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Title: Edmond Dantès

Author: Edmund Flagg

Release date: October 24, 2007 [eBook #23183]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/23183

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EDMOND
DANTÈS ***

Edmond Dantès.
THE SEQUEL TO

ALEXANDER DUMAS'
CELEBRATED NOVEL OF

THE COUNT OF MONTE-CRISTO.
By

Edmund Flagg
AN ENTIRE NEW AND ENLARGED EDITION.

"Edmond Dantès," one of the greatest novels ever written, is the sequel to
Alexander Dumas' world-renowned chef-d'œuvre, "The Count of Monte-
Cristo," taking up the fascinating narrative where the latter ends and
continuing it with marvellous power and absorbing interest. Every word
tells, and the number of unusually stirring incidents is legion, while the plot
is phenomenal in its strength, merit and ingeniousness. The superb book
deals with the exciting career of Edmond Dantès, who first figures as the
Count of Monte-Cristo, and then as the Deputy from Marseilles takes an
active part in the French Revolution of 1848. Dramatic and graphic scenes
abound, the reader finding startling surprises at every turn. Love,
philanthropy, politics and bloodshed form the staple of the novel and are
handled with extraordinary skill. Besides the hero, Haydée, Mercédès,
Valentine de Villefort, Eugénie Danglars, Louise d'Armilly, Zuleika
(Dantès' daughter), Benedetto, Lucien Debray, Albert de Morcerf,
Beauchamp, Château-Renaud, Ali, Maximilian Morell, Giovanni Massetti,
and Espérance (Dantès' son) figure prominently, while Lamartine, Ledru
Rollin, Louis Blanc and hosts of revolutionary leaders are introduced.
"Edmond Dantès" will delight all who read it.

New York:
WM. L. ALLISON COMPANY
Publishers.
COPYRIGHT:—1884.
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS.

EDMOND DANTÈS.
AN ENTIRE NEW AND ENLARGED EDITION.

"Edmond Dantès" the Sequel to Alexander Dumas' masterpiece, "The Count
of Monte-Cristo," is a novel that will delight, entertain and instruct all who
read it. It has wonderful fascination, absorbing interest and rare merit,
combined with remarkable power, amazing ingenuity and thorough
originality. In it the narrative is taken up immediately at the close of "The
Count of Monte-Cristo," and continued in a style of exceeding cleverness.
There is a terrible volcanic tempest on the Mediterranean, in which Monte-
Cristo and Haydée are wrecked, a vivid picture of the French Revolution of
1848 is given and the love affair of Zuleika and Giovanni Massetti is
recounted in a manner unsurpassed for novelty and excitement. The central
figure is Edmond Dantès, and about him are grouped Mercédès, Eugénie
Danglars, Louise d'Armilly, Valentine de Villefort, Espérance (the son of
Monte-Cristo), Benedetto, Albert de Morcerf, Maximilian Morrel, Ali and
the other old friends of "Monte-Cristo" readers, as well as numerous
political leaders famous in French history, namely, Lamartine, Ledru
Rollin, Louis Blanc, Armand Marrast, Flocon, Albert and others. Thiers,
Guizot, Odillon Barrot, General Lamoricière, General Bugeaud and other
noted historical characters are introduced, as well as Lucien Debray,
Château-Renaud, Beauchamp, etc. No one can afford to miss the

opportunity to read "Edmond Dantès," which is published only by T. B.
Peterson & Brothers, who also issue the only correct, complete and
unabridged editions of the other volumes of the great "Monte-Cristo"
Series, namely, "The Count of Monte-Cristo," "The Countess of Monte-
Cristo," "The Wife of Monte-Cristo, Haydée," and "The Son of Monte-
Cristo, Espérance."

