the same thing, and overcome by a
heavy dinner I had eaten, my head dropped on my hands, and I fell
asleep about three o'clock in the afternoon. I awoke as the clock
was striking six. I raised my head; I was in utter darkness. I rang
for a light, but as no one came, I determined to find one for
myself. It was indeed but anticipating the simple manners which I
should soon be under the necessity of adopting. I took a wax-candle
in one hand, and with the other groped about for a piece of paper
(my match-box being empty), with which I proposed to get a light
from the small flame still playing on the embers. Fearing, however,
to make use of any valuable piece of paper, I hesitated for a
moment, then recollected that I had seen in the famous breviary,
which was on the table beside me, an old paper quite yellow with
age, and which had served as a marker for centuries, kept there by
the request of the heirs. I felt for it, found it, twisted it up
together, and putting it into the expiring flame, set light to
it.
"But beneath my fingers, as if by magic, in proportion as the
fire ascended, I saw yellowish characters appear on the paper. I
grasped it in my hand, put out the flame as quickly as I could,