Contents

About the Book

About the Author

Also by Alexandre Dumas

Title Page

1. The Arrival at Marseilles

2. Father and Son

3. The Catalans

4. The Plotters

5. The Betrothal Feast

6. The Deputy Procureur

7. The Examination

8. The Château d’If

9. The Evening of the Betrothal

10. The Little Room in the Tuileries

11. The Corsican Ogre

12. Father and Son

13. The Hundred Days

14. In the Dungeons

15. Number 34 and Number 27

16. A Learned Italian

17. In the Abbé’s Cell

18. The Treasure

19. The Death of the Abbé

20. The Cemetery of the Chateau d’If

21. The Isle of Tiboulen

22. The Smugglers

23. The Isle of Monte Cristo

24. The Search

25. At Marseilles Again

26. The Inn of Pont du Card

27. The Tale

28. The Prison Registers

29. The House of Morrel and Son

30. The Fifth of September

31. Italy: Sinbad the Sailor

32. The Awakening

33. Roman Bandits

34. Vampa

35. The Colosseum

36. La Mazzolata

37. The Carnival at Rome

38. The Catacombs of Saint Sebastian

39. The Rendezvous

40. The Guests

41. The Breakfast

42. The Presentation

43. Monsieur Bertuccio

44. The House at Auteuil

45. The Vendetta

46. The Rain of Blood

47. Unlimited Credit

48. The Dappled Grays

49. Ideology

50. Haydée

51. The Morrel Family

52. Pyramus and Thisbe

53. Toxicology

54. Robert le Diable

55. A Talk About Stocks

56. Major Cavalcanti

57. Andrea Cavalcanti

58. At the Gate

59. M. Noirtier de Villefort

60. The Will

61. The Telegraph

62. The Bribe

63. Shadows

64. The Dinner

65. The Beggar

66. A Conjugal Scene

67. Matrimonial Plans

68. The Office of the Procureur Du Roi

69. A Summer Ball

70. The Inquiry

71. The Ball

72. Bread and Salt

73. Madame de Saint-Méran

74. The Promise

75. The Villefort Family Vault

76. A Signed Statement

77. Progress of M. Cavalcanti the Younger

78. Haydée

79. Yanina

80. The Lemonade

81. The Accusation

82. The Room of the Retired Baker

83. The Burglary

84. The Hand of God

85. Beauchamp

86. The Journey

87. The Trial

88. The Challenge

89. The Insult

90. Mercédès

91. The Meeting

92. The Mother and Son

93. The Suicide

94. Valentine

95. The Confession

96. The Father and Daughter

97. The Contract

98. The Departure for Belgium

99. The Hotel of the Bell and Bottle

100. The Law

101. The Apparition

102. The Serpent

103. Valentine

104. Maximilian

105. Danglars’ Signature

106. The Cemetery of Père-La-Chaise

107. The Division

108. The Lions’ Den

109. The Judge

110. The Assizes

111. Expiation

112. The Departure

113. The House in the Allées de Meillan

114. Peppino

115. Luigi Vampa’s Bill of Fare

116. The Pardon

117. The Fifth of October

Reading Group Guide

Copyright

About the Book

Imprisoned for a crime he didn’t commit, Edmond Dantès spends fourteen bitter years in a dungeon. When his daring escape plan works he uses all he has learnt during his incarceration to mastermind an elaborate plan of revenge that will bring punishment to those he holds responsible for his fate. No longer the naïve sailor who disappeared into the dark fortress all those years ago, he reinvents himself as the charming, mysterious and powerful Count of Monte Cristo…

About the Author

Alexandre Dumas was born on 24 July 1802 in Villers-Cotterêts near Paris. His father, who was the son of a French marquis and a former slave, died when Alexandre was three years old. He was brought up by his mother and later moved to Paris to work as a clerk. He wrote plays, travel books, children’s stories and memoirs as well as novels and was a keen traveller and cook. His most famous works are The Three Musketeers (1844) and The Count of Monte Cristo (1844–5). Alexandre Dumas died on 5 December 1870.

ALSO BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS

Georges

The Three Musketeers

Twenty Years After

The Vicomte de Bragelonne

La Reine Margot

Joseph Balsamo

The Queen’s Necklace

The Knight of Maison-Rouge

The Black Tulip

The Last Cavalier

ALEXANDRE DUMAS

The Count of
Monte Cristo

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THE ARRIVAL AT MARSEILLES

ON THE 24TH of February, 1815, the lookout of Notre-Dame de la Garde signalled the three-master, the Pharaon, from Smyrna, Trieste, and Naples.

As usual, a pilot put off immediately, and rounding the Château d’If, got on board the vessel between Cape Morgion and the Isle of Rion.

Immediately, and according to custom, the platform of Fort Saint-Jean was covered with spectators; it is always an event at Marseilles for a ship to come into port, especially when this ship, like the Pharaon, had been built, rigged, and laden on the stocks of the old Phocée, and belonged to an owner of the city.

The ship drew on: it had safely passed the strait, which some volcanic shock has made between the Isle of Calasareigne and the Isle of Jaros; had doubled Pomègue, and approached the harbour under topsails, jib, and foresail, but so slowly and sedately that the idlers, with that instinct which misfortune sends before it, asked one another what misfortune could have happened on board. However, those experienced in navigation saw plainly that if any accident had occurred, it was not to the vessel herself, for she bore down with all the evidence of being skillfully handled, the anchor ready to be dropped, the bowsprit-shrouds loose, and beside the pilot, who was steering the Pharaon by the narrow entrance of the port of Marseilles, was a young man, who with activity and vigilant eye, watched every motion of the ship, and repeated each direction of the pilot.

