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 hôtel 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 Hôtel 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 hisaudacity, 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 formerforçat. 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 talkwas 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.
In the Hôtel 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 earslike 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 shouldersbowed, 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 hôtel, Monte-Cristo had vanished with the body of his son.
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! Dantès is free."
Young and with confidence in the future, Edmond Dantès, the lover of Mercédès, returned to Marseilles, with the promise of a captaincy. He was to marry Mercédès. 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 Dantès was torn from his betrothed, and imprisoned for fourteen years in the Château d'If.
Another prisoner was there, the Abbé Faria. This prisoner was supposed to be mad, because he had offered to buy his liberty with millions. The Abbé imparted to Dantès the secret of the treasure concealed by the Spadas in the caverns of the island of Monte-Cristo, a desolate rock in the Mediterranean. Andthis was not all, the old man had also imparted other secrets to his young companion.
And now Dantès was master of the treasure of the Spadas, and he started to find his old father and his fiancée. 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. Mercédès, his fiancée, was married to another—to one of the three men who had woven the plot that had cost Dantès 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 Mercédès. And it was this Fernando who had married Mercédès, 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 Dantès, had nevertheless sentenced him to prison. Because Dantès 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 Château d'If for fourteen years.
These were the crimes that Dantès swore to punish. He did so. Danglars the banker he ruined. Fernando the fisherman, known when Dantès returned as theComte de Morcerf, was accused in the Chamber of Peers of having betrayed Ali-Pacha of Jamna, and of selling his daughter Haydée to a Turkish merchant. His infamy was proved by Haydée 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 Dantès." 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 Dantès! Villefort became insane.
And the work of vengeance was complete. Monte-Cristo was so rich that he was all-powerful. And yethe was terribly sad, for he was alone. Then it was that the gentle Haydée consoled him. To their son they gave the name of Esperance. And Haydée 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 Dantès. 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 weredisputing, 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 Abbé 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 Abbé 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 whichled 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 Abbé Dantès."February 25th, 1865."
"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 Abbé Dantès.
"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 Dantès, Count of Monte-Cristo, died.