"There you are, you wretch," she hissed; "where have you put your black coat?"

Just then the virago returned with the doctor.

The latter looked contemptuously at her, and in a gruff voice said:

"Lie down!"

He then beat her bosom, counted her pulse, and shook his head.

"Nothing can be done," he dryly declared; "her strength has been impaired by a fast and dissipated life, and—"

"But, doctor," interrupted Anselmo, "have some compunction for the poor woman. You see she is conscious and understands every word."

"Ah, you are probably a relative of hers, or has your warm interest in her some other ground?"

"Doctor, I only speak as a human being," replied Anselmo, sternly, "and if you do not do your duty as a physician I will notify the proper authorities."

This threat had the desired effect. The doctor drew his note-book from his pocket, rapidly wrote a prescription, and went away.

Anselmo took the prescription and hurried to the nearest drug-store. As he walked along the snow-covered streets, he muttered to himself:

"Merciful God, do not punish me so hard!"

When he returned he found the virago awaiting him at the door.

"Monsieur," she said, "it seems that Zilda interests you."

"Yes, like any other unhappy creature."

"Well, I have her papers. Her name is Zild—Jane Zild."

"Give them to me," said Anselmo, firmly; "I will take care of her."

"May God reward you; the sooner you get her out of my house the happier I shall be."

The woman hurried into the house, and Anselmo handed the invalid's daughter the medicine he had bought and waited for the return of the virago. In less than five minutes she returned and handed the ex-priest a package of papers.

"Where can I look through them?" he asked, uneasily.

"Oh, come into the kitchen."

Anselmo accepted her invitation, and by the flickering light of a tallow candle he unfolded the yellow and withered papers.

One of the papers contained a passport for the work-man, Jean Zild, and his daughter Jane, made out by the commune of Sitzheim in Alsace. When Anselmo read this he grew pale and nearly fell to the floor in a faint.

"The reading seems to overtax your strength," said the woman giggling. "Zilda has travelled a great deal, and maybe you have met her before."

"I hardly think so," stammered Anselmo.

In company with the virago, Anselmo re-entered the sick-room, and, laying his hand on the young girl's shoulder, he said:

"My dear child, your mother is much better now, and if you follow my advice you will go to bed and take a rest. I shall stay with the invalid. The housekeeper here has kindly consented to give you a room."

"Not for any price," cried the little one in terror. "I cannot stay in this house overnight."

Little by little he managed to calm the poor child and make her understand his aim. She hesitatingly consented to stay overnight in the house, and the housekeeper conducted her to a little room. With inward terror the little one gazed at the unclean walls, and only her love for her mother induced her to stay and not return even now.

"Good-night, mother," she said, sobbing.

The woman looked vacantly at her and gave no sign of recognition of her daughter.

"Do not wake your mother up," said Anselmo, hastily. "Sleep is necessary to her and I will call you if she asks for you."

"Then you really intend to stay here?"

"Yes."

"Do you know us?"

"No," stammered Anselmo; "but go to bed now, it is late."

"You will surely call me?" asked the little one.

"Certainly; go now and rely on me."

She went, and Anselmo was alone with the invalid—the dying woman, as he shudderingly said to himself.

From time to time the sick woman would wake up in her sleep and utter a low moan.

Anselmo looked in terror at the face, which showed traces of former beauty. Whose fault was it that her life ended so early and so sadly?

Suddenly the invalid opened her big black eyes, and gazed at the ex-convict who was sitting by her bedside with folded hands.

"How did you get here?" she asked, timidly.

"You are sick, keep quiet; later on you shall learn everything," replied Anselmo.

"I am sick! Ha! ha! ha! I am cursed—cursed!" she cried.

"Keep still; go to sleep," begged Anselmo, frightened. "No one has cursed you."

"But he—my father—oh, I have brought shame and sorrow upon him; but it was not my fault—no, not my fault! Oh, I was so young and innocent. Father said, pray earnestly and often, and so I prayed. Oh, how nice it was in Sitzheim; the church lay upon a hill, hid in ivy, from which a view of the peaceful village could be had. A well was also in the village. Evenings we young girls used to go there to get water, and then—then he went past. How he frowned. He wore a black coat, and the bald spot on his shaved head shone like ivory. When he came near, we made the sign of the cross. We must honor the embassadors of God!"

The dying woman with trembling hands made the sign of the cross, and Anselmo groaned and moaned.

"I had not yet gone to confession," continued the delirious woman; "my father used to laugh at me and say: 'Stay at home, little Jane, you haven't any sins to confess yet.' I stayed. I was only sixteen. But one day as I was sitting in front of our door the man addressed me.

"'Why do you not come to confession?' he asked sternly.

"'Because my father said I was too young, and have no sins to confess.'

"'We are all sinners in God,' he earnestly replied. 'Do not forget that you will be eternally damned if you do not confess.'

"I got frightened; no, I did not wish to be damned, and so I went secretly to confession. He always gave me absolution and I was happy. He sometimes met me when I went walking, and was always very friendly to me."

Anselmo leaned his head against the hard bed-post and sobbed—they were the bitterest tears he had ever wept.

"He told me I was so pretty," continued the woman. "He promised me dresses, books and sweetmeats—my father must not know that I saw his reverence almost every day, and then—then he suddenly disappeared from the village—his superiors had transferred him, and I—I wept until my eyes were red. And then—then came a terrible time. The girls at the well pointed their fingers in scorn at me—my father threw me out of the house! I ran as far as my feet would carry me—I suffered from hunger and thirst—I froze, for it was a bitter cold winter; and when I could no longer sustain my misery, I sprang into the water.

"I was rescued," she laughingly continued, "and then my child, my little Jane, was born, and to nurse her I had to keep on living. Yes, I lived, but how? The fault was not mine, but that of the hypocrite and scoundrel in clergyman's dress!"

"Mercy," implored Anselmo. "Mercy, Jane!"

"Ha! who—is it that—calls me?" stammered the dying woman, faintly. "I should know—that—voice!"

"Oh, Jane, it is I—the wretched priest!" whispered Anselmo; "forgive me for my crimes against you and tell me if that girl there is," he pointed to the other room—"my—our daughter?"

But the invalid could not speak any more; she only nodded, and then closed her eyes forever.

When day dawned a broken-down man rose from the bedside of the deceased. He had spent the night in torture, and now went to wake the daughter of the dead woman—wake his daughter! He must take care of her without letting her know that he was her father.

When he told the girl her mother was dead, she threw herself upon the corpse, covered the pale face with tears and kisses, and yet—curious phase of this girl's soul—when she thought she was not observed, she whispered faintly:

"God be thanked that your troubles are over, poor mother—now I can love you without blushing for you."

Anselmo ordered a respectable funeral, and when he returned from the cemetery with the young girl he said with deep emotion:

"Jane, I knew your mother—I promised her that I would look out for you. Will you stay with me?"

Jane Zild sorrowfully said "Yes." Anselmo left Lyons in company with the lonely child. He worked hard to place Jane above want, and tenderly loved her. Gradually he tried to win the young girl's confidence; he comprehended that Jane was on the brink of despair, and to distract her he began to educate her.

The result was well worth the work. Jane learned with the greatest facility, and took pleasure in study. Yet she remained pale and melancholy, and Anselmo knew what troubled her—the memory of the horrible past. It seemed as if she were branded—as if every one could read on her forehead whose daughter she was.

An accident revealed to Anselmo that Jane possessed eminent musical talents, and a magnificent contralto voice. He worked, saved and economized to be able to give Jane the best teachers. He removed with the young girl to a German city which possessed a celebrated conservatory; there Jane studied music and singing.

Three years father and daughter remained in Leipsic, and then Jane felt homesick—homesick for France. Anselmo selected Paris as their place of residence, and hoped that she would succeed in conquering a position at the Opera.

But Jane refused all offers from the managers, and when Anselmo reproached her she said, in bitter tones:

"If I were not my mother's daughter the matter would be different. Shame would kill me if some one were to discover in me the daughter of Jane Zild. No, I must remain in seclusion until God sees fit to end my miserable existence!"

It therefore surprised him when the young girl told him she thought of visiting the young painter's soiree and singing there. Was she in love with the painter, or did she expect to meet some one in his parlor?

Anselmo declared that he would not go to any party in Paris, and would only bring her to the Rue Montaigne and then call for her again. He was, however, not prepared for the surprise which awaited him in Gontram Sabran's parlor. He recognized in Count Vellini's secretary the demon Benedetto, and his heart ceased beating when he saw the wretch. He hoped Benedetto would not recognize him, but he was destined to be deceived, as we have seen.

When Anselmo heard the name of the Vicomte of Monte-Cristo, he recollected the oath which the convict Benedetto had sworn against the Count of Monte-Cristo.

Hidden by the drapery, he had given Spero the mysterious warning. After the soiree was over he was surprised at the excited condition of Jane. He attributed it to a recurrence of her thoughts to her horrible past.

And while he was promising to assist the former galley-slave in carrying out some deviltry to save himself from being unmasked, Jane disappeared. Anselmo regarded it as a new evidence of the wrath of God.

How long he lay crouched in a corner of the quay, buried in thought, he knew not; all he knew was that the sound of hurried footsteps, which were coming toward him, had aroused him.

Suppose it was Jane who wished to seek oblivion in the waters of the Seine? Anselmo listened. The footsteps drew near now—the spectral apparition of a woman went past him and swung itself on the bridge railing.

"Jane—my child!" cried the despairing father; but when he reached the spot where he had seen the apparition it was empty.

He bent over the railing. Something dark swam about. Anselmo thought he recognized Jane's black dress, and only filled with a desire to rescue his child, he plunged into the turbulent waters.

With a few powerful strokes he had reached the place where he had last seen the figure. Thank God! it was in front of him. He stretched out his arm—clutched the hand of the drowning person, and tried to swim back to shore with his dear burden.

But the shore was still far away, the body lay heavy as lead on his left arm, and much as he tried to cleave the ice-cold water with his right he could not succeed in doing it. He felt his strength grow feeble—was he going to be overcome at the last moment?