The vague disquietude which prevailed amongst the spectators had so much affected one of the crowd that he did not await the arrival of the vessel in harbour, but jumping into a small skiff, desired to be pulled alongside the Pharaon, which he reached as she rounded the creek of La Rèserve.

When the young man on board saw this individual approach, he left his station by the pilot, and came, hat in hand, to the side of the ship’s bulwarks.

He was a fine, tall, slim young fellow, with black eyes, and hair as dark as the raven’s wing; and his whole appearance bespoke that calmness and resolution peculiar to men accustomed from their cradle to contend with danger.

“Ah! is it you, Dantès?” cried the man in the skiff. “What’s the matter? and why have you such an air of sadness aboard?”

“A great misfortune, M. Morrel,” replied the young man,—“a great misfortune, for me especially! Off Civita Vecchia we lost our brave Captain Leclere.”

“And the cargo?” inquired the owner eagerly.

“Is all safe, M. Morrel; and I think you will be satisfied on that head. But poor Captain Leclere——”

“What happened to him?” asked the owner, with an air of considerable resignation. “What happened to the worthy captain?”

“He died.”

“Fell into the sea?”

“No, sir, he died of brain-fever in dreadful agony.” Then turning to the crew, he said:

“Look out there! all ready to drop anchor!”

All hands obeyed. At the same moment the eight or ten seamen, who composed the crew, sprung some to the main-sheets, others to the braces, others to the halyards, others to the jib-ropes, and others to the topsail brails.

The young sailor gave a look to see that his orders were promptly and accurately obeyed, and then turned again to the owner.

“And how did this misfortune occur?” he inquired, resuming the inquiry suspended for a moment.

“Alas, sir, in the most unexpected manner. After a long conversation with the harbour-master, Captain Leclere left Naples greatly disturbed in his mind. At the end of twenty-four hours he was attacked by a fever, and died three days afterwards. We performed the usual burial service, and he is at his rest, sewn up in his hammock, with two bullets of thirty-six pounds each at his head and heels, off the Island of El Giglio. We bring to his widow his sword and cross of honour. It was worth while, truly,” added the young man, with a melancholy smile, “to make war against the English for ten years, and to die in his bed at last, like everybody else.”

“Why, you see, Edmond,” replied the owner, who appeared more comforted at every moment, “we are all mortal, and the old must make way for the young. If not, why, there would be no promotion; and as you have assured me that the cargo——”

“Is all safe and sound, M. Morrel, take my word for it; and I advise you not to take £1000 for the profits of the voyage.”

Then, as they were just passing the Round Tower, the young man shouted out, “Ready, there, to lower topsails, foresail, and jib!”

The order was executed as promptly as if on board a man-of-war.

“Let go—and brail all!”

At this last word all the sails were lowered, and the bark moved almost imperceptibly onwards.

“Now, if you will come on board, M. Morrel,” said Dantès, observing the owner’s impatience, “here is your supercargo, M. Danglars, coming out of his cabin, who will furnish you with every particular. As for me, I must look after the anchoring, and dress the ship in mourning.”

The owner did not wait to be twice invited. He seized a rope which Dantès flung to him, and with an activity that would have done credit to a sailor, climbed up the side of the ship, whilst the young man, going to his task, left the conversation to the individual whom he had announced under the name of Danglars, who now came towards the owner. He was a man of twenty-five or twenty-six years of age, of unprepossessing countenance, obsequious to his superiors, insolent to his inferiors; and then, besides his position as responsible agent on board, which is always obnoxious to the sailors, he was as much disliked by the crew, as Edmond Dantès was beloved by them.

“Well, M. Morrel,” said Danglars, “you have heard of the misfortune that has befallen us?”

“Yes—yes: poor Captain Leclere! He was a brave and an honest man!”

“And a first-rate seaman, grown old between sky and ocean, as should a man charged with the interests of a house so important as that of Morrel and Son,” replied Danglars.

“But,” replied the owner, following with his look Dantès, who was watching the anchoring of his vessel, “it seems to me that a sailor needs not to be so old as you say, Danglars, to understand his business; for our friend Edmond seems to understand it thoroughly, and not to require instruction from any one.”

“Yes,” said Danglars, casting towards Edmond a look in which a feeling of envy was strongly visible. “Yes, he is young, and youth is invariably self-confident. Scarcely was the captain’s breath out of his body than he assumed the command without consulting any one, and he caused us to lose a day and a half at the Isle of Elba, instead of making for Marseilles direct.”

“As to taking the command of the vessel,” replied Morrel, “that was his duty as captain’s mate; as to losing a day and a half off the Isle of Elba, he was wrong, unless the ship wanted some repair.”

“The ship was as well as I am, and as, I hope, you are, M. Morrel, and this day and a half was lost from pure whim, for the pleasure of going ashore, and nothing else.”

“Dantès,” said the shipowner, turning towards the young man, “come this way!”

“In a moment, sir,” answered Dantès, “and I’m with you!” Then calling to the crew, he said:

“Let go!”

