M. DE BOVILLE had indeed met the funeral procession which was taking Valentine to her last home on earth. The weather was dull and stormy, a cold wind shook the few remaining yellow leaves from the boughs of the trees, and scattered them among the crowd which filled the boulevards. M. de Villefort, a true Parisian, considered the cemetery of Père-la-Chaise alone worthy of receiving the mortal remains of a Parisian family; there alone the corpses belonging to him would be surrounded by worthy associates. He had therefore purchased a vault, which was quickly occupied by members of his family. On the front of the monument was inscribed: "The families of Saint-Méran and Villefort," for such had been the last wish expressed by poor Renée, Valentine's mother. The pompous procession therefore wended its way towards Père-la-Chaise from the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. Having crossed Paris, it passed through the Faubourg du Temple, then leaving the exterior boulevards, it reached the cemetery. More than fifty private carriages followed the twenty mourning-coaches, and behind them more than five hundred persons joined in the procession on foot.

These last consisted of all the young people whom Valentine's death had struck like a thunderbolt, and who, notwithstanding the raw chilliness of the season, could not refrain from paying a last tribute to the memory of the beautiful, chaste, and adorable girl, thus cut off in the flower of her youth. As they left Paris, an equipage with four horses, at full speed, was seen to draw up suddenly; it contained Monte Cristo. The count left the carriage and mingled in the crowd who followed on foot. Chateau-Renaud perceived him and immediately alighting from his coupé, joined him.

The count looked attentively through every opening in the crowd; he was evidently watching for some one, but his search ended in disappointment. "Where is Morrel?" he asked; "do either of these gentlemen know where he is?"

"We have already asked that question," said Chateau-Renaud, "for none of us has seen him." The count was silent, but continued to gaze around him. At length they arrived at the cemetery. The piercing eye of Monte Cristo glanced through clusters of bushes and trees, and was soon relieved from all anxiety, for seeing a shadow glide between the yew-trees, Monte Cristo recognized him whom he sought. One funeral is generally very much like another in this magnificent metropolis. Black figures are seen scattered over the long white avenues; the silence of earth and heaven is alone broken by the noise made by the crackling branches of hedges planted around the monuments; then follows the melancholy chant of the priests, mingled now and then with a sob of anguish, escaping from some woman concealed behind a mass of flowers.

The shadow Monte Cristo had noticed passed rapidly behind the tomb of Abelard and Hélo?se, placed itself close to the heads of the horses belonging to the hearse, and following the undertaker's men, arrived with them at the spot appointed for the burial. Each person's attention was occupied. Monte Cristo saw nothing but the shadow, which no one else observed. Twice the count left the ranks to see whether the object of his interest had any concealed weapon beneath his clothes. When the procession stopped, this shadow was recognized as Morrel, who, with his coat buttoned up to his throat, his face livid, and convulsively crushing his hat between his fingers, leaned against a tree, situated on an elevation commanding the mausoleum, so that none of the funeral details could escape his observation. Everything was conducted in the usual manner. A few men, the least impressed of all by the scene, pronounced a discourse, some deploring this premature death, others expatiating on the grief of the father, and one very ingenious person quoting the fact that Valentine had solicited pardon of her father for criminals on whom the arm of justice was ready to fall--until at length they exhausted their stores of metaphor and mournful speeches.

Monte Cristo heard and saw nothing, or rather he only saw Morrel, whose calmness had a frightful effect on those who knew what was passing in his heart. "See," said Beauchamp, pointing out Morrel to Debray. "What is he doing up there?" And they called Chateau-Renaud's attention to him.

"How pale he is!" said Chateau-Renaud, shuddering.

"He is cold," said Debray.

"Not at all," said Chateau-Renaud, slowly; "I think he is violently agitated. He is very susceptible."

"Bah," said Debray; "he scarcely knew Mademoiselle de Villefort; you said so yourself."

"True. Still I remember he danced three times with her at Madame de Morcerf's. Do you recollect that ball, count, where you produced such an effect?"

"No, I do not," replied Monte Cristo, without even knowing of what or to whom he was speaking, so much was he occupied in watching Morrel, who was holding his breath with emotion. "The discourse is over; farewell, gentlemen," said the count. And he disappeared without anyone seeing whither he went. The funeral being over, the guests returned to Paris. Chateau-Renaud looked for a moment for Morrel; but while they were watching the departure of the count, Morrel had quitted his post, and Chateau-Renaud, failing in his search, joined Debray and Beauchamp.

Monte Cristo concealed himself behind a large tomb and awaited the arrival of Morrel, who by degrees approached the tomb now abandoned by spectators and workmen. Morrel threw a glance around, but before it reached the spot occupied by Monte Cristo the latter had advanced yet nearer, still unperceived. The young man knelt down. The count, with outstretched neck and glaring eyes, stood in an attitude ready to pounce upon Morrel upon the first occasion. Morrel bent his head till it touched the stone, then clutching the grating with both hands, he murmured,--"Oh, Valentine!" The count's heart was pierced by the utterance of these two words; he stepped forward, and touching the young man's shoulder, said,--"I was looking for you, my friend." Monte Cristo expected a burst of passion, but he was deceived, for Morrel turning round, said calmly,--

"You see I was praying." The scrutinizing glance of the count searched the young man from head to foot. He then seemed more easy.

"Shall I drive you back to Paris?" he asked.

"No, thank you."

"Do you wish anything?"

