The count departed with a sad heart from the house in whichhe had left Mercedes, probably never to behold her again.Since the death of little Edward a great change had takenplace in Monte Cristo. Having reached the summit of hisvengeance by a long and tortuous path, he saw an abyss ofdoubt yawning before him. More than this, the conversationwhich had just taken place between Mercedes and himself hadawakened so many recollections in his heart that he felt itnecessary to combat with them. A man of the count'stemperament could not long indulge in that melancholy whichcan exist in common minds, but which destroys superior ones.He thought he must have made an error in his calculations ifhe now found cause to blame himself.

"I cannot have deceived myself," he said; "I must look uponthe past in a false light. What!" he continued, "can I havebeen following a false path? - can the end which I proposedbe a mistaken end? - can one hour have sufficed to prove toan architect that the work upon which he founded all hishopes was an impossible, if not a sacrilegious, undertaking?I cannot reconcile myself to this idea - it would maddenme. The reason why I am now dissatisfied is that I have nota clear appreciation of the past. The past, like the countrythrough which we walk, becomes indistinct as we advance. Myposition is like that of a person wounded in a dream; hefeels the wound, though he cannot recollect when he receivedit. Come, then, thou regenerate man, thou extravagantprodigal, thou awakened sleeper, thou all-powerfulvisionary, thou invincible millionaire, - once again reviewthy past life of starvation and wretchedness, revisit thescenes where fate and misfortune conducted, and wheredespair received thee. Too many diamonds, too much gold andsplendor, are now reflected by the mirror in which MonteCristo seeks to behold Dantes. Hide thy diamonds, bury thygold, shroud thy splendor, exchange riches for poverty,liberty for a prison, a living body for a corpse!" As hethus reasoned, Monte Cristo walked down the Rue de laCaisserie. It was the same through which, twenty-four yearsago, he had been conducted by a silent and nocturnal guard;the houses, to-day so smiling and animated, were on thatnight dark, mute, and closed. "And yet they were the same,"murmured Monte Cristo, "only now it is broad daylightinstead of night; it is the sun which brightens the place,and makes it appear so cheerful."

He proceeded towards the quay by the Rue Saint-Laurent, andadvanced to the Consigne; it was the point where he hadembarked. A pleasure-boat with striped awning was going by.Monte Cristo called the owner, who immediately rowed up tohim with the eagerness of a boatman hoping for a good fare.The weather was magnificent, and the excursion a treat.

The sun, red and flaming, was sinking into the embrace ofthe welcoming ocean. The sea, smooth as crystal, was now andthen disturbed by the leaping of fish, which were pursued bysome unseen enemy and sought for safety in another element;while on the extreme verge of the horizon might be seen thefishermen's boats, white and graceful as the sea-gull, orthe merchant vessels bound for Corsica or Spain.

But notwithstanding the serene sky, the gracefully formedboats, and the golden light in which the whole scene wasbathed, the Count of Monte Cristo, wrapped in his cloak,could think only of this terrible voyage, the details ofwhich were one by one recalled to his memory. The solitarylight burning at the Catalans; that first sight of theChateau d'If, which told him whither they were leading him;the struggle with the gendarmes when he wished to throwhimself overboard; his despair when he found himselfvanquished, and the sensation when the muzzle of the carbinetouched his forehead - all these were brought before him invivid and frightful reality. Like the streams which the heatof the summer has dried up, and which after the autumnalstorms gradually begin oozing drop by drop, so did the countfeel his heart gradually fill with the bitterness whichformerly nearly overwhelmed Edmond Dantes. Clear sky,swift-flitting boats, and brilliant sunshine disappeared;the heavens were hung with black, and the gigantic structureof the Chateau d'If seemed like the phantom of a mortalenemy. As they reached the shore, the count instinctivelyshrunk to the extreme end of the boat, and the owner wasobliged to call out, in his sweetest tone of voice, "Sir, weare at the landing."

Monte Cristo remembered that on that very spot, on the samerock, he had been violently dragged by the guards, whoforced him to ascend the slope at the points of theirbayonets. The journey had seemed very long to Dantes, butMonte Cristo found it equally short. Each stroke of the oarseemed to awaken a new throng of ideas, which sprang up withthe flying spray of the sea.