The anchor was instantly dropped, and the chain ran rattling through the port-hole. Dantès continued at his post, in spite of the presence of the pilot, until this manœuvre was completed, and then he added, “Lower the pennant half-mast high—put the ensign in a weft, and slope the yards!”

“You see,” said Danglars, “he fancies himself captain already, upon my word.”

“And so, in fact, he is,” said the owner.

“Except your signature and your partner’s, M. Morrel.”

“And why should he not have this?” asked the owner; “he is young, it is true, but he seems to me a thorough seaman, and of full experience.”

A cloud passed over Danglars’ brow.

“Your pardon, M. Morrel,” said Dantès, approaching, “the ship now rides at anchor, and I am at your service. You hailed me, I think?”

Danglars retreated a step or two.

“I wish to inquire why you stopped at the Isle of Elba?”

“I do not know, sir; it was to fulfill a last instruction of Captain Leclere, who, when dying, gave me a packet for the Maréchal Bertrand.”

“Then did you see him, Edmond?”

“Who?”

“The maréchal?”

“Yes.”

Morrel looked around him, and then, drawing Dantès on one side, he said suddenly:

“And how is the emperor?”

“Very well, as far as I could judge from my eyes.”

“You saw the emperor, then?”

“He entered the maréchal’s apartment whilst I was there.”

“And you spoke to him?”

“Why, it was he who spoke to me, sir,” said Dantès, with a smile.

“And what did he say to you?”

“Asked me questions about the ship, the time it left Marseilles, the course she had taken, and what was her cargo. I believe, if she had not been laden, and I had been master, he would have bought her. But I told him I was only mate, and that she belonged to the firm of Morrel and Son. ‘Ah! ah!’ he said. ‘I know them! The Morrels have been shipowners from father to son; and there was a Morrel who served in the same regiment with me when I was in garrison at Valence.’”

Pardieu! and that is true!” cried the owner, greatly delighted. “And that was Policar Morrel, my uncle, who was afterwards a captain. Dantès, you must tell my uncle that the emperor remembered him, and you will see it will bring tears into the old soldier’s eyes. Come, come!” continued he, patting Edmond’s shoulder kindly. “You did very right, Dantès, to follow Captain Leclere’s instruction, and touch at the Isle of Elba, although, if it were known, that you had conveyed a packet to the maréchal and had conversed with the emperor, it might bring you into trouble.”

“How could that bring me into trouble, sir?” asked Dantès; “for I did not even know of what I was the bearer; and the emperor merely made such inquiries as he would of the first comer. But your pardon; here are the officers of health and the customs coming alongside!” and the young man went to the gangway. As he departed, Danglars approached, and said:

“Well, it appears that he has given you satisfactory reasons for his landing at Porto-Ferrajo?”

“Yes, most satisfactory, my dear Danglars.”

“Well, so much the better,” said the supercargo; “for it is always painful to see a comrade who does not do his duty.”

“Dantès has done his,” replied the owner, “and that is not saying much. It was Captain Leclere who gave orders for this delay.”

“Talking of Captain Leclere, has not Dantès given you a letter from him?”

“To me?—no—was there one?”

“I believe that, besides the packet, Captain Leclere had confided a letter to his care.”

“Of what packet are you speaking, Danglars?”

“Why, that which Dantès left at Porto-Ferrajo.”

“How do you know he had a packet to leave at Porto-Ferrajo?”

Danglars turned very red.

“I was passing close to the door of the captain’s cabin, which was half open, and I saw him give the packet and letter to Dantès.”

“He did not speak to me of it,” replied the shipowner; “but if there be any letter he will give it to me.”

Danglars reflected for a moment.

“Then, M. Morrel, I beg of you,” said he, “not to say a word to Dantès on the subject, I may have been mistaken.”

At this moment the young man returned, and Danglars retreated as before.

“Well, my dear Dantès, are you now free?” inquired the owner.

“Yes, sir.”

“You have not been long detained?”

“No. I gave the custom-house officers a copy of our bill of lading; and as to the other papers, they sent a man off with the pilot, to whom I gave them.”

“Then you have nothing more to do here?”

“No, all is arranged now.”

“Then you can come and dine with me?”

“Excuse me, M. Morrel, excuse me, if you please; but my first visit is due to my father, though I am not the less grateful for the honour you have done me.”

“Right, Dantès, quite right. I always knew you were a good son.”

“And,” inquired Dantès, with some hesitation, “do you know how my father is?”

“Well, I believe, my dear Edmond, although I have not seen him lately.”

“Yes, he likes to keep himself shut up in his little room.”

“That proves, at least, that he has wanted for nothing during your absence.”

Dantès smiled.

“My father is proud, sir; and if he had not a meal left, I doubt if he would have asked anything from any one, except God.”

“Well, then, after this first visit has been made we rely on you.”

“I must again excuse myself, M. Morrel; for after this first visit has been paid I have another, which I am most anxious to pay.”

“True, Dantès, I forgot that there was at the Catalans some one who expects you no less impatiently than your father—the lovely Mercédès.”

Dantès blushed.

“Ah! ah!” said the shipowner, “that does not astonish me, for she has been to me three times, inquiring if there were any news of the Pharaon. Peste! Edmond, you have a very handsome mistress!”

“She is not my mistress,” replied the young sailor gravely, “she is my betrothed.”

“Sometimes one and the same thing,” said Morrel, with a smile.

“Not with us, sir,” replied Dantès.