"Leave me to pray." The count withdrew without opposition, but it was only to place himself in a situation where he could watch every movement of Morrel, who at length arose, brushed the dust from his knees, and turned towards Paris, without once looking back. He walked slowly down the Rue de la Roquette. The count, dismissing his carriage, followed him about a hundred paces behind. Maximilian crossed the canal and entered the Rue Meslay by the boulevards. Five minutes after the door had been closed on Morrel's entrance, it was again opened for the count. Julie was at the entrance of the garden, where she was attentively watching Penelon, who, entering with zeal into his profession of gardener, was very busy grafting some Bengal roses. "Ah, count," she exclaimed, with the delight manifested by every member of the family whenever he visited the Rue Meslay.

"Maximilian has just returned, has he not, madame?" asked the count.

"Yes, I think I saw him pass; but pray, call Emmanuel."

"Excuse me, madame, but I must go up to Maximilian's room this instant," replied Monte Cristo, "I have something of the greatest importance to tell him."

"Go, then," she said with a charming smile, which accompanied him until he had disappeared. Monte Cristo soon ran up the staircase conducting from the ground-floor to Maximilian's room; when he reached the landing he listened attentively, but all was still. Like many old houses occupied by a single family, the room door was panelled with glass; but it was locked, Maximilian was shut in, and it was impossible to see what was passing in the room, because a red curtain was drawn before the glass. The count's anxiety was manifested by a bright color which seldom appeared on the face of that imperturbable man.

"What shall I do!" he uttered, and reflected for a moment; "shall I ring? No, the sound of a bell, announcing a visitor, will but accelerate the resolution of one in Maximilian's situation, and then the bell would be followed by a louder noise." Monte Cristo trembled from head to foot and as if his determination had been taken with the rapidity of lightning, he struck one of the panes of glass with his elbow; the glass was shivered to atoms, then withdrawing the curtain he saw Morrel, who had been writing at his desk, bound from his seat at the noise of the broken window.

"I beg a thousand pardons," said the count, "there is nothing the matter, but I slipped down and broke one of your panes of glass with my elbow. Since it is opened, I will take advantage of it to enter your room; do not disturb yourself--do not disturb yourself!" And passing his hand through the broken glass, the count opened the door. Morrel, evidently discomposed, came to meet Monte Cristo less with the intention of receiving him than to exclude his entry.

"Ma foi!" said Monte Cristo, rubbing his elbow, "it's all your servant's fault; your stairs are so polished, it is like walking on glass."

"Are you hurt, sir?" coldly asked Morrel.

"I believe not. But what are you about there? You were writing."

"I?"

"Your fingers are stained with ink."

"Ah, true, I was writing. I do sometimes, soldier though I am."

Monte Cristo advanced into the room; Maximilian was obliged to let him pass, but he followed him. "You were writing?" said Monte Cristo with a searching look.

"I have already had the honor of telling you I was," said Morrel.

The count looked around him. "Your pistols are beside your desk," said Monte Cristo, pointing with his finger to the pistols on the table.

"I am on the point of starting on a journey," replied Morrel disdainfully.

"My friend," exclaimed Monte Cristo in a tone of exquisite sweetness.

"Sir?"

"My friend, my dear Maximilian, do not make a hasty resolution, I entreat you."

"I make a hasty resolution?" said Morrel, shrugging his shoulders; "is there anything extraordinary in a journey?"

"Maximilian," said the count, "let us both lay aside the mask we have assumed. You no more deceive me with that false calmness than I impose upon you with my frivolous solicitude. You can understand, can you not, that to have acted as I have done, to have broken that glass, to have intruded on the solitude of a friend--you can understand that, to have done all this, I must have been actuated by real uneasiness, or rather by a terrible conviction. Morrel, you are going to destroy yourself!"

"Indeed, count," said Morrel, shuddering; "what has put this into your head?"

"I tell you that you are about to destroy yourself," continued the count, "and here is proof of what I say;" and, approaching the desk, he removed the sheet of paper which Morrel had placed over the letter he had begun, and took the latter in his hands.

Morrel rushed forward to tear it from him, but Monte Cristo perceiving his intention, seized his wrist with his iron grasp. "You wish to destroy yourself," said the count; "you have written it."

"Well," said Morrel, changing his expression of calmness for one of violence--"well, and if I do intend to turn this pistol against myself, who shall prevent me--who will dare prevent me? All my hopes are blighted, my heart is broken, my life a burden, everything around me is sad and mournful; earth has become distasteful to me, and human voices distract me. It is a mercy to let me die, for if I live I shall lose my reason and become mad. When, sir, I tell you all this with tears of heartfelt anguish, can you reply that I am wrong, can you prevent my putting an end to my miserable existence? Tell me, sir, could you have the courage to do so?"

"Yes, Morrel," said Monte Cristo, with a calmness which contrasted strangely with the young man's excitement; "yes, I would do so."

"You?" exclaimed Morrel, with increasing anger and reproach--"you, who have deceived me with false hopes, who have cheered and soothed me with vain promises, when I might, if not have saved her, at least have seen her die in my arms! You, who pretend to understand everything, even the hidden sources of knowledge,--and who enact the part of a guardian angel upon earth, and could not even find an antidote to a poison administered to a young girl! Ah, sir, indeed you would inspire me with pity, were you not hateful in my eyes."

"Morrel"--

"Yes; you tell me to lay aside the mask, and I will do so, be satisfied! When you spoke to me at the cemetery, I answered you--my heart was softened; when you arrived here, I allowed you to enter. But since you abuse my confidence, since you have devised a new torture after I thought I had exhausted them all, then, Count of Monte Cristo my pretended benefactor--then, Count of Monte Cristo, the universal guardian, be satisfied, you shall witness the death of your friend;" and Morrel, with a maniacal laugh, again rushed towards the pistols.

"And I again repeat, you shall not commit suicide."

"Prevent me, then!" replied Morrel, with another struggle, which, like the first, failed in releasing him from the count's iron grasp.

"I will prevent you."

"And who are you, then, that arrogate to yourself this tyrannical right over free and rational beings?"

