“Did you see all that?”
“Remember my words: ‘If you return home safely, I shall believe God has forgiven you, and I will forgive you also.’“
“And you did not warn me!” cried Caderousse, raising himself on his elbows. “You knew I should be killed on leaving this house, and did not warn me!”
“No; for I saw God’s justice placed in the hands of Benedetto, and should have thought it sacrilege to oppose the designs of providence.”
“God’s justice! Speak not of it, reverend sir. If God were just, you know how many would be punished who now escape.”
“Patience,” said the abbe, in a tone which made the dying man shudder; “have patience!” Caderousse looked at him with amazement. “Besides,” said the abbe, “God is merciful to all, as he has been to you; he is first a father, then a judge.”
“Do you then believe in God?” said Caderousse.
“Had I been so unhappy as not to believe in him until now,” said Monte Cristo, “I must believe on seeing you.” Caderousse raised his clinched hands towards heaven.
“Listen,” said the abbe, extending his hand over the wounded man, as if to command him to believe; “this is what the God in whom, on your deathbed, you refuse to believe, has done for you—he gave you health, strength, regular employment, even friends—a life, in fact, which a man might enjoy with a calm conscience. Instead of improving these gifts, rarely granted so abundantly, this has been your course—you have given yourself up to sloth and drunkenness, and in a fit of intoxication have ruined your best friend.”
“Help!” cried Caderousse; “I require a surgeon, not a priest; perhaps I am not mortally wounded—I may not die; perhaps they can yet save my life.”
“Your wounds are so far mortal that, without the three drops I gave you, you would now be dead. Listen, then.”
“Ah,” murmured Caderousse, “what a strange priest you are; you drive the dying to despair, instead of consoling them.”
“Listen,” continued the abbe. “When you had betrayed your friend God began not to strike, but to warn you. Poverty overtook you. You had already passed half your life in coveting that which you might have honorably acquired; and already you contemplated crime under the excuse of want, when God worked a miracle in your behalf, sending you, by my hands, a fortune—brilliant, indeed, for you, who had never possessed any. But this unexpected, unhoped-for, unheard-of fortune sufficed you no longer when you once possessed it; you wished to double it, and how?—by a murder! You succeeded, and then God snatched it from you, and brought you to justice.”
“It was not I who wished to kill the Jew,” said Caderousse; “it was La Carconte.”
“Yes,” said Monte Cristo, “and God,—I cannot say in justice, for his justice would have slain you,—but God, in his mercy, spared your life.”
“Pardieu, to transport me for life, how merciful!”
“You thought it a mercy then, miserable wretch! The coward who feared death rejoiced at perpetual disgrace; for like all galley-slaves, you said, ‘I may escape from prison, I cannot from the grave.’ And you said truly; the way was opened for you unexpectedly. An Englishman visited Toulon, who had vowed to rescue two men from infamy, and his choice fell on you and your companion. You received a second fortune, money and tranquility were restored to you, and you, who had been condemned to a felon’s life, might live as other men. Then, wretched creature, then you tempted God a third time. ‘I have not enough,’ you said, when you had more than you before possessed, and you committed a third crime, without reason, without excuse. God is wearied; he has punished you.” Caderousse was fast sinking. “Give me drink,” said he: “I thirst—I burn!” Monte Cristo gave him a glass of water. “And yet that villain, Benedetto, will escape!”
“No one, I tell you, will escape; Benedetto will be punished.”
“Then, you, too, will be punished, for you did not do your duty as a priest—you should have prevented Benedetto from killing me.”
“I?” said the count, with a smile which petrified the dying man, “when you had just broken your knife against the coat of mail which protected my breast! Yet perhaps if I had found you humble and penitent, I might have prevented Benedetto from killing you; but I found you proud and bloodthirsty, and I left you in the hands of God.”
“I do not believe there is a God,” howled Caderousse; “you do not believe it; you lie—you lie!”
