The Count of Monte-Cristo/Volume 5/Chapter 112
CHAPTER CXII
THE DEPARTURE
HE recent events formed the theme of conversation throughout all Paris. Emmanuel and his wife conversed with natural astonishment in their little apartment in the Rue Meslay upon the three successive, sudden, and most unexpected catastrophes of Morcerf, Danglars, and Villefort. Maximilian, who was paying them a visit, listened to their conversation, or rather, was present at it, plunged in his accustomed state of apathy.
"Indeed," said Julie, "might we not almost fancy, Emmanuel, that those people, so rich, so happy but yesterday, had forgotten, in the calculations on which they based their prosperity, that an evil genius hovered over them, who, like the wicked fairies in Perrault's stories, presenting themselves, unbidden, at some wedding or baptism, has appeared all at once, to revenge himself for their fatal neglect?"
"What misfortunes!" said Emmanuel, thinking of Morcerf and Danglars.
"What sufferings!" said Julie, remembering Valentine, but whom, with a delicacy natural to women, she did not name before her brother.
"If the Supreme Being has directed the fatal blow," said Emmanuel, "it must be that he, in his great goodness, has perceived nothing in the past lives of these people to merit mitigation of their awful punishment."
"Do you not form a very rash judgment, Emmanuel?" said Julie. "When my father, with a pistol in his hand, was once on the point of committing suicide, had any one then said, 'This man deserves his misery,' would not that person have been deceived?"
"Yes; but your father was not allowed to fall, nor Abraham to sacrifice his son. A being was commissioned to arrest the fatal hand of death in his case as in the patriarch's."
Emmanuel had scarcely uttered these words, when the sound of the bell was heard, the well-known signal given by the porter that a visitor had arrived. Nearly at the same instant the door of the room was opened, and the Count of Monte-Cristo appeared on the threshold, The young people uttered a cry of joy, while Maximilian raised his head, but let it fall again immediately.
"Maximilian," said the count, without appearing to notice the different impressions which his presence produced on the little circle, "I come to seek you.",
"To seek me?" repeated Morrel, as if awakening from a dream.
"Yes," said Monte-Cristo, "has it not been agreed that I should take you with me, and did I not tell you yesterday to prepare for departure?" "I am ready," said Maximilian; "I came expressly to wish them farewell."
""Whither are you going, count?" asked Julie.
"In the first instance to Marseilles, madame."
"To Marseilles!" exclaimed the young couple.
"Yes, and I take your brother with me."
"Oh! count," said Julie, "will you restore him to us cured of his melancholy?" Morrel turned away to conceal the confusion of his countenance.
"You perceive, then, that he is not happy?" said the count.
"Yes," replied the young woman; "and I fear much that he finds our home but a dull one."
"I will undertake to divert him," replied the count.
"I am ready to accompany you, sir," said Maximilian. "Adieu, my kind friends! Emmanuel! Julie! Farewell!"
"How, farewell?" exclaimed Julie; "do you leave us thus so suddenly, without any preparations for your journey, without even a passport?"
"Needless delays but increase the grief of parting," said Monte-Cristo, "and Maximilian has doubtless provided himself with everything requisite; at least, I advised him to do so."
"I have a passport, and my clothes are ready packed," said Morrel, in his tranquil but mournful manner.
"Good!" said Monte-Cristo, smiling; "in these prompt arrangements we recognize the order of a well-disciplined soldier."
"And you quit us thus?" said Julie, "at a moment's warning; you do not give us a day no, not even an hour before your departure?"
"My carriage is at the door, madame; and I must be in Rome in five days."
"But does Maximilian go to Rome?" exclaimed Emmanuel.
"I am going wherever it may please the count to lead me," said Morrel, with a smile full of grief; "I am devoted to him for the next month."
"Oh! heavens! how strangely he expresses himself, count!" said Julie.
"Maximilian accompanies me," said the count, in his kindest and most persuasive manner; "therefore do not make yourself uneasy on your brother's account."
"Once more farewell, my dear sister; Emmanuel, adieu!" Morrel repeated.
"His carelessness and indifference touch me to the heart," said Julie. "Oh! Maximilian, Maximilian, you are certainly concealing something from us."
"Pshaw!" said Monte-Cristo, "you will see him return to you gay, smiling, and joyful."
Maximilian cast a look of disdain, almost of anger, on the count.
"We must leave you," said Monte-Cristo.