"Who am I?" repeated Monte Cristo. "Listen; I am the only man in the world having the right to say to you, 'Morrel, your father's son shall not die to-day;'" and Monte Cristo, with an expression of majesty and sublimity, advanced with arms folded toward the young man, who, involuntarily overcome by the commanding manner of this man, recoiled a step.

"Why do you mention my father?" stammered he; "why do you mingle a recollection of him with the affairs of today?"

"Because I am he who saved your father's life when he wished to destroy himself, as you do to-day--because I am the man who sent the purse to your young sister, and the Pharaon to old Morrel--because I am the Edmond Dantès who nursed you, a child, on my knees." Morrel made another step back, staggering, breathless, crushed; then all his strength give way, and he fell prostrate at the feet of Monte Cristo. Then his admirable nature underwent a complete and sudden revulsion; he arose, rushed out of the room and to the stairs, exclaiming energetically, "Julie, Julie--Emmanuel, Emmanuel!"

Monte Cristo endeavored also to leave, but Maximilian would have died rather than relax his hold of the handle of the door, which he closed upon the count. Julie, Emmanuel, and some of the servants, ran up in alarm on hearing the cries of Maximilian. Morrel seized their hands, and opening the door exclaimed in a voice choked with sobs, "On your knees--on your knees--he is our benefactor--the saviour of our father! He is"--

He would have added "Edmond Dantès," but the count seized his arm and prevented him. Julie threw herself into the arms of the count; Emmanuel embraced him as a guardian angel; Morrel again fell on his knees, and struck the ground with his forehead. Then the iron-hearted man felt his heart swell in his breast; a flame seemed to rush from his throat to his eyes, he bent his head and wept. For a while nothing was heard in the room but a succession of sobs, while the incense from their grateful hearts mounted to heaven. Julie had scarcely recovered from her deep emotion when she rushed out of the room, descended to the next floor, ran into the drawing-room with childlike joy and raised the crystal globe which covered the purse given by the unknown of the Allées de Meillan. Meanwhile, Emmanuel in a broken voice said to the count, "Oh, count, how could you, hearing us so often speak of our unknown benefactor, seeing us pay such homage of gratitude and adoration to his memory,--how could you continue so long without discovering yourself to us? Oh, it was cruel to us, and--dare I say it?--to you also."

"Listen, my friends," said the count--"I may call you so since we have really been friends for the last eleven years--the discovery of this secret has been occasioned by a great event which you must never know. I wish to bury it during my whole life in my own bosom, but your brother Maximilian wrested it from me by a violence he repents of now, I am sure." Then turning around, and seeing that Morrel, still on his knees, had thrown himself into an arm-chair, be added in a low voice, pressing Emmanuel's hand significantly, "Watch over him."

"Why so?" asked the young man, surprised.

"I cannot explain myself; but watch over him." Emmanuel looked around the room and caught sight of the pistols; his eyes rested on the weapons, and he pointed to them. Monte Cristo bent his head. Emmanuel went towards the pistols. "Leave them," said Monte Cristo. Then walking towards Morrel, he took his hand; the tumultuous agitation of the young man was succeeded by a profound stupor. Julie returned, holding the silken purse in her hands, while tears of joy rolled down her cheeks, like dewdrops on the rose.

"Here is the relic," she said; "do not think it will be less dear to us now we are acquainted with our benefactor!"

"My child," said Monte Cristo, coloring, "allow me to take back that purse? Since you now know my face, I wish to be remembered alone through the affection I hope you will grant me.

"Oh," said Julie, pressing the purse to her heart, "no, no, I beseech you do not take it, for some unhappy day you will leave us, will you not?"

"You have guessed rightly, madame," replied Monte Cristo, smiling; "in a week I shall have left this country, where so many persons who merit the vengeance of heaven lived happily, while my father perished of hunger and grief." While announcing his departure, the count fixed his eyes on Morrel, and remarked that the words, "I shall have left this country," had failed to rouse him from his lethargy. He then saw that he must make another struggle against the grief of his friend, and taking the hands of Emmanuel and Julie, which he pressed within his own, he said with the mild authority of a father, "My kind friends, leave me alone with Maximilian." Julie saw the means offered of carrying off her precious relic, which Monte Cristo had forgotten. She drew her husband to the door. "Let us leave them," she said. The count was alone with Morrel, who remained motionless as a statue.

"Come," said Monte-Cristo, touching his shoulder with his finger, "are you a man again, Maximilian?"

"Yes; for I begin to suffer again."

The count frowned, apparently in gloomy hesitation.

"Maximilian, Maximilian," he said, "the ideas you yield to are unworthy of a Christian."

"Oh, do not fear, my friend," said Morrel, raising his head, and smiling with a sweet expression on the count; "I shall no longer attempt my life."

"Then we are to have no more pistols--no more despair?"

"No; I have found a better remedy for my grief than either a bullet or a knife."

"Poor fellow, what is it?"

"My grief will kill me of itself."

"My friend," said Monte Cristo, with an expression of melancholy equal to his own, "listen to me. One day, in a moment of despair like yours, since it led to a similar resolution, I also wished to kill myself; one day your father, equally desperate, wished to kill himself too. If any one had said to your father, at the moment he raised the pistol to his head--if any one had told me, when in my prison I pushed back the food I had not tasted for three days--if anyone had said to either of us then, 'Live--the day will come when you will be happy, and will bless life!'--no matter whose voice had spoken, we should have heard him with the smile of doubt, or the anguish of incredulity,--and yet how many times has your father blessed life while embracing you--how often have I myself" --

"Ah," exclaimed Morrel, interrupting the count, "you had only lost your liberty, my father had only lost his fortune, but I have lost Valentine."