“Well, well, my dear Edmond,” continued the owner, “do not let me detain you. You have managed my affairs so well, that I ought to allow you all the time you require for your own. Do you want any money?”

“No, sir; I have all my pay to take,—nearly three months’ wages.”

“You are a careful fellow, Edmond.”

“Say I have a poor father, sir.”

“Yes, yes, I know how good a son you are, so now haste away to see your father. I have a son too, and I should be very wroth with those who detained him from me after a three months’ voyage.”

“Then I have your leave, sir?”

“Yes, if you have nothing more to say to me.”

“Nothing.”

“Captain Leclere did not, before he died, give you a letter for me?”

“He was unable to write, sir. But that reminds me that I must ask your leave of absence for some days.”

“To get married?”

“Yes, first, and then to go to Paris.”

“Very good; have what time you require, Dantès. It will take quite six weeks to unload the cargo, and we cannot get you ready for sea until three months after that; only be back again in three months, for the Pharaon” added the owner, patting the young sailor on the back, “cannot sail without her captain.”

“Without her captain!” cried Dantès, his eyes sparkling with animation; “pray mind what you say, for you are touching on the most secret wishes of my heart. Is it really your intention to nominate me captain of the Pharaon?”

“If I were sole owner I would nominate you this moment, my dear Dantès, and say it is settled; but I have a partner, and you know the Italian proverb—Che a compagno a padrone—‘He who has a partner has a master.’ But the thing is at least half done, as you have one out of two voices. Rely on me to procure you the other; I will do my best.”

“Ah, M. Morrel,” exclaimed the young seaman, with tears in his eyes, and grasping the owner’s hand, “M. Morrel, I thank you in the name of my father and of Mercédès.”

“Good, good! Edmond. There’s a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft that keeps a good watch for good fellows! Go to your father: go and see Mercédès, and come to me afterwards.”

“Shall I row you on shore?”

“No, I thank you; I shall remain and look over the accounts with Danglars. Have you been satisfied with him this voyage?”

“That is according to the sense you attach to the question, sir. Do you mean is he a good comrade? No, for I think he never liked me since the day when I was silly enough, after a little quarrel we had, to propose to him to stop for ten minutes at the Isle of Monte Cristo to settle the dispute, a proposition which I was wrong to suggest, and he quite right to refuse. If you mean as responsible agent that you ask me the question, I believe there is nothing to say against him, and that you will be content with the way in which he has performed his duty.”

“But tell me, Dantès, if you had the command of the Pharaon, should you have pleasure in retaining Danglars?”

“Captain or mate, M. Morrel,” replied Dantès, “I shall always have the greatest respect for those who possess our owners’ confidences.”

“Good! good! Dantès. I see you are a thorough good fellow, and will detain you no longer. Go, for I see how impatient you are.”

“Then I have leave?”

“Go, I tell you.”

“May I have the use of your skiff?”

“Certainly.”

“Then for the present, M. Morrel, farewell, and a thousand thanks!”

“I hope soon to see you again, my dear Edmond. Good luck to you!”

The young sailor jumped into the skiff, and sat down in the stern, desiring to be put ashore at the Canebière. The two rowers bent to their work, and the little boat glided away as rapidly as possible in the midst of the thousand vessels which choke up the narrow way which leads between the two rows of ships from the mouth of the harbour to the Quai d’Orléans.

The shipowner, smiling, followed him with his eyes, until he saw him spring out on the quay, and disappear in the midst of the throng which, from five o’clock in the morning until nine o’clock at night, choke up this famous street of La Canebière, of which the modern Phocéens are so proud, and say with all the gravity in the world, and with that accent which gives so much character to what is said, “If Paris had La Canebière, Paris would be a second Marseilles.” On turning round, the owner saw Danglars behind him, who apparently attended his orders; but in reality followed, as he did, the young sailor with his eyes, only there was a great difference in the expression of the looks of the two men who thus watched the movements of Edmond Dantès.

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FATHER AND SON

WE WILL LEAVE Danglars struggling with the feelings of hatred, and endeavouring to insinuate in the ear of the shipowner, Morrel, some evil suspicions against his comrade, and follow Dantès; who, after having traversed the Canebière, took the Rue de Noailles, and entering into a small house, situated on the left side of the Allées de Meillan, rapidly ascended four stories of a dark staircase, holding the baluster in his hand, whilst with the other he repressed the beatings of his heart, and paused before a half-opened door, which revealed all the interior of a small apartment.

This apartment was occupied by Dantès’ father.

The news of the arrival of the Pharaon had not yet reached the old man, who, mounted on a chair, was amusing himself with staking some nasturtiums with tremulous hand, which, mingled with clematis, formed a kind of trellis at his window.

Suddenly he felt an arm thrown round his body, and a well-known voice behind him exclaimed, “Father! dear father!”

The old man uttered a cry, and turned round; then, seeing his son, he fell into his arms, pale and trembling.

“What ails you, my dearest father? Are you ill?” inquired the young man, much alarmed.

“No, no, my dear Edmond—my boy—my son!—no; but I did not expect you; and joy, the surprise of seeing you so suddenly——Ah! I really seem as if I were going to die!”

“Come, come, cheer up, my dear father! ’Tis I—really I! They say joy never hurts, and so I come to you without any warning. Come now, look cheerfully at me, instead of gazing as you do with your eyes so wide. Here I am back again, and we will now be happy.”