There had been no prisoners confined in the Chateau d'Ifsince the revolution of July; it was only inhabited by aguard, kept there for the prevention of smuggling. Aconcierge waited at the door to exhibit to visitors thismonument of curiosity, once a scene of terror. The countinquired whether any of the ancient jailers were stillthere; but they had all been pensioned, or had passed on tosome other employment. The concierge who attended him hadonly been there since 1830. He visited his own dungeon. Heagain beheld the dull light vainly endeavoring to penetratethe narrow opening. His eyes rested upon the spot where hadstood his bed, since then removed, and behind the bed thenew stones indicated where the breach made by the Abbe Fariahad been. Monte Cristo felt his limbs tremble; he seatedhimself upon a log of wood.

"Are there any stories connected with this prison besidesthe one relating to the poisoning of Mirabeau?" asked thecount; "are there any traditions respecting these dismalabodes, - in which it is difficult to believe men can everhave imprisoned their fellow-creatures?"

"Yes, sir; indeed, the jailer Antoine told me one connectedwith this very dungeon."

Monte Cristo shuddered; Antoine had been his jailer. He hadalmost forgotten his name and face, but at the mention ofthe name he recalled his person as he used to see it, theface encircled by a beard, wearing the brown jacket, thebunch of keys, the jingling of which he still seemed tohear. The count turned around, and fancied he saw him in thecorridor, rendered still darker by the torch carried by theconcierge. "Would you like to hear the story, sir?"

"Yes; relate it," said Monte Cristo, pressing his hand tohis heart to still its violent beatings; he felt afraid ofhearing his own history.

"This dungeon," said the concierge, "was, it appears, sometime ago occupied by a very dangerous prisoner, the more sosince he was full of industry. Another person was confinedin the Chateau at the same time, but he was not wicked, hewas only a poor mad priest."

"Ah, indeed? - mad!" repeated Monte Cristo; "and what washis mania?"

"He offered millions to any one who would set him atliberty."

Monte Cristo raised his eyes, but he could not see theheavens; there was a stone veil between him and thefirmament. He thought that there had been no less thick aveil before the eyes of those to whom Faria offered thetreasures. "Could the prisoners see each other?" he asked.

"Oh, no, sir, it was expressly forbidden; but they eludedthe vigilance of the guards, and made a passage from onedungeon to the other."

"And which of them made this passage?"

"Oh, it must have been the young man, certainly, for he wasstrong and industrious, while the abbe was aged and weak;besides, his mind was too vacillating to allow him to carryout an idea."

"Blind fools!" murmured the count.

"However, be that as it may, the young man made a tunnel,how or by what means no one knows; but he made it, and thereis the evidence yet remaining of his work. Do you see it?"and the man held the torch to the wall.

"Ah, yes; I see," said the count, in a voice hoarse fromemotion.

"The result was that the two men communicated with oneanother; how long they did so, nobody knows. One day the oldman fell ill and died. Now guess what the young one did?"

"Tell me."

"He carried off the corpse, which he placed in his own bedwith its face to the wall; then he entered the emptydungeon, closed the entrance, and slipped into the sackwhich had contained the dead body. Did you ever hear of suchan idea?" Monte Cristo closed his eyes, and seemed again toexperience all the sensations he had felt when the coarsecanvas, yet moist with the cold dews of death, had touchedhis face. The jailer continued: "Now this was his project.He fancied that they buried the dead at the Chateau d'If,and imagining they would not expend much labor on the graveof a prisoner, he calculated on raising the earth with hisshoulders, but unfortunately their arrangements at theChateau frustrated his projects. They never buried the dead;they merely attached a heavy cannon-ball to the feet, andthen threw them into the sea. This is what was done. Theyoung man was thrown from the top of the rock; the corpsewas found on the bed next day, and the whole truth wasguessed, for the men who performed the office then mentionedwhat they had not dared to speak of before, that at themoment the corpse was thrown into the deep, they heard ashriek, which was almost immediately stifled by the water inwhich it disappeared." The count breathed with difficulty;the cold drops ran down his forehead, and his heart was fullof anguish.