"Look at me," said Monte Cristo, with that expression which sometimes made him so eloquent and persuasive--"look at me. There are no tears in my eyes, nor is there fever in my veins, yet I see you suffer--you, Maximilian, whom I love as my own son. Well, does not this tell you that in grief, as in life, there is always something to look forward to beyond? Now, if I entreat, if I order you to live, Morrel, it is in the conviction that one day you will thank me for having preserved your life."

"Oh, heavens," said the young man, "oh, heavens--what are you saying, count? Take care. But perhaps you have never loved!"

"Child!" replied the count.

"I mean, as I love. You see, I have been a soldier ever since I attained manhood. I reached the age of twenty-nine without loving, for none of the feelings I before then experienced merit the apellation of love. Well, at twenty-nine I saw Valentine; for two years I have loved her, for two years I have seen written in her heart, as in a book, all the virtues of a daughter and wife. Count, to possess Valentine would have been a happiness too infinite, too ecstatic, too complete, too divine for this world, since it has been denied me; but without Valentine the earth is desolate."

"I have told you to hope," said the count.

"Then have a care, I repeat, for you seek to persuade me, and if you succeed I should lose my reason, for I should hope that I could again behold Valentine." The count smiled. "My friend, my father," said Morrel with excitement, "have a care, I again repeat, for the power you wield over me alarms me. Weigh your words before you speak, for my eyes have already become brighter, and my heart beats strongly; be cautious, or you will make me believe in supernatural agencies. I must obey you, though you bade me call forth the dead or walk upon the water."

"Hope, my friend," repeated the count.

"Ah," said Morrel, falling from the height of excitement to the abyss of despair--"ah, you are playing with me, like those good, or rather selfish mothers who soothe their children with honeyed words, because their screams annoy them. No, my friend, I was wrong to caution you; do not fear, I will bury my grief so deep in my heart, I will disguise it so, that you shall not even care to sympathize with me. Adieu, my friend, adieu!"

"On the contrary," said the count, "after this time you must live with me--you must not leave me, and in a week we shall have left France behind us."

"And you still bid me hope?"

"I tell you to hope, because I have a method of curing you."

"Count, you render me sadder than before, if it be possible. You think the result of this blow has been to produce an ordinary grief, and you would cure it by an ordinary remedy--change of scene." And Morrel dropped his head with disdainful incredulity. "What can I say more?" asked Monte Cristo. "I have confidence in the remedy I propose, and only ask you to permit me to assure you of its efficacy."

"Count, you prolong my agony."

"Then," said the count, "your feeble spirit will not even grant me the trial I request? Come--do you know of what the Count of Monte Cristo is capable? do you know that he holds terrestrial beings under his control? nay, that he can almost work a miracle? Well, wait for the miracle I hope to accomplish, or"--

"Or?" repeated Morrel.

"Or, take care, Morrel, lest I call you ungrateful."

"Have pity on me, count!"

"I feel so much pity towards you, Maximilian, that--listen to me attentively--if I do not cure you in a month, to the day, to the very hour, mark my words, Morrel, I will place loaded pistols before you, and a cup of the deadliest Italian poison--a poison more sure and prompt than that which has killed Valentine."

"Will you promise me?"

"Yes; for I am a man, and have suffered like yourself, and also contemplated suicide; indeed, often since misfortune has left me I have longed for the delights of an eternal sleep."

"But you are sure you will promise me this?" said Morrel, intoxicated. "I not only promise, but swear it!" said Monte Cristo extending his hand.

"In a month, then, on your honor, if I am not consoled, you will let me take my life into my own hands, and whatever may happen you will not call me ungrateful?"

"In a month, to the day, the very hour and the date are sacred, Maximilian. I do not know whether you remember that this is the 5th of September; it is ten years to-day since I saved your father's life, who wished to die." Morrel seized the count's hand and kissed it; the count allowed him to pay the homage he felt due to him. "In a month you will find on the table, at which we shall be then sitting, good pistols and a delicious draught; but, on the other hand, you must promise me not to attempt your life before that time."

"Oh, I also swear it!" Monte Cristo drew the young man towards him, and pressed him for some time to his heart. "And now," he said, "after to-day, you will come and live with me; you can occupy Haidée's apartment, and my daughter will at least be replaced by my son."

"Haidée?" said Morrel, "what has become of her?"

"She departed last night."

"To leave you?"

"To wait for me. Hold yourself ready then to join me at the Champs Elysées, and lead me out of this house without any one seeing my departure." Maximilian hung his head, and obeyed with childlike reverence.

波维里先生确实曾在路上遇到过送瓦朗蒂娜去最后归宿的行列。天空阴霾多云。一阵寒风吹过，树枝上残剩的黄叶，被吹得散落在那塞满马路的人群中间。维尔福先生是一个十足的巴黎人，他认为只有拉雪兹神父墓地才配得上接受一个巴黎家庭成员的遗体，只有在那儿，死者的灵魂才能得到真正的安息。所以他在那儿买下了一块永久性墓地，很快那坟地被他的家属占据了。墓碑的下面刻着“圣·米兰维尔福家族”，因为这是可怜的丽妮——瓦朗蒂娜的母亲——临终时最后的愿望。所以那庄严的送殡行列就从圣·奥诺路出发向拉雪兹神父墓地前进。队伍横越过巴黎市区以后，穿过寺院路，然后离开郊外的马路，到达坟场。打头的是三十辆丧车，五十多辆私家马车跟在后面，在马车后面，跟着五百多个步行的人。最后这一群人都是青年男女，瓦朗蒂娜的死对他们无疑是晴天霹雳；天气虽然阴沉寒冷，仍不能阻止人送那美丽、纯洁、可爱、在这如花之年夭折的姑娘。离开巴黎市区时候，突然一辆由四匹马拉的车疾驶而来，马车里的人是基督山。伯爵从车子里出来，混在步行的人群里。夏多·勒诺看见他，便立刻从自己四轮马车上下来，去和他走在一起。波尚也离开他所乘的那辆轻便马车走过来。伯爵在人丛里仔细地看来看去，他显然在找人。“莫雷尔在哪儿？”他问道，“你们谁知道他在哪儿吗？”