CONTENTS.
I. STORM AND SHIPWRECK
II. THE ISLAND
III. THE CONFLAGRATION
IV. THE NEWS FROM ALGERIA
V. EDMOND DANTÈS, DEPUTY FROM MARSEILLES
VI. THE MYSTERY THICKENS
VII. DANTÈS AND HIS DAUGHTER
VIII. A VAST PRINTING HOUSE
IX. ARMAND MARRAST
X. THE COMMUNISTS
XI. "WAIT AND HOPE"
XII. THE MYSTERIOUS PRIMA DONNA
XIII. THE ITALIAN LOVER
XIV. THE MINUTE VIALS
XV. THE UNKNOWN NURSE
XVI. A NOTABLE FÊTE
XVII. THE REVOLUTION BEGINS
XVIII. THE MIDNIGHT CONCLAVE
XIX. THE SECOND DAY
XX. ANOTHER MIDNIGHT CONCLAVE
XXI. THE THIRD DAY
XXII. THE LAST SESSION OF THE CHAMBER OF
DEPUTIES
XXIII. THE SACK OF THE TUILERIES
XXIV. A MEMORABLE NIGHT
XXV. THE PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENT
XXVI. DANTÈS AND MERCÉDÈS
XXVII. ESPÉRANCE AND ZULEIKA
XXVIII. CAPTAIN JOLIETTE'S LOVE
XXIX. ZULEIKA GOES TO M. DANTÈS
XXX. TWO INTERVIEWS
XXXI. VAMPA'S ANSWER

EDMOND DANTÈS.
THE SEQUEL TO

THE COUNT OF MONTE-CRISTO.

CHAPTER I.
STORM AND SHIPWRECK.

The Count of Monte-Cristo, with the beautiful Haydée clinging lovingly
about his neck, her head pillowed upon his shoulder, stood on the deck of
his superb yacht, the Alcyon, gazing at the fast-vanishing isle where he had
left Maximilian Morrel and Valentine de Villefort.
It was just daybreak, but by the faint glimmering light he could plainly
distinguish the figures of a man and a woman upon the distant beach. They
were walking arm in arm. Presently another figure, a man's, approached
them and seemed to deliver something.
"Look," said the Count to Haydée, "Jacopo has given Maximilian my letter;
he reads it to Valentine, and now they know all. Jacopo points toward the
yacht; they see us and are waving their handkerchiefs in token of adieu."
Haydée raised her head and glanced in the direction of the Isle of Monte-
Cristo.
"I see them, my lord," she replied, in a joyous tone; "they are happy."
"Yes," said the Count, "they are happy, but they deserve their happiness,
and all is well."
"They owe their happiness to you, my lord," resumed Haydée, meekly.
"They owe it to God," answered Monte-Cristo, solemnly; "I was but His
humble instrument, and He has allowed me in this to make some slight
atonement for the wrong I committed in taking vengeance into my own
mortal hands."
Haydée was silent. She knew the sad history of Edmond Dantès, and was
aware of how remorselessly the Count of Monte-Cristo had avenged the
wrongs of the humble sailor of Marseilles. This she had learned from her
lord's own lips within the past few days. The strict seclusion in which she

had lived in Paris had necessarily excluded her from all personal knowledge
of the Count's subtle war upon his enemies; true, she had emerged from her
retirement to testify against Morcerf at his trial before the House of Peers,
but at that time she was ignorant of the fact that by causing the foe of her
family to be convicted of felony, treason and outrage she had simply
promoted Monte-Cristo's vengeance on Fernand, the Catalan. But, though
silent, the beautiful Greek girl, with her thoroughly oriental ideas, could not
realize that the man who stood beside her, the being she almost worshiped,
had been guilty of the least wrong in avenging himself. Besides, she would
never have admitted, even in the most secret recesses of her own heart, that
Monte-Cristo, who to her mind symbolized all that was good, pure and
heroic in human nature, could have been wrong in anything he did.
Meanwhile the Count also had been silent, and a shade of the deepest
sadness had settled upon his pallid but intellectual visage. He gazed at the
Isle of Monte-Cristo until it became a mere dot in the distance; then, putting
his arm tenderly about his lovely companion's waist, he drew her gently
toward the cabin.
As they vanished down the companion-way, Bertuccio and the captain of
the Alcyon, followed by Ali, the Nubian, advanced to the prow of the yacht.
"Captain," said Bertuccio, "can you tell me whither we are bound? I feel an
irresistible desire to know."
"Yes," answered the captain, "I can tell you. The Count ordered me to make
with all possible speed for the Island of Crete."
Bertuccio gave a sigh of relief.
"I feared we were bound for Italy," he said. "But," he added, after an
instant's thought, "why should we go to Rome? Luigi Vampa is amply able
to care for all the Count's interests there, if, indeed, any remain now that the
Baron Danglars has been attended to."
The captain, who was an old Italian smuggler, placed his finger warningly
upon his lips and glanced warily around when Luigi Vampa's name was
mentioned, but said nothing. Bertuccio took the hint and the conversation
was dropped.

