“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 acess to my island shall be free of all charge. I am, as they in civilized lands, on the free list.”
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 not evil except to sufferers. Oh! how charitable, kind, and good! 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 going 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 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 lion stung by a mosquito? Have you still that devouring thirst which can only be appeased in the grave? Have you still that ideality of regret which hurls the living from life to the pursuit of death, or are you only suffering from the prostration of fatigue and the weariness that quenches the ray of hope which fain would shine? 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, and turn all your looks to heaven, – let us leave aside words too narrow for the sense which the soul gives them, – 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 who speaks with his hand stretched to earth, his eyes raised to heaven; 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 should see her suffer, and I have suffered enough; Emmanuel would tear the weapon from my hand, and alarm the house with his cries. You, count, whose promise I have, you who are more than man, you whom I would call a god if you were not mortal; you, I am sure, will lead me to death by a pleasant path – will you not?”
“My friend,” said the count, “I have still one doubt, – are you weak enough to pride yourself upon your sufferings?”
“No, indeed, – I am calm,” said Morrel, giving his hand to the count; “my pulse does not beat slower or faster than usual. No, I feel I have reached the goal, and I will go no farther. You told me to wait and hope; do you know what you did, unfortunate adviser? I waited a month, or rather I suffered for a month! I did hope (man is a poor wretched creature), I did hope. What I cannot tell: something wonderful, an absurdity, a miracle, – of what nature he alone can tell who has mingled with our reason that folly we call hope. Yes: I did wait; – yes; I did hope, count, and during this quarter of an hour we have been talking together, you have unconsciously wounded, tortured my heart, for every word you have uttered proved that there was no hope for me. Oh! count, I shall sleep calmly, deliciously, in the arms of death!”
Morrel pronounced these words with an energy which made the count shudder.
“My friend,” continued Morrel, “you named the fifth of October as the term of the delay you asked, – today is the fifth of October,” he took out his watch; “it is now nine o’clock, – I have yet three hours to live.”
“Be it so!” said the count, “come.” Morrel mechanically followed the count, and they had entered the grotto before he perceived it. He felt a carpet under his feet, a door opened, perfumes surrounded him, and a brilliant light dazzled his eyes. Morrel hesitated to advance, he dreaded the enervating effect of all that he saw. Monte-Cristo drew him in gently.
“Why should we not spend the last three hours remaining to us of life like those ancient Romans who, when condemned by Nero, their emperor and heir, sat down at table crowned with flowers, and inhaled death in the perfume of heliotropes and roses?”