UNITED IN DEATH.
Benedetto entered. He was now the escaped convict, neither more nor
less. On his lips was a hideous smile. He had attained his aim at
last--he had in his power the son of the man whom he hated, and revenge
was sweet.
Esperance held Jane in his arms, and merely turned his head toward
Benedetto.
"Who are you?" he cried. "I know you not, but if you are not the basest
of the base, you will aid me to make my escape from this terrible place,
and enable me to take this poor child with me."
"No, sir!" answered Benedetto, slowly. "I will not aid you to escape,
and you will not save this woman."
"Ah! I understand you. You are the accomplice of these scoundrels. Very
well; I will make a way for myself."
He drew his revolvers from his pocket, and pointed one at Benedetto.
"Move!" he cried, "or I will kill you as I would a dog!"
"You would commit murder then, would you?"
"No--it would be simple self-protection. I am not your prisoner, and
this woman ought to be sacred to you."
"This woman," said Benedetto, "tells you she comes here not of her own
free will. Do you believe her?"
"Jane! answer him, my beloved! Tell him he lies!"
Benedetto started back.
"Jane Zeld," he said, "tell the absolute truth. Tell the Vicomte if you
consider yourself worthy of him." Jane turned her weary eyes upon the
Vicomte. "Tell him if the daughter of the Lyons outcast has any right to
lean on the arm of the Vicomte de Monte-Cristo. Jane Zeld, think of the
past. Tell this gentleman who your mother was. Tell him where she died."
"No, no!" cried Jane. "Enough! enough!"
"No, it is not enough. Lead the Vicomte to your mother's tomb and there
place your hand in his, if you dare!"
"Be silent!" cried Esperance, who felt himself growing mad.
"But this is not all," continued Benedetto. "Jane Zeld, shall I tell the
Vicomte the name of your father?"
"I know it not!"
"Have you forgotten the man who took you from a wretched house at the
time of your mother's death? This man was Sanselme, the former
priest--Sanselme, the former convict, and your father! And now, Vicomte,
will you kill me? Do so, if you dare!"
Jane fell back, fainting.
"She is dead!" cried Esperance. "Ah! coward and assassin, I will have
your life for this. Have you arms? I wish you to have some chance."
Benedetto threw aside the mantle he wore and showed two swords, one of
which he threw at the feet of Esperance.
Yes, he had long craved this duel, and, sure of his ability, felt that
he had to do with a mere boy.
Esperance seized the sword, and went up to Benedetto.
"You have insulted me," he said, gravely, "in insulting this woman who
is dearer to me than life itself; it matters little who you are, prepare
to die."
This room was a singular duelling ground, but Esperance cared little for
that. His pulse beat no more quickly than usual. He had greatly changed
in the last few hours. He felt himself elevated to the dignity of
chastisement.
The two antagonists stood on guard. There was a moment of profound
silence. In a mural painting on the walls of a German cathedral, two men
stand like this, and a little distance off, half hidden behind a tree,
is the figure of Death.
Esperance was perfectly cool, but Benedetto saw after two or three
passes that he had no boy antagonist. Calling together all his resources
he made a lunge. His antagonist returned it, and grazed Benedetto's
breast.
At this moment Jane revived. "Courage, Esperance, courage!" she
murmured.
The young man heard her voice, and the contest was renewed. Ten times
did the sword of Esperance menace the heart of Benedetto, ten times did
the scoundrel escape death. But he began to feel afraid. The sword of
the son of Monte-Cristo flashed and gleamed before his eyes like the
fiery sword of the Bible. Esperance was gaining the advantage, and a cry
of rage escaped the panting breast of Benedetto. Was it possible that
after all, his vengeance was about to slip through his fingers? And was
he to die instead of Monte-Cristo's son! He recoiled further and
further, feeling that the sword of his opponent would pin him to the
wall.
Monte-Cristo's son said to him, "Scoundrel! your life is in my power.
Repent of the evil you have done, and I will show you mercy."
"Mercy!" sneered Benedetto. "You talk of mercy. Take care, I hate you! I
hate your father. Hasten to take my life or I swear that I will take
yours!"
"Die then!" cried Esperance.
And with a rapid movement of his sword he disarmed his adversary; his
blade was about to enter Benedetto's breast when the report of a pistol
was heard, and Esperance, shot through the heart, fell by Jane's side.
She threw herself on his body with cries of despair. Benedetto, with an
infernal smile, turned away with a pistol in his hand.