Pressing onward under full sail, the magnificent yacht shot over the blue
waters of the Mediterranean with the speed of an eagle on the wing. It sped
past Corsica and Sardinia, and soon the arid, uninviting shores of Tunis
were visible; then it passed between Sicily and Malta, steering directly
toward the Island of Crete.
Up to this time the weather had been of the most delightful description. Not
a cloud had obscured the sky, and during the entire voyage the unruffled
surface of the Mediterranean had resembled that of some peaceful lake. It
was now the tenth of October, and just cool enough to be pleasant; the
spice-laden breezes from the coast of Africa reached the yacht tempered by
the moist atmosphere of the sea, furnishing an additional element of
enjoyment.
The Count of Monte-Cristo and Haydée, who seemed inseparable, came on
deck every morning at dawn, and each evening walked back and forth,
admiring the gorgeous sunset and watching the shades of night as they
gradually settled down upon the wide expanse of the waters.
It required no unusual penetration to see that they were lovers and that their
delight in each other's society was unalloyed. Haydée clung to the Count,
who, with his arm wound about her slender waist, looked down into the
liquid depths of her eyes with a smile of perfect content, while his free hand
ever and anon toyed with her night-black tresses.
One evening as they were walking thus—it was the evening of the fifteenth
of October, and Crete was distant but two days' sail—Monte-Cristo tenderly
took Haydée's hand in his and said to her in a tone of ineffable softness:
"Haydée, do you remember what you said to me on the Isle of Monte-Cristo
just before we parted from Valentine and Maximilian?"
"Oh! yes, my lord," was the low reply. "I said I loved you as one loves a
father, brother, husband—I loved you as my life."
"And do you now regret those words?"
"Regret them! Oh! my lord, how could I do that?"

"I asked you," said the Count, slowly, "because we are nearing our
destination. In two days we shall land upon the shore of Crete, and, once
there, it is my intention to make you my wife, provided your feelings
toward me are still unchanged. Marriage, my child, is the most important
step in life, and I do not wish you to take that step without fully
understanding the promptings of your own dear heart. Only misery can
follow the union of two souls not in perfect accord, not entirely devoted the
one to the other. I am much older than you, Haydée, and my sufferings have
aged me still more than years. I am a sad and weary man. You, on the
contrary, stand just upon the threshold of existence; the world and its
pleasures are all before you. Think, my child, think deeply before you
pronounce the irrevocable vow."
Haydée threw herself passionately upon Monte-Cristo's breast.
"My lord," she cried, in accents broken by extreme agitation and emotion,
"am I not your slave?"
"No, Haydée," answered the Count, his bosom heaving and his eyes lighting
up with a strange flash, "you are free, your fate rests in your own hands."
"Then," said the young girl, ardently, "I will decide it this very instant. I
accept my freedom that I may voluntarily offer myself to you, my love, my
husband. You have suffered. Granted. So have I. Your sufferings have aged
you; mine have transformed a child into a woman—a woman who knows
the promptings of her heart, who knows that it beats for you, and you alone
in all the world. My lord, I resign myself to you. Do you accept the gift?"
As Haydée concluded, her beautiful eyes were suffused with tears and her
whole frame quivered with intense excitement.
Monte-Cristo bent down and kissed her upon the forehead.
"Haydée, my own Haydée," he said, with a slight tremor in his manly voice,
"I accept the gift. Be my wife, the wife of Monte-Cristo, and no effort of
mine shall be wanting to assure your happiness."
At that moment there was a sinister flash in the heavens, that were as yet
without a cloud. The livid light shot downward to the water and seemingly
plunged to the depths of the Mediterranean.