"Help! help! we are sinking!" he cried aloud, and as he felt himself seized at that moment by a huge wave, whose power he could not resist—the water entered his mouth—he cried again:

"Help! help!"

"Patience! Keep up a moment longer! I am coming!" came back in a loud voice.

The water was parted with powerful strokes, four arms were stretched toward the drowning persons, and Anselmo and his burden were brought to the shore by two men.

"Confound the cold," said one of the men, shaking himself as if he were a poodle. "I should like to know what reason induced these two people to take a cold bath so early in the morning?"

"Bring them to my house, Bobichel," said the other, a strong, handsome man, "and everything will be explained there."

"Yes, if they are still alive," replied Bobichel. "I think, Fanfaro, that we came just at the right moment. What will Madame Irene say when we arrive home?"

"She will at once prepare for everything," said Fanfaro, laughing.

After they had both walked along with their burdens in their arms for about a quarter of an hour, they stopped in front of a small house which lay back of a pretty garden.

Five minutes later both the unfortunates lay in a comfortably warmed room, and Fanfaro, his wife, and Bobichel busily attended to them.

"Who can they be?" asked Irene, gently, of her husband.

"God knows," replied Fanfaro; "anyhow, I am glad that they both still live."

But the woman Anselmo had rescued at the risk of his life was not Jane, but a gray-haired old lady.



CHAPTER XXXVII

CARMEN

In a magnificently furnished house in the Rue de Rivoli sat Carmen, the handsome daughter of the bank director Larsagny. She was pensively gazing at the carpet, and from time to time uttered a low sigh.

"Aha, bah!" she muttered; "he shall tell me all."

She rang a silver bell, and immediately after a maid appeared.

"Where is Monsieur de Larsagny?"

"In his office."

"Since when?"

"Since eight o'clock."

"And what time is it now?"

"Ten."

"Good. Tell Jean to serve breakfast here in my boudoir, and then go and tell Monsieur de Larsagny that I await him."

A quarter of an hour later the banker appeared in the boudoir.

He ate so greedily that Carmen impatiently exclaimed:

"Are you not yet satisfied?"

"Really, I have a good appetite this morning," nodded Larsagny.

"Do you know how your phenomenal appetite appears to me?" asked Carmen, laughing.

"No. What do you mean?"

"Well, I mean that you must have been starving at one time, and since then you always feel greedy."

Larsagny shuddered and his brow contracted.

"Do not speak of such things; I cannot bear it," he said, with a frown.

"Why not? Not every one comes to the world as a millionnaire. I, for instance, as a child, have suffered more than once from hunger, and—"

"Carmen, be silent," said the banker, sternly; "you'll spoil my appetite if you talk so."

"I should think your appetite would be stilled by this time. What you have already eaten would have fed an army."

Larsagny did not answer. He was busy eating an Edam cheese, and not until all the plates were empty did lie lay his knife and fork on the table, and, breathing more freely, say:

"So, now I can stand it for a little while."

Carmen rang the bell. The table was cleared off, and as soon as the servant had brought the cigarettes and cigars, the girl motioned to him to leave.

Carmen lighted a cigarette, and, leaning back in her chair, said:

"I have something important to say to you."

"What is it?" asked Larsagny.

"Oh! different things," replied Carmen.

"About money? Do not be timid."

"It is not about money, but about an information."

"An information?" asked the banker.

"Yes."

"Really, Carmen, you are speaking in riddles to-day—"

"Which you will, I hope, solve for me," interrupted the young lady, dryly. "In the first place, what is the meaning of your gigantic appetite?"

"Ah! that's very simple; I am hungry."

"That isn't it. I have seen a great many hungry people. In fact, I have often suffered from hunger when mother had no money to buy bread."

"Carmen, how often have I told you that I do not like these reminiscences?"

"Why not? Take an example from me, and tell me a little of your past."

"Enough—enough!" cried Larsagny, growing pale.

"Answer my questions, and then you shall have quiet."

"Carmen, you are bothering yourself and me unnecessarily. I give you the assurance—"

"As if your assurances had the slightest value for me," interrupted Carmen.

Larsagny smiled in a sickly fashion.

"Carmen, you are childish," he said. "I should think you ought to have known enough of me by this time to—"

"To be able to hate you thoroughly. You have cheated me of my youth and innocence."

"Carmen, for God's sake, not so loud! Suppose some one heard you?" cried the banker, anxiously.

"What do I care? You are a baron, live in Florence, and have a good housekeeper, whose only joy is her eighteen-year-old daughter. One night the mother is away. The baron uses the opportunity to take advantage of the young girl. When the mother returns the next day and learns the truth, she becomes so frightened that she falls dead on the spot. The unhappy girl tries to throw herself into the river, but is prevented from doing so, and finally becomes the mistress of the villain."

"Carmen!"

"Yes, yes, I know I am no better than you. Monsieur de Larsagny, tell me why you do not make me your wife?"

"My God, because—"

"Well? Why do you pause? Do you know what I believe? You are a married man with a dreadful past!"

"Carmen, you are doing me an injury."

"Ha! ha! If I do you a wrong, I am at the most too easy with you."

"Carmen, what is the matter with you?" exclaimed Larsagny, in despair. "Only yesterday you were so affectionate, and now—"

"Bah! Yesterday is yesterday, and to-day is to-day. Either I find out from you who you really are, or—"

"Or?"

"Or I shall find out myself, and should I discover that you have committed some unpunished crime, I shall denounce you, even though you take revenge upon me for it."

Larsagny had sprung up, and looking at Carmen in amazement, he stammered:

"You—would—dare—to do—that?"

"Yes. And if you look at yourself in the glass, you will see that my wildest declarations are far behind the reality. Your answer shines in every color."

"Listen to me, Carmen," said the banker, in a tender voice. "It is time you dropped the subject. I am not an Adonis, and as you have rightly suspected, I have seen a great deal and gone through many troubles, but in spite of all that—"

"Well, in spite of all that?"

"I do not deserve your unjust accusations. Can you, for instance, reproach me for the hunger which bothers me continually?"

"No, only I should like to learn the cause."

"The cause?" repeated Larsagny.

"Yes."

"Then listen. I will tell you everything, even though you should laugh at me. Years ago I was travelling in Italy, and as I had a large sum of money in my pocket, I was attacked by robbers. The wretches locked me in a cell and let me starve. One day I asked for food, and to mock me they made the bandit who guarded me eat his meal in my presence.

"'Can I get a meal here?' I asked of the bandit, who was swallowing some peas.

"'Is your excellency hungry?' asked the fellow (his name was Peppino) in surprise.

"I was angry.

"'What!' I exclaimed in a rage, 'since twenty-four hours I have not eaten a thing, and you ask me if I am hungry.'

"'Then you wish to eat?'

"'Yes, at once, if it is possible.'

"'If you pay for it.'

"'I will pay what you ask,' I cried.

"'What do you wish?'

"'Anything, a chicken or a partridge.'

"'Good. Let us say a chicken.'

"'But have you a cook here?'

"'Certainly,' nodded the bandit, and, raising his voice, he cried: 'A chicken for the gentleman.'

"Ten minutes later a chicken was brought in by a waiter in a frock suit. For a moment I thought I was in the Cafe de Paris.

"I ate the chicken with my eyes, and asked for a knife and fork. Peppino gave them to me, but just as I was about to attack the chicken, he held my hand and said:

"'Pardon me, your excellency, but we get paid here before things are eaten.'

"I looked at him in astonishment.

"'What does the chicken cost?' I asked.

"'Five thousand louis d'ors, or one hundred thousand francs.'

"'Are you crazy? One hundred thousand francs for a chicken?'

"'Your excellency is not aware how hard it is to get chickens in this neighborhood.'"

"Well, and how did the matter end?" asked Carmen.

"I sent the chicken back, and asked for a piece of bread. It was brought to me by Battista, another bandit, on a silver salver.

"'How dear is the bread?' I asked, trembling.

"'One hundred thousand francs.'

"'What! A piece of bread one hundred thousand francs?' I cried in amazement.

"'One hundred thousand francs.'

"'But you asked no more for the chicken?'

"'Prices here are fixed,' replied Peppino; 'pay and you can eat.'

"'But with what should I pay?' I cried in desperation; 'the money I have with me—'

"'Is your whole fortune,' interrupted Peppino. 'You have five million and fifty thousand francs in your portfolio in drafts, and you can get fifty chickens and a half for it.'

"I was astounded. The robbers knew exactly how much money I had, and I saw I had either to pay or to starve.

"'Will I be able to eat in silence?' I asked, 'if I pay?'

"'Certainly.'

"'Good, then bring me some writing materials.'

"I wrote out a draft on Rome for one hundred thousand francs, and received the chicken."

"What was their motive?" asked Carmen.

"Merely to plunder and blackmail me."

"Then they demanded more?" asked Carmen.

"Oh, no. After I had eaten the chicken, I felt thirsty. I called Peppina and told him.

"'You wish to drink something?' he asked.

"'Yes. I am dying with thirst.'

"'I am very sorry to hear it. The wine this year is very bad and very dear.'

"'Then bring me water,' I cried.

"'Oh, water is still dearer.'

"'Then give me a glass of wine.'

"'We only sell by the bottle.'

"'Then bring me a bottle of Orreto.'

"'Directly.'

"'And the wine costs?'

"'Twenty-five thousand francs per bottle.'

"'Swindler! Robber!' I cried, beside myself.

"'Do not talk so loud, master might hear you.'

"'I don't care. Who is your master?'

"'Luigi Vampa.'

"'Can I speak to him?'

"'Yes.'

"Peppino went away, and two minutes later a slimly built, fine-looking man, with dark hair and eyes, stood before me!

"'You want to speak to me?' he asked, politely.

"'Are you the chief of the people who brought me here?' I said.

"'Yes.'

"'What ransom do you wish of me?'

"'Only the five million francs you possess.'

