The Son of Monte-Cristo, Volume II

by Jules Lermina

CHAPTER XXVII

BENEDETTO'S REVENGE

A Letter of the Count of Monte-Cristo to his son, Vicomte Spero

"My Dearly Beloved Son—To-day is the anniversary of your rescue from the hands of that terrible Maldar, and although twelve years have passed since then, I still feel the effects of the fright I sustained. Thanks to faithful friends, you were saved to us; God bless them for it, and give you and me an opportunity to repay them for what they have done for us.

"In regard to myself this opportunity must come soon, for I have passed my sixtieth year, and my strength is failing.

"Yes, my dear Spero, your father, who was to you the incarnation of energy, is now only a broken-down man; since my poor wife died, all is over with the Count of Monte-Cristo. Five years, five long years, have passed since your dear mother breathed her last in my arms, and I, who never wept before, have cried like a child. How insignificant, how feeble I thought myself when I saw the cheeks of my dear wife become paler day by day and her beautiful eyes lose their sparkle. What good was all the art and science I had learned from the Abbé Faria to me if I could not rescue her? Like avenging spirits, the shades of all those upon whom I had taken revenge rose up before me: Villefort, Danglars, Morcerf, Benedetto, Maldar, had all been overcome by me, but death was stronger than I am—it took her from me!

"My blood, my life, I would have given for that of your mother, but it was all of no use, death would not give up its prey. At that time, my dear son, you were sixteen years old. Your tears mingled with mine and you cried out in deep grief: 'Ah, mother, if I could only die for you!'

"Spero, do you know what it is to feel that a person has deceived himself? I spent my life to carry out what I thought to be right, the punishment of wrong-doers and the rewarding of those who do good. I was all-powerful as long as it was a question of punishing the guilty, but as weak and feeble as a child when I attempted to make good the wrong I did in an excess of zeal, and all my tears and entreaties were of no avail.

"What good did it do that I rescued Albert, the son of the Countess Mercedes, from the murderous flames of Uargla? Two years later he was shot in the coup d'état of December, and his mother died of a broken heart.

"Maximilian Morrel and Valentine de Villefort met an early and a fearful death—they fell victims to the insurrection of the Sepoys in India, in the year 1859.

"You inherited from your mother everything that is good, noble, and sublime; from me a thirst for knowledge, energy, and activity. Would to God I could say that you did not also inherit my arrogance, my venomous arrogance. Spero, by the time you receive this letter, I shall be far away; yes, I am going away, and voluntarily place upon myself the heaviest burden, but it must be.

"Will you be able to understand me and my motives? Ah, Spero, I cannot help domineering over those about me, and that is why I am going.

"So long as you are at my side, you are not yourself. You look at life with my eyes, you judge according to my ideas, and my opinion is decisive for you in everything you do and think.

"You do not regard me as a man, but as a supernatural being. Far from me you will learn the meaning of responsibility for one's acts, and if not now, later on, you will be grateful to me for this temporary separation.

"Spero, I have furnished you with the best weapons for the struggle of life, and it is about time that you take up your arms and begin your first battle with life.

"You are now twenty-one years of age. You are brave and courageous, and will not shrink from any obstacle. You are rich, you have knowledge—now it must be seen whether you possess the will which guarantees success.

"Your path is smooth—no enemy threatens you, and a crowd of friends stand at your side. I have never had a real friend. Those who acted as such were either servants or poor people, and only those who are situated similarly and think alike can understand the blessings of friendship.

"My son! give generously, believe in humanity, and do not distrust any one; real experience is gained only by mistakes.

"Murder is the worst crime, for it can never be made good again. Of the old servants, I shall leave only Coucou with you. He is devoted to you and loves you enthusiastically. The brave Zouave will yearn for me, but console him by telling him I have gone for your good and tell yourself the same thing, should you feel likewise. With best love,

Your Father."

---

CHAPTER XXVIII

SPERO

The Vicomte of Monte-Cristo was a wonderfully handsome man. The grace of his mother and the stalwart build of his father were united in him. His dark hair fell in wavy locks over his high white forehead, and the long eyelashes lay like veils upon his cheeks.

The young man's surroundings were in every particular arranged with consummate taste. The vicomte had inherited from his parents a taste for Oriental things, and his study looked like a costly tent, while his bedroom was furnished with the simplicity of a convent cell. The Count of Monte-Cristo had taught his son to be strict to himself and not become effeminate in any way. Nice pictures and statues were in the parlors, the bookcase was filled with selected volumes and he spent many hours each day in serious studies. Spero was a master in all physical accomplishments. His father's iron muscles were his legacy, and the count often proudly thought that his son, in case of need, would also have found the means and the way to escape from the Chateau d'If.

The vicomte sat at his writing-desk and was reading his father's letter when Coucou entered. The Zouave had changed somewhat. He no longer wore a uniform or the little cap of a Jackal, but had changed them for a dark brown overcoat. His eyes, however, still sparkled as merrily as ever, and Coucou could laugh as heartily as ever.

"When did the count leave the house?" asked Spero, whose voice reminded one of his father's.

"This evening, vicomte," replied Coucou, with military briefness.

"Why was I not called?"

"The count forbade it. He ordered me to place the letter which you found on the writing-table and—"

"Did the count go alone?"

"No, Ali accompanied him."

"In what direction did he go?"

"I do not know. I was called to the count at two o'clock this morning, and after I had received the letter, I went away."

"Without asking any questions?"

"Oh, vicomte, no one asks the Count of Monte-Cristo for a reason," cried Coucou, vivaciously. "I am not a coward, but—"

"I know you possess courage," replied the young man.

"Sapristi—there, now, I have allowed myself to go again. I know that my way of speaking displeases you, vicomte, and I will try next time to do better."

"What makes you think that your language displeases me?" asked Spero, laughing.

"Because—excuse me, vicomte, but sometimes you look so stern—"

"Nonsense," interrupted Spero; "I may sometimes look troubled, but certainly not stern, and I beg you not to speak differently from what you were taught—speak to me as you do to my father."

"Ah, it is easy to speak to the count," said Coucou, unthinkingly; "he has such a cheering smile—"

A frown passed over Spero's face, and he gently said:

"My father is good—he is much better than I am—I knew it long ago."

"Vicomte, I did not say that," cried the Zouave, embarrassed.

"No, but you thought so, and were perfectly right, my dear Auguste; if you wish to have me for a friend, always tell the truth."

"Yes, sir," replied Coucou, "and now I have a special favor to ask you, vicomte."

"Speak, it is already granted."

"Vicomte, the count never calls me Auguste, which is my baptismal name, but Coucou. If you would call me Coucou, I—"

"With pleasure. Well, then, Coucou, you know nothing further?"

"Nothing."

"It is good. You can go."

The Zouave turned toward the door. When he had nearly reached it, Spero cried:

"Coucou, stay a moment."

"Just as you say, vicomte."

"I only wished to beg you again," said Spero, in a low, trembling voice, "not to think me stern or ungrateful. I shall never forget that it was you who accompanied my father and me to Africa, and that you placed your own life in danger to rescue mine."

"Ah, vicomte," stammered the Zouave, deeply moved, "that was only my duty."

"That a good many would have shirked this duty, and that you did not, is why I thank you still to-day. Give me your hand in token of our friendship. Now we are good friends again, are we not?"

With tears in his laughing eyes, Coucou laid his big brown hand in the delicate hand of the vicomte. The latter cordially shook it, and was almost frightened, when the Zouave uttered a faint cry and hastily withdrew his fingers.

"What is the matter with you?" asked Spero, in amazement.

"Oh, nothing, but—"

"Well, but—"

"You see, vicomte, my hand is almost crushed, and because I was not prepared for it, I gave a slight cry. Who would have thought that such a fine, white, delicate hand could give you a squeeze like a piston-rod?"

Spero looked wonderingly at his hands, and then dreamily said:

"I am stronger than I thought."

"I think so, too," said Coucou. "Only the count understands how to squeeze one's hand in that way. I almost forgot to ask you, vicomte, where you intend to take breakfast?"

"Downstairs in the dining-room."

"Are you going to breakfast alone?"

"That depends. Perhaps one of my friends may drop in, though I haven't invited any one."

"Please ring the bell in case you want to be served," said Coucou, as he left the room.

Spero stood at the writing-desk for a time, and his dark eyes were humid. He shoved a brown velvet curtain aside and entered a small, dark room which opened from his study. A pressure of the finger upon the blinds caused them to spring open, and the broad daylight streamed through the high windows. The walls, which were hung with brown velvet, formed an octagon, and opposite the broad windows were two pictures in gold frames. The vicomte's look rested on these pictures. They were the features of his parents which had been placed upon the canvas by the hand of an artist. In all her goodness, Haydee, Ali Tebelen's daughter, looked down upon her son, and the bold, proud face of Edmond Dantes greeted his heir with a speaking look.

"Ah, my mother," whispered Spero, softly, "if you were only with me now that father has left me. How shall I get along in life without him? The future looks blank and dark to me, the present sad, and only the past is worth having lived for! What a present the proud name is that was laid in my cradle. Others see bright light where the shadow threatens to suffocate me, and my heart trembles when I think that I am standing in the labyrinth of life without a guide!"

From this it can be seen that the count had not exaggerated in his letter to his son. He domineered, consciously or unconsciously, over his surroundings, and so it happened that Spero hardly dared to express a thought of his own.

Spero was never heard to praise or admire this or that, before he had first inquired whether such an opinion would be proper to express. The father recognized too late that his son lacked independence of thought. He had, as he thought, schooled his son for the battle of life. He had taught him how to carry the weapons, but in his anxiety about exterior and trivial things he had forgotten to make allowance for the inward yearning. The form was more to him than the contents, and this was revenging itself now in a telling way. The demands of ordinary life were unknown to Spero. He had put his arm in the burning flame with the courage of a Mucius Scævola, and quailed before the prick of a needle.