“Yes, yes, my boy, so we will—so we will,” replied the old man, “but how shall we be happy?—Will you never leave me again?—Come, tell me all the good fortune that has befallen you.”

“God forgive me,” said the young man, “for rejoicing at happiness derived from the misery of others; but Heaven knows I did not seek this good fortune: it has happened, and I really cannot affect to lament it. The good Captain Leclere is dead, father, and it is probable that, with the aid of M. Morrel, I shall have his place. Do you understand, father? Only imagine me a captain at twenty, with a hundred louis pay, and a share in the profits! Is this not more than a poor sailor, like me, could have hoped for?”

“Yes, my dear boy,” replied the old man, “and much more than you could have expected.”

“Well, then, with the first money I touch, I mean you to have a small house, with a garden to plant your clematis, your nasturtiums, and your honeysuckles. But what ails you, father? Are not you well?”

“’Tis nothing, nothing; it will soon pass away;” and as he said so the old man’s strength failed him, and he fell backwards.

“Come, come,” said the young man, “a glass of wine, father, will revive you. Where do you keep your wine?”

“No, no; thank ye. You need not look for it; I do not want it,” said the old man.

“Yes, yes, father, tell me where it is;” and he opened two or three cupboards.

“It is no use,” said the old man; “there is no wine.”

“What! no wine?” said Dantès, turning pale, and looking alternately at the hollow cheeks of the old man and the empty cupboards. “What! no wine? Have you wanted money, father?”

“I want nothing now you are here,” said the old man.

“Yet,” stammered Dantès, wiping the perspiration from his brow—“yet I gave you two hundred francs when I left three months ago.”

“Yes, yes, Edmond, that is true, but you forgot at that time a little debt to our neighbour Caderousse. He reminded me of it, telling me if I did not pay for you, he would be paid by M. Morrel; and so, you see, lest he might do you an injury——”

“Well?”

“Why, I paid him.”

“But,” cried Dantès, “it was a hundred and forty francs I owed Caderousse.”

“Yes,” stammered the old man.

“And you paid him out of the two hundred francs I left you?”

The old man made a sign in the affirmative.

“So that you have lived for three months on sixty francs?” muttered the young man.

“You know how little I require,” said the old man.

“Heaven pardon me,” cried Edmond, falling on his knees before the old man.

“What are you doing?”

“You have wounded my very heart.”

“Never mind it, for I see you once more,” said the old man; “and now all is forgotten—all is well again.”

“Yes, here I am,” said the young man, “with a happy prospect and a little money. Here, father! here!” he said, “take this—take it, and send for something immediately.”

And he emptied his pockets on the table, whose contents consisted of a dozen pieces of gold, five or six crowns, and some smaller coin.

The countenance of old Dantès brightened.

“Whom does this belong to?” he inquired.

“To me! to you! to us! Take it; buy some provisions; be happy, and to-morrow we shall have more.”

“Gently, gently,” said the old man, with a smile; “and by your leave I will use your purse moderately, for they would say, if they saw me buy too many things at a time, that I had been obliged to await your return, in order to be able to purchase them.”

“Do as you please; but, first of all, pray have a servant, father. I will not have you left alone so long. I have some smuggled coffee, and most capital tobacco, in a small chest in the hold, which you shall have to-morrow. But, hush! here comes somebody.”

“’Tis Caderousse, who has heard of your arrival, and, no doubt, comes to congratulate you on your fortunate return.”

“Ah! lips that say one thing, whilst the heart thinks another,” murmured Edmond. “But never mind, he is a neighbour who has done us a service on a time, so he’s welcome.”

As Edmond finished his sentence in a low voice, there appeared at the door the black and shock head of Caderousse. He was a man of twenty-five or twenty-six years of age, and held in his hand a morsel of cloth, which, in his capacity as a tailor, he was about to turn into the lining of a coat.

“What! is it you, Edmond, returned?” said he, with a broad Marseillaise accent, and a grin that displayed his teeth as white as ivory.

“Yes, as you see, neighbour Caderousse; and ready to be agreeable to you in any and every way,” replied Dantès, but ill concealing his feeling under this appearance of civility.

“Thanks—thanks; but, fortunately, I do not want for anything; and it chances that at times there are others who have need of me.” Dantès made a gesture. “I do not allude to you, my boy. No!—no! I lent you money, and you returned it; that’s like good neighbours, and we are quits.”

“We are never quits with those who oblige us,” was Dantès’ reply; “for when we do not owe them money, we owe them gratitude.”

“What’s the use of mentioning that? What is done is done. Let us talk of your happy return, my boy. I had gone on the quay to match a piece of mulberry cloth, when I met friend Danglars.

“‘What! you at Marseilles?’

“‘Yes,’ says he.

“‘I thought you were at Smyrna.’

“‘I was; but am now back again.’

“‘And where is the dear boy, our little Edmond?’

“‘Why, with his father, no doubt,’ replied Danglars. And so I came,” added Caderousse, “as fast as I could to have the pleasure of shaking hands with a friend.”

“Worthy Caderousse!” said the old man, “he is so much attached to us!”

“Yes, to be sure I am. I love and esteem you, because honest folks are so rare. But it seems you have come back rich, my boy,” continued the tailor, looking askance at the handful of gold and silver which Dantès had thrown on the table.

The young man remarked the greedy glance which shone in the dark eyes of his neighbour.