"'Take my life,' I cried, 'but leave me my money.'

"'Your death wouldn't do us any good,' replied the bandit, 'but your money would.'

"'Take a million then?'

"'No.'

"'Two?'

"'No.'

"'Three?'

"'No.'

"'Four?'

"'We leave haggling to usurers.'

"'Then take everything from me and kill me!' I cried in despair.

"'We do not wish to do that.'

"'And suppose I die of hunger?'

"'Then we are not responsible for that.'

"'Keep your wine and I will keep my money.'

"'Just as you please,' laughed Vampa, and went away.

"Two days later I asked for food. A fine dinner was served. I paid a million and stilled my hunger. This continued three days longer, and when I finally counted the contents of my portfolio, I found I had only fifty thousand francs left. I considered what I should do with this sum, and fell asleep over my plans. When I awoke, I was on the road to Rome. When I suddenly looked at myself in a mirror I found to my horror that my hair had turned gray. Since that time I have always feared that I would never have sufficient to eat; and now you know the cause of my ravenous appetite."

"Yet I cannot understand why they should have wanted to torture you so. It must have been an act of revenge," said Carmen.

"You are mistaken," replied Larsagny, "I fear no one and every one esteems me; I—"

"One moment," interrupted Carmen, as she looked fixedly at the banker. "Why did you get frightened at the soiree recently, when the servant announced the Vicomte of Monte-Cristo? I thought you feared no one, baron?"

Larsagny stared at the young girl as if she had been a spectre. Carmen continued:

"I have not finished yet. In the evening I stood on the terrace and heard these words:

"'Monsieur de Larsagny, take care you do not learn my name too soon.'"

"Ah, you are spying on me," cried Larsagny angrily; "have a care or—"

"I do not fear you," said Carmen, calmly; "I will be the first to urge your punishment, if some suspicious circumstance should arise and—"

"Be silent, wretched creature!" cried Larsagny angrily, "be silent, or—"

He grasped a knife and rushed upon Carmen. The latter stared at him in such a way that he dropped the weapon and stammered:

"Carmen, you will drive me crazy!"

At this moment the door opened, and the servant brought in a card which he handed to Larsagny.

"The gentleman is waiting in the parlor," he said; "will the baron receive him?"

Before Larsagny could throw a look at the card, Carmen had grasped it.

"Signor Fagiano," she read aloud, and as the banker with trembling voice said he would be down, she nodded to the servant to go away, and then mockingly said:

"Signor Fagiano has no doubt come to tell the baron his name. Good luck to him!"



CHAPTER XXXVIII

RECOLLECTIONS

Signor Fagiano stood in the beautiful parlor, and a malicious smile played about his lips.

The banker entered now. The scene in the painter's garden would not vanish from his mind. Fagiano had approached him then and triumphantly whispered:

"Monsieur de Larsagny, I know your past."

Larsagny had uttered a cry of terror.

"If I am to remain silent," Fagiano had added, "I must have money."

"But who are you?"

Whereupon the answer had come:

"Take care that you do not find out my name too soon."

With inward fear the banker approached the Italian to-day.

"Signor Fagiano, what brings you here to-day? This is the second time that you have crossed my path, and I hope it will be the last. I do not know you, you do not know me, and I cannot understand to what I am indebted for the honor of your visit. I am very patient, but everything has its limits, and only the position I occupy prevents me from throwing you out."

"Call your servants, Monsieur de Larsagny. I have no fear of publicity," said Fagiano, boldly.

The banker grasped the bell-rope, but let his hand fall again, and Fagiano, who noticed this, mockingly observed:

"Why do you hesitate? Would you prefer to finish our interview without witnesses?"

"Impudent puppy!" hissed Larsagny.

"Do not get excited! Let us come to the point."

"I have been waiting for that a long time," growled Larsagny; "tell me, first of all, who are you?"

Fagiano drew nearer to the banker, and, grinning, said:

"You really do not recognize me?"

"No."

The Italian laughed loudly.

"Then give me two hundred thousand francs," said Fagiano, "and I will disappear forever."

"I would be a fool to give an unknown person a single sou."

"You really do not know my name, then?"

"No."

"H'm; but I know yours."

"That isn't a great thing. My name is known on the street and at Court."

"Yes, the name of Larsagny; as Monsieur Danglars you are also known, though in a different way."

Larsagny trembled and was about to fall.

"You lie!" he hissed.

"What would you say if I told your sovereign that the man he put at the head of the syndicate is only one of that crowd of unhanged thieves who roam about in the world?"

"Wretch, you will say nothing of the kind," cried Danglars (for it was really he); and putting his hand in his breast-pocket he drew forth a revolver and held it at the Italian's breast.

"Softly, softly," said Fagiano, as he took the weapon away from the banker and put it in his pocket. "A little while ago I asked for two hundred thousand francs; now I must increase my demand to half a million."

"You are a fool," said Danglars, pale with rage. "You will never get a sou from me."

"Have no fear about that; as soon as I threaten to expose you, you will submit; I have some piquant details in petto."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Well, I will announce your name at the same time as mine."

"What has that got to do with me?"

"More than you think. Don't you really know me?"

"No."

"So much the worse. But tell me, baron, is Carmen really your daughter?"

"But—who—gives—you—the right—" said Danglars, stammering.

"Next you will deny that you ever had a wife?"

"Leave my wife's name alone."

"Good. Then let us talk of your daughter who is much older and does not bear the name of Carmen."

Danglars hid his face in his hands.

"Baron, you are the friend of the emperor and are very rich, and no one suspects that Baron Larsagny is the former forger and swindler Danglars. One word from me and you sink deep in the mud. It depends on you whether I am to be your friend or your enemy."

"Ah, now I know who you are," said the banker, springing up. "You are Andrea Cavalcanti."

"Right," laughed Fagiano.

"Now I remember. You put a title to your name, played the heir of a great fortune, and entered into near relations with my family. An impudence which the avenging arm of the law punished."

"Yes, I am Benedetto the murderer—Benedetto the criminal. But do you know who my father was?"

"Yes, I heard about the scandalous trial; I was not in France at the time, but—Go on, you," urged Danglars.

"And do you also know the name of my mother, baron?"

"No."

"Well, then, my mother was—the Baroness Danglars."

"The miserable creature—the wretch!" cried Danglars, hoarsely. "But no—you lie, it cannot be so."

"She was my mother," said Benedetto, accenting the word was.

"She was? Is she dead?" asked Danglars, softly.

"Yes, I killed her."

"Horrible," groaned Danglars, wringing his hands.

"If you want proofs," continued Benedetto, coldly, "here they are."

He took Anselmo's writing out of his pocket and handed it to the banker.

"Read," he said, indifferently.

"What do you want from me?" murmured Danglars, hoarsely.

"First, money, and then let us talk further."

"You shall have what you want," replied Danglars.

"Good; now comes the second point."

"Do not torture me any longer," said Danglars.

"Have you forgotten who it was that humiliated you, trod you in the dust?" said Benedetto, laying his hand on the banker's shoulder. "That man is your bad genius as well as mine. It was the Count of Monte-Cristo who taught me the pleasures of life only to throw me back to the Bagnio again. Since I have been free I dream of revenge against him. I know the spot where he is mortal. Can I count on your support?"

"Yes; but I fear our attempts will be fruitless."

"Fruitless? I swear to you that we shall be successful."

"But he is a supernatural man. You might as well attack God."

"And yet he has an Achilles heel! Once more, will you help me?"

"Yes; but I do not understand you."

"The whole of the Count of Monte-Cristo's affection is centred in his son, and through this son we must strike him. He shall suffer all the tortures of hell, and in his son, whom he idolizes, we shall punish him."

"Now I understand you," said Danglars.

"In the first place, you must give me money, and then wait until I call you."

"And you guarantee that the grief will kill him?"

"Yes, I guarantee it."

"Then I am yours."



CHAPTER XXXIX

DISAPPEARED

Let us return to the Vicomte Spero.

Three days had passed since Jane Zild had been taken to the elegant house. She still lay motionless and pale, and Madame Caraman never left her bedside.

A slight moan from the invalid caused Mamma Caraman to bend over her.

"Poor child," she sorrowfully murmured, "she looks as if she were going to die. God knows what way she got the wound—I always fear that she herself fired the shot."

Jane moaned louder and felt her heart with her hand.

"Be still, my dear," whispered Mamma Caraman. She poured a few drops of liquor into a cup and told the girl to drink it.

"No, I will not drink!" said Jane, passionately. "Leave me, I do not want to live," she suddenly cried. "Oh, why did you take the weapon from me? I cannot live with this pressure on the breast. The horrible secret pulls me to the ground—I am sinking—I am sinking! Ah, and she was nevertheless my mother—I loved her so—I love her yet."

With tears in her eyes Mamma Caraman tried to quiet the excited girl, but she could not do so. She pressed lightly on a silver bell which stood near the bed.

In less than five minutes the vicomte appeared.

"Is she worse?" he anxiously asked.

"Yes, she is feverish again, and I thought it might be better to send for a physician."

Spero drew near to the invalid's couch and took her arm to feel her pulse. Strange to say, Jane became calmer as soon as he touched her. The wild-looking eyes lost their frightened look; the lips which had muttered disconnected words closed, and the small hands lay quietly on the silk cover.

"She is sleeping," said Mamma Caraman, "I am sorry now that I called you."

"On the contrary I am glad I came. I will take your place and you can sleep a little."

"Not for the world," cried Mamma Caraman. "I am not tired at all."

"That is very funny; for three days you haven't closed an eye," said the vicomte. "Lie down for an hour, Mamma Caraman. I promise to call you as soon as the invalid stirs."

Mamma Caraman thereupon laid herself upon a sofa, and the next minute she was fast asleep.

An hour later the young girl opened her eyes and looked about her.

"Where am I?" she murmured.

"With me—under my protection," replied Spero, and pressing Jane's hand to his lips he added, "Ah, Jane, why did you wish to die? Did you not know that your soul would take mine along?"