"No," he muttered, "the doubt I felt was but thecommencement of forgetfulness; but here the wound reopens,and the heart again thirsts for vengeance. And theprisoner," he continued aloud, "was he ever heard ofafterwards?"

"Oh, no; of course not. You can understand that one of twothings must have happened; he must either have fallen flat,in which case the blow, from a height of ninety feet, musthave killed him instantly, or he must have fallen upright,and then the weight would have dragged him to the bottom,where he remained - poor fellow!"

"Then you pity him?" said the count.

"Ma foi, yes; though he was in his own element."

"What do you mean?"

"The report was that he had been a naval officer, who hadbeen confined for plotting with the Bonapartists."

"Great is truth," muttered the count, "fire cannot burn, norwater drown it! Thus the poor sailor lives in therecollection of those who narrate his history; his terriblestory is recited in the chimney-corner, and a shudder isfelt at the description of his transit through the air to beswallowed by the deep." Then, the count added aloud, "Washis name ever known?"

"Oh, yes; but only as No. 34."

"Oh, Villefort, Villefort," murmured the count, "this scenemust often have haunted thy sleepless hours!"

"Do you wish to see anything more, sir?" said the concierge.

"Yes, especially if you will show me the poor abbe's room."

"Ah - No. 27."

"Yes; No. 27." repeated the count, who seemed to hear thevoice of the abbe answering him in those very words throughthe wall when asked his name.

"Come, sir."

"Wait," said Monte Cristo, "I wish to take one final glancearound this room."

"This is fortunate," said the guide; "I have forgotten theother key."

"Go and fetch it."

"I will leave you the torch, sir."

"No, take it away; I can see in the dark."

"Why, you are like No. 34. They said he was so accustomed todarkness that he could see a pin in the darkest corner ofhis dungeon."

"He spent fourteen years to arrive at that," muttered thecount.

The guide carried away the torch. The count had spokencorrectly. Scarcely had a few seconds elapsed, ere he saweverything as distinctly as by daylight. Then he lookedaround him, and really recognized his dungeon.

"Yes," he said, "there is the stone upon which I used tosit; there is the impression made by my shoulders on thewall; there is the mark of my blood made when one day Idashed my head against the wall. Oh, those figures, how wellI remember them! I made them one day to calculate the age ofmy father, that I might know whether I should find him stillliving, and that of Mercedes, to know if I should find herstill free. After finishing that calculation, I had aminute's hope. I did not reckon upon hunger and infidelity!"and a bitter laugh escaped the count. He saw in fancy theburial of his father, and the marriage of Mercedes. On theother side of the dungeon he perceived an inscription, thewhite letters of which were still visible on the green wall."`O God,'" he read, "`preserve my memory!' Oh, yes," hecried, "that was my only prayer at last; I no longer beggedfor liberty, but memory; I dreaded to become mad andforgetful. O God, thou hast preserved my memory; I thankthee, I thank thee!" At this moment the light of the torchwas reflected on the wall; the guide was coming; MonteCristo went to meet him.

"Follow me, sir;" and without ascending the stairs the guideconducted him by a subterraneous passage to anotherentrance. There, again, Monte Cristo was assailed by amultitude of thoughts. The first thing that met his eye wasthe meridian, drawn by the abbe on the wall, by which hecalculated the time; then he saw the remains of the bed onwhich the poor prisoner had died. The sight of this, insteadof exciting the anguish experienced by the count in thedungeon, filled his heart with a soft and gratefulsentiment, and tears fell from his eyes.

"This is where the mad abbe was kept, sir, and that is wherethe young man entered; "and the guide pointed to theopening, which had remained unclosed. "From the appearanceof the stone," he continued, "a learned gentleman discoveredthat the prisoners might have communicated together for tenyears. Poor things! Those must have been ten weary years."

Dantes took some louis from his pocket, and gave them to theman who had twice unconsciously pitied him. The guide tookthem, thinking them merely a few pieces of little value; butthe light of the torch revealed their true worth. "Sir," hesaid, "you have made a mistake; you have given me gold."