“Eh!” he said negligently, “this money is not mine: I was expressing to my father my fears that he had wanted many things in my absence, and to convince me he emptied his purse on the table. Come, father,” added Dantès, “put this money back in your box—unless neighbour Caderousse wants anything, and in that case it is at his service.”

“No, my boy, no,” said Caderousse. “I am not in any want, thank God! the state nourishes me. Keep your money—keep it, I say;—one never has too much;—but at the same time, my boy, I am as much obliged by your offer as if I took advantage of it.”

“It was offered with goodwill,” said Dantès.

“No doubt, my boy; no doubt. Well, you stand well with M. Morrel, I hear,—you insinuating dog, you!”

“M. Morrel has always been exceedingly kind to me,” replied Dantès.

“Then you were wrong to refuse to dine with him.”

“What! did you refuse to dine with him?” said old Dantès; “and did he invite you to dine?”

“Yes, my dear father,” replied Edmond, smiling at his father’s astonishment at the excessive honour paid to his son.

“And why did you refuse, my son?” inquired the old man.

“That I might the sooner see you again, my dear father,” replied the young man. “I was most anxious to see you.”

“But it must have vexed M. Morrel, good, worthy man,” said Caderousse. “And when you are looking forward to be captain, it was wrong to annoy the owner.”

“But I explained to him the cause of my refusal,” replied Dantès; “and I hope he fully understood it.”

“Yes, but to be captain one must give way a little to one’s patrons.”

“I hope to be captain without that,” said Dantès.

“So much the better—so much the better! Nothing will give greater pleasure to all your old friends; and I know one down there behind the citadel of Saint Nicolas, who will not be sorry to hear it.”

“Mercédès?” said the old man.

“Yes, my dear father, and with your permission, now I have seen you, and know you are well, and have all you require, I will ask your consent to go and pay a visit to the Catalans.”

“Go, my dear boy,” said old Dantès; “and Heaven bless you in your wife, as it has blessed me in my son!”

“His wife!” said Caderousse; “why, how fast you go on, father Dantès; she is not his wife yet, it appears.”

“No, but according to all probability she soon will be,” replied Edmond.

“Yes—yes,” said Caderousse; “but you were right to return as soon as possible, my boy.”

“And why?”

“Because Mercédès is a very fine girl, and fine girls never lack lovers; she, particularly, has them by dozens.”

“Really?” answered Edmond, with a smile which had in it traces of slight uneasiness.

“Ah, yes,” continued Caderousse, “and capital offers too; but you know you will be captain, and who could refuse you then?”

“Meaning to say,” replied Dantès, with a smile which but ill concealed his trouble, “that if I were not a captain——”

“Eh—eh!” said Caderousse, shaking his head.

“Come, come,” said the sailor, “I have a better opinion than you of women in general, and of Mercédès in particular; and I am certain that, captain or not, she will remain ever faithful to me.”

“So much the better—so much the better,” said Caderousse. “When one is going to be married, there is nothing like implicit confidence; but never mind that, my boy,—but go and announce your arrival, and let her know all your hopes and prospects.”

“I will go directly,” was Edmond’s reply; and, embracing his father, and saluting Caderousse, he left the apartment.

Caderousse lingered for a moment, then taking leave of old Dantès, he went downstairs to rejoin Danglars, who awaited him at the corner of the Rue Senac.

“Well,” said Danglars, “did you see him?”

“I have just left him,” answered Caderousse.

“Did he allude to his hope of being captain?”

“He spoke of it as a thing already decided.”

“Patience!” said Danglars, “he is in too much hurry, it appears to me.”

“Why, it seems M. Morrel has promised him the thing.”

“So that he is quite elate about it.”

“That is to say, he is actually insolent on the matter—has already offered me his patronage, as if he were a grand personage, and proffered me a loan of money, as though he were a banker.”

“Which you refused.”

“Most assuredly; although I might easily have accepted, for it was I who put into his hands the first silver he ever earned; but now M. Dantès has no longer any occasion for assistance—he is about to become a captain.”

“Pooh!” said Danglars, “he is not one yet.”

Ma foi!—and it will be as well he never should be,” answered Caderousse; “for if he should be, there will be really no speaking to him.”

“If we choose,” replied Danglars, “he will remain what he is, and, perhaps, become even less than he is.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing—I was speaking to myself. And is he still in love with the Catalane?”

“Over head and ears: but, unless I am much mistaken, there will be a storm in that quarter.”

“Explain yourself.”

“Why should I?”

“It is more important than you think, perhaps. You do not love Dantès?”

“I never like upstarts.”

“Then tell me all you know relative to the Catalane.”

“I know nothing for certain; only I have seen things which induce me to believe, as I told you, that the future captain will find some annoyance in the environs of the Vieilles Infirmeries.”

“What do you know?—come, tell me!”

“Well, every time I have seen Mercédès come into the city, she has been accompanied by a tall, strapping, black-eyed Catalan, with a red complexion, brown skin, and fierce air, whom she calls cousin.”

“Really; and you think this cousin pays her attentions?”

“I only suppose so. What else can a strapping chap of twenty-one mean with a fine wench of seventeen?”

“And you say Dantès has gone to the Catalans?”

“He went before I came down.”

“Let us go the same way; we will stop at La Réserve, and we can drink a glass of La Malgue whilst we wait for news.”

“Come along,” said Caderousse; “but mind you pay the shot.”

