Morrel smiled. “As you please,” he said; “death is always death, that is forgetfulness, repose, exclusion from life, and therefore from grief.”
He sat down, and Monte-Cristo placed himself opposite to him. They were in the marvelous dining-room before described, where the statues had baskets on their heads always filled with fruits and flowers. Morrel had looked carelessly around, and had probably noticed nothing.
“Let us talk like men,” he said, looking at the count.
“Proceed!”
“Count,” said Morrel, “you are the epitome of all human knowledge, and you seem to be a being descended from a wiser and more advanced world than ours.”
“There is something true in what you say,” said the count, with that smile which made him so handsome; “I have descended from a planet called Grief.”
“I believe all you tell me without questioning its sense; in proof, you told me to live, and I did live; you told me to hope, and I almost did so. I am almost inclined to ask you, as though you had experienced death, ‘Is it painful to die?’”
Monte-Cristo looked upon Morrel with indescribable tenderness. “Yes,” he said, “yes, doubtless it is painful, if you violently break this outer covering which obstinately begs for life. If you make your flesh quiver under the imperceptible teeth of your dagger, if you send a ball which has no sense and is always ready to lose its way into your brain, which the least shock disorders; certainly, then, you will suffer pain, you will repent quitting life, and in the midst of your despairing agonies you will find it better than a repose bought so dear.”
“Yes; I understand there is a secret of luxury and pain in death, as well as in life; the only thing is to understand it.”
“You have spoken truly, Maximilian; according to the care we bestow upon it, death is either a friend who rocks us gently as a nurse, or an enemy who violently drags the soul from the body. Some day, when the world is much older, and when mankind will be masters of all the destructive powers in nature, to serve for the general good of humanity; when mankind, as you were just saying, have discovered the secrets of death, then death will become as sweet and voluptuous as a slumber in the arms of your beloved.”
“And if you wished to die, you would choose this death, count?”
“Yes.”
Morrel extended his hand. “Now I understand,” he said, “why you had me brought here to this desolate spot, in the midst of the ocean, to this subterranean palace; it was because you loved me, was it not, count? It was because you loved me well enough to give me one of those sweet means of death of which we were speaking; a death without agony, a death which allows me to fade away while pronouncing Valentine’s name and pressing your hand.”
“Yes; you have guessed rightly, Morrel,” said the count, “that is what I intended.”
“Thanks! the idea that to-morrow I shall no longer suffer is sweet to my heart.”
“Do you, then, regret nothing?”
“No,” replied Morrel.
“Not even me?” asked the count, with deep emotion. Morrel’s clear eye was for the moment clouded, then it shone with unusual luster, and a large tear rolled down his cheek.
“What!” said the count, “do you still regret anything in the world, and yet die?”
“Oh! I entreat you,” exclaimed Morrel, in a low voice, “do not speak another word, count; do not prolong my punishment.”
The count fancied he was yielding, and this belief revived the horrible doubt that had overwhelmed him at the Chateau-d’If.
“I am endeavoring,” he thought, “to make this man happy; I look upon this restitution as a weight thrown into the scale to balance the evil I have wrought. Now, supposing I am deceived; if this man has not been unhappy enough to merit happiness, alas! what would become of me who can only atone for evil by doing good?”
Then he said aloud, “Listen, Morrel, I see your grief is great, but still you do not like to risk your soul.” Morrel smiled sadly.
“Count,” he said, “I swear to you my soul is no longer my own.”
“Maximilian, you know I have no relation in the world. I have accustomed myself to regard you as my son: well, then, to save my son I will sacrifice my life, nay, even my fortune.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, that you wish to quit life because you do not understand all the enjoyments which are the fruits of a large fortune. Morrel, I possess nearly a hundred millions, I give them to you: with such a fortune you can attain every wish. Are you ambitious? every career is open to you. Overturn the world, change its character, yield to mad ideas, be even criminal – but live.”