Suddenly the door-bell rang, and breathing more freely the vicomte left the little room. When he returned to his study he found Coucou awaiting him. The Zouave presented a visiting card to the vicomte on a silver salver, and hardly had Spero thrown a look at it, when he joyfully cried:

"Bring the gentleman to the dining-room, Coucou, and put two covers on; we shall dine together."

---

CHAPTER XXIX

FORWARD, MARCH

When Spero entered the dining-room, a handsome young man about twenty-five years of age hurried toward him with outstretched arms.

"How are you, my dear Spero?" he vivaciously cried.

"Oh, thank you, very well. Do you know, Gontram, that you couldn't have come at a more appropriate hour?"

"Really? That pleases me," said the new-comer, a painter who in spite of his youth enjoyed a great reputation. Laying his hand on Spero's shoulder, he looked steadily at him and earnestly asked: "Has anything disagreeable happened to you?"

"No; what makes you think so?" replied Spero, confused.

"Your appearance is different from usual. Your eyes sparkle, and you are feverishly excited. Perhaps you have some secret to intrust to me?"

In the meantime the young men had seated themselves at table, and while they were eating they indulged in general conversation.

"Do you know that my father has left Paris suddenly?" asked Spero in the course of the conversation.

"No. Where has the count gone to?"

"I do not know," said the vicomte.

Gontram Sabran had been acquainted with Spero for two years.

He had attracted the vicomte's attention through a picture he had exhibited, and as Spero admired painting, he paid a visit to the creator of the wonderfully natural painting.

The picture represented a young gypsy who was playing the violin. The vicomte sent his father's steward to the artist with an order to buy the canvas at any price. Gontram Sabran had refused to sell the painting, and the vicomte went personally to the painter.

"Sir," said Gontram, politely, "you offered me twenty thousand francs for a picture which is worth far less; that I have nevertheless refused to sell the picture needs an explanation, and if you are willing, I shall be happy to give it to you."

Spero had become curious, and upon his acquiescence Gontram told him the following.

"I had a girl once who suffered from an incurable disease. We were very happy together, enjoyed the present, and thought very little of the future. One day, as was customary with us, we undertook a little promenade. It led us however further than we intended to go, and before we knew it we were in the woods of Meudon. Curious and wonderful sounds awoke us from our reveries, and going to an opening, we saw a young gypsy who was playing the violin and moving her body to and fro to the time of the instrument. Aimee listened attentively to the heavenly playing of the almost childish girl, but suddenly I felt her head lean heavily on my shoulder—she had fainted, and I brought a very sick girl back to Paris.

"One week later death knocked at her door. Aimee knew she was going to die, and with tears in her eyes she begged me to hunt up the gypsy girl and have her play a song to her before she died.

"What was I to do? I could not find the gypsy, and was almost in despair. On the morning of the fourth day, the invalid suddenly rose in her bed and cried aloud:

"'There she is, I hear the gypsy's violin—oh, now I can die peacefully! Open the window, Gontram, so that I can hear the music better.'

"I did as she said, and now the tones of the violin reached my ears. The dying girl listened breathlessly to the sweet sounds. When the song was over, Aimee took my hand and whispered:

"'Bring her up and beg her to play at my bedside.'

"I hurried into the street and asked the gypsy to fulfil the wish of the dying girl. She did so at once, and sitting beside Aimee she played upon her instrument. How long she played I do not know, but I was thrilled by the sudden cessation of the music, and when I looked in terror at Aimee, I saw she had drawn her last breath—she had gone to her eternal slumber to the music of the violin.

"The gypsy disappeared, and I have never seen her since. But I have put her features on canvas as they are engraved in my memory, and you can understand now why I do not wish to sell the picture."

"Monsieur Sabran," said Spero when the painter had finished, "your little romance is interesting, and I am now ready to pay fifty thousand francs for the picture."

Gontram looked pityingly at the vicomte and dryly replied:

"I stick to my refusal."

Spero went away disappointed. Two days later he hurried to the painter's studio and hesitatingly said:

"Monsieur Sabran, I treated you the other day in a mean way. Please excuse me."

Gontram was surprised. Taking the vicomte's hand, he cordially said:

"I am glad I was mistaken in you; if features such as yours are deceitful, then it is bad for humanity."

From that day on they became firm friends. When the painter saw Spero's disturbed features on this particular day, and heard that the count had departed, he had an idea that it would do him good.

"Where did your father go to?" he asked.

"I do not know," replied Spero, uneasily.

"What? Your father did not inform you?" asked Gontram.

"No," replied Spero; "he departed this evening and left a letter for me behind him."

"Ah, really, every one does as he pleases," said Gontram. "Do you know I came here to-day to ask a favor of you?"

"You couldn't do me a greater pleasure," replied Spero, cheerfully; "everything I possess is at your disposal."

"I thought so; the next time you will offer me your millions," cried Gontram, laughing.

"I hope you will ask me for something besides wretched money," said Spero, warmly. "I could gladly fight for you, or do some other important service for you."

"And suppose I was to keep you at your word?" asked Gontram, seriously; "suppose I came here only to demand a sacrifice of you?"

"Oh, speak!" cried the vicomte, eagerly.

"H'm, would you for my sake get on top of a stage?" asked Gontram, earnestly. "No, do not look so curiously at me. I know you never did such a thing before, and knew what I was talking about when I said I would ask a sacrifice of you."

"I—would—do it—to please you," replied Spero, hesitatingly.

"I thought so," cried the painter, laughing; "yet I made you the proposition, because I thought you were boring yourself to death here."

"But—"

"No, do not protest. You are not happy because you are the slave of propriety, and if you were to get in a stage with me it would be a heroic act on your part. If you want to go out, a carriage is at the door, the horses already harnessed. You have your own box at the theatre, and so on. Nowhere do you come in contact with the great world; your life is no life."

Spero gazed at the painter in astonishment.

"Why have you not told me all that long ago?" he slowly asked.

"Because a great deal depends on time and opportunity. If I had told you this at the commencement of our friendship you would have thought me impertinent, and I did not come here to-day either to give you a lecture. The words came unconsciously to my lips. Your life is that of a drop of oil which when put in a bottle of water feels itself in a strange element and decidedly uncomfortable."

Spero bit his lip.

"Am I ever going to hear what service I can do for you?" he asked with a calmness which reflected honor on his powers of self-control.

"Bravo, you have already learned something. First fill your wine-glass, otherwise I shall drink all your fine sherry alone."

The habit of drinking moderately Spero had also learned from his father.

Upon the remark of the painter, he filled his glass and impatiently said:

"Well?"

"I would like to make a loan. Don't laugh, but hear what I have to say. I intend to give a little party in my studio—"

"In your studio?" said Spero in surprise.

"Yes, it is certainly not as large as the Place Vendome, but that doesn't matter. Diogenes lived in a hogshead, and a dozen good friends will find plenty of room in my house. Let me tell you what gave me the idea. While I was studying in Rome, an aristocratic Italian, Count Vellini, took an interest in me. He was my friend, my Macænas, and I owe a great deal to him. The day before yesterday he arrived in Paris, and I should like to revenge myself for his kindness. As he is a millionnaire—not a millionnaire like you, for he has, at the utmost, five or six millions—I must offer him certain pleasures which cannot be obtained with money. I am going to turn my studio into a picture gallery and exhibit the best works of my numerous friends and my own. He shall see that I have become something in the meantime, and from what I know of him he will be delighted with my idea. I want to furnish my house properly, and for this I need some costly tapestries. You have real treasures of this description. Would you loan me a few pieces?"

"Is that all?" said Spero, cordially. "You give me joy, and I hope you will allow me to attend to it."

"That depends. What do you intend to do?"

"I would like to ask you to let my decorator take charge of the furnishing of your studio. To-morrow morning he can select from my storehouse whatever he thinks best—"

"And spoil my fun?" interrupted Gontram, frowning. "No, no, I cannot consent to that. Your decorator may be a very able man, but that isn't the question. I know of no greater pleasure than to do everything according to my own taste. But I had almost forgotten the principal thing; I count on your appearance."

"I generally work at night," replied Spero, hesitating.

"No rule without an exception," declared the painter; "I have invited ladies too, and I hope you will enjoy yourself."

---

CHAPTER XXX

JANE ZILD

On the night of the party, Gontram's room looked lovely, and when the guests arrived they could not refrain from expressing their admiration. The Oriental hangings gave the whole a piquant appearance, and Gontram knew where to stop, an art which few understand. The society which assembled in the painter's studio was a very exceptional one. Many a rich banker would have given a great deal if he could have won some of the artists who assembled here for his private soirées, for the first stars of the opera, the drama and literature had accepted the invitation. Rachel had offered to do the honors; Emma Bouges, a sculptress, assisted her, and Gontram was satisfied.

The painter had told the vicomte that he desired to revenge himself upon Count Vellini. The other reason he had for giving this party he said nothing of, and yet it was the one which did honor to his heart. Under the pretence of surprising the count, he had asked his numerous friends to loan him their pictures, and had hung them in splendid style. Of his own works he only exhibited the gypsy, and when the guests strode up and down the studio to the music of a small orchestra, it was natural that they criticised or admired this and that painting.

Count Vellini, a splendid old gentleman, was enthusiastic over the cause of the party. He gave the secretary who accompanied him directions to buy several of the exhibited paintings, and the secretary carefully noted everything.

Signor Fagiano, the secretary, was not a very agreeable-looking gentleman. A blood-red scar ran clear across his face, his deep black eyes had a sharp, restless look, and one of the young partners jokingly said:

"If I did not know that Signor Fagiano had charge of the count's finances, I would suspect him of robbing his employer—he has a bad look."

While the young man uttered these joking remarks, new guests were announced, and their names, "Monsieur de Larsagny and Mademoiselle de Larsagny," created surprise among the guests. Monsieur de Larsagny was the manager of the new credit-bank, and every one was astonished at Gontram's acquaintance with him. However, as soon as Mademoiselle de Larsagny was seen to enter the room leaning on her father's arm, the riddle was solved. The classical head of the young girl graced the last salon, and as Gontram had painted the picture, no one wondered any longer at seeing the handsome Carmen and her father in the studio.