“我们在丧家吊唁时就已经问过这个问题了，”夏多·勒诺说，“因为我们中间没有见过他。”

伯爵一声不吭，但继续向四下里瞧着。送殡行列到达坟场了。基督山那敏锐的目光突然向树丛里望去，不一会他焦急不安的神情消失了，因为他看见一个人影在紫杉树间闪过，并认出那个人影就是他要找的人。

在这个豪华的大都市里的丧葬情形，人家想必都知道。黑压压的人群分散地站在白色的墓道上，天地间一片寂静，只有那围绕墓碑的篱笆竹偶尔的折断声打破寂静，然后神父用抑郁而单调的声调诵经，其中还不时杂着一声女人发出来的啜泣声。基督山注意到的那个人影迅速绕到亚比拉和哀绿伊丝［指法国神学家亚比拉（一○七九—一一四二）和他所恋爱的少女哀绿伊丝。——译注］的坟墓后面，到柩车的马头旁边，与死者的几个仆人一同到达指定的墓穴跟前。人们的注意力都集中在墓穴上。基督山却只注意那个人影。伯爵有两次走出行列，为的是看清他所关切的那个人究竟有没有在衣服底下藏着武器。当殡葬行列停下的时候，可以看清那个人是莫雷尔。黑色礼服的纽扣一直扣到颔下。他脸色苍白，痉挛的手指紧紧地抓住帽子，站到一块可以看清坟墓的高地上，斜靠在一棵树上，看着入穴的每一个细节。一切进行正常。某些不易动情的人象往常一样发表一些演讲——有的对逝者的夭折，表示同情，有的就父亲的伤心侃侃而谈；有些自以为非常聪明的人还说，这个青年女郎曾几次向她的父亲求情，求他宽恕那些即将受法律惩处的罪犯；这样一直讲到他们耗尽他们那些丰美的词藻为止。

基督山什么也没有听，什么也没有看见，或是，说得准确些，他只注意莫雷尔，莫雷尔那种镇定的态度他那些知道他心事的人看着都忍不住异常担心。

“看，”波尚指一指莫雷尔，对德布雷说，“他在那儿干什么？”

“他的脸色真苍白呀！”夏多·勒诺说，不禁打了一个寒颤。

“他受凉了！”德布雷说。

“决不是的，”夏多·勒诺慢慢地说，“我想他是心里一定非常难受。他一向是非常多愁善感的。”

“唉！”德布雷说，“你说过他不认识维尔福小姐呀！怎么会为她伤心呢？”

“不错，可是，我记得他曾在马尔塞夫夫人家里和维尔福小姐跳过三次舞。您还记得那次舞会吗，伯爵？您在那次跳舞会上那样引人注目。”

“不，我记不得了，”基督山回答，他根本不知道他们在说什么，——他正全神贯注地注意着莫雷尔，莫雷尔好象激动得呼吸都停止了。“演讲完了，再会，诸位，”伯爵说。他转身走了，但没有人看见他到哪儿去了。葬礼结束了，来宾们纷纷回巴黎去。夏多·勒诺四寻找莫雷尔，当他在寻找伯爵的时候，莫雷尔已经挪了地方，夏多·勒诺再回头已不见了莫雷尔，便去追上德布雷和波尚。

基督山躲在一座大坟后面等着莫雷尔；莫雷尔走近那座刚建好但已被旁观者和工匠所遗弃的坟墓。他神情茫然地向四周环顾，当他的目光离开基督山所躲藏的那个圆形墓地，基督山已走到离他十来步远的地方，年青人却仍没有发现他。年轻人在墓前跪了下来。伯爵走到莫雷尔身后，伸长脖子，他膝盖弯曲，象是随时都会扑到莫雷尔身上去的，莫雷尔低着头，直到头接触到石板，然后双手抓住栅栏，他喃喃说道：“噢，瓦朗蒂娜哪！”

这几个字使伯爵的心都碎了，他走上去，扶住那青年人的肩头，说：“是你，亲爱的朋友，我正在找你。”

基督山本来以为莫雷尔一看到他会痛哭流涕，会对他大发雷霆，但他错了，莫雷尔回过头来，很平静的对他说：“你看见了我在祈祷。”

伯爵用疑惑的眼光把那年轻人从头到脚打量了一番。然后他似乎比较放心了。“要我用车子送你回巴黎吗？”他问。

“不，谢谢你。”

“你要干什么吗？”

“让我祈祷。”

伯爵并不反对，他只躲到一边，注视着莫雷尔的一举一动。莫雷尔终于站起来，拂去膝头的灰尘，然后头也不回地走上回巴黎的路。他顺着罗琪里路慢慢向回走。伯爵不乘马车，在他的身后约一百步左右步行尾随着他。马西米兰穿过运河，沿着林荫大道折回了密斯雷路。莫雷尔到家五分钟以后，伯爵便赶到了。尤莉站在花园的进口，全神贯注地看园丁为一棵孟加拉玫瑰接枝。“啊，基督山伯爵！”她喊道。他每次来访问密斯雷路的时候，这个家庭里的每一个成员都会这么欢喜他。

“马西米兰刚才回来，是吗，夫人？”伯爵问道。

“是的，我好象看见他进去的，要不要去叫艾曼纽来呀。”

“对不起，夫人，我必须马上到马西米兰的房间里去，”基督山答道，“我有重要的事情要告诉他。”