It will be remembered that Esperance in his righteous anger had aimed
his pistols at Benedetto, but the thought of a murder in this upright
soul was but a passing one, and when he drew his sword he laid down his
pistols upon a chair near him.
At the moment when Benedetto felt that all was lost his eyes fell an the
arms, and an infernal thought struck him. He gradually approached the
chair, and finally, with a sudden movement, snatched one of the
revolvers. The scoundrel had murdered his adversary. Esperance fell and
Jane encircled him with her arms.
Benedetto frowningly looked on. He had at last achieved his object.
Unable to injure the man he hated, he had wounded him through his son,
his only child!
"Farewell," sighed Esperance, "I love thee, Jane, but I am dying!"
"And I die with you!" answered Jane, with paling lips.
And as if the angel of death touched them both at the same time, they
slept in eternal night.
Benedetto did not move. Suddenly he started. Loud noises were heard at
the door of the deserted house.
"We are here, Esperance! We bring you aid!" voices called in cheering
tones.
Benedetto looked about like a wild boar at bay. Every issue was cut off.
He knew that he had no pity to expect, for when these men beheld him
here with his two victims they would take his life without the smallest
hesitation. He rushed to the window and opened it; the Seine ran dark at
his feet.
Benedetto waited until Fanfar and his friends entered the room, and
then crying out to them, "You are too late! I have killed the son of
Monte-Cristo!" leaped into the river.
Goutran rushed to Esperance, and lifting him in his arms, said
despairingly: "Dead! murdered!"
And in the presence of these two young creatures so beautiful in death,
the men uncovered their bowed heads and Carmen knelt in passionate
weeping.
CHAPTER XLVII.
THE SPECTRE.
Just as Benedetto leaped into the Seine, another man entered the room
where the victims lay. This man was Sanselme.
It will be remembered that the former convict had been present at the
conversation in which Fanfar and his companions resolved to rescue
Esperance. The sick man, unable to move, still down with fever, saw them
go.
The mad woman also remained in the room, saying over and over again:
"Benedetto is my son, my son, and he killed me!" While Sanselme repeated
Jane's name without cessation. By degrees his strength returned to him,
his nerves were all in a quiver.
Jane in danger and he lying there idle! No, no, that could not be! He
rose from the bed, and supporting himself by the wall, got out of the
house. Where was he going? He knew not. He endeavored to collect his
thoughts, and suddenly a name stood out clear in his brain.
Monte-Cristo, yes it was to the hotel of Monte-Cristo that he must go.
There, at all events, he should find Fanfar, and together they would
look for Jane. At first Sanselme could hardly walk, but his tread became
gradually firmer. Just as he reached the Hotel de Monte-Cristo, he saw
the carriage drive out of the court-yard.
A strange phenomenon now took place. Sanselme drew a long breath and
began to run after the carriage--he felt no more lassitude nor weakness.
His entire vital strength was concentrated in his superhuman effort. And
this man who just now could not hold himself erect, ran on swiftly
without hesitation. With his eyes on the carriage lamps he followed them
unerringly. Somnambulists and madmen alone do such things. And Sanselme
ran as if he were in a dream. He saw the carriage stop at last, and he
heard violent blows upon a door. And then he entered as well as the
others, and appeared on the scene just as Benedetto leaped from the
window.
Sanselme beheld Jane, and in that moment of agony his broken, bleeding
heart loosed its grasp upon his secret, for he cried out:
"Jane! my daughter! My beloved daughter!"
Fanfar instantly understood the truth and laid his hand compassionately
on his shoulder.
"Courage!" he said, gently.
But Sanselme shook off the hand, and before any one knew what he meant
to do, he climbed upon the window, crying:
"Benedetto! You shall not escape!"
And he, too, leaped into the water. Benedetto was scarce a minute in
advance.
Benedetto had made a mistake. He knew of a secret egress from this
house, but he forgot it, so great was his fear.
Fear? Yes. For the first time in his life he had made an attack on
Monte-Cristo, and in spite of his audacity, knew perfectly well that
the mere presence of the Count would cause him to tremble with fear. He
did not wish to die, and therefore fled by the first path that presented
itself. And after all, to swim the Seine was a trifle to the former
_forcat_. He was strong and a good swimmer, but the height from which he
sprang was so great that at first he was almost stunned. The water was
icy cold. He first thought of climbing again to the same shore, but his
adversaries might be watching and he might fall into their hands; while
on the other bank the forest of Neuilly offered him a sure refuge. He
therefore swam across. The current was strong, but he and Sanselme had
known a worse and heavier sea when they escaped from Toulon. It was
strange, the persistency with which this name returned to him. At this
same moment he heard a dull noise behind him as if some one leaped into
the water. Could it be that one of his enemies had started in pursuit?
