"GOUTRAN."

Carmen uttered a joyous exclamation. Goutran loved her! Coucon turned toward her.

"Well," he asked, "what am I to tell him?"

"Return to Monsieur Goutran and tell him that if it costs me my life I will discover what he wishes to know. And remember that you must open the door of the hotel to me at whatever time I may come. Of course, you and Monsieur Goutran will be there all night. Now, go!"

At this moment a terrified looking servant entered the room.

"Mademoiselle," he said, "your father has just been taken ill."

Omar respectfully saluted the young girl, and was lost in the crowd. No one noticed him, for there was much excitement over the illness of the great financier. Carmen followed the lacquey with rather too slow a step for the occasion. She was intensely irritated at this new comedy, and she was tempted to cry out to the crowd:

"He lies! He has always lied!"

Laisangy was lying back in his chair. There was no physician in the room, and yet the people about him talked knowingly of bleeding him. Fortunately for him, Carmen arrived.

"I know what it is," she said; "he has had similar attacks before. He will be better after a little rest."

And Carmen gave orders that the banker should be carried to his chamber. Then excusing herself to her guests, she followed.

Laisangy, who was becoming greatly bored by the part he was playing, supposed that Carmen would dismiss the servants and remain with him herself; but she had quite other plans. She bade the men undress their master and put him in his bed. Laisangy was ready to swear at her, but, of course, he was too ill to dispute. If he suddenly revived and made a row, then the story would get about of the ridiculous comedy he had played. His patience was not long tried, however. Carmen only wanted to gain a little time, in which she might hope to discover the contents of a letter which she saw the banker receive and put in his pocket early in the evening. She found the letter and retired into the next room to read it.

"Vengeance is assured. Fanfar and Goutran are prisoners in the house of Monte-Cristo. As to the girl, she is at the house at Courberrie, where Esperance will arrive too late."

Hardly had Carmen grasped the sense of these words than she ran to her room, and wrapping herself in her long black cloak, left the hotel by the private door.



CHAPTER LXIV.

THE PLOT.

We left Esperance in the house at Courberrie just when the panels had been thrown open. He uttered a cry of horror. What did he see? Around a table covered with glasses sat a number of women singing drunken songs, and among these women sat one pale as a ghost, and this one was Jane!

Ah! poor child! Of what terrible machination was she the victim?

Benedetto, who required her as a tool for his vengeance, had carried her through the subterranean passage, she all the time entirely unconscious. He laid her on a sofa, and stood with folded arms looking down upon her. Did he feel the smallest emotion of pity? No, not he! He was only asking himself if the girl was so attractive that Esperance would really feel her loss as much as his enemies wished. Suddenly she sighed—a long, strange, fluttering sigh. Benedetto leaned over her anxiously. What if she were to die now! He must hasten. Everything had been arranged. He opened her teeth with the blade of a knife, and poured down her throat a few drops of a clear white liquor. It was an anesthetic whose terrible properties he well understood. Jane would see, Jane would hear, and Jane would suffer, but as she could neither speak nor move—all resistance would be impossible. And, that night she was carried to the house at Courberrie, what terrible agony she suffered! She knew that she was in the power of an enemy, that she had been torn from him whom she loved better than life, and from whose lips she had just heard oaths of eternal fidelity. With a heart swelling with agony she could not utter a sound. Her soul was alive, but her body was motionless. Suddenly the room in which she lay was brilliantly illuminated. A crowd of women came pouring in—and such women! My readers who remember Jane's past can readily imagine that the girl regarded this scene as a hideous dream. She even fancied that she saw her mother.

Esperance beheld all this. He rushed forward, only to be stopped by iron bars.

This terrible scene had been most adroitly managed. The house at Courberrie belonged to Danglars, and had been the scene of many ignoble orgies. The opening through which Esperance looked was not more than thirty feet from Jane. He called, but she could not hear him. Then all was suddenly dark. The lights returned in a few minutes, and Jane was seen alone.

