Maximilian shuddered.
"Fourteen years!" he muttered--"Fourteen years!" repeated the count. "During that time he had many moments of despair. He also, Morrel, like you, considered himself the unhappiest of men."
"Well?" asked Morrel.
"Well, at the height of his despair God assisted him through human means. At first, perhaps, he did not recognize the infinite mercy of the Lord, but at last he took patience and waited.
One day he miraculously left the prison, transformed, rich, powerful. His first cry was for his father; but that father was dead."
"My father, too, is dead," said Morrel.
"Yes; but your father died in your arms, happy, respected, rich, and full of years; his father died poor, despairing, almost doubtful of providence; and when his son sought his grave ten years afterwards, his tomb had disappeared, and no one could say, 'There sleeps the father you so well loved.'"
"Oh!" exclaimed Morrel.
"He was, then, a more unhappy son than you, Morrel, for he could not even find his father's grave."
"But then he had the woman he loved still remaining?"
"You are deceived, Morrel, that woman"--
"She was dead?"
"Worse than that, she was faithless, and had married one of the persecutors of her betrothed.
You see, then, Morrel, that he was a more unhappy lover than you."
"And has he found consolation?"
"He has at least found peace."
"And does he ever expect to be happy?"
"He hopes so, Maximilian."
The young man's head fell on his breast.
"You have my promise," he said, after a minute's pause, extending his hand to Monte Cristo. "Only remember"--
"On the 5th of October, Morrel, I shall expect you at the Island of Monte Cristo.
On the 4th a yacht will wait for you in the port of Bastia, it will be called the Eurus. You will give your name to the captain, who will bring you to me.
It is understood--is it not?"
"But, count, do you remember that the 5th of October"--
"Child," replied the count, "not to know the value of a man's word! I have told you twenty times that if you wish to die on that day, I will assist you.
Morrel, farewell!"
"Do you leave me?"
"Yes; I have business in Italy. I leave you alone with your misfortunes, and with hope, Maximilian."
"When do you leave?"
"Immediately; the steamer waits, and in an hour I shall be far from you. Will you accompany me to the harbor, Maximilian?"
"I am entirely yours, count."
Morrel accompanied the count to the harbor. The white steam was ascending like a plume of feathers from the black chimney. The steamer soon disappeared, and in an hour afterwards, as the count had said, was scarcely distinguishable in the horizon amidst the fogs of the night.
Chapter 114.
Peppino.
At the same time that the steamer disappeared behind Cape Morgion, a man travelling post on the road from Florence to Rome had just passed the little town of Aquapendente.
He was travelling fast enough to cover a great deal of ground without exciting suspicion.
This man was dressed in a greatcoat, or rather a surtout, a little worse for the journey, but which exhibited the ribbon of the Legion of Honor still fresh and brilliant, a decoration which also ornamented the under coat.
He might be recognized, not only by these signs, but also from the accent with which he spoke to the postilion, as a Frenchman.
Another proof that he was a native of the universal country was apparent in the fact of his knowing no other Italian words than the terms used in music, and which like the "goddam" of Figaro, served all possible linguistic requirements.
"Allegro!" he called out to the postilions at every ascent.
"Moderato!" he cried as they descended.
And heaven knows there are hills enough between Rome and Florence by the way of Aquapendente!
These two words greatly amused the men to whom they were addressed.
On reaching La Storta, the point from whence Rome is first visible, the traveller evinced none of the enthusiastic curiosity which usually leads strangers to stand up and endeavor to catch sight of the dome of St. Peter's, which may be seen long before any other object is distinguishable.
No, he merely drew a pocketbook from his pocket, and took from it a paper folded in four, and after having examined it in a manner almost reverential, he said--"Good!
I have it still!"
The carriage entered by the Porto del Popolo, turned to the left, and stopped at the Hotel d'Espagne.
Old Pastrini, our former acquaintance, received the traveller at the door, hat in hand.
The traveller alighted, ordered a good dinner, and inquired the address of the house of Thomson & French, which was immediately given to him, as it was one of the most celebrated in Rome.
It was situated in the Via dei Banchi, near St. Peter's.