He found that he was making little progress and that his strength was
going. He allowed himself to float for a few minutes, and in the silence
felt convinced that some one was pursuing him. But what nonsense it was
in such darkness to make such an attempt. Benedetto now allowed himself
to be carried on by the current, crossing the river obliquely, and
managed to make no noise whatever as he swam. And yet as he listened he
heard the same sound behind him at about the same distance. And now
Benedetto beheld the shore. In a few minutes he would be safe, and when
on firm ground he could look out for himself. He sneered to himself.
What nonsense all this talk was of punishment for crime. He had managed
to escape so far! Finally he stood on the shore. He heard a cry from the
water. He understood it. It came from his pursuer, who was now near
enough to see that his prey had escaped him. He was right.
Sanselme had not lost sight of Benedetto, and had felt sure of catching
him; but he had been struck on the shoulder by a piece of floating wood.
The pain was excessive, and he lost his power of swimming. In this
moment Benedetto escaped him. He could dimly see his form on the shore,
and then the man's shadow was lost in the shadow of the woods. Sanselme
uttered a groan. This man had killed Jane, and would now go unpunished.
Up to this moment the former convict had been sustained by unnatural
strength, but now this strength was gone. He could do no more and
believed himself to be dying. Suddenly he felt something within reach of
the hands with which he was beating the water like a drowning dog. It
was a rope. A schooner had been wrecked here and a rope was hanging from
its broken hull. Sanselme clung to it with the energy of despair, and by
it raised himself on board the schooner and fell on the deck utterly
exhausted, morally and physically.
Suddenly he uttered a wild cry. He had been looking intently at the spot
where he had seen Benedetto disappear. He saw the man's shadow again,
but it was not alone. With it was something white, that looked like a
spectre. And the spectre was gliding over the ground in the direction of
the wreck on which Sanselme was crouching.
What was it? One form was certainly Benedetto's; but the spectre--was it
anything more than the fog that rises at dawn along the riverside? Not
so--it was a phantom; the terrible resurrection of the Past.
Benedetto had run toward the wood, believing that there he would be
safe. Suddenly his heart stood still, for before him rose a tall form
draped in white, like a winding-sheet. This man was a coward at heart,
and had been all his life afraid of ghosts. But he encouraged himself
now, saying that it was mist from the river, which a breath of wind
would dissipate. Summoning all his courage, he stopped and went toward
this strange form. It was a form and not mist; but its height looked
unnatural as it stood leaning against a tree. Why did not Benedetto turn
aside, either to the right or the left? He could not; something stronger
than his will drew him toward the nameless Thing. Finally Benedetto laid
his hand on the shoulder of the Thing. It turned and lifted its head.
Then an appalling shriek, which was like nothing human, came from
Benedetto's lips. This spectre was that of his mother, whom he had
stabbed in the breast at Beausset so many years before. And the ghost
stood gazing at him with her large eyes, while her gray tresses floated
in the wind.
Benedetto did not seek to understand. He believed that the dead had
risen from the tomb. She looked at him for a full minute. Then she said:
"Come, Benedetto; come, my son."
And the long, skeleton-like hand was laid on the parricide's wrist with
such an icy pressure that Benedetto felt as if a steel ring were being
riveted on his arm.
"Come, my son," said the mad woman; "you will never leave me again, will
you?"
She drew him gently along as he walked. He did not attempt to disengage
himself; he obeyed the summons as if it were from Death.
The phantom--that is to say, Madame Danglars, the poor, insane
creature--had escaped from Fanfar's house by the door which Sanselme
left open, and having found her son thus strangely, lavished on him
tender words, which in the ear of the dastard were like curses. Thus
they reached the shore, and it was not until Benedetto saw the Seine
once more before him that he realized what he was doing. He shook off
the hand on his wrist and began to run. He saw the wreck a foot or two
from the shore, and with one leap he reached it, having little idea of
the danger that awaited him there. The mad woman followed him and tried
to put her arms around him. "You shall never leave me again, Benedetto!"
she murmured.
Sanselme saw and heard it all. It seemed to him that it was some
frightful nightmare. She advancing and Benedetto retreating, the two
reached the other end of the wreck; their feet slipped, there was a dull
sound as they fell, and the water opened to receive them. Sanselme
leaned over. He could see nothing, and heard not another sound.