The young girl appeared to be somewhat eccentric, a thing which was not looked upon as strange in the daughter of a millionnaire. Nevertheless, the pranks of the young heiress never overstepped the bounds of propriety, and the numerous admirers of the beautiful Carmen thought her on this account all the more piquant. Her ash-blond hair fell in a thousand locks over a dazzling white forehead, and the small, finely formed mouth understood how to talk.

Hanging to Gontram's arm, Carmen walked up and down the studio. She sometimes directed her dark-blue eyes at the young painter, and who could scold Gontram if he loved to look in those magnificent stars?

"I am thankful to you, mademoiselle, for having come here," said Gontram, sparkling with joy, as he walked by the young girl's side.

"How could I have refused your cordial invitation?" replied Carmen, laughing; "even princesses have visited the studios of their court painters."

"The Duchess of Ferrara, for instance," said a young sculptor who had overheard the remark.

Gontram frowned, and whispered softly to the young artist:

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Raoul."

Carmen, however, laughed, and carelessly said:

"Let him alone; I knew the story long ago."

To make this little scene understood, we must observe that the young sculptor's words referred to that Duchess of Ferrara whom Titian painted in the primitive costume of Mother Eve, and it stung the young painter to the heart when he heard Carmen confess that she had heard the story before—who could have told it to the nineteen-year-old girl?

"What about the surprise you were going to give your guests?" asked Carmen, after an uncomfortable pause.

"I will keep my word," replied the painter, laughing. "Have you ever heard the name of Jane Zild, mademoiselle?"

"Jane Zild? That wonderful songstress who comes from the north, either Lapland or Finland? What is the matter with her?"

"Well, this songstress, who, by the way, comes from Russia, has promised to be here to-night," declared Gontram, triumphantly.

"Ah, really?" replied Carmen, breathing heavily, while her eyes shot forth threatening gleams.

"What ails you, mademoiselle?" asked Gontram uneasily, "have I hurt you in any way?"

"No; what makes you think so? But let us go to the parlor; my father is already looking for me, and you know he can't be long without me."

A curious laugh issued from the pale lips, and it seemed to Gontram as if she had accented the words "my father" in a peculiar way.

Just as Gontram and his companion re-entered the parlor, a short but unpleasant scene was being acted there. An accident had brought Signor Fagiano and Monsieur de Larsagny together. Hardly had the secretary caught a glimpse of the banker than he recoiled in affright and nearly fell to the ground. Larsagny sprang to his rescue, but Fagiano muttered an excuse and hastily left the parlor.

Carmen and her companion were witnesses of the meeting, and Gontram felt the young girl's arm tremble. Before he could ask for the cause of this, she laughed aloud and mockingly said:

"A good host has generally several surprises in petto for his guests; are you an exception to the general rule?"

Gontram was about to reply when the door was opened and the servant announced:

"Mademoiselle Jane Zild, the Vicomte of Monte-Cristo!"

"There you have my second surprise," said the painter, laughing; "are you satisfied now?"

Gontram did not find out whether this was the case, for the broker uttered a cry at the same moment and stretched his hands out as if to ward off a spectre.

"What has happened to you, Monsieur de Larsagny?" asked Gontram in amazement. "You are so pale and you tremble. Can I do anything for you?"

"No, thank you—it is the heat," stammered Larsagny. "Will you permit me to go on the terrace? I will recover in the fresh air."

Without deigning to notice Carmen, the banker turned toward the glass door which led to the terrace and disappeared. The young girl bit her lips, and the next minute she was the centre of a gay crowd of admirers.

Gontram in the meantime had gone to meet the young lady who had just entered. She was a wonderfully handsome girl, and taking the painter's arm she slowly walked through the decorated rooms.

Who Jane Zild was no one knew. Two months previously she had made her appearance in Paris society, and since then it was considered good form to patronize Jane Zild.

The members of the Opera and other theatres had arranged a performance for the relief of the inhabitants of a village which had been destroyed by fire, and the elegant world of the capital fairly grew wild with enthusiasm over the coming event.

The climax of the performance was to be a duet, to be sung by the great Roger and a diva who was past her youth. Half an hour before the number was to be sung a messenger arrived who announced the sickness of the diva. Roger immediately declared his willingness to sing alone, and loud applause ran through the crowded auditorium when he sang the charming song from the "White Lady," "Ah, what a joy it is to be a soldier!"

The success of the first part of the concert was assured. Before the second part began a strange young lady went to the celebrated singer and offered to take the part of Madame X——, and sing several songs.

"What is your name, mademoiselle?" asked Roger.

"My name will be unknown to you, as I have only been two days in Paris," replied the stranger, laughing. "I am Jane Zild. Perhaps you will allow me to sing something to you first. Will the beggar aria from the 'Prophet' be agreeable to you?"

Without waiting for answer Jane Zild went to the piano.

The accompanist struck the first notes of the well-known aria, and hardly had Roger heard the magnificent contralto of the stranger than he enthusiastically exclaimed:

"Thank God, Madame X—— is sick!"

"That is treason!" scolded the young lady; but the public seemed to be of the same opinion as Roger, and rewarded the young songstress, when she had finished, with round after round of applause. Encouraged by the applause, she sang the aria from "Orpheus"—"Ah, I have lost her, all my happiness is gone." This set the audience wild.

For two days nothing else was talked of in Paris but the young songstress. Jane Zild lived in a house in the Champs-Elysées. She had arrived, as she said, but a few days before from Russia, in company with an elderly man, who was looked upon as her steward, and whom she called Melosan.

The reporters had seized upon these meagre details and magnified them. According to them, Jane Zild was the daughter of a rich Russian nobleman. An unconquerable yearning for the stage brought her in conflict with her father, and, burdened with his curse, she ran away from home. If in spite of this she did not go on the stage it was not the reporters' fault.

The young lady was very capricious, and had refused the most tempting offers from the management of the Opera. She also refused to sing for the Emperor at Compiegne, and it therefore caused a sensation among Gontram's guests when Jane Zild suddenly appeared.

"Gontram's luck is really extraordinary," said a colleague of the young painter laughingly, as he saw the majestic figure of the diva enter the room. What would he have said if he had heard in what way Gontram had secured Jane Zild as one of his guests?

While the young painter was breakfasting with Spero, a perfumed note was sent up to his residence in the Rue Montaigne, wherein Jane Zild declared her willingness to appear in the painter's parlors and sing a few songs.

Gontram did not say no, and immediately hurried to the diva's house to thank her.

Spero had entered just behind the songstress, and Gontram smiled when he saw the vicomte. Spero's carriage had driven up in front of the house almost simultaneously with that of the diva, and Spero assisted the young lady to alight.

When the vicomte entered the parlor, he felt humiliated when he saw all eyes turned in the direction of the diva. No one seemed to care to notice the heir of the Count of Monte-Cristo.

Jane Zild strode the rooms with the dignity of a queen.

"Heavenly! Admirable! Beautiful!" Such were the epithets which were murmured half aloud, and later when she sat down at the piano and sang a simple ballad, loud applause ran through the room. The ballad was followed by an aria; Jane then sang a Russian melody, and closed with a magnificent tarantella.

"Monsieur Sabran," said a low voice to Gontram, "I must confess that you are an obliging host! You are forgetting all your other guests on account of the beautiful songstress, and I will reflect upon a suitable punishment."

The one who spoke was Carmen de Larsagny. Gontram blushed and made excuses, but it took some time to appease the young lady's wrath.

"Well," she finally said, "I will forgive you, but only upon one condition. Have you a moment's time?"

"For you always," replied the painter, warmly.

"Good; then conduct me to the terrace."

"To the terrace?" repeated Gontram in surprise. "How do you know I have a terrace?"

"Oh, I heard my father mention it a little while ago."

"That's so," replied the painter. "Will you please accompany me?"

They both walked through the studio and turned into the gallery.

Suddenly Gontram paused, and uttered a low cry of astonishment.

Spero was leaning against a door sunk in thought.

"Can I introduce the young man to you?" asked Gontram softly of his companion.

"Who is he?" replied Carmen.

"The Vicomte of Monte-Cristo!"

"What? The son of the celebrated count?" asked the young lady, looking at Spero with increased interest.

"Yes. I have a high regard for the vicomte."

"I could have thought so," said Carmen, laughing.

"What do you mean by that, mademoiselle?" asked Gontram in surprise.

"Oh, you see you have the habit of caring very little for those whom you pretend to honor," replied the young girl, looking at the painter in such a way as made his heart beat fast.

"I hope to be able soon to prove my esteem for you," whispered the young man.

Carmen was for a moment silent, and then vivaciously said:

"Introduce me; I am curious to know your little vicomte."

Just then Spero raised his head, and, seeing Gontram, he cordially said:

"Gontram, am I not deserving of praise? You see I have accepted your invitation."

"I am very grateful to you," replied the painter warmly, and turning to Carmen he said:

"Mademoiselle de Larsagny, permit me to introduce the Vicomte of Monte-Cristo to you."

Spero bowed deeply. The young lady gazed steadily at the handsome cavalier, and admiration shone in her eyes.

"I really have not had the pleasure of seeing the vicomte. I should not have forgotten him."

"I believe you," said the painter; "the vicomte is, by the way, a man of serious ideas, an ascetic, who does not care for worldly pleasures."

Spero protested with a shake of the head, and muttered some disconnected words. Carmen, however, noticed that his thoughts were elsewhere.

"Mademoiselle de Larsagny," said Gontram, laughing now, "I hope that you and the other ladies here will succeed in converting the hermit."

Carmen was dissatisfied with the vicomte's indifference, and, bowing coldly, she went away, drawing the painter with her.

"Well, how does my eccentric please you?" asked Gontram.

"H'm, he is very handsome; whether he is intellectual, I cannot tell. Is the father of the little vicomte really the knight without fear and reproach, the hero of Dumas' novel?"

"The same."

