gentlemen know where he is?"
"We have already asked that question," said Chateau-Renaud, "for
none of us has seen him." The count was silent, but continued to
gaze around him. At length they arrived at the cemetery. The
piercing eye of Monte Cristo glanced through clusters of bushes and
trees, and was soon relieved from all anxiety, for seeing a shadow
glide between the yew-trees, Monte Cristo recognized him whom he
sought. One funeral is generally very much like another in this
magnificent metropolis. Black figures are seen scattered over the
long white avenues; the silence of earth and heaven is alone broken
by the noise made by the crackling branches of hedges planted
around the monuments; then follows the melancholy chant of the
priests, mingled now and then with a sob of anguish, escaping from
some woman concealed behind a mass of flowers.
The shadow Monte Cristo had noticed passed rapidly behind the
tomb of Abelard and Heloise, placed itself close to the heads of
the horses belonging to the hearse, and following the undertaker's
men, arrived with them at the spot appointed for the burial. Each
person's attention was occupied. Monte Cristo saw nothing but the
shadow, which no one else observed. Twice the count left the ranks
to see whether the object of his interest had any concealed weapon
beneath his clothes. When the procession stopped, this shadow was
recognized as Morrel, who, with his coat buttoned up to his throat,
his face livid, and convulsively crushing his hat between his
fingers, leaned against a tree, situated on an elevation commanding
the mausoleum, so that none of the funeral details could escape his
observation. Everything was conducted in the usual manner. A few
men, the least impressed of all by the scene, pronounced a
discourse, some deploring this premature death, others expatiating
on the grief of the father, and one very ingenious person quoting
the fact that Valentine had solicited pardon of her father for
criminals on whom the arm of justice was ready to fall — until atcriminals on whom the arm of justice was ready to fall — until at
length they exhausted their stores of metaphor and mournful
speeches.
Monte Cristo heard and saw nothing, or rather he only saw
Morrel, whose calmness had a frightful effect on those who knew
what was passing in his heart. "See," said Beauchamp, pointing out
Morrel to Debray. "What is he doing up there?" And they called
Chateau-Renaud's attention to him.
"How pale he is!" said Chateau-Renaud, shuddering.
"He is cold," said Debray.
"Not at all," said Chateau-Renaud, slowly; "I think he is
violently agitated. He is very susceptible."
"Bah," said Debray; "he scarcely knew Mademoiselle de Villefort;
you said so yourself."
"True. Still I remember he danced three times with her at Madame
de Morcerf's. Do you recollect that ball, count, where you produced
such an effect?"
"No, I do not," replied Monte Cristo, without even knowing of
what or to whom he was speaking, so much was he occupied in
watching Morrel, who was holding his breath with emotion. "The
discourse is over; farewell, gentlemen," said the count. And he
disappeared without anyone seeing whither he went. The funeral
being over, the guests returned to Paris. Chateau-Renaud looked for
a moment for Morrel; but while they were watching the departure of
the count, Morrel had quitted his post, and Chateau-Renaud, failing
in his search, joined Debray and Beauchamp.
Monte Cristo concealed himself behind a large tomb and awaited
the arrival of Morrel, who by degrees approached the tomb now
abandoned by spectators and workmen. Morrel threw a glance around,
but before it reached the spot occupied by Monte Cristo the latter
had advanced yet nearer, still unperceived. The young man knelt
down. The count, with outstretched neck and glaring eyes, stood in
an attitude ready to pounce upon Morrel upon the first occasion.
Morrel bent his head till it touched the stone, then clutching the
grating with both hands, he murmured, — "Oh, Valentine!" Thegrating with both hands, he murmured, — "Oh, Valentine!" The
count's heart was pierced by the utterance of these two words; he
stepped forward, and touching the young man's shoulder, said, — "I
was looking for you, my friend." Monte Cristo expected a burst of
passion, but he was deceived, for Morrel turning round, said
calmly, —
"You see I was praying." The scrutinizing glance of the count
searched the young man from head to foot. He then seemed more
easy.
"Shall I drive you back to Paris?" he asked.
"No, thank you."
"Do you wish anything?"
"Leave me to pray." The count withdrew without opposition, but
it was only to place himself in a situation where he could watch
every movement of Morrel, who at length arose, brushed the dust
from his knees, and turned towards Paris, without once looking
back. He walked slowly down the Rue de la Roquette. The count,
dismissing his carriage, followed him about a hundred paces behind.
Maximilian crossed the canal and entered the Rue Meslay by the
boulevards. Five minutes after the door had been closed on Morrel's
entrance, it was again opened for the count. Julie was at the
entrance of the garden, where she was attentively watching Penelon,
who, entering with zeal into his profession of gardener, was very
busy grafting some Bengal roses. "Ah, count," she exclaimed, with
the delight manifested by every member of the family whenever he
visited the Rue Meslay.
"Maximilian has just returned, has he not, madame?" asked the
count.
"Yes, I think I saw him pass; but pray, call Emmanuel."
"Excuse me, madame, but I must go up to Maximilian's room this
instant," replied Monte Cristo, "I have something of the greatest
importance to tell him."
"Go, then," she said with a charming smile, which accompanied
him until he had disappeared. Monte Cristo soon ran up the
staircase conducting from the ground-floor to Maximilian's room;
when he reached the landing he listened attentively, but all was
still. Like many old houses occupied by a single family, the room