“Silence,” said the abbe; “you will force the last drop of blood from your veins. What! you do not believe in God when he is striking you dead? you will not believe in him, who requires but a prayer, a word, a tear, and he will forgive? God, who might have directed the assassin’s dagger so as to end your career in a moment, has given you this quarter of an hour for repentance. Reflect, then, wretched man, and repent.”
“No,” said Caderousse, “no; I will not repent. There is no God; there is no providence—all comes by chance.”—
“There is a providence; there is a God,” said Monte Cristo, “of whom you are a striking proof, as you lie in utter despair, denying him, while I stand before you, rich, happy, safe and entreating that God in whom you endeavor not to believe, while in your heart you still believe in him.”
“But who are you, then?” asked Caderousse, fixing his dying eyes on the count. “Look well at me!” said Monte Cristo, putting the light near his face. “Well, the abbe—the Abbe Busoni.” Monte Cristo took off the wig which disfigured him, and let fall his black hair, which added so much to the beauty of his pallid features. “Oh?” said Caderousse, thunderstruck, “but for that black hair, I should say you were the Englishman, Lord Wilmore.”
“I am neither the Abbe Busoni nor Lord Wilmore,” said Monte Cristo; “think again,—do you not recollect me?” Those was a magic effect in the count’s words, which once more revived the exhausted powers of the miserable man. “Yes, indeed,” said he; “I think I have seen you and known you formerly.”
“Yes, Caderousse, you have seen me; you knew me once.”
“Who, then, are you? And why, if you knew me, do you let me die?”
“Because nothing can save you; your wounds are mortal. Had it been possible to save you, I should have considered it another proof of God’s mercy, and I would again have endeavored to restore you, I swear by my father’s tomb.”
“By your father’s tomb!” said Caderousse, supported by a supernatural power, and half-raising himself to see more distinctly the man who had just taken the oath which all men hold sacred; “who, then, are you?” The count had watched the approach of death. He knew this was the last struggle. He approached the dying man, and, leaning over him with a calm and melancholy look, he whispered, “I am—I am”—And his almost closed lips uttered a name so low that the count himself appeared afraid to hear it. Caderousse, who had raised himself on his knees, and stretched out his arm, tried to draw back, then clasping his hands, and raising them with a desperate effort, “O my God, my God!” said he, “pardon me for having denied thee; thou dost exist, thou art indeed man’s father in heaven, and his judge on earth. My God, my Lord, I have long despised thee! Pardon me, my God; receive me, O my Lord!” Caderousse sighed deeply, and fell back with a groan. The blood no longer flowed from his wounds. He was dead.
“One!” said the count mysteriously, his eyes fixed on the corpse, disfigured by so awful a death. Ten minutes afterwards the surgeon and the procureur arrived, the one accompanied by the porter, the other by Ali, and were received by the Abbe Busoni, who was praying by the side of the corpse.
Chapter 19. Beauchamp.
The daring attempt to rob the count was the topic of conversation throughout Paris for the next fortnight. The dying man had signed a deposition declaring Benedetto to be the assassin. The police had orders to make the strictest search for the murderer. Caderousse’s knife, dark lantern, bunch of keys, and clothing, excepting the waistcoat, which could not be found, were deposited at the registry; the corpse was conveyed to the morgue. The count told eve
ry one that this adventure had happened during his absence at Auteuil, and that he only knew what was related by the Abbe Busoni, who that evening, by mere chance, had requested to pass the night in his house, to examine some valuable books in his library. Bertuccio alone turned pale whenever Benedetto’s name was mentioned in his presence, but there was no reason why any one should notice his doing so. Villefort, being called on to proven the crime, was preparing his brief with the same ardor that he was accustomed to exercise when required to speak in criminal cases.