"Jane! Jane!" cried Esperance. Suddenly a door opened. Esperance saw an old man enter the room. He went up to Jane with a hideous smile on his face. It was Laisangy.

Of all the crimes that Benedetto had committed, this was the most infamous!

Esperance caught the iron bars and shook them violently, and with such enormous strength that one of them was loosened. Esperance passed through them and stood in a corridor, but there was a sheet of plate glass still between him and Jane. This glass he broke with his clenched hands, and Esperance sprang at the throat of Danglars and threw him to the other end of the room. Then, taking Jane in his arms, he cried:

"Jane! my beloved—do you not hear me? I am Monte-Cristo."

"Monte-Cristo!" repeated a hoarse voice.

Esperance half turned.

Danglars had staggered up from the floor, and was gazing at Esperance with eyes fairly starting from his head. With his deadly pallor and a gash on his cheek from the glass through which he had passed, Esperance bore a striking resemblance to his father. He looked as Dantes looked the day his infamous companion betrayed him at Marseilles. Danglars was appalled.

"Edmond Dantes!" he cried in agony, raising his arms high above his head, and wildly clutching the air for support. Then he fell forward on his face in an attack of apoplexy.

Esperance laid Jane again on the sofa, and ran to his assistance. He lifted him from the floor. The banker was dead.

Esperance was as if stunned. The strange events, coming one after the other, affected his reason. He believed himself the victim of a hideous nightmare. He heard a sigh and turned back to Jane, who seemed to be trying to throw off the stupor that had weighed her down. The effect of the narcotic was probably passing off. She raised her hands and pressed them to her forehead. Esperance forgot everything else, and falling at Jane's feet he cried, in an agony of entreaty.

"Oh! Jane, awake! I must take you from this terrible place. Jane, awake!"

The girl's eyes moved.

"Who speaks my name?" she whispered.

"It is I—I, who loves—Esperance!"

Jane opened her eyes quickly.

"Esperance! Oh! not here—it must not be!"

She began to sob convulsively.

"I know all, my beloved!" he answered, soothingly, "I know the snare that was laid for you. But why do you repel me, dearest?"

"Ah! you do not know," she said, amid her sobs. "Those women—those songs. Ah! let me die!"

"No, do not say that! We are surrounded by enemies, but I fear them not. Come, we must leave this place."

But, with her brain still excited by opium, she continued to resist.

"Jane, you know me?—I am Esperance. Let us fly, and find our happiness together. Jane—dear Jane!"

His voice was so tender and so persuasive that suddenly the terror-stricken expression left the girl's face. She placed her hands on his shoulder, and contemplated him in a sort of ecstasy.

"Yes, I remember. Esperance, how I love you!"

At this instant, like a chorus behind the scenes, there came the shouts of ribald laughter. She fell on the floor, crying: "Alas! alas! I am accursed!"

The door of the room was thrown open, and a man entered. This man was Benedetto.



CHAPTER LXV.

THE MYSTERIOUS SIGNALS.

Having played his little comedy with consummate skill, Coucon hastened to the carriage he had kept waiting, and drove to the Hotel de Monte-Cristo. He was in such haste to inform Goutran that he had successfully fulfilled his mission, that he forgot to disembarrass himself of his fancy costume, so that when he appeared before Madame Caraman, the good woman uttered a cry of terror.

"It is only I—Coucon."

Madame protested against his selecting a time like this to indulge in a masquerade.

"It is nothing of the kind," answered Coucon, impatiently. "Where is Monsieur Goutran?"

"I have not seen the gentlemen since you went out."

"Then they must be in Miss Jane's room still?"

"I suppose so."

"We will go there at once, then."

But the Zouave was interrupted by a strange sound like that made by a heavy hammer at some distance.

Madame turned pale.

"You know, Coucon, that I am not a coward, but I tell you I can't make out that sound. I have heard it now for some time."

"It seems to come from the cellar."

"Yes, that is what I think. But let us tell the friends."

They by this time had reached Jane's door, on which they knocked. No reply. Then, after knocking and listening, Madame said:

"We must go in!"