In the morning a corpse was found leaning over the gunwale, with eyes
open. One sailor said to another:
"A drunken man the less in the world!"
That was the only funeral sermon preached over Sanselme.
CHAPTER LXVIII.
MONTE-CRISTO, THE MARTYR.
In the Hotel de Monte-Cristo all is sad and silent. The very walls and
the furniture had a funereal air. In the large chamber lie the bodies of
Jane and Esperance, the son of Monte-Cristo. How much beauty, youth and
tenderness were to be swallowed up in Mother Earth! Jane, vailed in
lace, had a tender smile upon her lips. Esperance, in his serene repose,
was the image of Monte-Cristo in his early days.
Near the bed were two men watching--Fanfar, the faithful friend of the
Count, who had saved him and his son at Ouargla; Goutran, the companion
of Esperance, who knew the greatness of that young soul. The two sat in
silence, and hardly dared look at each other. They were both oppressed
with remorse.
Monte-Cristo had gone away, obeying a sentiment of delicacy, wishing to
leave his son in entire liberty to develop in such direction as his
nature demanded. But when he went he said to these men, "I confide to
you the one treasure that I have in the world--watch over him."
And they had made answer that they would protect him from harm with
their lives. They were living and Esperance was dead. They heard in
their ears like the tolling of a funeral bell, the words, "Too late!
Too late!" If they had arrived in time they would certainly have
prevented the catastrophe, but this was the result--this motionless form
with hands crossed on his breast.
Coucon and Madame Caraman, down stairs, were weeping and watching.
Fanfar and Goutran were silent, as we have said, for the same question
was upon the lips of both men, and both knew that there was no answer.
Had not the Count said, "If any peril demands my presence summon me, and
within three days I will be with you." And it would be precisely three
days at midnight since Fanfar sent the summons.
Would he come? The clock struck half-past eleven, and no Monte-Cristo.
Must they then lay in the grave the mortal remains of the son of
Monte-Cristo without a farewell kiss on the pale brow from his father?
They felt as if it were another wrong of which they would be guilty
toward this unhappy father.
Fanfar was buried in thought. He saw Esperance, when almost a child he
defied the Arabs. He saw him borne in his father's arms from Maldar's
Tower. And Goutran, too, thought of the last words that the Vicomte had
said to him: "To love is to give one's self entirely, in life and in
death!"
The lamps burned dimly. The clock struck twelve. The two men started,
for the door opened noiselessly and a man of tall stature entered. It
was the Count of Monte-Cristo. His eyes were dim, his shoulders bowed,
and his steps awakened no echo. He was dressed in black.
The two men did not move nor speak. They seemed to feel that no human
voice should break this awful stillness.
Monte-Cristo walked to the side of the bed and looked at his son, long
and steadily. What thoughts were hidden in that active brain?
And now Fanfar beheld a terrible, unheard-of thing. When Monte-Cristo
entered, his hair was black as night, and as he stood there his hair
began to whiten. What terrible torture that man must have undergone in
those minutes. Age, which had made no mark on this organization of iron,
suddenly took possession of it. First, his temples looked as if light
snow was thrown upon it, and then by degrees the whole head became
white. Those who saw this sight will never forget it.
Monte-Cristo bent low over the bier on which Esperance lay. He took his
son in his arms as a mother lifts her child from the cradle, and bearing
the body Monte-Cristo left the room.
Suddenly shaking off the torpor which had held them motionless, Fanfar
and Goutran started in pursuit. But in vain did they search the hotel,
Monte-Cristo had vanished with the body of his son.
CHAPTER LXIX.
EPILOGUE.
A man stood on a solitary rock. Suddenly he uttered a shout of triumph.
He had discovered the secret of immense wealth. And this man threw down
the pickaxe in his hand and standing erect, cried aloud:
"Oh! you whose infamy condemned me to fourteen years of imprisonment,
and whose name I do not yet know, beware! Dantes is free."
Young and with confidence in the future, Edmond Dantes, the lover of
Mercedes, returned to Marseilles, with the promise of a captaincy. He
was to marry Mercedes. It was at supper on the evening of the betrothal
when soldiers came to arrest him. He was accused of having carried
letters to Napoleon, at Elba. In vain did he assert and even prove his
innocence before de Villefort, a magistrate. Edmond Dantes was torn from
his betrothed, and imprisoned for fourteen years in the Chateau d'If.