“Certainly,” replied Danglars; and going quickly to the spot alluded to, they called for a bottle of wine and two glasses.

Père Pamphile had seen Dantès pass not ten minutes before; and assured that he was at the Catalans, they sat down under the budding foliage of the planes and sycamores, in the branches of which the birds were joyously singing on a lovely day in early spring.

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THE CATALANS

ABOUT A HUNDRED paces from the spot where the two friends were, with their looks fixed on the distance, and their ears attentive, whilst they imbibed the sparkling wine of La Malgue, behind a bare, and torn, and weather-worn wall, was the small village of the Catalans.

One day a mysterious colony quitted Spain, and settled on the tongue of land on which it is to this day. It arrived from no one knew where, and spoke an unknown tongue. One of its chiefs, who understood Provençal, begged the commune of Marseilles to give them this bare and barren promontory, on which, like the sailors of the ancient times, they had run their boats ashore. The request was granted, and three months afterwards, around the twelve or fifteen small vessels which had brought these gipsies of the sea, a small village sprung up.

This village, constructed in a singular and picturesque manner, half Moorish, half Spanish, is that which we behold at the present day inhabited by the descendants of those men who speak the language of their fathers. For three or four centuries they remained faithful to this small promontory, on which they had settled like a flight of sea-birds, without mixing with the Marseillaise population, intermarrying, and preserving their original customs and the costume of their mother country, as they have preserved its language.

Our readers will follow us along the only street of this little village, and enter with us into one of the houses, on the outside of which the sun had stamped that beautiful colour of the dead leaf peculiar to the buildings of the country, and within a coat of limewash, of that white tint which forms the only ornament of Spanish posadas.

A young and beautiful girl, with hair as black as jet, her eyes as velvety as the gazelle’s, was leaning with her back against the wainscot, rubbing in her slender fingers, moulded after the antique, a bunch of heath-blossoms, the flowers of which she was picking off, and strewing on the floor; her arms bare to the elbow, embrowned, and resembling those of the Venus at Arles, moved with a kind of restless impatience, and she tapped the earth with her pliant and well-formed foot so as to display the pure and full shape of her well-turned leg, in its red cotton stocking with gray and blue clocks.

At three paces from her, seated in a chair which he balanced on two legs, leaning his elbow on an old worm-eaten table, was a tall young man of twenty or two-and-twenty, who was looking at her with an air in which vexation and uneasiness were mingled. He questioned her with his eyes, but the firm and steady gaze of the young girl controlled his look.

“You see, Mercédès,” said the young man, “here is Easter come round again; tell me, is this the moment for a wedding?”

“I have answered you a hundred times, Fernand, and really you must be your own enemy to ask me again.”

“Well, repeat it,—repeat it, I beg of you, that I may at last believe it! Tell me for the hundredth time that you refuse my love, which had your mother’s sanction. Make me fully comprehend that you are trifling with my happiness, that my life or death are immaterial to you. Ah! to have dreamed for ten years of being your husband, Mercédès, and to lose that hope, which was the only stay of my existence!”

“At least it was not I who ever encouraged you in that hope, Fernand,” replied Mercédès; “you cannot reproach me with the slightest coquetry. I have always said to you, I love you as a brother, but do not ask from me more than sisterly affection, for my heart is another’s. Is not this true, Fernand?”

“Yes, I know it well, Mercédès,” replied the young man. “Yes, you have been cruelly frank with me; but do you forget that it is among the Catalans a sacred law to intermarry?”

“You mistake, Fernand, it is not a law, but merely a custom; and, I pray of you, do not cite this custom in your favour. You are included in the conscription, Fernand, and are only at liberty on sufferance, liable at any moment to be called upon to take up arms. Once a soldier, what would you do with me, a poor orphan, forlorn, without fortune, with nothing but a hut, half in ruins, containing some ragged nets, a miserable inheritance left by my father to my mother, and by my mother to me? She has been dead a year, and you know, Fernand, I have subsisted almost entirely on public charity. Sometimes you pretend I am useful to you, and that is an excuse to share with me the produce of your fishing; and I accept it, Fernand, because you are the son of my father’s brother, because we were brought up together, and still more because it would give you so much pain if I refuse. But I feel very deeply that this fish which I go and sell, and with the produce of which I buy the flax, I spin,—I feel very keenly, Fernand, that this is charity!”

“And if it were, Mercédès, poor and lone as you are, you suit me as well as the daughter of the first shipowner, or the richest banker of Marseilles! What do such as we desire but a good wife and careful housekeeper, and where can I look for these better than in you?”

“Fernand,” answered Mercédès, shaking her head, “a woman becomes a bad manager, and who shall say she will remain an honest woman, when she loves another man better than her husband? Rest content with my friendship, for I repeat to you that is all I can promise, and I will promise no more than I can bestow.”

“I understand,” replied Fernand, “you can endure your own wretchedness patiently, but you are afraid of mine. Well, Mercédès, beloved by you, I would tempt fortune; you would bring me good luck, and I should become rich. I could extend my occupation as a fisherman, might get a place as clerk in a warehouse, and become myself a dealer in time.”

“You could do no such thing, Fernand; you are a soldier, and if you remain at the Catalans it is because there is not a war; so remain a fisherman, and contented with my friendship, as I cannot give you more.”