"And has this man—Edmond Dantes was his right name—really had all the adventurous wanderings imputed to him?"

"I am sure of it."

"One more question. It might appear strange to you, but I must ask it nevertheless. Do you know whether Monsieur de Larsagny ever had any relations with the count?"

"I do not know, in fact I hardly think so. Your father has been living in Paris but a few years, and the count has not been in Paris for any great length of time during the past ten years. He is almost always travelling. I believe there is no country on earth which he has not visited, and he is again absent. However, if it interests you, I will make inquiries and—"

"Not for any price," interrupted Carmen, laughing; "let us drop the subject and hurry to the terrace before others get there ahead of us."

"We are there already," said Gontram, laughing, as he shoved a Japanese drapery aside and stepped upon a small balcony with his companion. A beautiful view of the Champs-Elysées was had from here.

At that time the many mansions which now fill the Champs-Elysées were not yet built, and the eye reached far down the beautiful lanes to the Place de la Concorde.

The two young persons stood upon the little terrace, and the spring wind played with Carmen's golden locks and fanned Gontram's cheeks.

The young girl now leaned over the railing, and, breathing the balsamic air, she sighed:

"Ah, how beautiful and peaceful it is here."

Gontram had his arm about the young girl's slim waist, and carried away by his feelings he pressed a kiss upon Carmen's coral-red lips. The young girl returned the kiss, and who knows but that they would have continued their osculatory exercise had not a voice close to the terrace said:

"Take care, Monsieur de Larsagny, that you do not try to find out my name. You will know it sooner than will be agreeable to you."

Carmen shuddered, and leaning far over, she tried to espy the speakers. However, she could not see any one, though some passionate words reached her from below; Gontram, on the other hand, felt like strangling the disturbers.

"Let us go back to the parlor," said the young girl, and it seemed to Gontram that her voice had changed in tone.

He silently opened the drapery and brought his companion back to the studio; when they entered it, the vicomte hurried to the painter, and said in a low tone:

"Gontram, have you a minute for me? I must speak to you."

---

CHAPTER XXXI

A THUNDERBOLT

The vicomte's disturbed features and the tone of his voice caused Gontram to become anxious, and leading Carmen into the music-room, he stammered an excuse, and then returned to Spero.

"What has happened to you?" he asked, as he saw the young man was still excited. "I am afraid I am a very inattentive host."

"Oh, that is not it," said Spero, hesitating; "but—"

"Well, speak. You frighten me," said Gontram, uneasily.

"Gontram," began the vicomte, "you have confidence in me?"

"Certainly; but what have we to do with that now? You know that I esteem you—"

"And you do not think me capable of deceiving or lying to you?"

"Spero, I do not know you any more," cried Gontram, more and more confused.

"Have patience, you will soon learn to understand me," said the vicomte, smiling curiously; "let me now tell you what has happened to me."

Spero took a long breath, and then continued:

"About ten minutes ago I was standing here, listening to the wonderful singing of that beautiful creature whom you call Jane Zild. The melody transported me to another world, and I saw and heard very little of what was going on about me. Suddenly I heard a slight noise behind the drapery, and these words reached my ears: 'Vicomte of Monte-Cristo, take care of yourself. A trap has been set for you, and woe to you if you are foolish enough not to notice it.'"

"A trap laid? What does that mean, and who was it that gave you this warning?" asked Gontram, in amazement.

"I do not know. Springing up I ran in the direction whence the words came. I shoved the drapery aside, but could see no one."

"No one?" repeated the painter, breathing more freely. "That looks like magic! Are you sure, Spero, that you didn't deceive yourself?"

"You do not believe me," said the vicomte, smiling sorrowfully.

"Spero, you misunderstand me. Let us proceed to work thoroughly, and, if possible, find out what has occurred. You yourself confessed that you were plunged in thought. In such half-dreamy conditions it often happens that we imagine we see things which have no foundation in fact. We believe we see persons, hear voices—"

"You speak of imagination," interrupted Spero, "while I told you of something that I actually have experienced. I heard the words clearly and legibly; the voice was strange to me, and yet there was something sincere in it which struck me."

"Curious! Perhaps some one has played a joke upon you."

"That would not be improbable, yet I do not believe it. The words were spoken seriously."

"But you are mad! A trap, if laid for you, could only be done by me. I must now ask you the same question you put to me: Have you confidence in me?"

"Perfect confidence," said the vicomte, warmly.

"God be praised! Now follow me to the parlor, and forget your black thoughts," and, shoving his arm under the vicomte's, he led him into the music-room.

"And where should the trap be?" asked Gontram, as they walked on; "not in Jane Zild's heavenly tones? Just look how the dark eyes are looking at you—really you are in luck."

Jane Zild had risen after the song was ended, and while the applause sounded about her, she looked steadily at the vicomte.

"Banish the black thoughts," whispered Gontram to the young man, "come and talk a little to the diva; she appears to expect it."

"Mademoiselle," he said, turning to Jane, "here is one of your most enthusiastic admirers, who would consider himself happy if you would make a tour of the gallery with him."

Gontram turned to other guests, and Spero timidly drew near to the young girl and offered her his arm. Jane hesitated for a moment to take it, and looked expectantly at the vicomte. She waited, no doubt, for a compliment or some word from him. As Spero remained silent, a satisfied smile crossed the classical features of the diva, and placing her hand on his arm she carelessly said: "Let us go."

Just then something unexpected happened. A burning candle fell down from the chandelier, and a flame licked the black lace dress of the diva and enveloped her.

A cry of horror came from the lips of the bystanders, and they all rushed away. Spero was the only one who showed self-possession. Quick as thought, he tore one of the draperies from the wall, and placing the thick cloth around the shoulders of the diva, he pressed her tightly to his bosom.

The next minute Jane stood with pale face, but otherwise uninjured, before her rescuer, and holding her little hand to him, she whispered cordially:

"Thanks, a thousand thanks!"

Spero took the long fingers and pressed his lips as respectfully upon them as if Jane Zild were a queen and he her subject. The diva, with the drapery still about her shoulders, looked really like a queen, and all eyes were turned admiringly toward her.

A man dressed in plain dark clothes hurried through the crowd, and looking anxiously at Jane he cried in a vibrating voice:

"Are you injured?"

The diva trembled when she heard the voice, and blushing deeply, she hastily replied:

"No, thank God, I am not hurt. The coolness of the Vicomte of Monte-Cristo prevented a misfortune."

The vicomte, too, trembled when he heard the unknown's words, for he felt certain that the voice was the same as that which had given him the mysterious warning.

The man bowed respectfully to the vicomte, and Jane, turning to Spero, said in cordial tones:

"Complete your good work, vicomte, and conduct me to my carriage."

Spero laid her little hand upon his arm and led her out. As Spero assisted her in the carriage she bowed again to him and whispered:

"I hope we shall see each other again."

Jane's companion looked at the vicomte in an embarrassed way; he evidently wished to say something to him, but had not the courage to do so. The next minute the horses started and the carriage rolled away.

Spero looked after the equipage as long as it could be seen and then called for his coachman, as he wished to go home too. Just as he was about to enter the carriage, the coachman, in surprise, exclaimed:

"You have forgotten your hat, vicomte. Jean, quick, go and get it."

Spero, in astonishment, felt his head; it was true, the coachman was right.

"Stay, Jean, I shall go myself," he briefly said, as he hurried back to the house.

Just as he reached the stairs, Monsieur de Larsagny and his daughter, whom Gontram escorted, and Count Vellini and his secretary came down.

"Vicomte," said Carmen, vivaciously, "you are a hero, and the rest of the gentlemen can take you for an example."

Monsieur de Larsagny coughed slightly, while Fagiano loudly cried:

"The vicomte is the worthy son of his father, the great count."

These words, although spoken in a respectful tone, displeased Spero, yet he kept silent and the guests departed.

"Stay a minute longer," begged Gontram, "I will take a walk with you, if it is agreeable; I am too much excited yet to go to bed."

"That is my position, too," replied the vicomte.

The servant brought them their hats and cloaks, and they both walked in the direction of the Champs-Elysées. Neither of them noticed a dark form which stood at a street corner and looked after them.

"Have a care," hissed Fagiano's voice, "you shall suffer for being his son."

---

CHAPTER XXXII

OLD ACQUAINTANCES

Jane Zild lived in a modest room in a small house on the Champs-Elysées.

The interior was furnished in the ordinary style of a private house. In the basement was the reception-room, the sitting-room and dining-room. The owner of the house was Madame Vollard, the widow of an officer. One of her principles was, that it was better to have her rooms empty than to let them out to people whose reputation was not of the best.

She did not care much either for artists or actresses, but made some exceptions, and when Melosan, Jane Zild's secretary, offered her a considerable sum for a room on the first floor, she immediately accepted.

The bells of Notre-Dame struck one o'clock, when a carriage, which contained Jane and her companion, stopped in front of Madame Vollard's house.

In spite of the late hour, the landlady hurried to the street door to greet the young girl. When she saw the latter's disordered toilet, she uttered a cry of horror. Jane had thrown off the cloak, and the burned dress with the withered and crushed roses could be seen.

"What is the matter, my dear?" asked the worthy lady.

"Oh, nothing," replied Jane; "I am only tired."

"Then you tell me, at least, what has occurred," said Madame Vollard, turning to Melosan.

"Later on, later on. The young lady is excited and needs rest."

"Oh, I will give her some drops," said the good-hearted lady, "I—"

"Good-night, Madame Vollard," said the secretary, and taking a light from the lady's hands, he hurried up the stairs with Jane.

The young girl sank back in a chair exhausted. Melosan, a man about sixty years of age, with white hair and sunburned face, stood with folded hands before his mistress, and his dark eyes looked anxiously at Jane's pale face.

"You are suffering?" he said, after a pause.

Jane shuddered. "Ah, no," she said, "I am feeling perfectly well."

"But the fright?"

"Oh, that is nothing," replied Jane, sorrowfully; and, rising up wildly, she passionately added: "Why am I forced to enter a world which is not my own, and never can be! And it shall not be either," she sobbingly concluded, "never—never!"