She opened the door, and both uttered a cry on finding the chamber empty. The iron panel had closed, and no one would have suspected its existence.

Coucon could not believe his eyes. He ran through every room, but those they sought had vanished. They had not gone out of the hotel, for Madame had guarded it.

"Well!" cried Coucon, "vanished like Miss Jane, like the Vicomte Esperance!"

Hark! Again they heard the strange noise.

Coucon, born and bred in Paris, had read many novels and seen many plays. He at once announced that the house they were in had subterranean passages.

"But there are no doors."

"What of that!"

He dashed from the room, and came back with hammer and chisel!

"What are you going to do?"

"Demolish the house, if necessary."

Madame wrung her hands.

"We shall be forgiven if we make mistakes," said Coucon. "We can do only our best."

And Coucon began to tear up the carpet, and then to sound the boards.

"Above," he said, looking up, "are the bath rooms, and I think we had best begin by pulling down the hangings on the wall."

"Oh! that is wicked!"

It was of no use to argue, the Zouave had made up his mind, and he ripped off the silk as if it had been old cotton. Madame, fired by his example, went to work also. While they were thus frantically busy, the door-bell rang.

"It is Miss Carmen," cried Coucon. "She may be able to tell us something."

He hastened to the door. It was Carmen, as he had supposed.

"My friends," she said, "where is Goutran?"

"I do not know," was the reply.

"I will tell you, then. He, with Monsieur Fanfar are prisoners in this house."

"What did I tell you!" shouted Coucon. "And now, listen—the noise has begun again."

Seizing the hammer, Coucon struck three hard blows on the walls at regular intervals. He waited and listened. Three blows answered him. He struck again, varying the number, which were immediately repeated.

"Yes, it is plain. Our friends hear us, and wish to communicate with us. But hark! they have begun." Twenty-five blows were struck, one after the other, in quick succession. The three looked at each other, greatly troubled.

"The twenty-five letters of the alphabet!" cried Madame.

"Yes," said Carmen, "repeat, to prove that you understand."

After repeated experiments it was found that communication was easy, and Carmen spelled out:

"There is an iron door under the silk."

"I knew it!" Coucon exclaimed, "I had began to tear it off when you came."

They pulled off the silk, and suddenly Coucon exclaimed:

"Here is the door!" Without well knowing what he was doing, Coucon pressed the knob, and the panel flew open so quickly that Coucon was nearly knocked over. "Take the light and come!" he shouted.

Carmen snatched the candelabra, and they passed through the door.

It will be remembered what happened when Goutran and his friends entered the passage. When their feet touched the stairs the panel closed. In fact, a secret mechanism connected the first stair with the iron door. Those who did not know it became prisoners at once, while others simply stepped over this stair, and so left the iron panel open. But neither Coucon nor the others knew this. Down went Coucon's foot in the wrong place, and the panel swung to. At the same moment Fanfar, Goutran and Bobichel appeared. They had been guided by the light.

"Goutran!" cried Carmen, running toward him.

"What! is it you who has delivered us?"

They went back all together, to find themselves prisoners? No, for Coucon had dropped the hammer, which accidentally fell in the aperture, thus preventing the door from closing entirely when the spring on the stair was touched. They were saved!

In Jane's room they held a consultation. Carmen communicated what she had heard, and showed the note she had taken from Laisangy.

"But where is the place he speaks of?" asked Fanfar.

"I can show you," she said, quietly.

Coucon ran to the stables, and in ten minutes the carriage stood at the door.

"Heaven grant that we arrive in time!" said Fanfar.

Alas! it was a vain hope. Much time had been lost while the three men had been shut up. Their candles had burned out. Fanfar tore a rail from the stairs and began to sound the wall, and suddenly they heard themselves answered, but all the time they were at a loss to understand how they had been able to establish such prompt communication. But this was no time for explanation. All they now thought of was Esperance. The carriage was driven at full speed toward Courberrie.



CHAPTER LXVI.

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.