still. Like many old houses occupied by a single family, the room
door was panelled with glass; but it was locked, Maximilian was
shut in, and it was impossible to see what was passing in the room,
because a red curtain was drawn before the glass. The count's
anxiety was manifested by a bright color which seldom appeared on
the face of that imperturbable man.
"What shall I do!" he uttered, and reflected for a moment;
"shall I ring? No, the sound of a bell, announcing a visitor, will
but accelerate the resolution of one in Maximilian's situation, and
then the bell would be followed by a louder noise." Monte Cristo
trembled from head to foot and as if his determination had been
taken with the rapidity of lightning, he struck one of the panes of
glass with his elbow; the glass was shivered to atoms, then
withdrawing the curtain he saw Morrel, who had been writing at his
desk, bound from his seat at the noise of the broken window.
"I beg a thousand pardons," said the count, "there is nothing
the matter, but I slipped down and broke one of your panes of glass
with my elbow. Since it is opened, I will take advantage of it to
enter your room; do not disturb yourself — do not disturb
yourself!" And passing his hand through the broken glass, the count
opened the door. Morrel, evidently discomposed, came to meet Monte
Cristo less with the intention of receiving him than to exclude his
entry. "Ma foi," said Monte Cristo, rubbing his elbow, "it's all
your servant's fault; your stairs are so polished, it is like
walking on glass."
"Are you hurt, sir?" coldly asked Morrel.
"I believe not. But what are you about there? You were
writing."
"I?"
"Your fingers are stained with ink."
"Ah, true, I was writing. I do sometimes, soldier though I
am."
Monte Cristo advanced into the room; Maximilian was obliged to
let him pass, but he followed him. "You were writing?" said Monte
Cristo with a searching look.
"I have already had the honor of telling you I was," said
Morrel.
The count looked around him. "Your pistols are beside yourMorrel.
The count looked around him. "Your pistols are beside your
desk," said Monte Cristo, pointing with his finger to the pistols
on the table.
"I am on the point of starting on a journey," replied Morrel
disdainfully.
"My friend," exclaimed Monte Cristo in a tone of exquisite
sweetness.
"Sir?"
"My friend, my dear Maximilian, do not make a hasty resolution,
I entreat you."
"I make a hasty resolution?" said Morrel, shrugging his
shoulders; "is there anything extraordinary in a journey?"
"Maximilian," said the count, "let us both lay aside the mask we
have assumed. You no more deceive me with that false calmness than
I impose upon you with my frivolous solicitude. You can understand,
can you not, that to have acted as I have done, to have broken that
glass, to have intruded on the solitude of a friend — you can
understand that, to have done all this, I must have been actuated
by real uneasiness, or rather by a terrible conviction. Morrel, you
are going to destroy yourself!"
"Indeed, count," said Morrel, shuddering; "what has put this
into your head?"
"I tell you that you are about to destroy yourself," continued
the count, "and here is proof of what I say;" and, approaching the
desk, he removed the sheet of paper which Morrel had placed over
the letter he had begun, and took the latter in his hands.
Morrel rushed forward to tear it from him, but Monte Cristo
perceiving his intention, seized his wrist with his iron grasp.
"You wish to destroy yourself," said the count; "you have written
it."
"Well," said Morrel, changing his expression of calmness for one
of violence — "well, and if I do intend to turn this pistol against
myself, who shall prevent me — who will dare prevent me? All my
hopes are blighted, my heart is broken, my life a burden,
everything around me is sad and mournful; earth has become
distasteful to me, and human voices distract me. It is a mercy to
let me die, for if I live I shall lose my reason and become mad.
When, sir, I tell you all this with tears of heartfelt anguish, canWhen, sir, I tell you all this with tears of heartfelt anguish, can
you reply that I am wrong, can you prevent my putting an end to my
miserable existence? Tell me, sir, could you have the courage to do
so?"
"Yes, Morrel," said Monte Cristo, with a calmness which
contrasted strangely with the young man's excitement; "yes, I would
do so."
"You?" exclaimed Morrel, with increasing anger and reproach —
"you, who have deceived me with false hopes, who have cheered and
soothed me with vain promises, when I might, if not have saved her,
at least have seen her die in my arms! You, who pretend to
understand everything, even the hidden sources of knowledge, — and
who enact the part of a guardian angel upon earth, and could not
even find an antidote to a poison administered to a young girl! Ah,
sir, indeed you would inspire me with pity, were you not hateful in
my eyes."
"Morrel" —
"Yes; you tell me to lay aside the mask, and I will do so, be
satisfied! When you spoke to me at the cemetery, I answered you —
my heart was softened; when you arrived here, I allowed you to
enter. But since you abuse my confidence, since you have devised a
new torture after I thought I had exhausted them all, then, Count
of Monte Cristo my pretended benefactor — then, Count of Monte
Cristo, the universal guardian, be satisfied, you shall witness the
death of your friend;" and Morrel, with a maniacal laugh, again
rushed towards the pistols.
"And I again repeat, you shall not commit suicide."
"Prevent me, then!" replied Morrel, with another struggle,
which, like the first, failed in releasing him from the count's
iron grasp.
"I will prevent you."
"And who are you, then, that arrogate to yourself this
tyrannical right over free and rational beings?"
"Who am I?" repeated Monte Cristo. "Listen; I am the only man in
the world having the right to say to you, `Morrel, your father's
son shall not die to-day;'" and Monte Cristo, with an expression of
majesty and sublimity, advanced with arms folded toward the young