Melosan held down his head.

"A queen would have been proud at the reception you had to-night."

"Why do you tell me this?" she exclaimed. "A queen? I? Oh, what bitter mockery!"

"But your eminent talent—your voice?"

"Would to God I had none! I—but go now, I want to be alone."

The man sorrowfully approached the door; on the threshold he paused and imploringly murmured:

"Pardon me, Jane, I did not wish to hurt you."

"I know it. I am sometimes hard and cruel, but my unhappy situation is the cause of it. Why did not the wretched fire consume me? Then all grief would have been at an end. O my God! my God!"

She sobbed as if her heart would break, and Melosan wrung his hands in despair.

"Jane, tell me what has happened," he said, in despair. "I have never seen you this way before. Has any one insulted you?"

"No one," said Jane, softly, "no one."

"Your fate is dreary and burdensome, but you are young and strong. You have life before you, and in time you'll forget the past and be happy."

Melosan's words caused the young girl to dry her tears.

"You are right," she said, half ashamed, "I was foolish and ungrateful. I will forget the past. Forgive me—grief overwhelmed me."

"You are an angel," cried Melosan, enthusiastically; "but now you must really go to bed. Good-night, Jane."

"Good-night," said the young girl, cordially, and then the door closed behind Melosan.

As the secretary was about to go to his room, Madame Vollard intercepted him on the stairs.

"Well, how goes it?" she asked; "has the poor child recovered?"

"Yes, thank you."

"What occurred?"

"She was almost burned to death; her dress had already caught fire."

"What a lucky accident—"

"Lucky accident?" repeated Melosan, not understanding.

"I do not mean the fire, but the fact that I just possess a walking suit, such as Mademoiselle Zild needs, and which I can let her have at a very moderate price. A silk dress with pomegranate leaves—"

"To-morrow, Madame Vollard, to-morrow," Melosan interrupted her. "I really feel fatigued, and should like to go to my room."

"You are right. I ought to have known it."

She disappeared, and Melosan walked up the stairs. On entering his room he locked the door, threw himself into a chair, and burying his face in his hands he sobbed bitterly.

"What is going to happen now," he muttered to himself; "my money is nearly all gone, and—"

Hastily springing up, he opened the bureau and took a torn portfolio out of it. Opening it, he sorrowfully counted its contents and shook his gray head.

"It is useless," he muttered in a hollow voice, "the day after to-morrow the rent is due, and what then remains to us is not worth speaking about. If I only could begin something, but everywhere my horrible past stares me in the face. I dare not go out in the broad daylight. I myself would be satisfied with dry bread, but Jane, the poor, poor thing! With her talent she could have had a brilliant life, and reign everywhere like a queen if it were not for the terrible past. Like a spectre, it stands in our path, and while she is innocent, the curse of being the cause of both our wretchedness strikes me. I—"

A slight noise caused Melosan to pause and listen. For a while all was silent, and then the noise recommenced. He hurried to the door, but could not see any one, and returning to the room he shook his head and resumed his seat.

"I must have been deceived," he murmured uneasily, "and yet I thought—"

The knock was repeated, and this time so loudly that Melosan discovered from whence it came. Hastily going to the attic window he threw the curtain aside and peered out. A dark shadow moved here and there on the roof, and Melosan reached for his pistol.

"Who's there?" he cried.

"Some one who desires to speak to you," came back in firm tones.

"To me? At this hour?" asked the secretary in a daze.

"Yes, to you—open quickly or I shall burst in the window."

Melosan saw that it could not be a thief, and so he hesitatingly shoved back the bolt.

A powerful hand raised the window from the outside, and Melosan raised his weapon threateningly; but at this moment the light from the room fell full on the man's face, and the secretary let the pistol fall, and cried in a faint, trembling voice:

"You! You! O God! how did you get here?"

"Ha! ha! ha! Don't you see I came from the roof?" cried the man, mockingly.

"But you shall not come in," cried Melosan, angrily, as he cocked his pistol. "Get out of here, or I shall blow your brains out."

"You won't do any such thing," said the other, coolly. "Do you think because you are posing as an honest man that other people will imagine you are one? Ha! is the situation clear to you? A good memory is a good thing to have, and if one does not like to hear names it is better to acquiesce. Well, what do you say? Shall we talk over matters peacefully, or do you persist in firing off your pistol and attracting the attention of the police?"

A shudder ran through Melosan, and he looked at the floor in despair.

"Can I offer you a cigar?" continued the man. "No? Then permit me to light my own;" and turning himself in his chair, and reclining comfortably against the back of the fauteuil, the speaker lighted a cigar, and with the utmost calm of mind puffed blue clouds of smoke in the air.

Melosan was evidently struggling with himself. At last he had made up his mind, and, angrily approaching the other, said:

"Listen to me. The sooner we get rid of each other the better it will be for both of us. Why did you hunt me up? You ought to have known long ago that I did not wish to have anything to do with you. You go your way and I will go mine; let neither of us bother the other, and as I am called Melosan, I shall forget that you ever bore any other name than Fagiano."

"You have become proud!" exclaimed the man who called himself Fagiano, laughing mockingly; "upon my word, Anselmo, if I did not know that you were a former galley-slave, I would think you were a prince!"

"And I would hold you now and always for the incarnation of everything that is bad," replied Anselmo (for it was he). "You ought to be called Lucifer instead of Benedetto!"

---

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE CATASTROPHE

The two men looked at each other with flaming eyes. In Toulon they were chained together, and now—

Anselmo had reversed the letters of his name and called himself Melosan. In Toulon they were both on the same moral plane, but since then their ways as well as their characters had changed. Benedetto sank lower and lower day by day, while Anselmo worked hard to obliterate the stigma of a galley-slave.

Benedetto, bold and impudent, looked at his former chain-companion, and a mocking smile played about his lips. Anselmo, however, lost little by little his assurance, and finally implored Benedetto to leave, saying:

"We two have nothing in common any more."

"That is a question. Sit down and listen to me."

"No, Benedetto, we are done with each other."

"Nonsense—you have become virtuous all of a sudden," mocked Count Vellini's secretary.

"Would to God it were so. When we were in Toulon an unfortunate accident brought us together; a far more unfortunate one separated us. Since then it has been my endeavor to have the sins which led me to the Bagnio atoned for by an honest life. I do not care to know what kind of a life you have led. All I ask is that in the future we meet as strangers, and I hope you will consent to my wish!"

"And if I do not do so?" asked Benedetto, laying his hand upon his former comrade's shoulder. "Suppose I will not forget you nor want to be forgotten by you?"

Anselmo moaned aloud.

"Moan away," continued Benedetto. "I know all the details of your past life, and if you have forgotten anything I am in a position to refresh your memory."

"I—do not—understand you," stammered Anselmo.

"Think of the past," replied Benedetto, frowning.

"Of the time when the smith fastened us to the same chain?"

"Oh, think again."

Anselmo trembled.

"Do you speak of the moment when we jumped into the sea and escaped from the galleys?" he softly asked.

"No; your memory seems to be weak."

"I do not know what you mean."

"Really? You seem to have drunk from the spring of Lethe," said Benedetto, contemptuously. "Anselmo, have you forgotten our meeting at Beaussuet?"

"Scoundrel! miserable wretch! Do you really dare to remind me of that?" cried Anselmo, beside himself.

"Why not?"

"If you can do so—no power on earth can induce me to say another word about that horrible affair," said Anselmo, shuddering.

"My nerves are better than yours," laughed Benedetto. "It was only to speak to you about that particular night that I braved the danger of hunting you up. I need you as a witness, and that is why you see me here."

"As a witness?" exclaimed Anselmo, in surprise. "Either you are crazy or else I shall become so. Benedetto, if I open my mouth the gallows will be your fate!"

"That is my business and need not worry you at all. Do you remember the night of the 24th of February, 1839? Yes or no?"

"Yes," groaned Anselmo.

"No jeremiads! Do you also remember the vicarage at Beaussuet?"

"Yes."

"Well, a certain person came expressly from Toulon to see about a sum of money, a million—"

"I have not touched a penny of the money," interrupted Anselmo, shuddering.

"No, certainly not, you were always unselfish. Well, do not interrupt me. The person who came from Toulon (recte Benedetto) was just about to put the sum of money in his pocket, when the devil sent a stranger who—"

"Benedetto, if you are a human being and not a devil, keep silent," cried Anselmo, beside himself.

Benedetto shrugged his shoulders.

"You are a fool," he said, contemptuously. "I heard two persons on the stairs. I hid behind the door, with a knife in my right hand. The door opened. The shadow of a form appeared in the door, and I struck. I felt the knife sink deep into a human breast."

"Wretch! It was the breast of your mother!" stammered Anselmo.

"Ah, your memory is returning to you," mocked Benedetto, with a cynical smile. "Yes, it was my mother. But how did you know it?"

"I met the unfortunate woman on the way in the gorges of Oliolles—"

"Ah! and there she told you the story of her life."

"She begged me to help her save her son, and I promised to do so; I knew that you were that wretched son."

"Did she tell you her name?" said Benedetto, uneasily.

"She hid nothing from me. I found out that the son she wished to save intended to murder her—"

"Facts," said Benedetto, roughly, "and less talk."

"And that this son was a child of sin."

"Ah, really; and her name?"

"She made me swear to keep it secret."

"So much the better! She really thought, then, that a galley-slave was a man of his word?"

"Galley-slave or not, I have kept silent, and will do so further."

"You are a hero! Nevertheless, you can tell me the name."

"No!"

"And if I demand it?"

"I won't tell you, either."

"Anselmo, have a care!" hissed Benedetto, angrily. "Tell me the name, or—"

"I am silent," declared Anselmo; "you do not know the name, and you will never learn it from me."

Benedetto broke into a coarse laugh.

"You are either very naïve," he said, "or think I am. I only wished to see if you had not forgotten the name. The lady was Madame Danglars."

Anselmo uttered a cry of rage.