But three weeks had already passed, and the most diligent search had been unsuccessful; the attempted robbery and the murder of the robber by his comrade were almost forgotten in anticipation of the approaching marriage of Mademoiselle Danglars to the Count Andrea Cavalcanti. It was expected that this wedding would shortly take place, as the young man was received at the banker’s as the betrothed. Letters had been dispatched to M. Cavalcanti, as the count’s father, who highly approved of the union, regretted his inability to leave Parma at that time, and promised a wedding gift of a hundred and fifty thousand livres. It was agreed that the three millions should be entrusted to Danglars to invest; some persons had warned the young man of the circumstances of his future father-in-law, who had of late sustained repeated losses; but with sublime disinterestedness and confidence the young man refused to listen, or to express a single doubt to the baron. The baron adored Count Andrea Cavalcanti: not so Mademoiselle Eugenie Danglars. With an instinctive hatred of matrimony, she suffered Andrea’s attentions in order to get rid of Morcerf; but when Andrea urged his suit, she betrayed an entire dislike to him. The baron might possibly have perceived it, but, attributing it to a caprice, feigned ignorance.
The delay demanded by Beauchamp had nearly expired. Morcerf appreciated the advice of Monte Cristo to let things die away of their own accord. No one had taken up the remark about the general, and no one had recognized in the officer who betrayed the castle of Yanina the noble count in the House of Peers. Albert, however felt no less insulted; the few lines which had irritated him were certainly intended as an insult. Besides, the manner in which Beauchamp had closed the conference left a bitter recollection in his heart. He cherished the thought of the duel, hoping to conceal its true cause even from his seconds. Beauchamp had not been seen since the day he visited Albert, and those of whom the latter inquired always told him he was out on a journey, which would detain him some days. Where he was no one knew.
Albert lay in his great bed one morning, the light from the sun streaming in through his window casting the shadow of dust mites across his vision.
His thoughts began to wander to the last letter from the woman who held his esteem unreservedly, the Countess G—.
She described her fantasies to him in all her letters. Things she had wished she did, things she had done, and, even more importantly, things she wished to do to him. Some of the situations she described delighted and astounded him, others, confused him, but still aroused him in an unmistakable way.
In her last letter the countess informed him of her wish to make love to him in her opera box. Usual custom dictated they would not be seen if they remained in the box’s antechamber but she wanted to make love on the balcony itself. Albert spent many nights trying to logistically fulfill her fantasy in his mind to no avail until this very morning.
Albert’s manhood grew hard and heavy against his bare stomach as he contemplated. The lady wished to be taken in public but not so much in public as to disgrace either of them. They could come to a compromise, make love in the curtains between both the balcony and the antechamber.
Albert laid the scene in his mind. He would accompany her to her box and once inside they could administer to each other’s beginning needs before hiding in the curtained panels on the balcony. He could easily lift her skirt and drive into her. She would be clutching him within minutes, as the countess did not enjoy wearing pantaloons beneath her gowns, only a simple chemise.
He could even hear her throaty voice in his mind.
“Albert, please, take me now, I don’t want to wait a moment longer.”
He would conceal them in between the heavy curtain panels and then against the wall. He would lift her slight frame up and make love to her standing, against the wall.
He palmed his manhood, stroking up and down as he thought about how he might like the encounter to continue.
The countess was very good at explaining her needs of him and she would do so boldly in his ear as he pressed inside her.
He could even feel her clutching his coat as he held her, the mass of her gown crumpled between them against their stomachs. A thousand times he imagined what love making with the countess would be like, ever since their first encounter at the opera where she stroked his manhood before leaving such a strong impression of herself that he might never forget her.
The lady was insatiable, it would seem, as suggested by her letters. Every single missive contained a new erotic encounter or assignation and Albert wanted to give her one that she could not write about for fear of forgetting herself.
He imagined the lady’s thighs gripping his hips as he pumped into her. Each drive into her represented his own long stroke with his hand. She squeezed him with her sex and he squeezed himself conjoined with the imaginings.
When finally he could kiss her, he would do so passionately and without restraint. The lady appreciated passion and the fiery nature Albert kept hidden from his friends and family. A kiss that would curl her toes in her slippers and make her tighten her sex around him.