Another prisoner was there, the Abbe Faria. This prisoner was supposed
to be mad, because he had offered to buy his liberty with millions. The
Abbe imparted to Dantes the secret of the treasure concealed by the
Spadas in the caverns of the island of Monte-Cristo, a desolate rock in
the Mediterranean. And this was not all, the old man had also imparted
other secrets to his young companion.
And now Dantes was master of the treasure of the Spadas, and he started
to find his old father and his fiancee. He swore to avenge himself on
those who had betrayed him. He left the rock. He went to his father's
house. His father had died of hunger. Mercedes, his fiancee, was married
to another--to one of the three men who had woven the plot that had cost
Dantes fourteen years of his youth. One was named Danglars, a rival
claimant to the title of captain. The second was a drunken man, more
weak than wicked. The third was Fernando Mondego, a fisherman, who loved
Mercedes. And it was this Fernando who had married Mercedes, and was now
known by the title of the Comte de Morcerf. Caderousse, still poor, kept
a wine shop, and Danglars was one of the first bankers in Paris.
Another enemy, and perhaps the most infamous of them all, was the
magistrate, de Villefort, who, knowing the innocence of Dantes, had
nevertheless sentenced him to prison. Because Dantes in his explanation
used the name of Noirtier, who was the father of Villefort, and said
that the letters he brought from the island of Elba were given to him by
this man, de Villefort, lest his own position should be compromised, got
rid of this person as soon as possible, and sent him to the Chateau d'If
for fourteen years.
These were the crimes that Dantes swore to punish. He did so. Danglars
the banker he ruined. Fernando the fisherman, known when Dantes returned
as the Comte de Morcerf, was accused in the Chamber of Peers of having
betrayed Ali-Pacha of Jamna, and of selling his daughter Haydee to a
Turkish merchant. His infamy was proved by Haydee herself, and Fernando
Mondego was for ever dishonored. The wretched man, knowing that the blow
came from Monte-Cristo, went to him to provoke a quarrel. Then
Monte-Cristo said to him:
"Look me full in the face, Fernando, and you will understand the whole.
I am Edmond Dantes." And the man fled. Within an hour he blew out his
brains.
Then came the turn of de Villefort. His wife, a perverse creature, to
ensure an inheritance to her son, committed several murders with
poisons. De Villefort himself had buried a child alive, the child of
Madame Danglars and himself. But the child was saved by a Corsican,
Bertuccio. The child, born of crime, had the most criminal instincts.
And one day Monte-Cristo found him in the prison at Toulon. He named him
Benedetto. He assisted him to escape, and Benedetto assassinated
Caderousse. And then Benedetto, tried for this murder, found himself
face to face with his father Villefort, the Procureur de Roi. Benedetto
loudly flung his father's crimes in his face, and Villefort fled from
the court-room. When he reached home Villefort found that his wife had
poisoned herself and his son, the only being he loved. And then
Monte-Cristo appeared before him and told him his real name, Edmond
Dantes! Villefort became insane.
And the work of vengeance was complete. Monte-Cristo was so rich that he
was all-powerful. And yet he was terribly sad, for he was alone. Then
it was that the gentle Haydee consoled him. To their son they gave the
name of Esperance. And Haydee was dead! Esperance was dead!
* * * * *
Ten years had elapsed since that awful night when Monte-Cristo, with
blanched hair, carried away the body of his only son.
A man stood alone on a rock on the island of Monte-Cristo. And this man
was Edmond Dantes. For ten years he had lived on this rock. In all that
time he had not seen a human face nor heard a human voice, except at
rare intervals when some ship, driven from her course by contrary winds,
sent her boats to this island for water. Then Monte-Cristo, concealing
himself, watched these men and heard their joyous laughter.
Once, when Monte-Cristo had been on the rock eight years, he saw a ship
coming toward it at full sail. It was not driven there by contrary winds
or by a storm, and Monte-Cristo saw a man on deck surveying the island
through a glass. Concealing himself he saw several men, whom he did not
know, land, and search the island.
It will be remembered that long before, Ali and Bertuccio had, by their
master's orders, blown up the grottos, the last vestiges of the Spada
treasures.
He saw these men sound the rocks and try them with pickaxes. They were
adventurers, who knew something of what the island had contained, but
yet they found nothing. Monte-Cristo contrived to get near them without
their knowledge. They were disputing, one insisting that the treasure
was "there," and he laid his finger on a plan he had drawn.
"Have you not heard," said the other, "that the island was inhabited?"
"Sailors say that they often see at sunset a tall form on these rocks."