The young girl listened as if in a dream, and unconsciously looked at the vicomte with sparkling eyes.

"Jane, before I saw you I hadn't lived," continued Spero, "but now I know that life is worth living for, and I thank God that he allowed me to find you."

A smile of pleasure flitted across Jane's lips. She did not speak, but Spero felt a warm pressure of the hand, and enthusiastically cried:

"Jane, I love you—love you dearly; Jane, my darling, tell me only once that you love me!"

Jane looked silently at him and then buried her face in her hands, faintly murmuring:

"Yes, Spero, I love you."

"Thanks, my darling, for that word, and now I will leave you. Good-night, Jane—my Jane—oh, how I love you!"

The vicomte left the room and Jane closed her tired eyes.

Suddenly the heavy drapery which covered the door leading to the corridor was thrown aside, a man's form issued therefrom, and his sparkling eyes gazed at the two women.

The man took a vial out of his pocket, and, dropping the contents on a piece of white cloth, he held it to Jane's lips. Jane breathed fainter and fainter—then her breathing ceased—her arms sank by her side—her cheeks became pale as death.

The man watched these terrible changes without the slightest sign of anxiety. Bending down he wrapped her tightly in the silk cover and carried her out of the room in his muscular arms, while Mamma Caraman slept tightly and Spero was dreaming.

* * * * *

The reader will remember that Firejaws, who has died in the meantime, once jokingly compared Fanfaro to a Newfoundland dog, as he found means everywhere to rescue some one.

Fanfaro's presence in Paris is soon explained. His wife and his two children could not stand the Algerian climate long, and so they all came to Paris. Monte-Cristo had begged him to keep an eye on Spero. Since the count's departure not a day had passed but that either Fanfaro or his faithful Bobichel watched every movement of the vicomte, and the night the young man and the painter were walking in the Champs-Elysees, the former clown had followed them as far as the Rue Montaigne. Bobichel then went home.

It was three o'clock when he silently opened the street door. To his surprise Fanfaro met him as he entered, and told him that as he could not work he thought he would take a walk. Bobichel immediately declared that he would accompany him. It was in this way that they had rescued Anselmo and the old woman. Fanfaro very soon found out that the old lady was crazy. Fanfaro believed that there was some connection between the two persons he had saved from a watery grave, and Bobichel thought so too.

The crazy woman sometimes became terribly excited. In such moments she sprang out of the bed, and hiding behind the door silently whined:

"Spare me—I am your mother!"

Irene in such moments tried in vain to quiet her. When the physician examined her, he found a blood-red scar on her bosom, which, no doubt, came from a knife stab.

On the night of the third day after the rescue, Fanfaro sat at Anselmo's bedside. Bobichel had disappeared since forty-eight hours to make inquiries about Spero. Fanfaro heard through him that Spero had not left the Monte-Cristo palace for three days, and could not imagine what was the cause of it.

Anselmo now began to groan. Fanfaro bent over the invalid, and thought he heard the words:

"My daughter—my poor child—ah, is she dead?"

"Who is dead?" asked Fanfaro.

"Ah, she plunged into the water—she is drowned," groaned Anselmo.

Fanfaro could not believe his ears. Did the sick man imagine that the gray-haired woman was his daughter?

"Have you a daughter?" he asked.

"Yes, my Jane—my darling."

Just then the door opened, and Bobichel entered.

"Well?" cried Fanfaro expectantly.

"Ah, Fanfaro, a great misfortune!"

"A misfortune? Does it concern the vicomte?"

"Yes; he has disappeared."

"But, Bobichel, why should that be a misfortune? Perhaps he went on a short journey."

"No, both Coucou and Madame Caraman maintain that his disappearance is a misfortune."

"Tell me all that has happened."

"Then listen. On the evening that the vicomte came back from the soiree, he did not go home directly, but first took an opportunity to rescue a wounded girl."

"A wounded girl?" repeated Fanfaro.

"Yes, a young girl who had been shot in the breast. She was brought by the vicomte to his house."

"I can hardly believe it," muttered Fanfaro.

"Madame Caraman and Coucou are in the corridor; they will confirm my statement."

"Bring them in."

The next minute the Zouave and Caraman were in the room.

"The fault is mine! Ah, I will never forgive myself," cried Mamma Caraman, wringing her hands; and then she went on and told how Spero and Gontram had brought the wounded girl into the house, the care that had been taken of her, and how, at the suggestion of the vicomte, she had lain down on the sofa to rest for an hour.

"When I awoke," she continued, "it was broad daylight. On going over to the bed where the young girl lay, I found, to my surprise, that it was empty. I went to the vicomte's room and told him the girl had disappeared. The vicomte, without saying a word, hurried out of the house in a state of great excitement. Twenty-four hours have passed since then, and he has not been back since, and—"

"What bothers me most," interrupted Coucou, "is the fact that the vicomte took his pistols along."

Fanfaro became pensive.

"Have you any idea how the young girl was wounded?" he asked after a pause, turning to Madame Caraman.

"No, but Monsieur Sabran knows."

"The painter? I shall go to him directly."

"We have been to his house already, but he has not been home since this morning."

"That is bad," murmured Fanfaro. "Do you know the lady's name?"

"No, but I found this note in her pocket. If it is addressed to the young girl, then her name is Jane," said Mamma Caraman, handing Fanfaro an elegant little note.

"Dear Mademoiselle Jane," Fanfaro read, and, penetrated by a recollection, he repeated aloud:

"Jane—Mademoiselle Jane—if it is—but no—it can't be possible—"

A loud cry from the invalid's couch made him pause. Anselmo had gotten up, and, gazing at Fanfaro, stammeringly repeated:

"Jane—my Jane."

"Do you know the young lady?" cried Fanfaro.

"Certainly. Then it wasn't she whom I rescued from the river?"

"No; but for God's sake calm yourself," said Fanfaro, as he saw Anselmo make a motion to spring out of bed.

"I could have imagined that the return of that scoundrel, Benedetto, would bring me misfortune!" cried Anselmo, with flaming eyes.

"Benedetto—who speaks of Benedetto?" asked a hoarse voice.

All turned in the direction from whence the words came. At the door stood the crazy woman. When Anselmo caught sight of her, he uttered a terrible cry.

"Merciful God, where does she come from?" he groaned in terror. "Has the grave given up its dead?"

The crazy woman drew near to him, and grazed his forehead with her bony hand. She laughed aloud, and in a heart-rending voice exclaimed:

"The galley-slave—he—Toulon—the Bagnio—oh! 'tis he!"

Anselmo trembled, and could not turn his eyes away from the old lady, who now wildly called:

"Benedetto! Who mentioned his name? I want to know it!"

"What can this mean?" whispered Fanfaro, shuddering.

"I will acknowledge everything," stammered Anselmo, and hanging his head down he told how he had been a galley-slave at Toulon.

"Who wounded you?" he then asked, turning to the crazy woman.

"My son. He was called Benedetto! Ha! ha! ha! Who could have given him that name? I do not know, for I thought the child was dead, and his father buried him alive in the garden. Benedetto—Benedetto," she suddenly cried, "come and kill me. I cannot live with this bleeding wound in my heart!"

Fanfaro hurried out of the room in search of his wife, and Irene's entreaties had the effect of causing the invalid to follow her. They had already reached the threshhold when the old lady paused, and, turning to Fanfaro, hastily said:

"He has forgiven me long ago, and will not punish me any more. God sent him to the earth to reward and punish, and he has punished them all—all with their own sins. Do you know him? It is the Count of Monte-Cristo!"

She left the room and those who had remained behind looked confusedly at one another.

"I do not understand everything," said Anselmo, faintly; "but what I know I shall confess. Benedetto is a scoundrel and a murderer, and it was he who stabbed his own mother, this poor crazy woman. He is at present in Paris, where he came expressly to revenge himself upon the Count of Monte-Cristo."

"Do you know it positively?" asked Fanfaro uneasily.

Anselmo then related all he knew, and only kept silent with regard to the fact of his being Jane's father.

Fanfaro listened attentively to his words, and then said:

"I shall inform the Count of Monte-Cristo of this. In three days he will be here. You, Anselmo," he added, turning to the ex-convict, "are too weak and sick to take part in our work, but we shall keep you informed if anything important turns up, and—"

"For Heaven's sake," interrupted Anselmo, "do not leave me behind. Let us go at once, every minute is precious! O God, if she lives no more!"

"Let us hope for the best," said Fanfaro, earnestly; "forward then with God for Monte-Cristo and his son!"

"And for my Jane," muttered Anselmo to himself. "God in heaven take my life, but save hers!"



CHAPTER XL

A CONFESSION

Gontram was in love; night and day he only thought of Carmen.

"Either she or no one," he said to himself.

One morning, as he was returning home from a visit, the janitor addressed him.

"Monsieur Sabran," he said, "I have something to tell you."

"Well, what is it?" asked Gontram, expectantly.

"H'm, Monsieur Sabran, it is about a lady," murmured the man.

"A lady? Which lady?"

"I do not know her, and my discretion did not permit me to ask her."

Gontram, in spite of his impatience, laughed. He knew the janitor to be the most inquisitive person in the world, and judged his discretion accordingly.

"Monsieur Alain, won't you tell me what the lady wanted of me?" asked the painter.

"The lady was elegantly dressed, and asked me whether you were at home. When I told her you were not, she took a letter from her pocket and told me to give it to you at once."

"Where is the letter?"

"Here, Monsieur Sabran," said the janitor, taking a perfumed note from his pocket and handing it to the painter.

The latter hastily tore it from his hand and went back to his residence. In his study he threw his gloves and hat on the table, and looked at the note from all sides. It was signed "Carmen," and ran as follows:

"MONSIEUR GONTRAM—Or may I say, my dear friend—I would like to speak to you about a matter of some importance, and beg you to visit me this evening. I expect you at seven o'clock. Ring the garden bell. Be punctual. It concerns the fate of those you love.

"CARMEN."

