DANTES AND MERCEDES.
It was a tempestuous night. The wind howled dismally through the streets
of Paris, and the rain and sleet dashed fiercely against the casements.
At intervals a wild shout might be caught as the blast paused in its
furious career, and then a distant shot might be heard. But they passed
away, and nothing save the wail of the storm-wind or the rushing sleet
of the winter tempest was distinguished.
But, while all was thus wild, dark and tempestuous without, light,
warmth, comfort and elegance, rendered yet more delightful by the
elemental war, reigned triumphant within a large and splendidly
furnished apartment in the noble mansion of M. Dantes, the Deputy from
Marseilles, in the Rue du Helder. Every embellishment which art could
invent, luxury court, wealth invoke, or even imagination conceive,
seemed there lavished with a most prodigal hand. The soft atmosphere of
summer, perfumed by the exotics of a neighboring conservatory, delighted
the senses, the mild effulgence of gaslight transmitted through opaque
globes of glass melted upon the sight, while sofas, divans and ottomans
in luxurious profusion invited repose. To describe the rare paintings,
the rich gems of statuary and the other miracles of art which were there
to be seen would be as impossible as it would be to portray the
exquisite taste which enhanced the value of each and constituted more
than half its charm.
Upon one of the elegant sofas reclined Edmond Dantes, his tall and
graceful figure draped in a dressing robe, while beside him on a low
ottoman sat his beautiful wife, her arm resting on his knee, and her
dark, glorious eyes gazing with confiding fondness into his face.
Mercedes was no longer the young, light-hearted and thoughtless being
who graced the village of the Catalans. Many years had flown since then
and many sorrows passed over her. Each of these years and each of these
sorrows, like retiring waves of the sea, upon the smooth and sandy
beach, had left behind its trace. No, Mercedes was not now the young,
light-hearted and thoughtless girl she once was; but she was a being far
more perfect, far more winning, far more to be loved--she was a matured,
impassioned, accomplished, and still, despite the flight of years, most
lovely woman. She was one who could feel passion as well as inspire it,
and having once felt or inspired it, that passion, it was plain, could
never pass lightly away. Her face could not now boast, perhaps, that
full and perfect oval which it formerly had, but the lines of care and
of reflection, which here and there almost imperceptibly appeared,
rendered it all the more charming. In the bold yet beautiful contour of
those features, in the full red lips, in the high pale forehead and,
above all, in those dark and haunting eyes lay a depth of feeling and
profundity and nobleness of thought, which to a reflective mind have a
charm infinitely more irresistible than that which belongs to mere
youthful perfection. There was a bland beauty in the smile which slept
upon her lips, a delicacy of sentiment in the faint flush that tinged
her soft cheek, and a deep meaning in her dark and eloquent eye which
told a whole history of experience even to a stranger; while the full
and rounded outline of the figure, garbed in a loose robe of crimson,
which contrasted beautifully with her luxuriant dark tresses, had that
voluptuous development and grace which only maturity and maternity can
impart to the female form. In short, never had Mercedes, in the days of
her primal bloom, presented a person so fascinating as now. She was a
woman to sigh for, perchance to die for, and one whom a man would
willingly wish to live for, if he might but hope she would live for him,
or, peradventure, he might even be willing not only to risk, but
ultimately to resign his life, would that fair being not only live for
him, but love him with that entire and passionate devotedness which
beamed from her dark eyes up into his who now gazed upon her as she sat
at his feet. As for him, as for Edmond Dantes, his figure had now the
same elegance, his hand the same delicate whiteness, his features the
same spiritual beauty, his brow the same marble pallor, and his eye
which beamed beneath its calm expanse the same deep brilliancy which,
years before, had distinguished him from all other men and made the
Count of Monte-Cristo the idol of every salon in Paris and the hero of
every maiden's dream. Yet that face was not without its changes. Tears,
care, thought and sorrow had done their work; in the deep lines upon his
brow and cheek, in the silvery threads which thickly sprinkled his
night-black hair, and, more than all, in the mild light of those eyes
which once glowed only with vindictive hate or gratified revenge and in
the softened expression of those lips which once, in their stern beauty,
had but curled with scorn or quivered with rage could be read that the
lapse of time, though it might, indeed, have made him a sadder man, had
made him also a better one.