"Well, preacher of words, what do you say now?" asked Benedetto, politely.

"Since you know the name, we are done with each other," said Anselmo, "and I think you will now leave me in peace."

"You are wrong, my dear Anselmo; do you know that you are very disrespectful?"

Anselmo began to ponder whether it would not be better to appear more friendly to the hated comrade.

"Benedetto," he said, in a gentle voice, "why should we be enemies? I know you had reason to be angry a little while ago, but the recollection of that fearful night unmanned me, and I did not know what I was speaking about. At that time, too, I was terribly excited—"

"As I had reason to notice," interrupted Benedetto. "You were ready to kill me."

"Let us forget all that," said Anselmo, hastily. "You came here to ask a favor of me and I was a fool to refuse. We have both the same interests in keeping our past history from the world. Therefore speak. If what you desire is within the limits of reason, it shall be done."

"Bravo! you please me now, Anselmo," cried Benedetto, laughing. "At length you have become sensible. But tell me, is the little one handsome? For it is natural that your reform has been brought about by a woman; you always were an admirer and connoisseur of the fair sex."

Anselmo sprang upon Benedetto and, holding his clinched fist in his face, he said:

"Benedetto, if you care to live, don't say another word!"

"And why?" asked the wretch, with silent contempt.

"Because I shall not stand it," replied Anselmo, coldly. "You have me in your power, Benedetto. With an anonymous letter you could denounce me to-morrow as an escaped galley-slave and have me sent back to the galleys. I would not care a snap for that, but I most emphatically forbid you to throw a slur upon the reputation of the woman who lives with me under this roof."

"You forbid me? Come now, Anselmo, you speak in a peculiar tone," hissed Benedetto.

"I speak exactly in the tone the matter demands. You know my opinion; conduct yourself accordingly."

"And if I did not care to obey you?"

"Then I would denounce you, even though I put my own neck in danger."

"Ha! ha! I tell you you won't do anything of the kind."

"Listen," said Anselmo, "you do not know me. Yes, I was a wretch, a perjurer, worse than any highwayman. But I have suffered, suffered terribly for my sins, and since years it has been my only ambition to lead a blameless life as repentance for my crimes. I have taken care of a poor helpless being, and to defend her I will sacrifice my life. I bear everything to shield her from grief and misery; in fact, if it were necessary, I would accept her contempt, for if she ever found out who I am, she would despise me."

"Have you pen, ink and paper?" asked Benedetto, after Anselmo had concluded.

"Yes. What do you want to do with them?"

"You shall soon find out."

Anselmo silently pointed to a table upon which writing materials lay. Benedetto dipped the pen in the ink, and, grinning, said:

"My friend, have the kindness to take this pen and write what I dictate."

"I?"

"Yes, you. I only want you to write a few lines."

"What shall I write?"

"The truth."

"I do not understand you."

"It is very simple; you will write down what you have just said."

"Explain yourself more clearly."

"With pleasure; better still, write what I dictate."

Anselmo looked uneasily at the wretch; Benedetto quietly walked behind the ex-priest's chair, and began:

"On the 24th of February, 1839, Benedetto, an escaped convict from the galleys of Toulon, murdered Madame Danglars, his mother."

"That is horrible!" cried Anselmo, throwing the pen down; "I shall not write that."

"You will write; you know I can force you; therefore—"

Anselmo sighed, and took up the pen again.

"So, I am done now," he said, after a pause; "must it be signed, too?"

"Certainly; though the name has nothing to do with it. You can put any one you please under it."

It sounded very simple, and yet Anselmo hesitated.

"No," he firmly said, "I will not do it. I know you are up to some trick, and I do not intend to assist you."

Benedetto laughed in a peculiar way.

"I know you are not rich," said the pretended secretary, "and—"

Anselmo made a threatening gesture, but Benedetto continued:

"I was at this window for some time. Count Vellini's house is next door to this, and I had no difficulty in getting here. I saw you counting your secret treasure, and consequently—"

Unconsciously Anselmo glanced at the portfolio which lay on the table. Benedetto noticed it and laughed maliciously.

"Yes, there lies your fortune," he said contemptuously. "The lean bank-notes you counted a little while ago will not keep you long above board."

"But I have not asked for anything," murmured Anselmo.

"I offer you a price."

Benedetto drew an elegant portfolio from his pocket, and took ten thousand-franc notes out of it which he laid upon the table. "Finish and sign the paper I dictated," he coldly said, "and the money is yours."

Anselmo grew pale. Did Benedetto know of his troubles? Had he read his thoughts?

"I will not do it," he said, rising up. "Keep your money, Benedetto; it would bring me misfortune."

Benedetto uttered a cry of rage, and, grasping the pen, he seated himself at the table and wrote a few words.

"So," he said, with a satanic gleam in his eyes as he held the paper under Anselmo's nose, "either you do what I say or else these lines which I have just written will be sent to the papers to-morrow."

Anselmo read, and the blood rushed to his head. He felt his brain whirl, and, beating his face with his hands, he groaned aloud. What had Benedetto written? Only a few words: "The lady who is known as Jane Zild is—"

"You will not send these lines off," cried Anselmo, springing up suddenly and clutching Benedetto by the throat. The latter, however, was too strong for him; in a minute he had thrown the ex-priest upon the bed.

"No nonsense," he sternly said, "either you write or I will send the notice to the papers to-morrow."

The ex-priest took the pen and with a trembling hand wrote what Benedetto had asked of him.

"Here," he said, in a choking voice, "swear to me—but no—you do not believe in anything—I—"

"My dear friend," interrupted Benedetto, "do not take the thing so seriously. I have no intention of disturbing your peace."

Anselmo sank upon a chair, and his eyes filled with hot tears.

Benedetto hastily ran over the paper and his lips curled contemptuously when he saw the signature.

"The fool wrote his own name," he murmured as he rubbed his hands, "may it do him good."

The next minute the secretary of Count Vellini disappeared, and Anselmo breathed more freely.

Suddenly an idea flew through his brain as his gaze fell upon the bank-notes.

"We will fly," he muttered to himself, "now, this very hour! This demon knows everything; we are not safe from him, and if an accident happens to Jane—"

In desperation he walked up and down the room and disconnected words came from his lips.

"Who will guarantee me that he will keep silent? Oh, he was always a wretch—to-morrow at four o'clock we can take the train—we will go to England and from there to America."

He paused, and, going to the window, listened. Everything was quiet and Anselmo noticed that a rain shed connected the count's house with that of Madame Vollard. Benedetto's visit was probably undiscovered, and a great deal depended on that.

"I will wake Jane," said Anselmo after a short pause, "I will tell her an excuse, and since she believes in me, she will be ready at once to follow me! I will tell her I am in danger and must leave France."

Anselmo carefully opened the door and listened. All was still in the house, and, going on tiptoe, he glided up to the next story and into Jane's room. Merciful God, it was empty!

Uttering a cry he rushed out of the room and down the stairs, and, a prey to despair, hurried out into the dark night.

---

CHAPTER XXXIV

A SHOT

In deep silence Gontram and Spero walked along the Champs-Elysées, which at this time of the day was deserted. They were both indulging in day-dreams and permitted the magical spring air to affect them.

"Confound the slow pokes," cried the painter at length, after the two young men had been walking up and down for over an hour; "I will go directly to the point."

Spero looked up in amazement. Buried in thought, he believed his friend had spoken to him, and so he said confusedly:

"Excuse me, Gontram, I was thinking of something else and didn't catch your meaning."

"Oh, I was only thinking aloud," replied the painter, laughing, "but it is best if I talk the matter over with you. I will sooner reach a decision."

"I do not understand," stammered Spero.

"I believe you; but do you know that we are both in the same boat?"

"How so?"

"Oh, I do not wish to pry into your secrets, but hope that you will listen quietly to my confession and then give me your opinion."

"A confession? Have you any debts? You know very well—"

"That your purse is open to me I know, but I want to make a loan with your heart."

"Speak quickly; what is the matter?"

"It is about the solution of a problem which has already brought many a man to the brink of despair."

"Gontram!"

"Yes, look at me; it is unfortunately true. One of the most interesting chapters in Rabelais's 'Pantagruel' is devoted to the theme."

Spero was not in the humor for any literary discussion, and so he firmly said:

"If Rabelais handled this theme, he did it undoubtedly in a more worthy way than I could possibly have done."

"H'm, Rabelais merely gives the question, but does not answer it."

"You are speaking in riddles," said the vicomte, laughing, "and, as you know, I have very little acquaintance with practical life."

"But you know 'Pantagruel'?"

"Yes, but—"

"Panurge asks his master, 'Shall I marry or shall I not marry?' and Pantagruel replies, 'Marry or do not marry, just as you feel inclined.'"

"Ah, so that is the question you wish to place before me?" said Spero.

"Yes."

"But why do you come to me for my advice in such a delicate matter?"

"Because I have confidence in you," replied the painter, warmly.

"Thank you," said the vicomte, cordially; "in questions of ordinary life I know as little as a child. I think it is a misfortune to always live alone."

"Then you advise me to marry?"

"If the woman you have selected is worthy to be your wife."

For a time they were both silent, and then Spero continued:

"I think marriage must be based upon unlimited mutual esteem."

"You are right. You have, no doubt, observed that the young lady whom I conducted through the parlor this evening—"

Spero trembled and uttered a low cry. The painter looked suspiciously at him, but the vicomte laughingly said that he had knocked against a stone, and so the painter continued:

"The young lady has captivated me—"

"Of which lady are you speaking?" asked the vicomte, uneasily.

"Of the pretty blonde, Mademoiselle de Larsagny!"

"Ah! she is certainly very handsome," cried Spero, breathing more freely.

"Don't you think so?" exclaimed Gontram, enthusiastically. "That is the young lady I mean."

"In that case I can only congratulate you on the choice you have made."

"Thank you. Then you think Carmen de Larsagny charming?"

"Yes. From what I have seen of the young lady she deserves the love of such a splendid fellow as you are."