The Count gave a start and drew his beloved Haydée closer to him; the
frightened girl trembled from head to foot and clung to him for protection.
"Oh! my lord, my lord," she murmured, "does Heaven disapprove of our
plighted troth?"
"Calm yourself, Haydée," answered Monte-Cristo. "The lightning is God's
seal, and He has set it upon our betrothal."
The flash was now repeated and was succeeded by several others of
increased intensity, but as yet no thunder rolled and there was not the
slightest indication of an approaching storm.
Monte-Cristo took Haydée's hand and led her to the side of the yacht. Not a
single wave wrinkled the surface of the sea for miles and miles; the water
seemed asleep, while down upon it the moon poured a flood of silvery
radiance. The stars, too, were beaming brightly. Still, however, the intense
lightning shot athwart the placid sky. It had become almost incessant.
Monte-Cristo could not account for the bewildering phenomenon. He
summoned the captain of the Alcyon and said to him:
"Giacomo, you have sailed the Mediterranean all your life, have you not?"
"All my life, Excellency," replied he, touching his cap.
"Have you ever before seen lightning such as this on a calm night?"
"Never, Excellency."
"It certainly cannot be heat-lightning."
"I think not, Excellency. Heat-lightning has a quicker flash and is much less
intense."
"What do you suppose it portends?"
"I can form no idea, Excellency."
"Oh! my lord," said Haydée, "a terrible storm is coming, I am sure; I feel a
premonition Of approaching danger. I pray you, guard against it."

"Nonsense, my child," returned Monte-Cristo, with a laugh that, in spite of
all his efforts at self-control, betrayed nervous agitation and an undefinable
dread. "The sky is clear, the moon is shining brilliantly and the sea is
altogether tranquil; if a storm were coming it would not be so. Banish your
fears and reassure yourself; the lightning is but a freak of nature."
The captain, too, was disturbed, though he could give himself no
satisfactory reason for his uneasiness.
Ali, with the characteristic superstition of the Nubian race, had prostrated
himself upon the deck, and was making signs the Moslems of his country
use to drive away malignant spirits.
The night, however, passed without accident, though the singular lightning
continued for several hours.
Next morning the sun rose, encircled by a ruddy band, fringed on the outer
rim with a faint yellow, while its beams had a sullen glare instead of their
normal brilliancy. The lightning of the previous night was absent, but soon
another and not less disquieting phenomenon manifested itself; as far as the
eye could reach the sea seemed boiling, and, at intervals, a puff, as if of
vapor, would filter through the waves, rising and disappearing in the
heavens. Meanwhile the wind had fallen, and amid an almost dead calm the
sails of the Alcyon hung listlessly, with only an occasional flapping. The
yacht moved forward, indeed, but so slowly that it scarcely appeared to
move at all.
Monte-Cristo and Haydée came on deck at dawn, but the young girl
displayed such terror at the unwonted aspect of the sun and the sea that the
Count speedily persuaded her to return with him to the cabin. There she
cowered upon a divan, hiding her face in her hands and moaning piteously.
Her fiancé, distressed at her condition, endeavored to soothe and comfort
her, but utterly without avail; her fears could neither be banished nor
allayed. At length he threw himself on a rug at her feet, and, disengaging
her hands from her face, drew them about his neck; Haydée clasped him
frantically and clung to him as if she deemed that embrace a final one.
As they were sitting thus, the Alcyon received a sudden and violent shock
that shook the noble yacht from stem to stern. Instantly there was a sound of

hurrying feet on deck, and the captain could be heard shouting hoarsely to
the sailors.
Monte-Cristo leaped up and caught Haydée in his arms. At that moment Ali
darted down the companion-way and stood trembling before his master.
"What was that shock?" demanded the Count, hurriedly.
The agitated Nubian made a sign signifying he did not know, but that all
was yet safe.
"Remain with your mistress, Ali," said Monte-Cristo. "I am going to see
what is the matter."
"Oh! no, no," cried Haydée, imploringly, as the Count placed her again on
the divan and was moving away. "Oh! no, no; do not leave me, my lord, or I
shall die!"
Ashy pale, Haydée arose from the divan, and cast herself on her knees at
Monte-Cristo's feet.
"Swear to me, at least, that you will not needlessly expose yourself to
danger," she uttered, in a pleading tone.
"I swear it," answered the Count. "Ali will faithfully guard you while I am
gone," he added, "and ere you can realize my absence, I shall be again at
your side."
With these words he tore himself away and hastened to the deck.
There a scene met his eye as unexpected as it was appalling. The entire
surface of the Mediterranean was aglow with phosphorescence, and the sun
was veiled completely by a heavy cloud that seemed to cover the whole
expanse of the sky. This cloud was not black, but of a bloody hue, and the
atmosphere was so densely charged with sulphur that it was almost
impossible to breathe. The sea was boiling more furiously than ever, and the
puffs of vapor that had before only occasionally filtered through the waves
now leaped up incessantly, each puff attended with a slight explosion; the
vapor was grayish when it first arose from the water, but as it ascended it
became red, mingling at length with the bloody cloud that each moment
acquired greater density. The wind blew fitfully, sometimes amounting to a

