his father's abode. Should it not be found in possession of either
father or son, then it will assuredly be discovered in the cabin
belonging to the said Dantes on board the Pharaon."
"How dreadful!" said Mercedes, passing her hand across her brow,
moist with perspiration; "and that letter" —
"I bought it for two hundred thousand francs, madame," said
Monte Cristo; "but that is a trifle, since it enables me to justify
myself to you."
"And the result of that letter" —
"You well know, madame, was my arrest; but you do not know how
long that arrest lasted. You do not know that I remained for
fourteen years within a quarter of a league of you, in a dungeon in
the Chateau d'If. You do not know that every day of those fourteen
years I renewed the vow of vengeance which I had made the first
day; and yet I was not aware that you had married Fernand, my
calumniator, and that my father had died of hunger!"
"Can it be?" cried Mercedes, shuddering.
"That is what I heard on leaving my prison fourteen years after
I had entered it; and that is why, on account of the living
Mercedes and my deceased father, I have sworn to revenge myself on
Fernand, and — I have revenged myself."
"And you are sure the unhappy Fernand did that?"
"I am satisfied, madame, that he did what I have told you;
besides, that is not much more odious than that a Frenchman by
adoption should pass over to the English; that a Spaniard by birth
should have fought against the Spaniards; that a stipendiary of Ali
should have betrayed and murdered Ali. Compared with such things,
what is the letter you have just read? — a lover's deception, which
the woman who has married that man ought certainly to forgive; but
not so the lover who was to have married her. Well, the French did
not avenge themselves on the traitor, the Spaniards did not shoot
the traitor, Ali in his tomb left the traitor unpunished; but I,
betrayed, sacrificed, buried, have risen from my tomb, by the grace
of God, to punish that man. He sends me for that purpose, and hereof God, to punish that man. He sends me for that purpose, and here
I am." The poor woman's head and arms fell; her legs bent under
her, and she fell on her knees. "Forgive, Edmond, forgive for my
sake, who love you still!"
The dignity of the wife checked the fervor of the lover and the
mother. Her forehead almost touched the carpet, when the count
sprang forward and raised her. Then seated on a chair, she looked
at the manly countenance of Monte Cristo, on which grief and hatred
still impressed a threatening expression. "Not crush that accursed
race?" murmured he; "abandon my purpose at the moment of its
accomplishment? Impossible, madame, impossible!"
"Edmond," said the poor mother, who tried every means, "when I
call you Edmond, why do you not call me Mercedes?"
"Mercedes!" repeated Monte Cristo; "Mercedes! Well yes, you are
right; that name has still its charms, and this is the first time
for a long period that I have pronounced it so distinctly. Oh,
Mercedes, I have uttered your name with the sigh of melancholy,
with the groan of sorrow, with the last effort of despair; I have
uttered it when frozen with cold, crouched on the straw in my
dungeon; I have uttered it, consumed with heat, rolling on the
stone floor of my prison. Mercedes, I must revenge myself, for I
suffered fourteen years, — fourteen years I wept, I cursed; now I
tell you, Mercedes, I must revenge myself."
The count, fearing to yield to the entreaties of her he had so
ardently loved, called his sufferings to the assistance of his
hatred. "Revenge yourself, then, Edmond," cried the poor mother;
"but let your vengeance fall on the culprits, — on him, on me, but
not on my son!"
"It is written in the good book," said Monte Cristo, "that the
sins of the fathers shall fall upon their children to the third and
fourth generation. Since God himself dictated those words to his
prophet, why should I seek to make myself better than God?"
"Edmond," continued Mercedes, with her arms extended towards the"Edmond," continued Mercedes, with her arms extended towards the
count, "since I first knew you, I have adored your name, have
respected your memory. Edmond, my friend, do not compel me to
tarnish that noble and pure image reflected incessantly on the
mirror of my heart. Edmond, if you knew all the prayers I have
addressed to God for you while I thought you were living and since
I have thought you must be dead! Yes, dead, alas! I imagined your
dead body buried at the foot of some gloomy tower, or cast to the
bottom of a pit by hateful jailers, and I wept! What could I do for
you, Edmond, besides pray and weep? Listen; for ten years I dreamed
each night the same dream. I had been told that you had endeavored
to escape; that you had taken the place of another prisoner; that
you had slipped into the winding sheet of a dead body; that you had
been thrown alive from the top of the Chateau d'If, and that the
cry you uttered as you dashed upon the rocks first revealed to your
jailers that they were your murderers. Well, Edmond, I swear to
you, by the head of that son for whom I entreat your pity, —
Edmond, for ten years I saw every night every detail of that
frightful tragedy, and for ten years I heard every night the cry
which awoke me, shuddering and cold. And I, too, Edmond — oh!
believe me — guilty as I was — oh, yes, I, too, have suffered
much!"
"Have you known what it is to have your father starve to death
in your absence?" cried Monte Cristo, thrusting his hands into his
hair; "have you seen the woman you loved giving her hand to your
rival, while you were perishing at the bottom of a dungeon?"
"No," interrupted Mercedes, "but I have seen him whom I loved on
the point of murdering my son." Mercedes uttered these words with
such deep anguish, with an accent of such intense despair, that
Monte Cristo could not restrain a sob. The lion was daunted; the
avenger was conquered. "What do you ask of me?" said he, — "your
son's life? Well, he shall live!" Mercedes uttered a cry which made