"I know it." The concierge looked upon the count withsurprise. "Sir," he cried, scarcely able to believe his goodfortune - "sir, I cannot understand your generosity!"

"Oh, it is very simple, my good fellow; I have been asailor, and your story touched me more than it wouldothers."

"Then, sir, since you are so liberal, I ought to offer yousomething."

"What have you to offer to me, my friend? Shells?Straw-work? Thank you!"

"No, sir, neither of those; something connected with thisstory."

"Really? What is it?"

"Listen," said the guide; "I said to myself, `Something isalways left in a cell inhabited by one prisoner for fifteenyears,' so I began to sound the wall."

"Ah," cried Monte Cristo, remembering the abbe's twohiding-places.

"After some search, I found that the floor gave a hollowsound near the head of the bed, and at the hearth."

"Yes," said the count, "yes."

"I raised the stones, and found" -

"A rope-ladder and some tools?"

"How do you know that?" asked the guide in astonishment.

"I do not know - I only guess it, because that sort ofthing is generally found in prisoners' cells."

"Yes, sir, a rope-ladder and tools."

"And have you them yet?"

"No, sir; I sold them to visitors, who considered them greatcuriosities; but I have still something left."

"What is it?" asked the count, impatiently.

"A sort of book, written upon strips of cloth."

"Go and fetch it, my good fellow; and if it be what I hope,you will do well."

"I will run for it, sir;" and the guide went out. Then thecount knelt down by the side of the bed, which death hadconverted into an altar. "Oh, second father," he exclaimed,"thou who hast given me liberty, knowledge, riches; thouwho, like beings of a superior order to ourselves, couldstunderstand the science of good and evil; if in the depths ofthe tomb there still remain something within us which canrespond to the voice of those who are left on earth; ifafter death the soul ever revisit the places where we havelived and suffered, - then, noble heart, sublime soul, thenI conjure thee by the paternal love thou didst bear me, bythe filial obedience I vowed to thee, grant me some sign,some revelation! Remove from me the remains of doubt, which,if it change not to conviction, must become remorse!" Thecount bowed his head, and clasped his hands together.

"Here, sir," said a voice behind him.

Monte Cristo shuddered, and arose. The concierge held outthe strips of cloth upon which the Abbe Faria had spread theriches of his mind. The manuscript was the great work by theAbbe Faria upon the kingdoms of Italy. The count seized ithastily, his eyes immediately fell upon the epigraph, and heread, "`Thou shalt tear out the dragons' teeth, and shalltrample the lions under foot, saith the Lord.'"

"Ah," he exclaimed, "here is my answer. Thanks, father,thanks." And feeling in his pocket, he took thence a smallpocket-book, which contained ten bank-notes, each of 1,000francs.

"Here," he said, "take this pocket-book."

"Do you give it to me?"

"Yes; but only on condition that you will not open it till Iam gone;" and placing in his breast the treasure he had justfound, which was more valuable to him than the richestjewel, he rushed out of the corridor, and reaching his boat,cried, "To Marseilles!" Then, as he departed, he fixed hiseyes upon the gloomy prison. "Woe," he cried, "to those whoconfined me in that wretched prison; and woe to those whoforgot that I was there!" As he repassed the Catalans, thecount turned around and burying his head in his cloakmurmured the name of a woman. The victory was complete;twice he had overcome his doubts. The name he pronounced, ina voice of tenderness, amounting almost to love, was that ofHaidee.

On landing, the count turned towards the cemetery, where hefelt sure of finding Morrel. He, too, ten years ago, hadpiously sought out a tomb, and sought it vainly. He, whoreturned to France with millions, had been unable to findthe grave of his father, who had perished from hunger.Morrel had indeed placed a cross over the spot, but it hadfallen down and the grave-digger had burnt it, as he did allthe old wood in the churchyard. The worthy merchant had beenmore fortunate. Dying in the arms of his children, he hadbeen by them laid by the side of his wife, who had precededhim in eternity by two years. Two large slabs of marble, onwhich were inscribed their names, were placed on either sideof a little enclosure, railed in, and shaded by fourcypress-trees. Morrel was leaning against one of these,mechanically fixing his eyes on the graves. His grief was soprofound that he was nearly unconscious. "Maximilian," saidthe count, "you should not look on the graves, but there;"and he pointed upwards.