gale and then utterly vanishing without the slightest warning. Soon the
bloody cloud seemed to settle of its own weight upon the sea, growing so
thick that the eye could not penetrate it, and a few feet from the yacht all
was inky darkness.
Monte-Cristo hurried to the captain, who was endeavoring to quiet the
superstitious fears of the sailors. Drawing him aside, he said, in a low tone:
"Giacomo, we are in frightful danger. This elemental disturbance is
volcanic, and how it will end cannot be foretold. No doubt an earthquake is
devastating the nearest land, or will do so before many hours have elapsed.
At any moment rocks or islands may arise from the sea, and obstruct our
passage. All we can do is to hold ourselves in readiness for whatever
calamity may happen, and make for Crete as rapidly as possible, with the
hope of eventually getting beyond the volcanic zone. Do not enlighten the
crew as to the cause of the disturbance; did they know, or even suspect it,
they could not be controlled, but would become either stupefied or reckless.
Try to convince them that we are simply in the midst of a severe electrical
storm that will speedily exhaust its fury and subside. Now, to work, and
remember that everything depends upon your courage and resolution."
Giacomo rejoined the sailors, who were huddled together at the stern of the
yacht like so many frightened sheep. He spoke to them, doing his utmost to
reassure them, and ultimately succeeded so well that they resumed their
neglected duties with some show of alacrity and even cheerfulness.
Meanwhile, Monte-Cristo, with folded arms and an outward show of
calmness, was pacing the deck as if nothing unusual were in progress, and
his demeanor was not without its effect on the sailors, who looked upon him
with a species of awe and admiration. At times he went below to cheer the
drooping spirits of his beloved Haydée, but speedily returned that the
influence of his presence might not be lost.
Thus the day passed. A night of painful suspense succeeded it, during which
not a soul on board the Alcyon thought of sleeping. Nothing, however,
occurred, save that the intense lightning of the previous night was renewed.
Toward eleven o'clock the breeze freshened to such an extent that the yacht
sped along on her course with great fleetness.

In the morning the sun arose amid a purple haze, and the Mediterranean
presented a more tumultuous and threatening aspect than it had the
preceding day. The breeze was still blowing stiffly, and the lightning
continued. Giacomo informed Monte-Cristo that unless a calm should
suddenly come on they would certainly arrive at Crete by noon. The sailors,
he added, were in good spirits, and might be relied upon, though they were
much fatigued by reason of their unceasing labor.
At ten o'clock the man at the wheel hurriedly summoned the captain to his
side, and, with a look of terror and bewilderment, directed his attention to
the compass, the needle of which no longer pointed to the north, but was
dancing a mad dance, not remaining stationary for a single instant. To
complicate the situation still further, the sun was suddenly obscured,
absolute darkness invading both sea and sky. Only when the vivid lightning
tore the dense clouds apart were those on board the Alcyon enabled to catch
a glimpse of what was going on about them, and that glimpse was but
momentary. Thunder peals were now added to the terrors of the time, while
the yacht tossed and plunged on angry, threatening billows. Showers of
sparks and glowing cinders, as if from some mighty conflagration, poured
down into the water, striking its surface with an ominous hiss; they
resembled meteors, and their brilliancy was augmented by the surrounding
gloom. Rain also began to descend, not in drops, but in broad sheets and
with the roar of a cataract; in a moment everybody on the Alcyon's deck
was drenched to the skin.
Haydée had not ventured from the cabin since the first day of the elemental
commotion; in obedience to his master's commands, Ali constantly watched
over her whenever the Count was facing the strange storm with Giacomo
and the sailors.
As the captain approached the man at the wheel, Monte-Cristo fixed his
eyes upon the old Italian's countenance and saw it assume a deathly pallor
as he noticed that the needle of the compass could no longer be depended
on.
In an instant the Count was beside him and realized the extent of the new
evil that had befallen them.