"If I were to obey the voice of love," said Gontram, "I would go to her now and say: 'I love you—be mine!'"

"And why do you hesitate? You love her, do you not?"

"I suppose so; Carmen is charming. This evening I was at the point of proposing—"

"Well? and—"

"That is just the point. Spero, have you never had a feeling which caused you to leave undone something which your heart prompted you to do? Several times this evening a feeling of coming misfortune overcame me, so that I had great trouble to retain my cheerfulness."

"Such things are sometimes deceiving," said Spero.

"That may be, but every time I think of a marriage with Carmen a feeling of uneasiness overcomes me."

"That is merely nervous excitement."

"I am in love and—"

"Well, you hesitate?"

"I have not told you everything yet. I committed an indiscretion."

"Of what nature?"

"I embraced Mademoiselle de Larsagny and kissed her."

"Ah! and the young girl?"

"Did not repulse me. Now shall I marry or not?"

"What does your heart tell you?"

"My heart is like Pantagruel. It knows no decided answer."

"Good. If you follow my advice, marry the girl. A kiss between two good young people is as binding as an engagement."

"You are right, a hundred times right, and yet the moment I pressed my lips to hers I felt a pain in my heart. If I only knew the cause of this fright which seizes me every time I think of Carmen."

"Perhaps it is her father, Monsieur de Larsagny, who does not inspire you with confidence?" said Spero after a pause.

In the meantime the two friends reached the Arc de Triomphe and walked up and down the woods.

"Perhaps you are right," said Gontram, answering the vicomte's last question. "I know very little of Monsieur de Larsagny, and yet I could swear that there are some dark spots in his past."

At this moment a shot sounded in the still night, and the friends stood still and looked at each other in surprise.

"What was that?" cried Spero.

"A shot, and, as I fear, a crime," said Gontram, softly.

The young men hurried in the direction from which the shot came, and were soon in a small pathway which was lighted up by the faint gleam of the moon. On the ground a motionless form lay. Spero bent over it, and, uttering a hollow cry, he took it in his arms and clasped the head with its long, black, streaming hair to his bosom. It was Jane Zild whom the vicomte held in his arms. Near her lay a revolver.

---

CHAPTER XXXV

WILL SHE LIVE?

Spero hurried with his burden to the street, and Gontram could hardly keep up with him. Finally he overtook him, and, placing his hand on the vicomte's shoulder, he urgently cried:

"Spero, where are you going with this corpse?"

"She is not dead," replied the vicomte, tremblingly. "She lives; she must live—she dare not die!"

"And who is she?" asked Gontram, as he tried to get a glimpse of the face. Yes, he recognized her now as she lay in Spero's arms.

"Jane! Jane Zild?" stammered the painter, terror-stricken. "O my God!"

They had now reached the Place de l'Etoile, and Gontram looked around for a carriage.

"What shall we do?" he asked, turning in desperation to Spero. "Are you going to bring the poor thing to your house? I shall go and arouse the servants."

"Do so, Gontram, and hurry—every minute counts."

Soon the Monte-Cristo mansion was reached. Spero carried the unconscious girl up the stairs and gently laid her on the divan. He then got on his knees beside Jane, and, hiding his face in his hands, he sobbed bitterly.

Gontram now approached his friend.

"Spero," he said, "calm yourself; we must rescue the poor child."

The vicomte sprang up.

"You are right, Gontram," he replied; "but if she is dead, I shall die, too, for I love her—I love her more than my life."

"She is no doubt wounded," said Gontram softly.

"Yes, just hold a light here," cried the vicomte. "I will examine her. I have not studied medicine for nothing."

The vicomte laid his ear to her bosom, and then said:

"She lives, but to tell whether there is any hope I must examine her more closely. Gontram, go to my study and bring me the cedar box which stands on my writing-desk."

Gontram left the room, and Spero was alone with the unconscious girl. Placing his hand upon her white forehead, he bent over the young girl and tenderly murmured:

"Poor dear child! Why did you wish to die? Oh, Jane, Jane! you must live—live for me, and no power on earth shall tear you from me!"

He pressed his lips upon her pale mouth, and with this kiss his soul was bound to that of the young girl.

Gontram now returned; Spero opened the box and took an instrument from it.

"Feel if my hand trembles," he said, turning to the painter; "only if that is not the case can I dare to probe for the bullet."

Gontram took hold of the white hand. It did not tremble, and Spero began to probe for the bullet.

"The ball has not touched a vital part," whispered the vicomte at length; "it lies in the muscles. I touched it with the instrument."

"Do you think you can remove the bullet?" asked the painter.

"I hope so."

The vicomte motioned to Gontram to hand him the box again, and taking a bistoury and a pincette he bent over the unconscious girl again.

An anxious moment passed and then Spero triumphantly exclaimed:

"Saved!"

"Saved," repeated Gontram as he took the murderous lead from the vicomte's hand.

"Then we can call the housekeeper," said Spero, after he had poured a liquid down the young girl's throat.

He hurried out, and returned in less than five minutes with Madame Caraman.

The last time we saw the worthy governess she was in Africa, in company with Miss Clary. The latter fell in love with Captain Joliette and married him in spite of Lord Ellis's opposition. The young couple were very happy until the coup d'état of the 2d of December, 1851, when Albert de Morcerf was killed by a murderous ball. Six months later Miss Clary died of grief. Four weeks after her death Madame Caraman became the housekeeper of the Monte-Cristo mansion. Thus it came about that Spero hurried to her for aid for the sick girl. She asked no questions, but, with the vicomte's assistance, placed a bandage upon the young girl's wound and wished to discreetly retire.

"Mamma Caraman," said Spero, imploringly, "stay here and watch over the young girl whom I place under your protection. Let no one know that she is in this house."

Spero thereupon withdrew, while Jane Zild remained under the care of the good-hearted woman.

---

CHAPTER XXXVI

MELOSAN'S SECRET

We left Melosan as he ran into the street in despair, hoping to find the missing girl. Had Jane run away? Had she been abducted?

Two policemen were patrolling the Champs-Elysées, and Anselmo went up to them and politely asked them whether they had not seen his mistress, a young lady?

The officials looked suspiciously at him, and remarked that the young lady would have something else to do than wander in the streets at this time of night. Anselmo sorrowfully bowed his head, and, after thanking them, continued on his way.

He had reached the polygon and listened attentively. He heard steps, but not the right ones. Suppose Jane had committed suicide?

She had been so painfully excited this evening, and Anselmo, who knew her past, shuddered when he thought that the Seine was not far away.

Without a pause he ran to the edge of the water; the dawning day was raw and chilly, and Anselmo shuddered as he looked in the dark waves. Were they taking his dearest treasure on earth along in their course?

What mysterious tie bound him to Jane Zild? the former galley-slave to the beautiful, talented creature?

* * * * *

Twenty-one years had passed since Anselmo had witnessed the killing of Madame Danglars by her son Benedetto and the latter's flight with the treasure. Anselmo was, of course, a scoundrel, too; but his whole being rose up in anger at such inhuman cruelty, and, grasping the knife, he had threatened to kill the parricide if he did not depart at once.

Benedetto was thrown into the sea, and was rescued upon the island of Monte-Cristo.

Anselmo had remained behind, half dazed, and only little by little did he recover his senses sufficiently to think over his own situation. It was a desperate one; yet he would not have exchanged with Benedetto for any price.

Suddenly, a faint glimmer of daylight shone through the open window, and Anselmo trembled when his gaze fell on the pale face of the murdered woman. Suppose she was not dead? Anselmo bent over her and listened; not the slightest sign of breathing was visible, and yet the convict thought he felt an almost imperceptible beating of the heart.

Should he call for help? That would be equivalent to delivering himself over to the hangman. If he hesitated, the woman would die, under all circumstances. Who would believe him, if he said that the woman's own son was the murderer? Appearances were against him, and, if the murdered woman really recovered consciousness again, and she should be asked who raised the knife against her, she would much sooner accuse him than the son whom she madly loved.

While Anselmo was still debating the question in his mind, he heard a noise in front of the house, and, hurrying to the window, he perceived the priest, who had just returned home from his journey. The convict uttered a cry of relief. He could now leave without having a murder upon his soul; for the clergyman would, no doubt, immediately discover what had happened, and take care of the victim. He waited until he had heard the priest's steps on the stairs, and then swung himself through the window on to the tree which had helped Benedetto to enter the room, and disappeared at the very moment that the horrified clergyman entered the room. Anselmo determined to leave France in an easterly direction. After great trials and difficulties he reached Switzerland, and from there he journeyed to Germany. Intelligent and active, he soon found a means of earning an honest living; he settled in Munich, and, under the name of Melosan, gave lessons in French.

Fifteen years passed in this way. Anselmo worked hard, and was satisfied with the reward of his activity. His scholars esteemed him. During this time an entire change had taken place in the former convict. But then a yearning to see France once more seized him, and he resolved to return to the fatherland.

He first went to Lyons, where he gave lessons in German and Italian. He lived in a modest apartment in the Faubourg St. Antoine. One evening Anselmo was walking along the quay when he heard quarrelling voices. A woman's voice cried aloud:

"Let me go! I want to go for my daughter. I have nothing to do with you. Help, help!"

Anselmo stood still. A woman was no doubt struggling with some men, and when her cries redoubled, he forgot his prudence and hurried toward the group.

As he suspected, he found three drunken workmen trying to force a sixteen-year-old girl from the grasp of an elderly woman.

The woman cried loudly for help and struck angrily around her. The young girl, however, silently defended herself.

"Don't be so prudish, Zilda," said one of the men. "You make as much noise as if we were going to hang the little one."

The speaker, as he said this, threw his arms around the slim waist of the young girl and tried to draw her to him. At this moment Anselmo appeared, and with a terrible blow he struck the fellow to the ground.

The young girl sobbed, and taking the hand of her rescuer she pressed a kiss upon it. Then turning to the old lady, who was leaning against the wall moaning, she cried, beside herself:

"Oh, mother, mother! What is the matter with you? My God, she is dying!"