“那么请吧。”她微笑着说，目送他消失在楼梯口。基督山奔上通到马西米兰房间去的楼梯；到了楼梯顶以后，他留神倾听，但没有任何动静。跟许多独家住的老屋一样，这儿的房门上装着玻璃格子。房门闩着，马西米兰把自己关在房间里，玻璃格后面遮着红色的门帘。无法知道他在房间里干什么，伯爵脸都红了，象伯爵这样一个有铁石一般心肠的人是不容易动情的。“我怎么办呢？”他不安地自语。他想了一会儿。“我拉铃吗？不，铃声只会使马西米兰实行他的行动，那时铃声就会由另一种声音来回答。”他浑身发抖，他情急智生，用手臂撞碎了一格玻璃，随后他拨开门帘，看见莫雷尔伏在书桌上写东西，听到玻璃格破碎的声音，他从座位上跳了起来。

“一千个对不起！”伯爵说，“没有什么，只是我滑了一下，我的手肘不小心拦破了一格玻璃。既然玻璃打破了，来你的房间里对你讲吧。你不必惊惶！”伯爵从那打破的玻璃格里伸进手来，打开了那房门。

莫雷尔神情不快地向基督山迎上来，但他不是来迎接他，而是要阻止他进来。

“嘿！”基督山擦着自己的手肘说，“这是你仆人的过错，把你的楼梯擦得这样滑，就象走在玻璃上一样。”

“你碰伤了吗，阁下？”莫雷尔冷冷地问。

“我想没有。你在写什么呀？你在写文章吗？”

“我？”

“你的手指上染着墨水。”

“啊，不错，我在写东西。我虽然是一个军人，有的时候却喜欢动动笔。”

基督山走进房间里，马西米兰无法阻止他了，但他跟在伯爵身后。

“你在写文章吗？”基督山又用目光逼视着对方。

“我已经告诉过你了。”莫雷尔说。

伯爵向四周看了一下。“你的手枪怎么放在写字台上？”基督山指着书桌上的手枪说。

“我就要出门去旅行了。”莫雷尔答道。

“我的朋友！”基督山用一种非常友好口吻喊道。

“阁下！”

“我的朋友，我亲爱的马西米兰，不要作匆忙的决定，我求求你。”

“我作匆忙的决定？”莫雷尔耸耸肩说，“出门去旅行一次有什么奇怪呢？”

“马西米兰，”伯爵说，“让我们放下我们的假面具。你不要再用那种假镇定来骗我，我也不用再对你装出儿戏式的关怀。你当然明白我刚才撞破玻窗，打扰一位朋友，我这所以这么做，正是因为我怀着极度的不安，或者说得更确切些，是怀着一种可怕的确信。莫雷尔，你想自杀！”

“伯爵！”莫雷尔打了一个寒颤说，“你怎么会有这种想法？”

“我告诉你，你是想自杀，”伯爵继续说，“这就是证据。”

他走到写字台前，把莫雷尔遮住的那张纸拿开，把那封信拿在手里。

莫雷尔冲上来抢那封信，但基督山看出他会这么做，用他有力的手抓住他的手。“你看，你想自杀，”伯爵说，“你已经把这念头写在纸上了。”

“好吧！”莫雷尔说，他的表情又从疯狂的激动变为平静，——“好吧，即使我想用这支手枪自杀，谁能阻止我？谁敢阻止我？当我说，我生命的全部希望已熄灭，我的心已经死了。我的生命之火熄灭了，周围的一切都让我伤心，地球已变成灰烬，每一个人的声音都伤害我，当我说，让我死是慈悲，假如我活下去，我就会因丧失理智而发疯，阁下，告诉我，——当听了这一番话以后，谁还会对我说‘你错了’。还有谁会来尝试阻止我去死呢！告诉我，阁下，难道你有那种勇气吗？”

“是的，莫雷尔，”基督山说，他的态度非常坚定，与那年轻人激动异常，成为一个明显的对照，——“是的，我要那样做。”

“你！”莫雷尔愤怒地喊道，——“你，当我还可以救她，或者可以看着她死在我怀里的时候，你来欺骗我，用空洞的诺言来鼓励和安慰我。你，你假装无所不知，无所不能，你扮演上帝，却不能救一个年轻的姑娘！啊！说老实话，阁下，如果你不是让我看了觉得可怕的话，我简直会觉得你很可怜！”

“莫雷尔！”

“你叫我放下假面具，我不改变主意，请放心吧！当你在她的坟前跟我说话的时候，我回答了你，那是因为我的心软了，你到这儿来的时候，我让你进来。既然你得寸进尺，既然你到我这个作为坟墓用的房间里来激怒我，我已经受尽人间痛苦以后，你又为我设计出一种新的苦刑，——那么假装做我的恩人的基督山伯爵呀，人间天使的基督山伯爵呀，你可以满意了，你目睹一位朋友的死吧。”说着，莫雷尔狂笑着扑过去拿那支手枪。

基督山脸色惨白，但他的眼睛闪闪发光，他用手压住手枪，对狂疯的人说：“我再对你说一遍，你不能自杀。”

“你还想阻止我，”莫雷尔回答，挣扎着要摆脱伯爵的手，但象第一次一样，他的挣扎徒劳无用。

“那么你认为你是谁，竟敢用这种暴虐的态度对待自由而理智的人？”

“我是谁？”基督山重复道，“听着，在这个世界上，只有我有权利可以对你说：‘莫雷尔，你父亲的儿子不应该死在今天。’”基督山两臂交叉，神情庄严地向那年轻人迎上去，他看上去是那么崇高那么神圣，年轻人不由自主地在这种近乎神圣的威严面前屈服了，他后退了一步。