"An optical delusion."
"No--these sailors know what they say, but Italians are inclined to
carry their religion into everything, so they call this form the Abbe of
Monte-Cristo."
"We have not found him, and yet we have searched every corner."
"He may be dead."
"That may be, but surely this is a proof that no such treasures ever
existed here, for if they had, he would not remain here to die of
hunger!"
"At all events we will make a sacrifice to the unknown God, as the
ancients did."
And they put together all the provisions they had--bread, fruit and
wine--and with the point of a dagger they traced on the rock the words:
"For the Abbe of Monte-Cristo!"
Then they departed.
"Poor fools!" said the Count, as he watched the fast lessening sails.
"No, there is no treasure on this island save one, and that would be
valueless to you!"
Monte-Cristo had lived all these years on roots and bark, for he had
sworn never to touch money again while he lived.
On the night when we again find Monte-Cristo, he came down from the high
rock by a narrow path which led to a platform. Here he stooped and
turned over a flat stone, which left a dark cavity exposed. Into this
place Monte-Cristo descended by steps cut in the rock. He reached a
square room cut out of the granite. In the centre stood a marble
sarcophagus, and there lay Esperance. The living was paler than the
dead. Monte-Cristo laid his hand on that of his son.
"Esperance," he said, solemnly, "has not the day arrived?"
There was a long silence. Then--was it a reality? It seemed as if the
lips moved and pronounced the word:
"Come!"
Monte-Cristo smiled.
"I knew it!" he murmured.
His face was transfigured, his white hair was like a halo about his
head.
"I am coming, my son!" he said. "I must first finish my task."
He drew from his pocket a roll of parchment, and read it aloud:
"MY LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT.
"Let those who find this paper read it with coolness. Let them be on
their guard against the surprises of their imagination. The man who is
about to die, and whose name is signed to these lines, has been more
powerful than the most powerful on earth. He has suffered as never man
suffered. He has loved as never man loved! He has hated as well.
"Suffering, love and hatred have all passed away--all is forgotten,
all is dead within him except the memory of the child he adored and
lost.
"This man possessed wealth greater than any sovereign. And this man
dies in poverty. He so willed it that he might punish himself. He
chose the wrong. He wished to bend all wills to his. He elected
himself judge and meted out punishment. The wrongs he avenged were not
social evils, they were private and his own. He bows low in penitence,
that he did not employ his great fortune in doing good. He dies in
poverty, though possessed of untold millions. He designates no heir,
for he cannot feel that the most upright man may not become guilty
when he knows himself to be all-powerful. He has, however, no right to
destroy this wealth. It exists, though concealed. He bequeaths it to
that power which men call Providence. It will bear this paper, and
place in the hands of man these mysterious signs.
"Will the treasure be discovered?
"Whoever reads this paper will, if he be wise, destroy it. And yet it
may be that this colossal fortune will fall into the hands of a man
who will finish the work that I have begun better than I could have
done.
"May whoever finds this paper heed the last words of a dying man.
"THE ABBE DANTES.
"_February 25th, 1865._"
Below this signature was a singular design. Monte-Cristo studied it.
"Yes, it is right," he said. "Ah! Faria, may your treasure fall into
worthier hands than mine!"
He felt strangely faint. He laid his hand on his heart. "Yes,
Esperance," he said, softly, "I come!"
He took up a crystal cube, which was solid enough to resist a shock of
any kind. He folded the paper, and placed it in the cube, sealing it
carefully. Then once more he ascended the stairs, and stood under the
starlit sky.
Monte-Cristo went down to the shore. He raised the crystal cube above
his head, and threw it with all his strength. He heard it drop into the
water. Monte-Cristo's secret was given to the waves. Then he turned, and
slowly retraced his steps.
As he went down the stairs his strength seemed to leave him. He lay down
next to Esperance. He crossed his arms on his breast. Upon his lips was
a smile of ineffable peace. His eyes closed. He was at rest.
* * * * *
Those who loved him often utter his name, and wipe away a tear as they
speak of him. But they never knew where he, who was known as Edmond
Dantes, Count of Monte-Cristo, died.
THE END
Transcriber's Note: Spelling, accents and punctuation have been
changed for consistency. Variations in the use of hyphens have
been retained as in the original. The unexpected use of Nechar,
perhaps instead of Necker, and Ali-Pacha of Jamna, perhaps
instead of Ali Pasha of Janina, also have been retained.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Son of Monte Cristo, by Jules Lermina