What did Carmen mean by the expression, "The fate of those you love?" What did she know of his connections? Why should he have to go to the back door? How came it that Carmen asked him to meet her in this peculiar manner?

Punctually at seven o'clock the painter was at the garden gate, and with a trembling hand Gontram pulled the bell-rope and was immediately let in by a maid.

"The lady is waiting," she said.

The maid opened the door of a charming boudoir and allowed Gontram to enter. With his hat in his hand the painter stood still in the centre of the room. The door was now opened, and Carmen, simply attired in black silk, entered. She was pale, but extremely handsome, and Gontram looked admiringly at her.

"Thank you," she said, offering her hand to the painter. "I hardly dared to hope you would come."

"You sent for me, and I have come," replied Gontram.

"Please sit down and listen to me."

Gontram took a seat next to Carmen.

"Monsieur Gontram, do you love me?" she suddenly asked.

Gontram trembled.

"Mademoiselle Carmen," he earnestly said, "I will answer your question candidly. Yes, I love you, love you warmly and tenderly, and if I have hesitated to tell you so, it was because I did not think myself worthy of you. I—"

"Oh, keep still—keep still!"

"But, Mademoiselle Carmen," said Gontram, "you know you can rely on me!"

For a time they were both silent.

"Listen to me," she finally said; "I hope you will not misunderstand me. Monsieur Gontram, I know that you are a brave, honest man. When you kissed me on the little balcony three days ago, I felt that you regarded it as a—silent engagement?"

"Yes!" cried Gontram.

"And yet," said Carmen, slowly, "you postponed asking Monsieur de Larsagny for my hand."

"I did not dare—"

"Thank God that you did not do it," cried Carmen, breathing more freely. "No, Gontram, I can never—never be your wife!"

Gontram sprang up.

"Impossible, Carmen!" he cried, passionately. "Tell me that you are joking!"

"No, Gontram, I am not joking," said Carmen, earnestly. "I can never become your wife. Only an honest girl has the right to put her hand in yours."

"Explain yourself more clearly," said Gontram, deadly pale.

"Gontram, I love you, love you tenderly, and if ever there was a pure love, it is mine for you. Before I made your acquaintance I went carelessly through life. Good and bad were unknown meanings to me, and I did not know what blushing was."

Carmen sank exhausted in a chair and burst into tears.

"Carmen, why do you cry?"

"Gontram, these tears are for me—for my lost youth—my tainted soul," whispered Carmen. "Oh, Gontram, I am not what I appear to be. I am not the daughter but the friend of Monsieur de Larsagny!"

Gontram uttered a wild cry, and, beating his face with his hands, he gasped for air; the shot had struck him to the heart.

"Yes, it is the truth," continued Carmen; "I am the friend of an old man. Ah, Gontram, how have I struggled with myself before I found courage enough to inform you of this."

Carmen had fallen to the floor. Clutching Gontram's knee she wept bitterly.

Gontram felt deep pity for her. He placed his hand on her hair, and gently said:

"Carmen, the confession I have just heard has shocked me very much; but, at the same time, it has also pleased me. That you did not wish to hear me, before you told me your story, raises you in my estimation, and let him who is without sin cast the first stone!"

"You do not curse me? Do not cast me off?" asked Carmen, in surprise.

"Carmen, God knows your confession tore my heart; but, the more painful the blow was, the more I comprehended the great extent of my love for you."

Carmen's tears still poured down. Gontram bent over her and tenderly raised her up.

"Carmen," he earnestly said, "tell me, what can I do for you?"

Carmen raised her eyes, which were still full of tears, and tenderly whispered to the young man:

"How good you are! Do you love the Vicomte of Monte-Cristo?" she suddenly asked.

"I love and esteem him. But what makes you speak of the vicomte?"

"Because danger threatens him, and I want you to warn him."

"What is the nature of the danger?" asked Gontram.

"Powerful enemies are united against him, and if we are not more prudent they will crush both him and us."

"Enemies! Who could be an enemy of Spero?"

"One of the enemies is Monsieur de Larsagny!"

"And the other?"

"Have you noticed the Count of Vellini's secretary?"

"Signor Fagiano? Yes, I know him."

"Fagiano is not his real name."

"Do you know it?"

"Not yet, but I hope to very soon. Signor Fagiano and Monsieur Larsagny have met before. When the Vicomte of Monte-Cristo was announced at your soiree the other evening, Monsieur de Larsagny became pale as death, his eyes stared at the young man as if he had been a spectre, and, under pretence of seeking a cooler spot, he hurriedly left the room."

"Yes, I remember," said Gontram.

"As you know, shortly afterward we went out on the balcony and heard two voices quarrelling. One of the voices said: 'Monsieur de Larsagny, take care that you do not know my name too soon.' The next day I asked Monsieur de Larsagny about it, but he gave me evasive replies. Just then the visit of Signor Fagiano was announced and our conversation ended. That day I learned nothing; but two days later, when Signor Fagiano came again, I hid behind the drapery and listened. Don't think bad of me that I did such a thing, but there was no other choice. As soon as the two exchanged their first words, I saw at once they were partners in crime. I heard the Italian say:

"'I have taken the preliminary steps, and guarantee the success of the plan. Revenge is assured for us, but I must have some more money.'

"'Here is what I promised you,' replied Larsagny.

"I heard the crumpling of bank-notes. For a while all was still, and then Monsieur de Larsagny said:

"'What do you intend to do now?'

"'Oh, I have already struck the young fool a blow,' replied the Italian. 'She is in my power, and it will be easy for me to entrap him.'

"'But be careful, the slightest haste might ruin us.'

"'The Vicomte of Monte-Cristo shall suffer; he shall crawl and bend in tortures I shall prepare for him, and my plans are so made that the law cannot reach us.'

"'Then I am satisfied. Ah, if he only suffers for one hour the tortures his father made me undergo,' hissed Larsagny.

"'You shall be satisfied. I have also a debt to settle with him.'

"The conversation was now carried on in such a low tone that I could not understand what was being said. I hurried to my room and made up my mind to draw you into my confidence."

"I thank you, Carmen," cried Gontram; "Spero is a friend, a brother, and I would gladly offer up my life to save his."

"Of whom could Fagiano have spoken when he said: 'She is in my power?'" asked Carmen.

"I hardly know. God help the scoundrels if they touch a hair of his head!" Gontram had risen. He put his arm about the young girl's waist and gently drew her toward him.

"Carmen," he whispered, tenderly, "your confession was a bitter pill for me, but my love for you is the same as ever. Tell me once more that you love me, too!"

"Oh, Gontram, I do not deserve so much kindness," sobbed Carmen.

"Now good-by," said Gontram. "You shall soon hear from me."

A last kiss and they separated.



CHAPTER XLI

ON THE TRAIL

Half dreaming, Gontram strode through the streets. It was ten o'clock when the painter reached the Monte-Cristo palace. To his surprise all was dark, and hesitatingly Gontram pulled the bell.

The footman opened it. When asked if the vicomte was at home, he said he had gone out.

"Gone out? Will he soon return?" asked Gontram.

"We do not know."

"H'm! Can I speak to Madame Caraman?"

"She is also out."

"And the Zouave Coucou?"

"He has gone out, too; and none of them has yet returned."

Just then a carriage rolled up, and Madame Caraman and Coucou got out, followed by Fanfaro and Anselmo.

"Ah, here is Monsieur Gontram," cried Madame Caraman, joyfully, as she caught sight of the painter.

"That is what I call luck," said Fanfaro. "Monsieur Gontram, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Fanfaro. I am an honest man, and devoted to the Count of Monte-Cristo and his son. I fear all is not right with our friends."

"Why not? What has happened?" asked Gontram.

"You shall soon find out, but first let us go inside."

With these words Fanfaro preceded the others and entered the vestibule. The footman ran to him and anxiously cried:

"Monsieur Fanfaro, the vicomte is not at home."

"I know it."

Turning to Coucou, he said:

"Can you remember when the vicomte left the house?"

"Last night."

"About what time?"

"I do not know, I was asleep."

"And I too," sobbed Madame Caraman.

"Coucou, please tell the footman to come here."

The footman came immediately.

"When did Vicomte Spero leave the house?" asked Fanfaro, turning to the man.

"I—I—do not know," stammered the footman.

"You do not know when the vicomte went out?"

"I—that is—well, the vicomte did leave the house, but he returned within an hour."

"Then he must be in the house?" they all repeated.

"I do not know. He has not left it."

"How do you know?" asked Coucou. "The vicomte might have gone out by way of the garden."

"That is not possible," declared the footman. "I locked the gate myself yesterday while the vicomte was in his study."

"We must search every nook and corner," said Gontram.

"We shall do so," said Fanfaro. "Anselmo can remain under Madame Caraman's care, while Coucou can look in the garden and yard, and we in the house."

Coucou disappeared, but soon returned, accompanied by Bobichel.

"I am glad you've come, Bobichel," exclaimed Fanfaro. "We have some fine detective work to do here, and that was always your hobby."

"What is it?" asked Bobichel.

Fanfaro told him the whole story in a few words.

In the meantime Gontram had learned from Mamma Caraman that Jane Zild had disappeared, and the thought flashed through his mind like lightning that Signor Fagiano's remark, which Carmen had overheard, related to her. He told Fanfaro about it, and they both resolved to examine Jane's room.

"There must be a third exit," said Fanfaro; "both the vicomte and Jane have disappeared without the footman's knowing anything about it. We can begin our work now, and may God grant that we find some trail."

Thereupon Fanfaro, Gontram, and Bobichel went to the room Jane had occupied. Gontram walked in advance, and soon all three stood in the beautifully furnished apartment. Bobichel crawled into every corner, and raised the heavy carpet which covered the floor, to see if there were any secret stairs. Then he got on top of Fanfaro's shoulders and knocked at the ceiling. But all was in vain. Nothing could be discovered.

Suddenly Fanfaro's eye rested on a small white spot in the blue, decorated wall. Drawing near to the spot, he saw that a small piece of white silk had been pressed in an almost imperceptible crack.

