"Your excellency," said the captain, "that was the land signal, will you answer yourself?"
"What signal?"
The captain pointed towards the island, up the side of which ascended a volume of smoke, increasing as it rose.
"Ah, yes," he said, as if awaking from a dream. "Give it to me."
The captain gave him a loaded carbine; the traveller slowly raised it, and fired in the air.
Ten minutes afterwards, the sails were furled, and they cast anchor about a hundred fathoms from the little harbor.
The gig was already lowered, and in it were four oarsmen and a coxswain. The traveller descended, and instead of sitting down at the stern of the boat, which had been decorated with a blue carpet for his accommodation, stood up with his arms crossed.
The rowers waited, their oars half lifted out of the water, like birds drying their wings.
"Give way," said the traveller.
The eight oars fell into the sea simultaneously without splashing a drop of water, and the boat, yielding to the impulsion, glided forward.
In an instant they found themselves in a little harbor, formed in a natural creek; the boat grounded on the fine sand.
"Will your excellency be so good as to mount the shoulders of two of our men, they will carry you ashore?"
The young man answered this invitation with a gesture of indifference, and stepped out of the boat; the sea immediately rose to his waist.
"Ah, your excellency," murmured the pilot, "you should not have done so; our master will scold us for it."
The young man continued to advance, following the sailors, who chose a firm footing.
Thirty strides brought them to dry land; the young man stamped on the ground to shake off the wet, and looked around for some one to show him his road, for it was quite dark.
Just as he turned, a hand rested on his shoulder, and a voice which made him shudder exclaimed,--"Good-evening, Maximilian; you are punctual, thank you!"
"Ah, is it you, count?" said the young man, in an almost joyful accent, pressing Monte Cristo's hand with both his own.
"Yes; you see I am as exact as you are. But you are dripping, my dear fellow; you must change your clothes, as Calypso said to Telemachus.
Come, I have a habitation prepared for you in which you will soon forget fatigue and cold."
Monte Cristo perceived that the young man had turned around; indeed, Morrel saw with surprise that the men who had brought him had left without being paid, or uttering a word.
Already the sound of their oars might be heard as they returned to the yacht.
"Oh, yes," said the count, "you are looking for the sailors."
"Yes, I paid them nothing, and yet they are gone."
"Never mind that, Maximilian," said Monte Cristo, smiling. "I have made an agreement with the navy, that the access to my island shall be free of all charge.
I have made a bargain."
Morrel looked at the count with surprise.
"Count," he said, "you are not the same here as in Paris."
"How so?"
"Here you laugh."
The count's brow became clouded.
"You are right to recall me to myself, Maximilian," he said; "I was delighted to see you again, and forgot for the moment that all happiness is fleeting."
"Oh, no, no, count," cried Maximilian, seizing the count's hands, "pray laugh; be happy, and prove to me, by your indifference, that life is endurable to sufferers.
Oh, how charitable, kind, and good you are; you affect this gayety to inspire me with courage."
"You are wrong, Morrel; I was really happy."
"Then you forget me, so much the better."
"How so?"
"Yes; for as the gladiator said to the emperor, when he entered the arena,
'He who is about to die salutes you.'"
"Then you are not consoled?" asked the count, surprised.
"Oh," exclaimed Morrel, with a glance full of bitter reproach, "do you think it possible that I could be?"
"Listen," said the count. "Do you understand the meaning of my words? You cannot take me for a commonplace man, a mere rattle, emitting a vague and senseless noise.
When I ask you if you are consoled, I speak to you as a man for whom the human heart has no secrets.
Well, Morrel, let us both examine the depths of your heart.
Do you still feel the same feverish impatience of grief which made you start like a wounded lion?
Have you still that devouring thirst which can only be appeased in the grave? Are you still actuated by the regret which drags the living to the pursuit of death; or are you only suffering from the prostration of fatigue and the weariness of hope deferred? Has the loss of memory rendered it impossible for you to weep?
Oh, my dear friend, if this be the case,--if you can no longer weep, if your frozen heart be dead, if you put all your trust in God, then, Maximilian, you are consoled--do not complain."
"Count," said Morrel, in a firm and at the same time soft voice, "listen to me, as to a man whose thoughts are raised to heaven, though he remains on earth; I come to die in the arms of a friend.
Certainly, there are people whom I love. I love my sister Julie,--I love her husband Emmanuel; but I require a strong mind to smile on my last moments.
My sister would be bathed in tears and fainting; I could not bear to see her suffer. Emmanuel would tear the weapon from my hand, and alarm the house with his cries.