"No, sir; I sold them to visitors, who considered them great curiosities; but I have still something left."
"What is it?" asked the count, impatiently.
"A sort of book, written upon strips of cloth."
"Go and fetch it, my good fellow; and if it be what I hope, you will do well."
"I will run for it, sir;" and the guide went out.
Then the count knelt down by the side of the bed, which death had converted into an altar.
"Oh, second father," he exclaimed, "thou who hast given me liberty, knowledge, riches; thou who, like beings of a superior order to ourselves, couldst understand the science of good and evil; if in the depths of the tomb there still remain something within us which can respond to the voice of those who are left on earth; if after death the soul ever revisit the places where we have lived and suffered,--then, noble heart, sublime soul, then I conjure thee by the paternal love thou didst bear me, by the filial obedience I vowed to thee, grant me some sign, some revelation! Remove from me the remains of doubt, which, if it change not to conviction, must become remorse!"
The count bowed his head, and clasped his hands together.
"Here, sir," said a voice behind him.
Monte Cristo shuddered, and arose.
The concierge held out the strips of cloth upon which the Abbe Faria had spread the riches of his mind.
The manuscript was the great work by the Abbe Faria upon the kingdoms of Italy.
The count seized it hastily, his eyes immediately fell upon the epigraph, and he read, "'Thou shalt tear out the dragons' teeth, and shall trample the lions under foot, saith the Lord.'"
"Ah," he exclaimed, "here is my answer. Thanks, father, thanks."
And feeling in his pocket, he took thence a small pocket-book, which contained ten bank-notes, each of 1,000. francs.
"Here," he said, "take this pocket-book."
"Do you give it to me?"
"Yes; but only on condition that you will not open it till I am gone;" and placing in his breast the treasure he had just found, which was more valuable to him than the richest jewel, he rushed out of the corridor, and reaching his boat, cried,
"To Marseilles!"
Then, as he departed, he fixed his eyes upon the gloomy prison.
"Woe," he cried, "to those who confined me in that wretched prison; and woe to those who forgot that I was there!"
As he repassed the Catalans, the count turned around and burying his head in his cloak murmured the name of a woman.
The victory was complete; twice he had overcome his doubts.
The name he pronounced, in a voice of tenderness, amounting almost to love, was that of Haidee.
On landing, the count turned towards the cemetery, where he felt sure of finding Morrel.
He, too, ten years ago, had piously sought out a tomb, and sought it vainly.
He, who returned to France with millions, had been unable to find the grave of his father, who had perished from hunger.
Morrel had indeed placed a cross over the spot, but it had fallen down and the grave-digger had burnt it, as he did all the old wood in the churchyard.
The worthy merchant had been more fortunate. Dying in the arms of his children, he had been by them laid by the side of his wife, who had preceded him in eternity by two years.
Two large slabs of marble, on which were inscribed their names, were placed on either side of a little enclosure, railed in, and shaded by four cypress-trees.
Morrel was leaning against one of these, mechanically fixing his eyes on the graves.
His grief was so profound that he was nearly unconscious.
"Maximilian," said the count, "you should not look on the graves, but there;" and he pointed upwards.
"The dead are everywhere," said Morrel; "did you not yourself tell me so as we left Paris?"
"Maximilian," said the count, "you asked me during the journey to allow you to remain some days at Marseilles. Do you still wish to do so?"
"I have no wishes, count; only I fancy I could pass the time less painfully here than anywhere else."
"So much the better, for I must leave you; but I carry your word with me, do I not?"
"Ah, count, I shall forget it."
"No, you will not forget it, because you are a man of honor, Morrel, because you have taken an oath, and are about to do so again."
"Oh, count, have pity upon me.
I am so unhappy."
"I have known a man much more unfortunate than you, Morrel."
"Impossible!"
"Alas," said Monte Cristo, "it is the infirmity of our nature always to believe ourselves much more unhappy than those who groan by our sides!"
"What can be more wretched than the man who has lost all he loved and desired in the world?"
"Listen, Morrel, and pay attention to what I am about to tell you.
I knew a man who like you had fixed all his hopes of happiness upon a woman.
He was young, he had an old father whom he loved, a betrothed bride whom he adored. He was about to marry her, when one of the caprices of fate,--which would almost make us doubt the goodness of providence, if that providence did not afterwards reveal itself by proving that all is but a means of conducting to an end,--one of those caprices deprived him of his mistress, of the future of which he had dreamed (for in his blindness he forgot he could only read the present), and cast him into a dungeon."
"Ah," said Morrel, "one quits a dungeon in a week, a month, or a year."
"He remained there fourteen years, Morrel," said the count, placing his hand on the young man's shoulder.