This really seemed to be the case; the poor woman had become deathly pale, and sank to the ground.

"Let me help you," said Anselmo to the young girl. He bent down and took the unconscious woman in his arms. "Where do you live?"

As simple as the question was, the girl appeared to be embarrassed by it.

"Won't you tell me where you live?" said Anselmo, as the girl remained silent.

"We do not live far from here, in the Rue Franchefoin."

"I do not know that street."

"Ah, I believe you," stammered the poor child, shuddering; "I shall proceed in advance."

"Do so," said Anselmo.

The ex-priest followed her, bearing the unconscious woman in his muscular arms, and only gradually did he perceive that his companion was leading him into one of the most disreputable streets in the city.

The young girl stopped in front of a small house. A robust woman stood in the doorway, and when she saw the young girl she venomously said:

"Zilda has taken time. She stayed away a good two hours to get her daughter."

"My mother is dangerously ill, perhaps dying," said the young girl in a sharp voice.

"It won't be so serious," replied the woman, with a coarse laugh.

"Have you not heard that the woman is dangerously ill?" said the ex-priest.

"Is she sick?" asked the woman, coldly. "Well, if she dies, it won't be a great misfortune. I—"

"Madame, for God's sake!" implored the young girl.

"Show me to a room where I can lay the invalid down," said Anselmo roughly.

"Yes, yes, directly. Follow me if you are in such a hurry," growled the woman.

Just then two men who were intoxicated staggered into the hallway.

"Ah, there is Zilda," cried one of them; "quick, old woman; come in and sing us a song."

The woman opened a door and winked to the ex-priest to enter. The room was small and dirty. In the corner stood a slovenly bed upon which Anselmo deposited the invalid.

"Is there a physician in the neighborhood?" he asked.

"A physician? That is hardly worth the trouble," mocked the virago, "she is only drunk."

The ex-priest took a five-franc piece from his pocket and said:

"Get a physician, I insist upon it."

The next minute the virago was on the way.

Anselmo remained alone with the two women. The young girl sobbed silently, and the invalid remained motionless.

"Mademoiselle," he began, "I think you might loosen your mother's dress; the fainting fit lasts rather long."

The young girl looked at him, seeming not to understand.

"She is your mother, is she not?"

The young girl nodded, and, rising, pressed her lips upon the woman's forehead. Thereupon she loosened her mother's dress and held a glass of water to her lips. The invalid mechanically drank a few drops, but soon waved it back and whispered:

"No more, no water, leave me!"

"Mother," said the young girl, "mother, it is I; do you not know me?"

"No, I do not know who you are!" cried the invalid. "Away, I cannot sing to-day—my breast pains me. Oh—"

"Oh, mother," sobbed the poor child.

"Yes—I am cold—why do you put ice on my feet?" complained the invalid, and with a quick movement she raised herself up in bed.

Suddenly the delirious woman caught sight of Anselmo, and with a terrible cry she sprung at him with clinched fists.

"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 Café 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-Elysées, 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 Abbé 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.

---

EPILOGUE

THE ABBE DANTES

Fifty years ago a solitary man stood on a lonely rock.

The night was horrible! The storm drove the snow and rain into the face of the solitary man and whipped the black hair around his temples; but he paid no attention to this—he dug into the hard, rocky soil with pickaxe and spade.

Suddenly he uttered an ejaculation of joy. The brittle rock had revealed its secret to him. Unexpected treasures, incalculable fortunes, lay before his eager gaze.

Then the man stood erect; he glanced wildly around him toward all the four quarters of the globe, and cried aloud:

"All you, who have kept me imprisoned for fourteen long years in a subterranean vault into which neither sun nor moon could penetrate, who would have condemned my body to eternal decline, and enshrouded my mind with the night of insanity—you whose names I do not yet know, beware! I swear to be revenged—revenged! Edmond Dantes has risen from his grave, he has risen to chastise his torturers, and as sure as there is a God in heaven you shall learn to know me."

About whom was this solitary man speaking? He did not yet know, but he was soon to discover it.

Fourteen years before, Edmond Dantes, the young sailor, was joyously returning to the harbor of Marseilles on board the Pharaon, belonging to Monsieur Morrel. His captain had died on the trip and he was promised the vacant place. As soon as he had landed he hastened to his bride, the Catalan Mercedes, to announce to her that he could now lead her to the altar.

Then he was suddenly arrested. He was accused of transmitting letters to the Emperor Napoleon, then a prisoner on the Island of Elba.

He did not deny the fact. It was his captain's dying wish. He was ignorant of the contents of the missive, and of the one he had in his possession given him by the captive emperor to deliver to a Monsieur Noirtier in Paris.

Monsieur Noirtier's full name was Noirtier de Villefort, and his son Monsieur de Villefort was the deputy procureur du roi to whom Edmond Dantes handed the letter to prove his innocence.

The son suppressed the letter, in order not to be compromised by the acts of his father, and had the young man torn from the arms of his betrothed and incarcerated in the subterranean dungeon of the Chateau d'If.

Here he remained fourteen long years, his only companion the Abbé Faria, who was deemed to be insane. The abbé on his deathbed intrusted to him the secret that an enormous fortune was concealed in a grotto on the island of Monte-Cristo in the Mediterranean Sea. Edmond Dantes escaped from his dungeon and discovered the buried treasure.

He then left the island to accomplish the revenge he had sworn.

He found that his father had died of starvation and that Mercedes had married another. Who was this other one?

Fernand Mondego, now the Count de Morcerf, had become the husband of the beautiful Catalan. Formerly a simple fisherman, he had risen to become a member of the French Chamber of Deputies.

The second in whose way Edmond Dantes had stood was a man named Danglars. An officer on board the Pharaon, he had hoped to obtain the position of captain. Now he had become one of the principal bankers of the capital.

The third, Caderousse, an envious tailor, had allowed himself to be made a tool of to bring to the notice of the authorities the denunciation against the young sailor which Danglars had dictated and Mondego written down.

His worst enemy was Villefort, who had now become the procureur du roi at Paris.

Was Edmond Dantes to be blamed if he, after he had discovered all this, took the law in his own hands and began to execute his vengeance?

Danglars was his first victim. He ruined him and made him suffer the pangs of hunger which Edmond's father had suffered.

Fernand Mondego, Count de Morcerf, was the second. At first Dantes, who now called himself the Count of Monte-Cristo, wanted to kill Fernand's son, Albert de Morcerf, but he spared the young man for Mercedes' sake.

He looked up Mondego's past history. The latter had risen to power through crime and treachery. He had betrayed Ali Tebelen, Pasha of Yanina, and sold the latter's wife Vassiliki and daughter Haydee into slavery. Haydee herself denounced De Morcerf's infamy in the Chamber of Deputies. De Morcerf, forever dishonored, and knowing the blow came from Monte-Cristo, sought to pick a quarrel with the latter. But the count, glancing him full in the face, said:

"Look at me well, Fernand, and you will understand it all. I am Edmond Dantes."

Then De Morcerf fled, and an hour afterward blew out his brains.

De Villefort's turn was next. Monte-Cristo discovered that he had buried alive a child of Madame Danglars and himself. Bertuccio the Corsican had saved the child and reared it to manhood. The boy had become the bandit Benedetto.

Monte-Cristo found him in the galleys at Toulon. He aided in his escape, and Benedetto assassinated Caderousse. Tried for this murder, Benedetto found himself confronted with his father, the procureur du roi. He boldly announced his relationship, and de Villefort fled from the courtroom only to find on reaching home that his wife had poisoned herself and her son. In that moment of agony Monte-Cristo appeared before him and told him that he was Edmond Dantes. The blow struck home. De Villefort went mad.

His work of vengeance was now accomplished. Monte-Cristo was rich and all-powerful. He married Haydee, and they had a son, Spero. Now, alas! Haydee was dead! Spero was dead!

* * * * *

It was ten years since Monte-Cristo, on that fearful night, bore off the corpse of his only son.

Again he stood alone on the rock on the island of Monte-Cristo. He had lived on this rock for ten years. He saw no one, heard no one, except when occasionally men came ashore for water. Then he concealed himself, watching them and hearing their gay laughter.

But the rumor that the island was haunted spread around, and the superstitious Italians claimed that it was inhabited by a spirit whom they called the Abbé of Monte-Cristo.

All these years Monte-Cristo had lived on herbs and roots. He had sworn never to touch money again while he lived.

One night Monte-Cristo entered the subterranean cave where the marble sarcophagus of his son was:

"Spero," he earnestly said, "is it time?"

A long silence ensued. Then—was it a reality?—Spero's lips appeared to move and utter the word:

"Come."

"I thought so," muttered the Count. "I shall come, my child, as soon as my affairs are settled."

He took a package from his pocket, and unfolding it read it aloud:

"My Last Will and Testament

"The person who signed this paper, and who is about to die, has been more powerful than the greatest ruler on earth. He has loved and hated strongly. All is forgotten, all is dead to him except the souvenir of the son who was dear to him. This man possessed millions, but dies of hunger. He desired to domineer over every one, made a judge of himself and rewarded the just and punished the guilty. He has no heir, but he thinks it would be wrong for him to destroy the wealth he possesses. It is in existence, though hid away. He bequeaths it to Providence. It will bear this paper together with these mysterious signs.

"Will the money be found?

"Whoever reads this paper will do a wise act if he annihilates it. May he who finds this paper listen and heed to the words of a dying man.

"The Abbé Dantes."

"February 25th, 1865."

Below this signature was a curious design. Monte-Cristo examined it.

"Ah, Faria!" he exclaimed, "may your money fall into better hands than mine!"

He felt singularly feeble and laid his hand on his heart. He entered the tomb of Spero and reclined beside him. His arms were crossed on his breast. His eyes shut. He was dead.

* * * * *

All those who ever knew him never speak of him or hear his name uttered without being deeply affected. One thing has remained a secret for them up to this day. Where did Edmond Dantes, Count of Monte-Cristo, perish?

THE END

---