"We can steer but by guess now," said Giacomo, in a low, hoarse whisper.
"God grant that we may be able to reach our destination."
As he spoke, a loud crash was heard, and the rudder, torn from its fastenings
by the violence of the tempest, swept by them, vanishing amid the darkness.
The man at the wheel gazed after it, uttering a cry of despair.
"We are completely at the mercy of the wind and waves!" said Monte-
Cristo, in an undertone. "Can nothing be done?" he added, hurriedly.
"Nothing, Excellency," returned the captain. "A temporary rudder might be
rigged were the sea calmer, but, boiling and seething as it is, such a thing is
utterly impossible."
A panic had seized upon the sailors as they witnessed the catastrophe that
rendered the Alcyon helpless, but this immediately gave place to stupor, and
the men stood silent and overwhelmed.
Bertuccio, from the time the dread storm had broken forth, had been
gloomy and uncommunicative; he had held persistently aloof both from
Monte-Cristo and the crew. In the general turmoil and confusion his bearing
and behavior had passed unnoticed even by the vigilant eye of the Count.
The steward now approached his master, and, taking him aside, whispered
in his ear:
"Heaven's vengeance is pursuing the Alcyon and all on board because of my
crimes! I feel it—I know it!"
The steward's face was as white as a sheet, but his eye betokened fixed
resolution.
"Not another word of this," cried Monte-Cristo, sternly. "Should the
superstitious sailors hear you, they would demand with one voice that you
be cast into the boiling sea."
"And they would be right," rejoined Bertuccio, doggedly. "If I remain
where I am, the Alcyon's doom is sealed. On the other hand, the moment
you are rid of me the storm will cease as if by magic, and you will be
saved."

"Be silent!" commanded Monte-Cristo. "You are a Corsican—show a
Corsican's courage!"
"I will!" was the determined reply, and the steward walked with a firm tread
to the side of the yacht.
"What do you mean?" said the Count, hurrying after him and placing his
hand on his shoulder.
"You shall see!" answered Bertuccio.
Shaking off Monte-Cristo's grasp, he leaped upon the bulwarks and
suddenly sprang far out amid the seething waves. The Count uttered a cry of
horror that was echoed by the captain. As for the crew, so utterly stupefied
were they that they did not seem to comprehend the suicidal act. For an
instant Monte-Cristo and Giacomo saw the steward whirling about amid the
tumultuous flood; then he was swept away, and vanished in the
impenetrable darkness beyond.
The force of the wind had meanwhile augmented until a perfect hurricane
was raging about the Alcyon; the noise was deafening, and the sails swelled
to such an extent that they threatened to snap asunder. Suddenly they gave
way, and the tattered shreds flew in all directions, like white-winged sea-
fowl. Simultaneously the mast toppled and went by the board. The yacht,
now a helpless wreck, pitched and tossed, but still shot onward, impelled by
the wild fury of the gale. Gigantic waves at intervals swept the deck, each
torrent as it retreated carrying with it all it could tear away, and making
huge gaps in the bulwarks, to which the sailors were clinging with all the
energy of desperation. Monte-Cristo had grasped the stump of the mast, and
the captain clung with all his strength to the remains of the wheel. The
lightning had become terrific, and the almost continuous roar of the thunder
was sufficient to drown the mad din of the waters.
All at once the jagged outlines of a gigantic rock loomed up, directly in the
course of the fated vessel; in another instant the Alcyon struck and
remained fast, while a vivid flash of lightning revealed what appeared to be
an island, about a quarter of a mile away. But though the wreck of the yacht
was motionless, the furious sea continued to break over the deck, and it
seemed only a question of a few moments when the battered and torn hull