“你为什么要提到我的父亲？”他结结巴巴地问，“你为什么要把他和今天的事情混在一起！”

“因为当你的父亲象你今天这样要自杀的时候，阻止了他的，就是我。送钱袋给你的妹妹，送埃及王号给老莫雷尔先生的，就是我。因为我就是那个当你还是一个小孩子的时候就把你抱在膝头上玩的爱德蒙·唐太斯。”

莫雷尔由于震惊几乎透不过气来，他踉踉跄跄地倒退了一步；他再也支持不住了，大叫一声俯伏到基督山脚下。然后，他又立刻爬起来，冲向房门，在楼梯顶上放开嗓子大喊：“尤莉，尤莉！艾曼纽！艾曼纽！”

基督山想出来，但马西米兰住门不让伯爵出来，宁死也不肯放松门柄。尤莉、艾曼纽和那个仆人听到马西米兰的喊声，便惊怕失措地奔上来。莫雷尔拉着他们的手，把门推开，用一种呜咽声音喊道：“跪下，跪下！他是我们的恩人！是我们父亲的救命恩人，他是——”

他本来还想说出“爱德蒙·唐太斯”这个名字，但伯爵抓住他的手臂，阻止了他。尤莉扑到伯爵的怀抱里；艾曼纽热情地拥抱他；莫雷尔又跪下来，用他的额头碰地板。那时，那个意志坚强的人觉得他的心膨胀起来；喉部似乎有一道火焰冲上眼睛；他低下头哭泣起来。一时间，房间里只听见继续啜泣声，尤莉激动异常，她冲出房间，奔到楼下，跑进客厅，揭开水晶罩，取出米兰巷她的恩人送给他的那只钱袋。

这时，艾曼纽用哽咽的声音对伯爵说：“噢，伯爵，您怎么能这样忍心呢？您常听我们谈起我们的恩人，常常看见我们这样感激他，崇拜他，您怎么忍心对我们隐瞒真相呢？噢，这对我们是太残酷了，而且——我敢这样说吗？——对您自己也太残酷了！”

“听着，我的朋友，”伯爵说，“我可以这样称呼你，因为你虽然不知道，实际上却已经和我做了十一年的朋友，——这个秘密的泄露，是由于一件你不知道的大事引出来的。上帝作证，我本来希望终生保留这个秘密，但你的内兄玛西米兰用过火的语言逼我讲了出来，他现在一定后悔当时的举动。”他转过头去看着莫雷尔，莫雷尔仍跪在地上，但已把头伏在一张圈椅里，他便含有深意地握一握艾曼纽的手，又低声说，“留心他。”

“为什么？”艾曼纽惊奇地问。

“我不能明说，但留心他。”

艾曼纽向房间里看了看，看见手枪放在桌子上；他的眼光停留在了它上面，他用手指了一指。基督山点了点头。艾曼纽走过去拿手枪。

“随它放在那儿好了，”基督山说。他向莫雷尔走过去，抓住他的手，那年轻人的心在极度的激动以后陷入了一种麻木状态。尤莉跑回来了，双手捧着那只丝带织成的钱袋，欢喜的泪珠一串串地滚下她的两颊。

“这是纪念品，”她说，“我不会因为认识了我们的恩人就减少对它的珍视！”

“我的孩子，”基督山的脸红了，“允许我拿回那只钱袋吧。你们现在既然已经认识我，我只希望你们心里时时能想起我就行了。”

“噢，”尤莉把钱袋紧紧地搂在怀里说，“不，不，我求求您，不要把它带走，因为在某一日子，您要离开我们的，是吗？”

“你猜对了，夫人，”基督山微笑着答道，“在一星期之内，我就要离开这个国家了，因为在这里，许多应惩罚的人过着快乐的生活，而我的父亲却在饥愁交迫中去世。”

当他说要离开的时候，伯爵看看莫雷尔，他发现“我就要离开这个国家”这几个字并不能把他从麻木状态中唤醒。他知道必须用另一种方法来帮他的朋友抑制悲哀，便握住艾曼纽和尤莉的手，用一个只有父亲能有的温和而威严的口吻说：“我的好朋友，让我单独和马西米兰呆一会。”

尤莉看到基督山不留意那只钱袋，她可以带走她那宝贵的纪念物了，便拉她的丈夫到门口。“我们离开他们吧。”她说。

房间里只剩下伯爵和莫雷尔了，莫雷尔仍象石像似的一动不动。

“来，”基督山用手指碰了碰他的肩膀说，“你总算又变成男子汉了，马西米兰？”

“是的，因为我又开始痛苦了。”

伯爵皱了皱眉头，犹豫说。“马西米兰，马西米兰，”他说，“你心里的念头不是一个基督徒所应有的。”

“噢，不必怕，我的朋友，”莫雷尔说，他抬起头来，向伯爵露出一个伤心的微笑，“我不想自杀了。”

“那么你用不着手枪，也用不着绝望了。”

“用不着了，要治愈我的悲哀，有一种比子弹或小刀更好的办法。”

“可怜的人，那是什么？”

“我的悲哀会使我死去！”

“我的朋友，”基督山同样忧郁的说，“听我说。以前有一天，我跟你现在一样绝望，我下过象你一样的决心，想自杀，以前有一天，你的父亲在同样绝望的时候，也希望自杀。假如当你的父亲举起手枪准备自杀的时候，当我在监狱里三天不曾吃东西的时候，有人来对他或对我说：“活下去，将来有一天，你会快乐，会赞美生活的！’——不论那些话是谁说的，我们听了总觉得不可思议而且感到难以相信的痛苦，可是，当你父亲在拥抱你的时候，他曾多少次赞美生活呀！我自己也曾多少次——”