"Before you quit us, count," said Julie, "will you permit us to express to you all that the other day "
"Madame," interrupted the count, taking her two hands in his, "all that you could say in words would never express that which I read in your eyes; the thoughts of your heart are fully understood by mine. Like benefactors in romances, I should have left you without seeing you again; but that would have been a virtue beyond my strength, because I am a weak and vain man, fond of the tender, kind, and thankful glances of my fellow creatures. On the eve of departure, I carry my egotism so far as to say, 'Do not forget me, my kind friends, for probably you will never see me again.'"
"Never see you again!" exclaimed Emmanuel, while two large tears rolled down Julie's cheeks, "never behold you again! It is not a man then, but some angel, that leaves us, and this angel is on the point of returning to heaven after having appeared on earth to do good."
"Say not so," quickly returned Monte-Cristo,—"say not so, my friends; angels never err, celestial beings remain where they wish to be: fate is not more powerful than they; it is they who, on the contrary, overcome fate. No! Emmanuel, I am but a man, and your admiration is as unmerited as your words are sacrilegious."
And pressing his lips on the hand of Julie, who rushed into his arms, he extended his other hand to Emmanuel; then tearing himself from this house, the abode of peace and happiness, he made a sign to Maximilian, who followed him passively, with the indifference which was perceptible in him ever since the death of Valentine had so stunned him.
"Restore my brother to peace and happiness," whispered Julie to Monte-Cristo. And the count pressed her hand in reply, as he had done eleven years before on the staircase leading to Morrel's study.
"You still confide, then, in Sindbad the Sailor?" asked he, smiling.
"Oh! yes," was the ready answer.
"Well, then, sleep in peace, and put your trust in the Lord."
As we have before said, the post-chaise was waiting; four powerful horses were already pawing the ground with impatience, while at the foot of the steps, Ali, his face bathed in perspiration, and apparently just arrived from a long walk, was standing.
"Well," asked the count in Arabic, "have you been to the old man's?" Ali made a sign in the affirmative.
"And have you placed the letter before him, as I ordered you to do?"
The slave respectfully signalized that he had.
"And what did he say, or rather do?" Ali placed himself in the light, so that his master might see him distinctly, and then imitating in his intelligent manner the countenance of the old man, he closed his eyes, as Noirtier was in the custom of doing when saying "yes."
"Good! he accepts," said Monte-Cristo. "Now let us go."
These words had scarcely escaped him, when the carriage was on its road; and the feet of the horses struck a shower of sparks from the pavement. Maximilian settled himself in his corner without uttering a word. Half an hour had fled when the carriage stopped suddenly; the count had just pulled the silken check-string, which was fastened to Ali's finger. The Nubian immediately descended, and opened the carriage-door. It was a lovely starlight night—they had just reached the top of the hill Villejuif, the platform from whence Paris, like some dark
sea, is seen to agitate its millions of lights, resembling phosphoric waves,—waves indeed more noisy, more passionate, more changeable, more furious, more greedy, than those of the tempestuous ocean,—waves which never lie calm, like those of the vast sea,—waves ever destructive, ever foaming, and ever restless. The count remained alone, and on a sign from his hand, the carriage advanced some steps. He contemplated for some time, with his arms crossed, this furnace where the casting, planing, and modeling take place of all those ideas which come from the boiling gulf to agitate the world. When he had fixed his piercing look on this modern Babylon, which equally engages the contemplation of the religious poet and materialist scoffer:—
"Great city," murmured he, inclining his head, and joining his hands as if in prayer, "less than six months have elapsed since first I entered thy gates. I believe that the Spirit of God led my steps to thee, and that he also enables me to quit thee in triumph; the secret cause of my presence within thy walls I have confided alone to him, who only has had the power to read my heart. God only knows that I retire from thee without pride or hatred, but not without many regrets; he only knows that the power confided to me has never been made subservient to my personal good or to any useless cause. Oh! great city! it is in thy palpitating bosom that I have found that which I sought; like a patient miner, I have dug deep into thy very entrails to root out evil thence; now my work is accomplished, my mission is terminated, now thou canst neither afford me pain nor pleasure. Adieu, Paris! adieu!"
His look wandered over the vast plain like that of some genius of the night; he passed his hand over his brow, and, getting into the carriage, the door was closed on him, and it quickly disappeared on the other side of the hill in a cloud of dust and noise.