"The dead are everywhere," said Morrel; "did you notyourself tell me so as we left Paris?"

"Maximilian," said the count, "you asked me during thejourney to allow you to remain some days at Marseilles. Doyou still wish to do so?"

"I have no wishes, count; only I fancy I could pass the timeless painfully here than anywhere else."

"So much the better, for I must leave you; but I carry yourword with me, do I not?"

"Ah, count, I shall forget it."

"No, you will not forget it, because you are a man of honor,Morrel, because you have taken an oath, and are about to doso again."

"Oh, count, have pity upon me. I am so unhappy."

"I have known a man much more unfortunate than you, Morrel."

"Impossible!"

"Alas," said Monte Cristo, "it is the infirmity of ournature always to believe ourselves much more unhappy thanthose who groan by our sides!"

"What can be more wretched than the man who has lost all heloved and desired in the world?"

"Listen, Morrel, and pay attention to what I am about totell you. I knew a man who like you had fixed all his hopesof happiness upon a woman. He was young, he had an oldfather whom he loved, a betrothed bride whom he adored. Hewas about to marry her, when one of the caprices of fate, - which would almost make us doubt the goodness of providence,if that providence did not afterwards reveal itself byproving that all is but a means of conducting to an end, - one of those caprices deprived him of his mistress, of thefuture of which he had dreamed (for in his blindness heforgot he could only read the present), and cast him into adungeon."

"Ah," said Morrel, "one quits a dungeon in a week, a month,or a year."

"He remained there fourteen years, Morrel," said the count,placing his hand on the young man's shoulder. Maximilianshuddered.

"Fourteen years!" he muttered - "Fourteen years!" repeatedthe count. "During that time he had many moments of despair.He also, Morrel, like you, considered himself the unhappiestof men."

"Well?" asked Morrel.

"Well, at the height of his despair God assisted him throughhuman means. At first, perhaps, he did not recognize theinfinite mercy of the Lord, but at last he took patience andwaited. One day he miraculously left the prison,transformed, rich, powerful. His first cry was for hisfather; but that father was dead."

"My father, too, is dead," said Morrel.

"Yes; but your father died in your arms, happy, respected,rich, and full of years; his father died poor, despairing,almost doubtful of providence; and when his son sought hisgrave ten years afterwards, his tomb had disappeared, and noone could say, `There sleeps the father you so well loved.'"

"Oh!" exclaimed Morrel.

"He was, then, a more unhappy son than you, Morrel, for hecould not even find his father's grave."

"But then he had the woman he loved still remaining?"

"You are deceived, Morrel, that woman" -

"She was dead?"

"Worse than that, she was faithless, and had married one ofthe persecutors of her betrothed. You see, then, Morrel,that he was a more unhappy lover than you."

"And has he found consolation?"

"He has at least found peace."

"And does he ever expect to be happy?"

"He hopes so, Maximilian." The young man's head fell on hisbreast.

"You have my promise," he said, after a minute's pause,extending his hand to Monte Cristo. "Only remember" -

"On the 5th of October, Morrel, I shall expect you at theIsland of Monte Cristo. On the 4th a yacht will wait for youin the port of Bastia, it will be called the Eurus. You willgive your name to the captain, who will bring you to me. Itis understood - is it not?"

"But, count, do you remember that the 5th of October" -

"Child," replied the count, "not to know the value of aman's word! I have told you twenty times that if you wish todie on that day, I will assist you. Morrel, farewell!"

"Do you leave me?"

"Yes; I have business in Italy. I leave you alone with yourmisfortunes, and with hope, Maximilian."

"When do you leave?"

"Immediately; the steamer waits, and in an hour I shall befar from you. Will you accompany me to the harbor,Maximilian?"

"I am entirely yours, count." Morrel accompanied the countto the harbor. The white steam was ascending like a plume offeathers from the black chimney. The steamer soondisappeared, and in an hour afterwards, as the count hadsaid, was scarcely distinguishable in the horizon amidst thefogs of the night.