“啊！”莫雷尔打断伯爵的话叹道，“你只丧失了你的自由，家父只丧失了他的财产，但是我——我失去了瓦朗蒂娜。”

“看看我，莫雷尔，”基督山庄严地说，这种庄严的态度使他看来是这样的伟大，证人没法不信服他，——“看看我，我的眼睛里没有眼泪，我的情绪并不狂热，可是我却眼看着你在痛苦——你，马西米兰，我是把你当作我自己的儿子一样看待的。嗯，这不是在告诉你：悲哀也象生活一样，总是伴随着一些你意想不到的事情吗？现在，假如我求你活下去的话，莫雷尔，那是因为我相信，将来有一天，你会感谢我保全你的生命的。”

“那青年说，“噢，天哪！你在说什么呀，伯爵？留点神，或许你从来没有恋爱过！”

“孩子！”伯爵回答。

“我是指象我这样的恋爱。你看，我成年以后，就是一个军人。我到二十九岁没有恋爱过，在那以前，我所体验的情感没有一种称为爱情。嗯，在二十九岁的时候，我遇见了瓦朗蒂娜，我爱上了她，在两年的期间内，我从她的身上看见了为妻为女的一切美德，就象写在纸上一样，伯爵，拥有了瓦朗镑娜将是一种无限的、空前的幸福，——一种在世界上太大、太完整、太超凡的幸福。既然这个世界不允许我得到这个幸福，伯爵，失掉了瓦朗蒂娜，世界所留给我的就只有绝望和凄凉了。”

“我告诉你，要抱有希望。”伯爵说。

“那么，我再说一遍：留点神，因为你想得说服我，假如你成功了，我便会失去理智，因为要劝服我，除非使我想信我还能再得到瓦朗蒂娜。”

伯爵微笑了一下。

“我的朋友，我的父亲，”莫雷尔兴奋地喊道：“我第三次再声明：留点神，因为你对我的影响太大了。你在说话以前先想好，因为我的眼睛又有神了，我的心又复活了。留点神，因为你是在让我相信那些神乎其神的事。如果你吩咐我掘起那埋葬睚鲁［传说耶稣使他的女儿复活。——译注］之女的墓石，我就会去做。假如你指示我方向，吩咐我象圣徒那样在大海的波浪上行走，我也会服从你，留神哪，什么都会服从你的。”

“要抱有希望吧，我的朋友。”伯爵仍旧说。

“啊，”莫雷尔说，情绪顿时兴奋的高峰跌回到绝望的深谷——“啊，你在逗我，象那些善良而自私的母亲用甜言蜜语哄她们的孩子一样，因为孩子的哭喊使她们感到烦恼。不，我的朋友，我要你留神是不对的。不用怕，我将把我的痛苦埋在我心灵的深处，我会让它成为秘密，甚至连你不必怜悯我。别了，我的朋友，别了！”

“正相反，”伯爵说．“从此刻起，你必须得和我住在一起，——你一定不能离开我，在一星期之内，我们就要离开法国了。”

“仍然要我抱有希望吗？”

“我告诉你应该抱有希望，因为我知道一种方法可以医治你。”

“伯爵，如果可能的话，你这样只能使我比以前更伤心了。你以为这只是一种普通的打击，你可以用一种普通的方法——改换环境——来医好它。”于是莫雷尔以鄙夷不屑的怀疑摇摇头。

“我还能说什么呢？”基督山问道。“我对于我的方法很有信心，求你允许我来试一试。”

“伯爵，你只会使我痛苦拖得更长。”

“那么”伯爵说，“你的心就那么脆弱，甚至连给我一个尝试的勇气都没有吗？来！你可知道基督山伯爵能力有多大？你可知道他掌握着多少权力？你可知道他多少信心可以从上帝那儿获得奇迹？上帝说，人有信仰，可以移山。嗯，等一等吧，那个奇迹抱有希望，不然——不然，小心哪，莫雷尔，否则要说你忘恩负义了。”

“可怜可怜我吧，伯爵！”

“我对你是这样的同情，马西米兰，请听我说，如果我不能在一个月以内医好你，则到那一天，到那个时候，注意我的话，莫雷尔，我就把手枪放在你的面前，另外再给你一杯最厉害的意大利毒药——一种比杀死瓦朗蒂娜的毒药更有效更迅速的毒药。”

“你答应我了？”

“是的，因为我是一个男子汉，因为正如我所告诉你的，也曾想过死。真的，自从不幸离开我以后，我时常想到长眠的快乐。”

“但你一定能答应我这一点吗？”莫雷尔陶醉地说。

“我不但答应，而且可以发誓！”基督山伸出一只手说。

“那么，凭你的人格担保，在一个月之内，假如我还不能得到安慰，我自由处理我的生命，而不论我怎样做，你都不会说我忘恩负义了？”

“一个月，十年前的这个时间和日期是神圣的，马西米兰。我不知道你是否还记得：今天是九月五日，十年前的今天，你的父亲想死，是我救他的命。”

莫雷尔抓住伯爵的手吻了一下，伯爵任他这样做，他觉得这是他应该得到的。“一个月期满的时候，”基督山继续说，“你将在我们那时所坐的桌子前面看到一支手枪，你可以愉快的去死，但是，你必须答应我这一个月内决不自杀。”

“噢！我也发誓。”

基督山把那年轻人紧紧地搂在怀里。“现在，”他说，“过了今天，你就来和我住在一起。你可以住海黛的房间，至少可以由个儿子来代替我的女儿了。

“海黛？”莫雷尔说，“她怎么了？”

“她昨天晚上走了。”

“离开你吗？”

“因为她要去等着我。所以，你准备一下，到香榭丽舍大街去找我。现在陪我走出去不要让任何人看见我。”

马西米兰低下头，象一个孩子或圣徒似的照他的吩咐做了。