his shoulder, and a voice which made him shudder exclaimed, —
"Good-evening, Maximilian; you are punctual, thank you!"
"Ah, is it you, count?" said the young man, in an almost joyful
accent, pressing Monte Cristo's hand with both his own.
"Yes; you see I am as exact as you are. But you are dripping, my
dear fellow; you must change your clothes, as Calypso said to
Telemachus. Come, I have a habitation prepared for you in which you
will soon forget fatigue and cold." Monte Cristo perceived that the
young man had turned around; indeed, Morrel saw with surprise that
the men who had brought him had left without being paid, or
uttering a word. Already the sound of their oars might be heard as
they returned to the yacht.
"Oh, yes," said the count, "you are looking for the
sailors."
"Yes, I paid them nothing, and yet they are gone."
"Never mind that, Maximilian," said Monte Cristo, smiling. "I
have made an agreement with the navy, that the access to my island
shall be free of all charge. I have made a bargain." Morrel looked
at the count with surprise. "Count," he said, "you are not the same
here as in Paris."
"How so?"
"Here you laugh." The count's brow became clouded. "You are
right to recall me to myself, Maximilian," he said; "I was
delighted to see you again, and forgot for the moment that all
happiness is fleeting."
"Oh, no, no, count," cried Maximilian, seizing the count's
hands, "pray laugh; be happy, and prove to me, by your
indifference, that life is endurable to sufferers. Oh, how
charitable, kind, and good you are; you affect this gayety to
inspire me with courage."
"You are wrong, Morrel; I was really happy."
"Then you forget me, so much the better."
"How so?"
"Yes; for as the gladiator said to the emperor, when he entered
the arena, `He who is about to die salutes you.'"
"Then you are not consoled?" asked the count, surprised.
"Oh," exclaimed Morrel, with a glance full of bitter reproach,
"do you think it possible that I could be?"
"Listen," said the count. "Do you understand the meaning of my"Listen," said the count. "Do you understand the meaning of my
words? You cannot take me for a commonplace man, a mere rattle,
emitting a vague and senseless noise. When I ask you if you are
consoled, I speak to you as a man for whom the human heart has no
secrets. Well, Morrel, let us both examine the depths of your
heart. Do you still feel the same feverish impatience of grief
which made you start like a wounded lion? Have you still that
devouring thirst which can only be appeased in the grave? Are you
still actuated by the regret which drags the living to the pursuit
of death; or are you only suffering from the prostration of fatigue
and the weariness of hope deferred? Has the loss of memory rendered
it impossible for you to weep? Oh, my dear friend, if this be the
case, — if you can no longer weep, if your frozen heart be dead, if
you put all your trust in God, then, Maximilian, you are consoled —
do not complain."
"Count," said Morrel, in a firm and at the same time soft voice,
"listen to me, as to a man whose thoughts are raised to heaven,
though he remains on earth; I come to die in the arms of a friend.
Certainly, there are people whom I love. I love my sister Julie, —
I love her husband Emmanuel; but I require a strong mind to smile
on my last moments. My sister would be bathed in tears and
fainting; I could not bear to see her suffer. Emmanuel would tear
the weapon from my hand, and alarm the house with his cries. You,
count, who are more than mortal, will, I am sure, lead me to death
by a pleasant path, will you not?"
"My friend," said the count, "I have still one doubt, — are you
weak enough to pride yourself upon your sufferings?"
"No, indeed, — I am calm," said Morrel, giving his hand to the
count; "my pulse does not beat slower or faster than usual. No, I
feel that I have reached the goal, and I will go no farther. You
told me to wait and hope; do you know what you did, unfortunate
adviser? I waited a month, or rather I suffered for a month! I didadviser? I waited a month, or rather I suffered for a month! I did
hope (man is a poor wretched creature), I did hope. What I cannot
tell, — something wonderful, an absurdity, a miracle, — of what
nature he alone can tell who has mingled with our reason that folly
we call hope. Yes, I did wait — yes, I did hope, count, and during
this quarter of an hour we have been talking together, you have
unconsciously wounded, tortured my heart, for every word you have
uttered proved that there was no hope for me. Oh, count, I shall
sleep calmly, deliciously in the arms of death." Morrel uttered
these words with an energy which made the count shudder. "My
friend," continued Morrel, "you named the fifth of October as the
end of the period of waiting, — to-day is the fifth of October," he
took out his watch, "it is now nine o'clock, — I have yet three
hours to live."
"Be it so," said the count, "come." Morrel mechanically followed
the count, and they had entered the grotto before he perceived it.
He felt a carpet under his feet, a door opened, perfumes surrounded
him, and a brilliant light dazzled his eyes. Morrel hesitated to
advance; he dreaded the enervating effect of all that he saw. Monte
Cristo drew him in gently. "Why should we not spend the last three
hours remaining to us of life, like those ancient Romans, who when
condemned by Nero, their emperor and heir, sat down at a table
covered with flowers, and gently glided into death, amid the
perfume of heliotropes and roses?" Morrel smiled. "As you please,"
he said; "death is always death, — that is forgetfulness, repose,
exclusion from life, and therefore from grief." He sat down, and
Monte Cristo placed himself opposite to him. They were in the
marvellous dining-room before described, where the statues had
baskets on their heads always filled with fruits and flowers.
Morrel had looked carelessly around, and had probably noticed
nothing.
"Let us talk like men," he said, looking at the count.
"Go on!"
"Count," said Morrel, "you are the epitome of all human