"Bobichel, your knife," cried Fanfaro, breathlessly.

"Master," said Bobichel, modestly, "there is a secret door there, and they generally have a spring attached to them."

"You are right," replied Fanfaro, "but how discover the spring?"

"I think," remarked Gontram, "that the spring is under one of the small blue buttons with which the wall is decorated. Let us search."

All three began to finger the numerous buttons, and finally Bobichel uttered a cry of triumph. He had turned a button aside and a little iron door noiselessly swung itself on its hinges.

"There is the secret way in which Jane and Spero have disappeared," cried Gontram; "Jane has, no doubt, been abducted. The piece of white satin in the crack must have belonged to the bed-cover, for Madame Caraman told me the cover had disappeared at the same time as the girl. Spero knew of this exit and probably had reasons for leaving the house secretly. Let us go the same way, and perhaps we may find out where the vicomte is."

"So be it," cried Fanfaro, "and then, in Heaven's name, forward!"

Gontram had in the meanwhile sent a note with Coucou to Carmen.

Each one of the three carried a three-armed bronze lamp, and the light they gave forth illuminated the marble steps of a staircase.

Gontram was the first to reach the top stair. At the same moment a hollow noise was heard, and when the comrades turned around to find out the cause of it, they saw that the iron door had closed behind them. They tried in vain to open it again. It did not budge.

"We cannot return," said Fanfaro finally, "therefore forward with God's help."



CHAPTER XLII

THE TRAP

Madame Caraman and Coucou had not exaggerated when they said that the vicomte's condition after Jane's disappearance was terrible. He rushed about madly, and when he could not find the young girl a deep despair took hold of him.

The young man's love for Jane was very great, and when he saw the young girl lying wounded, almost dying, in his arms the world faded from the sight of his intoxicated eyes. Either he must rescue her or go under himself. There was no third road for him.

Madame Caraman's information that Jane had disappeared paralyzed him. She must be sought for and found at any price, even though the world be torn in pieces for it.

But the world did not tear, not an atom moved on his account; and deep night settled about Spero. One night as the vicomte was sitting in the room Jane had occupied, buried in thought, he saw the drapery move slowly and a part of the wall glide slowly back.

In a moment he had sprung up and gone to the spot. A dark opening yawned before him, and as he knew not what fear was, he walked into the corridor which opened before him. Without hesitating, he walked down the marble staircase; the door closed behind him, and he found himself on strange ground.

After Spero had gone down twenty steps he found himself on level ground. He went further and further, and finally stood at the foot of a staircase which led toward the left. Without taking time to consider he ascended it and soon stood before a door—he put his hand on the knob and it opened.

A room furnished in dark red silk lay before the vicomte.

On a black marble table Spero espied an open letter.

The Count of Monte-Cristo had always seen to it that his house was connected in a mysterious way with other buildings. It was only in this way that he was enabled to play the part of a deus ex machina—as Edmond Dantes, Count of Monte-Cristo and Lord Wilmore.

Spero had never heard of this secret passage. Like a man in a dream he strode toward the table, and seizing the note read the following:

"If the son of the Count of Monte-Cristo is not a coward, and wishes to find her whom he has lost, let him go at once to Courberode and hunt up a man named Malvernet, who lives at the so-called Path of Thorns. Here he will find out what he wants to know, and perhaps a little more."

There was no signature to the letter, and Spero cared very little for that. Suddenly his glance happened to fall on a large mirror and he gave a cry of alarm.

Was the pale man with the deep blue rings about his eyes the twenty-one-year-old son of the great count?

"One would think that the few days I have been away from my father had aged me many years," he bitterly muttered. "But no," he added, flaming up; "the enemies of the great count shall not say that his son is not a worthy scion! I will crush them if they touch a hair of Jane's head. My father did not name me Spero for nothing. So long as I breathe I can hope. I will not despair, I will conquer!"

He pulled out his two pistols and examined them, and with a soft, tender "Father, help me," he left the secret chamber.



CHAPTER XLIII

THE PATH OF THORNS

Twenty years ago the village of Courberode looked different from what it does to-day. It consisted of a few miserable fishermen's cabins. One hundred feet from the beach a path filled with thorns led far into the country. The thorns in the course of time had become impenetrable walls, and this gave rise to the name, "The Path of Thorns."

Just behind it stood an old tumble-down house. The basement of this house consisted of a smoky room furnished with one table, two chairs and a flickering oil lamp. A man was walking up and down the low apartment.

"I wonder whether he will come," he muttered to himself.

At this moment a slight noise was heard outside. A knock came at the door.

"Who's there?" asked the man roughly.

"Does a man named Malvernet live here?" came back in reply.

"Yes. Come right in."

Spero entered, his clothes dripping wet, and blue-black hair hanging over his forehead.

"My name is Malvernet," said the other sharply; "what do you wish?"

"Do you know me?" he asked in a firm tone.

"No, I was told to come here and await a man. I was to do as he said and ask no questions. So I came and await your orders."

"Then listen to me. My father is the Count of Monte-Cristo. I am rich, very rich, and I can reward every service rendered me in a princely manner."

A mocking laugh came from the man's lips.

"What do you mean by offering me money?" he gruffly asked. "I have not asked you for payment yet, and perhaps it will not be in cash. Tell me now what you want of me."

"Robbers entered my house last night and robbed me of the dearest jewel I possess—a young girl whom I love."

"What's her name?"

"Jane! You promised to obey my orders, and I only ask you to lead me to Jane."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I will kill you."

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the man, "that is well said."

"Do you refuse to obey me?"

"I did not say that. You need me, while I can get along without you. The game is therefore unequal."

"You are right, and I beg you to forgive me."

"Well then, vicomte, what do you command?"

"Then you really wish to help me?"

"Follow me," said Benedetto (for he was the man), as he opened a door.

"Anywhere," cried Spero, "if I can only find Jane again."

"I will go on in advance, and follow me closely, for the night is pitch dark and we might lose each other."

Spero nodded, and they both walked out into the pouring rain. Oh, why was the Count of Monte-Cristo far away? Why had he spared the wretch, when the sea cast him up? Why had he prevented Bertuccio from crushing the head of the poisonous reptile?

For a time the criminal and his company walked on in silence.

Suddenly it appeared to Spero as if the end of the way had been reached, and, pausing, he asked:

"Where are we?"

"On the banks of the Seine; in a few minutes we will be at the place."

"My poor Jane," murmured Spero, "how terrible it is to look for you in this deserted quarter."

"Are you afraid?" asked Benedetto mockingly.

Spero did not answer the impudent question.

"Go on," he coldly said.

Benedetto turned into a narrow path. Suddenly he stopped short and said:

"Here we are!"

Spero looked about him! In front of him rose a tall, gloomy building, and it appeared to him as if rough singing were going on within.

"Is this really the house?" asked the vicomte, unconsciously shuddering.

"Yes."

"It looks like a low den, and who guarantees me that I am not being led into a trap?"

"Vicomte of Monte-Cristo," replied Benedetto, "if I desired to murder you I could have done so long ago."

"You are right."

Just then coarse laughter and the noise of a falling body came from the inside of the house.

"Let us go into the house," cried Spero excitedly. "God knows what may be going on there."

Benedetto shoved his arm under the vicomte's and opening the door said:

"You will find more here than will please you."

They both entered a dark corridor now, the door fell back in the lock and Spero asked:

"Where are we?"

"On the spot," mockingly said Benedetto.

At the same time Spero felt the arm of his companion slip from under his, and he was alone. The room in which he was had neither windows nor doors, and gritting his teeth the young man said:

"The wretch has ensnared me in a trap."

Something extraordinary happened now. The wall before him opened, and an open space came to view. The room lighted up, and Spero saw—Jane, but, merciful God, in what company!

She formed the centre of a wild orgy; glasses rang, coarse songs and oaths were heard from the lips of a crowd of shameless men and women who surrounded Jane, and uttering a loud cry Spero buried his face in his hands.



CHAPTER XLIV

THE PASHA

As we have stated, Gontram had given a note to Coucou to deliver to Carmen. When the Jackal reached the palace in the Rue Rivoli he stopped in amazement. The doors were wide open and the whole front of the house swam in light.

The Zouave entered a restaurant opposite, ordered a bottle of wine, and began a conversation with the waiter.

"What is going on to-day in the Larsagny palace?" he asked.

"Oh, the banker is giving a great ball," said the waiter.

"He is very rich, I suppose."

"Enormously so."

At this moment a soldier entered the restaurant and, approaching the waiter, asked:

"Can you not tell me, good friend, where Monsieur de Larsagny lives?"

"About a hundred feet away in that brilliantly illuminated house—you cannot miss it."

"Thanks," said the soldier. As he was about to turn away, a well-known voice cried to him:

"Well, Galoret, what do the dear Bedouins do now?"

"Hello, Coucou—where do you hail from?" cried the soldier, joyously.

"Rather tell me where you come from?"

"Ah, I have been only three days in Paris."

"What business have you in the Larsagny palace?" he asked.

"Oh, I must deliver a letter."

"So must I; from whom, if I may ask?"

"Oh, it is no secret. I have a Bedouin prince for a friend who accompanied me to Paris. About two hours ago my pasha fell down the stairs of his hotel and broke his right leg. The doctor says that it will take six weeks for the leg to be cured. As he was invited to a ball at the Larsagny palace to-night—"

"Does he know the banker?" interrupted Coucou.

"No—Mohammed Ben Omar is in Paris for the first time. As the pasha is unable to attend the ball, I have to bring his letter of excuse, and now I must really go on my way."

Coucou pretended not to hear these last words. He gazed at a group of men who sat at a side table, and whispered to Galoret:

"Look at those fools. How they stare at you. One would think they had never seen a Chasseur d'Afrique."

"Impertinent scoundrels," growled Galoret, and, turning to the gentlemen, he cried in an angry tone of voice:

"You boobies, have you looked at my uniform long enough?"