An assignation in the opera box would need to be slightly rushed, as they would need to finish it before the seating and start of the opera. The sound of a moan or rustle of clothing could easily be concealed as a crowd was moving around but less so once the opera had begun.
Albert continued to stroke himself thinking of the countess’s breasts. They were small but appeared as if they might fit in his palms very well. More than anything he wished to identify the color of her areolas, he found himself considering this subject at length upon receiving a new note from the countess.
What the hard bud of her nipple might feel like between his teeth also set him reeling on a daily basis. His stroke increased as he imagined her arching into his body with the singular bite to those sensitive nubs.
He continued to increase the pace and pressure of his stroke. Each breath began to pant out of him in great gasps as he focused on his own orgasm. The countess would have hers and she would milk his seed from his manhood. That final thought spurred him over the edge of the abyss. In a few seconds more, he reached his climax, seed spilling forth across his hands and bare belly.
He gently continued to stroke himself, bringing the peak of pleasure back to a bearable level. The countess made quite an impression on him in their acquaintance and with all the letters they shared, they had never been alone to actually fulfill one of her fantasies and as each day passed between them Albert found himself worried it might never happen.
The countess herself never considered such a thing. Young men came and went in her life and while Albert had maintained a place in her fantasies longer than many others, he was still young and a young male had a tendency to wander to the next young madame when the mood stuck.
The pair made an odd couple, the countess, older and yet ethereal in her beauty, the young man handsome and still at the prime of his youth. The countess enjoyed his abject imaginings in his letters and thought perhaps she might keep him around or even ask him to be her partner for future endeavors.
The young man would be a count as was his birthright so she couldn’t set him up in a house on a nearby rue, and yet, that is precisely what she wished. Albert to herself, waiting for her whenever she might call.
Albert lay back amongst his bedding after cleaning himself, waiting to be awakened by his valet de chambre, who announced Beauchamp. Albert rubbed his eyes, ordered his servant to introduce him into the small smoking-room on the ground floor, dressed himsel
f quickly, and went down. He found Beauchamp pacing the room; on perceiving him Beauchamp stopped. “Your arrival here, without waiting my visit at your house to-day, looks well, sir,” said Albert. “Tell me, may I shake hands with you, saying, ‘Beauchamp, acknowledge you have injured me, and retain my friendship,’ or must I simply propose to you a choice of arms?”
“Albert,” said Beauchamp, with a look of sorrow, which stupefied the young man, “let us first sit down and talk.”
“Rather, sir, before we sit down, I must demand your answer.”
“Albert,” said the journalist, “these are questions which it is difficult to answer.”
“I will facilitate it by repeating the question, ‘Will you, or will you not, retract?’“
“Morcerf, it is not enough to answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to questions which concern the honor, the social interest, and the life of such a man as Lieutenant-general the Count of Morcerf, peer of France.”
“What must then be done?”
“What I have done, Albert. I reasoned thus—money, time, and fatigue are nothing compared with the reputation and interests of a whole family; probabilities will not suffice, only facts will justify a deadly combat with a friend. If I strike with the sword, or discharge the contents of a pistol at man with whom, for three years, I have been on terms of intimacy, I must, at least, know why I do so; I must meet him with a heart at ease, and that quiet conscience which a man needs when his own arm must save his life.”
“Well,” said Morcerf, impatiently, “what does all this mean?”
“It means that I have just returned from Yanina.”
“From Yanina?”
“Yes.”
“Impossible!”
“Here is my passport; examine the visa—Geneva, Milan, Venice, Trieste, Delvino, Yanina. Will you believe the government of a republic, a kingdom, and an empire?” Albert cast his eyes on the passport, then raised them in astonishment to Beauchamp. “You have been to Yanina?” said he.
“Albert, had you been a stranger, a foreigner, a simple lord, like that Englishman who came to demand satisfaction three or four months since, and whom I killed to get rid of, I should not have taken this trouble; but I thought this mark of consideration due to you. I took a week to go, another to return, four days of quarantine, and forty-eight hours to stay there; that makes three weeks. I returned last night, and here I am.”
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