Fear? Yes. For the first time in his life he had made an attack on Monte-Cristo, and in spite of his audacity, knew perfectly well that the mere presence of the Count would cause him to tremble with fear. He did not wish to die, and therefore fled by the first path that presented itself. And after all, to swim the Seine was a trifle to the former forçat. He was strong and a good swimmer, but the height from which he sprang was so great that at first he was almost stunned. The water was icy cold. He first thought of climbing again to the same shore, but his adversaries might be watching and he might fall into their hands; while on the other bank the forest of Neuilly offered him a sure refuge. He therefore swam across. The current was strong, but he and Sanselme had known a worse and heavier sea when they escaped from Toulon. It was strange, the persistency with which this name returned to him. At this same moment he heard a dull noise behind him as if some one leaped into the water. Could it be that one of his enemies had started in pursuit? He found that he was making little progress and that his strength was going. He allowed himself to float for a few minutes, and in the silence felt convinced that some one was pursuing him. But what nonsense it was in such darkness to make such an attempt. Benedetto now allowed himself to be carried on by the current, crossing the river obliquely, and managed to make no noise whatever as he swam. And yet as he listened he heard the same sound behind him at about the same distance. And now Benedetto beheld the shore. In a few minutes he would be safe, and when on firm ground he could look out for himself. He sneered to himself. What nonsense all this talk was of punishment for crime. He had managed to escape so far! Finally he stood on the shore. He heard a cry from the water. He understood it. It came from his pursuer, who was now near enough to see that his prey had escaped him. He was right.
Sanselme had not lost sight of Benedetto, and had felt sure of catching him; but he had been struck on the shoulder by a piece of floating wood. The pain was excessive, and he lost his power of swimming. In this moment Benedetto escaped him. He could dimly see his form on the shore, and then the man's shadow was lost in the shadow of the woods. Sanselme uttered a groan. This man had killed Jane, and would now go unpunished. Up to this moment the former convict had been sustained by unnatural strength, but now this strength was gone. He could do no more and believed himself to be dying. Suddenly he felt something within reach of the hands with which he was beating the water like a drowning dog. It was a rope. A schooner had been wrecked here and a rope was hanging from its broken hull. Sanselme clung to it with the energy of despair, and by it raised himself on board the schooner and fell on the deck utterly exhausted, morally and physically.
Suddenly he uttered a wild cry. He had been looking intently at the spot where he had seen Benedetto disappear. He saw the man's shadow again, but it was not alone. With it was something white, that looked like a spectre. And the spectre was gliding over the ground in the direction of the wreck on which Sanselme was crouching.
What was it? One form was certainly Benedetto's; but the spectre—was it anything more than the fog that rises at dawn along the riverside? Not so—it was a phantom; the terrible resurrection of the Past.
Benedetto had run toward the wood, believing that there he would be safe. Suddenly his heart stood still, for before him rose a tall form draped in white, like a winding-sheet. This man was a coward at heart, and had been all his life afraid of ghosts. But he encouraged himself now, saying that it was mist from the river, which a breath of wind would dissipate. Summoning all his courage, he stopped and went toward this strange form. It was a form and not mist; but its height looked unnatural as it stood leaning against a tree. Why did not Benedetto turn aside, either to the right or the left? He could not; something stronger than his will drew him toward the nameless Thing. Finally Benedetto laid his hand on the shoulder of the Thing. It turned and lifted its head. Then an appalling shriek, which was like nothing human, came from Benedetto's lips. This spectre was that of his mother, whom he had stabbed in the breast at Beausset so many years before. And the ghost stood gazing at him with her large eyes, while her gray tresses floated in the wind.
Benedetto did not seek to understand. He believed that the dead had risen from the tomb. She looked at him for a full minute. Then she said:
"Come, Benedetto; come, my son."
And the long, skeleton-like hand was laid on the parricide's wrist with such an icy pressure that Benedetto felt as if a steel ring were being riveted on his arm.