The gentlemen answered in not very polite tones. Galoret couldn't stand this. One word led to another, and finally chairs were taken up to settle the discussion.

Policemen now interfered. Galoret and two others with bloody heads were locked up, and then only did the chasseur remember his errand.

Coucou was waiting for this moment. He introduced himself to the policemen and offered to carry the letter himself. The policemen offered no opposition, Galoret thanked him, and Coucou satisfied his conscience with the maxim of Loyola, that "the end justifies the means."

"Now I can enter the Larsagny palace," he said to himself; "as the pasha they will admit me."

Coucou jumped into a carriage and told the coachman to drive to the Rue de Pelletier.

A quarter of an hour later a Bedouin clad all in white, whose brown complexion and coal-black eyes betrayed his Oriental origin, left the store of an elegant place in the Rue de Pelletier and, stepping into the coach which stood at the door, he cried to the coachman:

"Rue de Rivoli, Palais Larsagny!"

The horses started off, the carriage rolled along, and the Bedouin, in whose turban a ruby glittered, muttered to himself:

"One can get through the world with cheek!"



CHAPTER XLV

HOW CARMEN KEEPS HER WORD

If Carmen had not hoped to serve Gontram and his friends she would have left the Larsagny palace at once, but under existing circumstances prudence prompted her to stay and not to repulse the banker entirely; for she suspected that Larsagny held in his hand the threads of the mystery which threatened the Vicomte of Monte-Cristo. Carmen did not have much time to think, for hardly an hour after Gontram had gone, the banker appeared in the boudoir, and looking with astonishment at her, he said:

"What does this mean, Carmen? Our guests will soon be here, and you are not yet dressed."

"Our guests?" repeated Carmen, in amazement.

"Yes. Have you forgotten that the ball for which you yourself sent out invitations ten days ago, takes place to-night?"

"Really, I had forgotten all about it," stammered Carmen. "It is all the same, though; I have a headache and shall remain in my room."

"But, Carmen, what shall we do if you do not appear?"

"That is not my affair," replied Carmen, laconically.

The banker ran his hands through his hair in despair.

"Carmen, be reasonable," he implored, as he tried to take her hand.

"Don't touch me," said Carmen.

Larsagny bit his lips.

"What have I done to you?" he groaned. "Think of the shame if the ladies appear and find out that my daughter has retired to her room."

Carmen became pensive. Perhaps it might be better if she took part in the ball; she might hear something of interest to Gontram.

"Well, if you desire it, I will appear, but under one condition," she said, coldly.

"Name it."

"I demand that you shall not present me to any one as your daughter."

"But what shall I say?"

"Anything else. And now go, I must make my toilet."

"Carmen, I have one more favor to ask of you."

"Well?"

"I must leave the house about twelve o'clock for one or more hours—"

"He lies," thought Carmen to herself.

"To do this," continued Larsagny, "I must pretend some sudden sickness. You will have me brought to my room, and then—"

"Since when are the bankers and the money-brokers at night in their offices?" asked Carmen.

"But—"

"Do you mean to tell me that you have business on the Bourse at midnight?"

"Carmen, I swear to you that—"

"If you imagine that you can make me your accomplice in some crime that you are planning, you are mistaken. I will be the first one to deliver you over to the law."

Larsagny trembled, but he tried to smile, and with a hasty au revoir he went away.

Carmen hastily dressed herself; she didn't pay much attention to her toilet, and went down to the parlors, where a number of guests were already assembled.

* * * * *

The greatest names of the empire had been announced by the lackeys.

Suddenly a murmur ran through the assembly. "Mohammed Ben Omar," the lackey had called, and all crowded about the reception-room to see the pasha.

With genuine Oriental grandeur the pasha slowly walked toward the host. Larsagny bowed deeply; the Bedouin answered the greeting by placing his right hand over his heart. That ended the conversation for the present, for Mohammed made a sign that he did not understand a word of French. Only when he saw a remarkably handsome woman he would say:

"Pretty woman."

Carmen had been distinguished in this way, and Larsagny, who felt flattered by it, tried to make the pasha comprehend that she was his daughter.

"Ah, pretty, pretty," repeated the Mussulman, and the banker, his face lighted up with joy, said:

"May I introduce her?"

Mohammed nodded.

Carmen bowed politely when the introduction was made, and said nothing. Omar offered her his arm, and murmured as he pointed to some pictures.

"Allah il Allah. I come from the painter Gontram. Mohammed resoul il Allah."

"The pasha evidently wishes you to show him the picture-gallery," said Larsagny.

"Then come," said the young girl to the Oriental.

As soon as Omar was alone with his companion, he whispered:

"Pardon me, I have to speak to you."

"Who are you?" asked Carmen.

"A friend, a former Zouave in the service of the Count of Monte-Cristo."

"Well, what have you?"

"A note from the painter Gontram."

"Give it to me—quickly."

Coucou drew the letter from the folds of his bernouse and gave it to the young girl. It read as follows:

"Carmen, my friends are in danger; Jane Zild has been abducted and Spero has disappeared. If every sign does not deceive, the banker must know something about it. Perhaps you may be able to find out the secret.

"In great haste,

"G. S."

Carmen breathed more freely after she had read the lines.

"Well?" said the Zouave, expectantly.

"Go back to Monsieur Sabran and tell him I will move heaven and earth to find out the secret. Gontram is still in the Monte-Cristo palace, is he not?"

"Yes."

"If I have occasion to go there will I be admitted?"

"Yes."

At this moment a servant rushed into the parlor and exclaimed:

"Mademoiselle, Monsieur de Larsagny has suddenly become ill."

"I shall come soon," said Carmen, coldly, and nodding to Coucou, she went away.

In the banker's room great confusion reigned. The master of the house lay motionless, with closed eyes, on a divan. A physician who happened to be present, suggested opening a vein, and Carmen stood at the bedside, not knowing what to do.

At length she consented, and while the operation was being performed, Carmen searched all of Monsieur de Larsagny's pockets. She soon discovered a letter, and hurried with it to her room. The note read as follows:

"Our revenge is assured. Fanfaro, Gontram, and a former clown determined to discover the vic.'s whereabout, and thanks to their curiosity they have fallen into a trap in the M. C. palace. The little one is in the house in Courb., and the son of the man against whom we have sworn eternal hate will come too late.

"C."

Carmen at once understood the meaning of these lines. She knew the house in Courbevoie spoken about, and throwing a long black cloak over her shoulders she left the palace by the rear door.



CHAPTER XLVI

IN COURBEVOIE

We left Spero at the moment when the walls of the room he was in opened and presented the horrible spectacle which met his eyes. In what way had the poor child got in such company? Benedetto, of course, had done this dastardly act. He had drugged her after he had abducted her from Monte-Cristo's house, and the poor girl was unable to give utterance to a cry. She saw everything that went on about her, but was unable to say a word. And Spero had to gaze at these terrible scenes; he could not keep his eyes away. He tried in vain to find a means of entering the hall. The whole scene had been arranged by Benedetto and Larsagny in a satanic spirit. Larsagny owned the house in Courbevoie, and had often presided at its bacchanalian revels. Carmen had not called him a master of immorality for nothing. While Spero was beating the iron railing in despair, the light suddenly went out and all was still. The vicomte strained his eyes to see what was going on in the hall, and not seeing anything, waited in the agony of fear for what was coming.

In about ten minutes it became light again in the hall, and now the young man saw Jane again, but this time she was alone.

Spero breathed more freely, and, beside himself, he called:

"Jane! Jane! come to me!"

At the rear of the hall a door opened, and Spero recognized in a man who crossed the threshold—Monsieur de Larsagny.

Larsagny drew near to Jane, and, sinking upon his knees, he pressed his lips to the young girl's hand. Spero breathlessly followed Larsagny's movements, and when he saw that Jane made no resistance, he became violent. With all his strength, he threw himself against the iron railing; it gave way, and with a cry Spero rushed upon Monsieur de Larsagny. In a second the banker lay on the floor. Throwing his arms about Jane, Spero cried:

"Jane, my darling, do you not know me? I am—Monte-Cristo."

"Monte-Cristo!" cried Larsagny, in terror, and with a gasp he fell back dead—a stroke of apoplexy had put an end to his life.

Spero did not know that he was the living picture of his father. Edmond Dantes had just looked like that when he was arrested at Marseilles through the intrigues of Danglars, Fernand and Villefort, and Danglars-Larsagny had thought it was Monte-Cristo who stood before him.

Jane still lay motionless in Spero's arms. The vicomte called despairingly for help, but none came.

Suddenly it occurred to him that Jane's condition was due to some narcotic, and with a cry of joy he pulled a small crystal vial from his breast pocket. It contained a liquid the Abbe Faria had taught Edmond Dantes how to make. Putting the vial to Jane's lips, he poured a few drops down her throat.

The effect was instantaneous. Jane uttered a deep sigh, and looked at the young man with returning consciousness.

"Spero!" she cried. "You here in this terrible place? Oh, go—go away; you must not stay here."

"Jane, I have come to take you with me."

"No!—oh, no! I am accursed! I must not accompany you!" sobbed the young girl.

"What nonsense, child. You have been abducted from my house and brought here against your will. Come with me; I will bring you away, or else die with you!"

"Not for any price," groaned Jane. "Go—leave this place, and let me die! I cannot live any longer—the shame kills me."

"Jane, do not speak so. Jane, my Jane, do you really refuse to accompany me?"

"God forgive me if I do wrong; I cannot leave you," she murmured, as she threw herself into the young man's arms.

But at this moment the coarse songs sounded again, and a man entered the hall. It was Benedetto!



CHAPTER XLVII

THE DEVOTED

Coucou had not taken time to change his clothes when he presented himself to Madame Caraman on his return home, and the worthy woman uttered a cry of astonishment.

"What is the meaning of this?" she asked. "I think that we have more serious things to think of than masquerading."

"Come, do not speak before you know everything," replied the Zouave; and in a few words he told her the story of his disguise.

