"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; ame 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 Chateau 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."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 — 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