The husband and wife were alone. They still loved as warmly as ever,
and, if possible, more fondly than when first they were made one.
Dantes stretched himself out on the sofa, and Mercedes, dropping lower
upon the low ottoman at his side, passed her full and beautiful arm
around his waist and pressed her lips to his forehead. He returned the
embrace with warmth, and placing his own arm about her form, drew it
closely to his bosom. Thus they remained, clasped in each other's arms,
and thus they fixed on each other eyes beaming with love, passion,
bliss, happiness unutterable.
"My own Edmond!" murmured Mercedes. "At length you are again with
me--all my own!"
"Am I not always your own, dearest?" was the fond reply.
"But during the week past, I might almost say during the month past, you
have been compelled to be so often absent from me."
"Ah! love, you know I was not willingly absent!" was the quick answer.
"No--no--no--but it was hardly the more endurable for that," said the
lady, with a smile. "Oh! the anxiety of the last three days and nights!
Dearest, I do believe I have not slept three hours during the whole of
those three days and nights!"
"And I, dear, have slept not one!" was the laughing rejoinder.
"But all is over now, is it not?"
"In one sense all is over, and in another all now begins. The monarchy
is ended in France, I believe, forever. The Republic has begun, and, I
trust, will prove lasting."
"And all the grand objects for which you have been striving with your
noble colleagues for years and years are at length accomplished, are
they not?"
"That is a question, love, not easily answered. That the cause of man
and France has wonderfully triumphed during the past three days is, no
doubt, most true. But this victory, love, I foresaw. Indeed, it was but
the inevitable result of an irresistible cause. It was neither chance,
love, nor a spontaneous burst of patriotism that, on the first day,
filled the boulevards with fifty thousand blouses, which on the second
won over to the people eighty thousand National Guards, and on the third
choked the streets of Paris with barricades constructed by engineers and
defended by men completely armed. The events of the last three days,
Mercedes, have been maturing in the womb of Providence for the past ten
years. It is their birth only which has now taken place, and to some the
parturition seems a little premature, I suppose. This banquet caused the
fright that hastened the event," added Dantes, laughing.
"You are very scientific in your comparisons," replied Mercedes,
slightly blushing, "and I suppose I must admit, very apt. But tell me,
love, is all over? That is, must you be away from me any more at night,
and wander about, Heaven only knows where, in this dark and dangerous
city, or Heaven only knows with whom or for what?"
Dantes kissed his fair wife, and, after a pause, during which he gazed
fondly into her eyes, replied:
"I hope, I trust, I believe, dear, that all is over--at least all that
will take me from you, as during the past week. France has or will have
a Republic. That is as certain as fate can make it. But first she will
have to pass through strife and tribulation--perhaps bloodshed. The end
surely, love, is not yet. But France is now comparatively free. The
dreadful problem is now nearer solution than it ever was. Labor will
hereafter be granted to all, together with the adequate reward of labor.
Destitution will not be deemed guilt. The death-penalty is abolished.
The rich will not with impunity grind the poor into powder beneath their
heels. Asylums for the suffering, the distressed, the abandoned of both
sexes will be sustained. The efforts which, as individuals, we have some
of us made for years to ameliorate the condition of mankind, to assuage
human woes and augment human joys, will henceforth be encouraged and
directly aided by the State. This Revolution, love, is a social
Revolution, and during the sixty-four hours the Provisional Government
was in session, in the Hotel de Ville, I became thoroughly convinced
that the thousands and tens of thousands who, with sleepless vigilance,
watched their proceedings, had learned the deep lesson too well to be
further deceived, and that the fruits of the Revolution they had won
would not again be snatched from their lips."
"And the result of this triumph of the people you believe has advanced
the cause of human happiness?" asked Mercedes.
"Most unquestionably, dear, and most incalculably, too, perhaps."
"All your friends are not as disinterested as you have been, Edmond,"
said Mercedes.
"And why think you that, dear?"
"For six full years I know you have devoted all your powers of mind and
body and all your immense wealth to one single object."
"And that object?"
