"Has been the happiness of your race."
"Well, dear?"
"And now, when a triumph has been achieved—now, when others, who have been but mere instruments—blind instruments, many of them, in your hands to accomplish they knew not what—come forward and assume place and power—you, Edmond, the noble author and first cause of all, remain quietly in seclusion, unknown, unnamed, unappreciated and uncommended, while the others reap the fruits of your toil!"
"Well, dear?" said Dantès, smiling at the warmth of his wife in his behalf.
"But it is not 'well,' Edmond. I say no one is as disinterested as you."
"Ah! love, what of ambition?"
Mercédès smiled.
"Let me tell you all, love, and then you will not, I fear, think me disinterested," said Dantès seriously. "I should blush, indeed, at praise so little deserved. You know all my early history. I suffered—I was wronged—I was revenged. But was I happy? I sought happiness. All men do so, even the most miserable. Some seek happiness in gratified ambition, some in gratified avarice, some in gratified vanity, and some in the gratification of a dominant lust for pleasure or for power. I sought happiness in gratified revenge!"
Mercédès shuddered, and, hiding her face on the bosom of her husband, clung to it more closely as if for protection. Dantès drew her form to his as he would have drawn that of a child, and continued:
"I sought happiness in vengeance for terrible wrongs, and to win it I devoted a life and countless wealth. What was the result? Misery!—misery!—misery!"