“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 Arabie, “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.