"Has been the happiness of your race."
"Well, dear?"
"And now, when a triumph has been achieved--now, when others, who have
been but mere instruments--blind instruments, many of them, in your
hands to accomplish they knew not what--come forward and assume place
and power--you, Edmond, the noble author and first cause of all, remain
quietly in seclusion, unknown, unnamed, unappreciated and uncommended,
while the others reap the fruits of your toil!"
"Well, dear?" said Dantes, smiling at the warmth of his wife in his
behalf.
"But it is not 'well,' Edmond. I say no one is as disinterested as you."
"Ah! love, what of ambition?"
Mercedes smiled.
"Let me tell you all, love, and then you will not, I fear, think me
disinterested," said Dantes seriously. "I should blush, indeed, at
praise so little deserved. You know all my early history. I suffered--I
was wronged--I was revenged. But was I happy? I sought happiness. All
men do so, even the most miserable. Some seek happiness in gratified
ambition, some in gratified avarice, some in gratified vanity, and some
in the gratification of a dominant lust for pleasure or for power. I
sought happiness in gratified revenge!"
Mercedes shuddered, and, hiding her face on the bosom of her husband,
clung to it more closely as if for protection. Dantes drew her form to
his as he would have drawn that of a child, and continued:
"I sought happiness in vengeance for terrible wrongs, and to win it I
devoted a life and countless wealth. What was the result?
Misery!--misery!--misery!"
"Poor Edmond!" murmured Mercedes, clinging to him closer than ever.
"At length I awoke, as from a dream. I saw my error. My whole life had
been a lie. I saw that God by a miracle had bestowed on me untold riches
for a nobler purpose than to make his creatures wretched. I saw that if
I would be happy I must make others happy, and to this end--the
happiness, not the misery, of my race--must my wealth and power be
devoted. To this end, then, did I devote myself, and to this end, for
six years, have I been devoted--to make myself happy by making others
happy--you among the rest, dear, dear Mercedes," he added, pressing her
to his bosom. "And am I then so disinterested?"
"But why should you achieve triumphs for others to enjoy, Edmond?" asked
the wife.
"You refer to the Provisional Government," said Dantes with a smile.
"Well, I see I must tell you all, even though by the revelation I prove
myself utterly unworthy of the praise of disinterestedness. I may tell
you, love--you my second self--without danger of being charged with
egotism, what I might not say to others. Our friend Lamartine is the
actual head of this Government. I had but to assent to the urgent
entreaties to secure that position for myself. These appointments seem
the result of nomination by the people. Yet they are not!"
"And why did you refuse to head the Government, Edmond?"
"I am ashamed to confess to you that I feared to accept," said Dantes
after a pause. "My own selfishness, not, alas! my disinterestedness, has
kept me from the post of peril. Perhaps, indeed, I can do far more for
the cause of my race as I am than I could by sacrificing myself for
office and position; at least, I hope so."
"Is the position of your friends then so perilous?" asked Mercedes.
"Dearest, they stand upon a volcano!" said Dantes, solemnly.
"Ha!" cried the lady in alarm.
"Mercedes--Mercedes!" continued Dantes with enthusiasm, "I sometimes am
startled with the idea that to me have been entrusted the awful powers
of foreknowledge, of prophecy, so fearfully true have some of my
predictions proved! The events of the past week I foresaw and foretold,
even to minute circumstances and the hours of their occurrence. And
now--glorious as is the triumph that France and the cause of man have
achieved--I perceive in the dim future a sea of commotion! All is not
yet settled. Within one month, revolution will succeed revolution
throughout Europe! Berlin, Vienna, and Madrid, perhaps also St.
Petersburg, London, and all the cities of Italy, will be in revolt. All
Europe must and will feel the events of the past week in Paris. Europe
must be free!"
"And our friends--Lamartine--Louis Blanc?"
"Within six months Louis Blanc will be an exile, and Lamartine--he may
be in a dungeon or on a scaffold!"
"Ah!" exclaimed Mercedes, clinging yet more closely to her husband.
"But the cause of human happiness, human right and human freedom will
live forever! That must be, will be eternal--as eternal, my adored
Mercedes, as is our own deathless love!"