"Where can Monsieur Sabran be?" asked Madame Caraman.

"What!" exclaimed Coucou, "where is he then?"

"I haven't seen him, nor Fanfaro, nor Bobichel since."

"Impossible! Are they still in Jane's room?"

"Perhaps."

"I cannot understand it, and—"

A hollow noise caused Coucou to keep silent. He and Madame Caraman looked at each other in terror.

"What can that be?" asked Madame Caraman.

Before Coucou could answer the question, the noise was repeated.

"The noise comes from the right side," said Coucou, who had been listening; "let us hurry to Gontram and Fanfaro, and call their attention to it."

Mamma Caraman nodded, and they both went to Jane's room.

It was empty!

"This is getting worse and worse," cried Coucou, anxiously. "Do you know what I think? This room has a secret exit, and through it Jane, the vicomte, and Gontram and his comrades have disappeared."

"What are you going to do?"

"Break down the house if necessary," said Coucou, beginning to trample upon the floor.

"But you are ruining the carpet!" cried Mamma Caraman.

The sound of the door-bell at this minute prevented Coucou from replying. In front of the door stood Carmen.

"Thank Heaven you have come, mademoiselle."

"You haven't found Gontram yet?"

"No."

"Monsieur Gontram and his comrades are in subterranean chambers in this house."

"Knock at the walls, Coucou," said Madame Caraman, "and then we can wait for an answer."

Coucou knocked three times with a hammer against the wall. At the end of the second knock came back in answer twenty-five.

"What does that mean?" asked Coucou, in affright.

"I know," cried Carmen; "twenty-five knocks signify the letters of the alphabet!"

"Then we must answer to show that we understand the language," said Madame Caraman. "Coucou—quick—twenty-five knocks."

The Zouave did as he was told, and the answer came back in one knock which meant "yes."

Nine further knocks followed.

"I," said Carmen.

Nineteen knocks.

"S," whispered Carmen.

Seven knocks.

"G."

Ten knocks.

"J."

Two knocks.

"B."

Twenty knocks.

"T."

Carmen now read the meaning of this:

"There is an iron door under the wall decoration."

Coucou soon found the secret door.

At the end of five minutes Fanfaro, Bobichel and Gontram were again with their friends. In a few words Carmen related what had brought her there, and showed the letter she had taken from Larsagny.

"In Courbevoie!" cried Gontram. "How shall we find Spero there?"

"I know the house," said Carmen; "it belongs to the banker, and I believe we shall find the vicomte there."

"May God grant it."

Ten minutes later they were all on the road to Courbevoie.



CHAPTER XLVIII

UNITED IN DEATH

When Benedetto entered the hall he was neither Malvernet, Cavalcanti or Fagiano. He was simply Benedetto.

"Whoever you are," cried the vicomte, "I implore you to help me bring this poor child out of here."

"Vicomte," replied Benedetto, coldly, "I will not help you, and you'll not bring this woman away from here."

"I will shoot you down like a dog," said Spero, contemptuously.

With these words he pulled out a pistol and held it toward Benedetto.

"You wish to commit murder, vicomte!"

"Do not speak of murder, wretch? You robbed me of my freedom, and this poor child, whose innocence ought to be sacred to you, you—"

"The poor innocent child," interrupted the ex-convict. "You told me it was brought here against its will!"

"Scoundrel, you lie!" cried Spero, angrily.

Benedetto laughed coarsely.

"Jane Zild," he then said, drawing back a step, "tell the Vicomte of Monte-Cristo that you are worthy of him. Don't you remember who your mother was, what your mother was, and where she died?"

"Mercy," cried Jane, throwing herself at Benedetto's feet. "Mercy!"

"Jane Zild, shall I tell the vicomte who your father was?"

"My father?" stammered Jane, confused.

"Yes, your father. Do you not remember a man who took care of you after your mother died? The man was formerly a galley-slave named Anselmo. Before that he wore the dress of a priest. Jane Zild is the daughter of the convict of Toulon and the woman of Lyons."

"Miserable scoundrel," cried Spero, "you lie! If you have weapons, let us fight. Only one of us dare leave this room alive."

"Just my idea," said Benedetto, as he took two swords from under his cloak. "Choose, and now vogue ma galere."

"The motto is no doubt derived from your past," said Spero.

"You shall pay for that, boy," hissed Benedetto as he placed himself in position.

A hot struggle ensued, and Benedetto was finally driven against the wall.

"Wretch!" exclaimed Spero, "your life is in my hands; beg for mercy, or I shall stab you through the heart."

"I beg for mercy? Fool, you do not know what you are speaking of! I hate you—I hate your father—take my life, or, as true as I stand here, I shall take yours!"

"Then die," replied Spero, and with a quick movement he knocked Benedetto's sword out of his hand and made a lunge at him!

But the lunge did not reach Benedetto's heart, but that of the young girl! At the same moment a shot rang through the hall, and Jane and Spero sank lifeless to the floor.

How had this horrible thing happened?

At the moment Benedetto saw Spero's sword turned toward his heart, he seized the pistol the vicomte had carelessly laid aside, and fired at his opponent. Jane saw the wretch seize the pistol. She threw herself into Spero's arms to save her lover, and received the death-blow from his hand!

* * * * *

The moment Spero breathed his last, loud cries were heard throughout the house, and many voices called Spero's name.

Benedetto grew pale. How could he save himself? Only one way was left to him, and he hesitated to carry it out.

Hasty steps were now heard coming along the corridor. Tearing the window open, Benedetto swung himself on the sill. He looked into the dark waters of the Seine, and firmly muttered: "Forward! Down there is hope; here, death!"

Fanfaro, Gontram, Carmen, Bobichel and Coucou now hurried into the hall. Benedetto looked at them with flaming eye, and mockingly cried:

"You are too late! I have killed Monte-Cristo's son!"

The next minute he had disappeared, and, while the waves rushed over him, Fanfaro and Gontram rushed toward Spero's body, and Fanfaro sobbingly exclaimed:

"Too late! Too late! Oh, poor, poor father!"



CHAPTER XLIX

THE SPECTRE

Just as Benedetto had uttered the mocking words to the friends of Spero, the form of a man appeared in the doorway. He threw one horror-stricken look at the bodies, a second one at the ex-convict, swung himself also on the window-sill, and plunged in after Benedetto. It was Anselmo.

The water was ice-cold, but neither of them paid any attention to it. Benedetto only thought of saving himself, and Anselmo of his revenge. Benedetto did not know he was being pursued. Who would risk his own life to follow him? No, it was madness to imagine so. But now he heard some one swimming behind him. If he could reach the bushes of Nemilly he would be safe. He did not dare turn about—he felt frightened and his teeth chattered.

At length the long-looked-for bank was seen—a few more strokes and he would be saved. Now—now he pressed upon the sand. Dripping, trembling with cold, he swung himself upon dry land and looked back at the dark waters. He could see nothing: his pursuer had evidently given up the project.

Anselmo had really lost courage. He had the greatest difficulty to keep himself afloat. Suddenly his almost paralyzed hand grasped a plank; he clambered on it, and reached the shore with its aid. He landed about one hundred feet away from Benedetto. Now he saw the hated wretch. But was it a vision, a play of his excited fancy? It seemed to him as if Benedetto were hurrying toward the water again! Behind him moved a white shadow; it seemed to be pursuing the scoundrel, and they were both flying toward the shore.

Benedetto did not turn around. Did he fear to see the white form? Both came toward Anselmo. Benedetto looked neither to the right nor to the left. Now his foot touched the water. Then came a soft, trembling voice on the still night air:

"Benedetto—my son! Benedetto—wait for me!"

With a cry of terror, Benedetto turned around. There stood his mother whom he had murdered. She pressed her hand to the breast her son's steel had penetrated. Now she stretched out her long, bony fingers toward him—she threw her lean arm around his neck, and he could not cry out. Slowly they both walked toward the river. They set foot on the dark space—they sank deeper and deeper, and now—now the waves rushed over them! Outraged nature was done penance to. The mother, whom Benedetto had stabbed in the breast, had drawn her son with her into a watery grave.

* * * * *

The next morning fishermen found the body of an unknown man in the bushes—it was Anselmo. He had breathed his last as the sun just began to rise—his last word was:

"Jane!"



CHAPTER L

Deep silence reigned in the Monte-Cristo palace—the silence of death. Everything was draped in mourning, and on a catafalque rested the bodies of Spero and Jane.

They were all dead—Danglars, Villefort, Mondego, Caderousse and Benedetto—but Monte-Cristo was alive to close the eyes of his dearly beloved son.

Mockery of fate! The two men who watched the corpses waited with anxiety for the moment when the Count of Monte-Cristo should enter.

Before the vision of the older man rose the atrocious scenes at Uargla. He saw Spero, a bold, brave boy, scaling the towers—he heard his firm words, "Papa, let us die"—and felt the soft, childish arms wind about his neck. This was Fanfaro.

The other watcher was Gontram. Coucou, Bobichel and Madame Caraman were paralyzed with grief. The Zouave would willingly have died a thousand deaths if he only could have saved the life of his young master.

The third day dawned, and Gontram and Fanfaro looked anxiously at each other. To-day the count must come.

Toward evening the door was suddenly opened. Slowly, with a heavy tread, a tall man approached the catafalque, and, sinking on his knees beside it, hid his pale face in the folds of the burial cloth. The count looked neither to the right nor to the left; he saw only his son. Not a sound issued from his troubled breast; but with a cold shiver Fanfaro and Gontram noticed that the count's black hair was slowly becoming snow-white, and with profound pity the friends gazed upon the grief-stricken man, who had become old in an hour.

Monte-Cristo now bent over his son and clasped the dear corpse in his powerful arms. He went slowly and noiselessly to the door. Fanfaro and Gontram stood as if in a daze; and not until the door had closed behind the count did they recover their self-possession. They hurried after him, they tried to follow his track; but it was useless. The count had disappeared together with his son's body.