“Well, you are right, Mercédès. I will be a sailor; instead of the costume of our father’s, which you despise, I will wear a varnished hat, a striped shirt, and a blue jacket with an anchor on the buttons. Would not that dress please you?”

“What do you mean?” asked Mercédès, darting at him an angry glance,—“what do you mean? I do not understand you.”

“I mean, Mercédès, that you are thus harsh and cruel with me, because you are expecting some one who is thus attired; but, perhaps, he you await is inconstant, or, if he is not, the sea is so to him.”

“Fernand!” cried Mercédès, “I believed you were good hearted, and I was mistaken! Fernand, you are wicked to call to your aid jealousy and the anger of God! Yes, I will not deny it, I do await, and I do love him to whom you allude; and, if he does not return, instead of accusing him of the inconstancy which you insinuate, I will tell you that he died loving me and me only.”

The young Catalan made a gesture of rage.

“I understand you, Fernand; you would be revenged on him because I do not love you; you would cross your Catalan knife with his dirk. What end would that answer? To lose you my friendship if he were conquered, and see that friendship changed into hate if you were conqueror. Believe me, to seek a quarrel with a man is a bad method of pleasing the woman who loves that man. No, Fernand, you will not thus give way to evil thoughts. Unable to have me for your wife, you will content yourself with having me for your friend and sister; and besides,” she added, her eyes troubled and moistened with tears, “wait, wait, Fernand, you said just now that the sea was treacherous, and he has been gone four months, and during these four months we have had some terrible storms.”

Fernand made no reply, nor did he attempt to check the tears which flowed down the cheeks of Mercédès, although for each of these tears he would have shed his heart’s blood; but these tears flowed for another. He arose, paced awhile up and down the hut, and then, suddenly stopping before Mercédès, with his eyes glowing and his hands clenched:

“Say, Mercédès,” he said, “once for all, is this your final determination?”

“I love Edmond Dantès,” the young girl calmly replied, “and none but Edmond shall ever be my husband.”

“And you will always love him?”

“As long as I live.”

Fernand let fall his head like a defeated man, heaved a sigh which resembled a groan, and then, suddenly looking her full in the face, with clenched teeth and expanded nostrils, said:

“But if he is dead——”

“If he is dead, I shall die too.”

“If he has forgotten you——”

“Mercédès!” cried a voice joyously, outside the house,—“Mercédès!”

“Ah!” exclaimed the young girl, blushing with delight, and springing up with love, “you see he has not forgotten me, for here he is!” And rushing towards the door, she opened it, saying, “Here, Edmond, here I am!”

Fernand, pale and trembling, receded like a traveller at the sight of a serpent, and fell into a chair beside him.

Edmond and Mercédès were clasped in each other’s arms. The burning sun of Marseilles, which penetrated the room by the open door, covered them with a flood of light. At first they saw nothing around them. Their intense happiness isolated them from all the rest of the world, and they only spoke in broken words, which are the tokens of a joy so extreme that they seem rather the expression of sorrow.

Suddenly Edmond saw the gloomy countenance of Fernand, as it was defined in the shadow, pale and threatening. By a movement, for which he could scarcely account to himself, the young Catalan placed his hands on the knife at his belt.

“Ah! your pardon,” said Dantès, frowning in his turn. “I did not perceive that there were three of us.” Then, turning to Mercédès, he inquired, “Who is this gentleman?”

“One who will be your best friend, Dantès, for he is my friend, my cousin, my brother,—it is Fernand—the man whom, after you, Edmond, I love the most in the world. Do you not remember him?”

“Yes,” said Edmond, and without relinquishing Mercédès’ hand clasped in one of his own, he extended the other to the Catalan with a cordial air.

But Fernand, instead of responding to this amicable gesture, remained mute and trembling.

Edmond then cast his eyes scrutinisingly at Mercédès, agitated and embarrassed, and then again on Fernand, gloomy and menacing.

“I did not know, when I came with such haste to you, that I was to meet an enemy here.”

“An enemy!” cried Mercédès, with an angry look at her cousin. “An enemy in my house, do you say, Edmond! If I believed that, I would place my arm under yours and go with you to Marseilles, leaving the house to return to it no more.”

Fernand’s eye darted lightning.

“And, should any misfortune occur to you, dear Edmond,” she continued, with the same calmness, which proved to Fernand that the young girl had read the very innermost depths of his sinister thought, “if misfortune should occur to you, I would ascend the highest point of the Cape de Morgion, and cast myself headlong from it.”

Fernand became deadly pale.

“But you are deceived, Edmond,” she continued. “You have no enemy here—there is no one but Fernand, my brother, who will grasp your hand as a devoted friend.”

And at these words the young girl fixed her imperious look on the Catalan, who, as if fascinated by it, came slowly towards Edmond, and offered him his hand.

His hatred, like a powerless though furious wave, was broken against the strong ascendancy which Mercédès exercised over him.

Scarcely, however, had he touched Edmond’s hand than he felt he had done all he could do, and rushed hastily out of the house.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, running furiously and tearing his hair—“oh! who will deliver me from this man? Wretched—wretched that I am!”

“Hallo, Catalan! Hallo, Fernand! where are you running to?” exclaimed a voice.

The young man stopped suddenly, looked around him, and perceived Caderousse sitting at table with Danglars under an arbour.

“Well,” said Caderousse, “why don’t you come? Are you really in such a hurry that you have not time to say, ‘how do’ to your friends?”