"Who are you, then? Who are you?"
"I am the spectre of a wretch you buried in the dungeons of the
Chateau d'If. God gave that spectre the form of the Count of Monte
Cristo when he at length issued from his tomb, enriched him with
gold and diamonds, and led him to you!"
"Ah, I recognize you — I recognize you!" exclaimed the king's
attorney; "you are" —
"I am Edmond Dantes!"
"You are Edmond Dantes," cried Villefort, seizing the count by
the wrist; "then come here!" And up the stairs he dragged Monte
Cristo; who, ignorant of what had happened, followed him in
astonishment, foreseeing some new catastrophe. "There, Edmond
Dantes!" he said, pointing to the bodies of his wife and child,
"see, are you well avenged?" Monte Cristo became pale at this
horrible sight; he felt that he had passed beyond the bounds of
vengeance, and that he could no longer say, "God is for and with
me." With an expression of indescribable anguish he threw himself
upon the body of the child, reopened its eyes, felt its pulse, and
then rushed with him into Valentine's room, of which he
double-locked the door. "My child," cried Villefort, "he carries
away the body of my child! Oh, curses, woe, death to you!" and he
tried to follow Monte Cristo; but as though in a dream he was
transfixed to the spot, — his eyes glared as though they were
starting through the sockets; he griped the flesh on his chest
until his nails were stained with blood; the veins of his temples
swelled and boiled as though they would burst their narrow
boundary, and deluge his brain with living fire. This lasted
several minutes, until the frightful overturn of reason was
accomplished; then uttering a loud cry followed by a burst of
laughter, he rushed down the stairs.
A quarter of an hour afterwards the door of Valentine's room
opened, and Monte Cristo reappeared. Pale, with a dull eye and
heavy heart, all the noble features of that face, usually so calm
and serene, were overcast by grief. In his arms he held the child,and serene, were overcast by grief. In his arms he held the child,
whom no skill had been able to recall to life. Bending on one knee,
he placed it reverently by the side of its mother, with its head
upon her breast. Then, rising, he went out, and meeting a servant
on the stairs, he asked, "Where is M. de Villefort?"
The servant, instead of answering, pointed to the garden. Monte
Cristo ran down the steps, and advancing towards the spot
designated beheld Villefort, encircled by his servants, with a
spade in his hand, and digging the earth with fury. "It is not
here!" he cried. "It is not here!" And then he moved farther on,
and began again to dig.
Monte Cristo approached him, and said in a low voice, with an
expression almost humble, "Sir, you have indeed lost a son; but"
—
Villefort interrupted him; he had neither listened nor heard.
"Oh, I will find it," he cried; "you may pretend he is not here,
but I will find him, though I dig forever!" Monte Cristo drew back
in horror. "Oh," he said, "he is mad!" And as though he feared that
the walls of the accursed house would crumble around him, he rushed
into the street, for the first time doubting whether he had the
right to do as he had done. "Oh, enough of this, — enough of this,"
he cried; "let me save the last." On entering his house, he met
Morrel, who wandered about like a ghost awaiting the heavenly
mandate for return to the tomb. "Prepare yourself, Maximilian," he
said with a smile; "we leave Paris to-morrow."
"Have you nothing more to do there?" asked Morrel.
"No," replied Monte Cristo; "God grant I may not have done too
much already."
The next day they indeed left, accompanied only by Baptistin.
Haidee had taken away Ali, and Bertuccio remained with
Noirtier.The recent event formed the theme of conversation throughout all
Paris. Emmanuel and his wife conversed with natural astonishment in
their little apartment in the Rue Meslay upon the three successive,
sudden, and most unexpected catastrophes of Morcerf, Danglars, and
Villefort. Maximilian, who was paying them a visit, listened to
their conversation, or rather was present at it, plunged in his
accustomed state of apathy. "Indeed," said Julie, "might we not
almost fancy, Emmanuel, that those people, so rich, so happy but
yesterday, had forgotten in their prosperity that an evil genius —
like the wicked fairies in Perrault's stories who present
themselves unbidden at a wedding or baptism — hovered over them,
and appeared all at once to revenge himself for their fatal
neglect?"
"What a dire misfortune!" said Emmanuel, thinking of Morcerf and
Danglars.
"What dreadful sufferings!" said Julie, remembering Valentine,
but whom, with a delicacy natural to women, she did not name before
her brother.
"If the Supreme Being has directed the fatal blow," said
Emmanuel, "it must be that he in his great goodness has perceived
nothing in the past lives of these people to merit mitigation of
their awful punishment."
"Do you not form a very rash judgment, Emmanuel?" said Julie.
"When my father, with a pistol in his hand, was once on the point
of committing suicide, had any one then said, `This man deserves
his misery,' would not that person have been deceived?"
"Yes; but your father was not allowed to fall. A being was
commissioned to arrest the fatal hand of death about to descend on
him."
Emmanuel had scarcely uttered these words when the sound of the
bell was heard, the well-known signal given by the porter that a
visitor had arrived. Nearly at the same instant the door was opened
and the Count of Monte Cristo appeared on the threshold. The young
people uttered a cry of joy, while Maximilian raised his head, but
let it fall again immediately. "Maximilian," said the count,