of the Alcyon would go to pieces. The boat the vessel carried had long since
been wrenched from its fastenings and swept into the whirlpool.
Monte-Cristo, quitting the stump of the mast, darted down the companion-
way into the cabin, and quickly returned to the deck bearing in his arms the
swooning form of his adored Haydée. Ali followed him. The Nubian
seemed to have entirely recovered from his fear, and manifested both
alertness and decision.
Shifting his lifeless burden to his left arm and grasping her firmly, Monte-
Cristo advanced to the side of the Alcyon. Pausing there for an instant, he
said, addressing Giacomo and the crew:
"The yacht cannot hold together much longer; if we remain where we are
we shall inevitably be ground to powder on the rock with our vessel. There
is an island some distance to the right of us, and, sustained by Providence,
we may succeed in reaching it by swimming. For my part, I shall try the
venture and endeavor to save this lady. You, men, are untrammeled and
stand a better chance of success than I do. I advise you all to follow my
example; to cling further to the wreck is death!"
With these words the Count made his way to a gap in the bulwarks and,
grasping Haydée tightly, leaped with her into the midst of the angry sea. Ali
followed his master, and soon they were seen far in the distance, struggling
and battling with the waves.

CHAPTER II.
THE ISLAND.

It was the month of December, but on the little Island of Salmis in the
Grecian Archipelago the temperature was as mild and genial as that of June.
The grass was rank and thick, while the blooming almond trees filled the
atmosphere with fragrance. On a narrow strip of sandy beach three or four
fishermen were preparing their nets and boats for a fishing expedition to the
waters beyond. They chatted as they toiled. The eldest of them, a man about
sixty, with silvered locks and a long gray beard, said:
"You may talk of storms as much as you please, but I maintain that the most
severe tempest ever experienced in this neighborhood was the one I
witnessed ten years ago last October, when we had the earthquake and the
strange man, who now owns this island, was washed ashore."
"The Count of Monte-Cristo you mean?" remarked one of the party.
"Yes, the Count of Monte-Cristo, who has done so much for us all and
whose wife is nothing less than an angel of goodness and charity."
"You rescued him, did you not, Alexis?"
"I found him lying upon the beach, with the lady who is now his wife
tightly clasped in his arms, so tightly that I had no end of trouble to separate
them. Both were unconscious at the time, and no wonder, for the sea was
furious and they must have been dashed about at a fearful rate. It was a
miracle they escaped with their lives. Near them lay that dark-skinned
African, their servant, who styles himself Ali, as well as the corpses of
several sailors. The African, however, revived just as I approached him.
He's a man of iron, I tell you, for he immediately leaped to his feet and
helped me to restore his master and mistress. When they came to, I took the
whole party to my hut and cared for them. The next day I rowed the Count
and the African out to the wreck of their vessel on that rock you see away
over there, and they brought back with them a fabulous amount of money

and jewels that they found in the strangest closets I ever saw in the cabin.
Then the Count bought this island and has lived here ever since. He took the
lady to Athens and was married to her there, and on his return he had the
palace they now occupy built in the midst of the palm grove."
By this time the fishermen had completed their preparations and, leaping
into their boats, they started on their expedition.
The palace in the palm grove to which old Alexis had alluded was, indeed, a
magnificent dwelling, suitable in every respect for the residence of an
oriental monarch. It was built in the Turkish fashion and its exterior was
singularly beautiful and imposing. Huge palm trees surrounded it; they were
planted in regular rows upon a vast lawn that was adorned with costly
statues and fountains, while at intervals were scattered great flower beds
filled with choice exotics and blooming plants of endless variety. A wide
graveled walk and carriage-road led to the palace, the main entrance to
which was flanked on either side by columns of dark-veined marble. The
edifice itself was of green stone, and sparkled in the sunlight like a colossal
emerald. It was surmounted by three zinc-covered domes, above each of
which towered a gilded crescent.
Within all was elegance and luxury. There were immense salons, with
marble floors, and walls covered with Smyrna hangings of the most
beautiful description that of themselves must have cost a fortune. These
salons were furnished with rich divans, tables of malachite, cabinets of
ebony, and oriental rugs of the most artistic and complicated workmanship.
There were dazzling reception rooms filled with exquisite statues and
superb paintings, the works of the greatest sculptors and artists of the east
and west, of the past and the present. Figures by Thorwaldsen, Powers and
other modern celebrities of the block and chisel stood beside antique
masterpieces framed by the genius of Phidias and his brother sculptors of
old Greece and Rome, masterpieces that had been torn from the ruins of
antiquity by the hand of the untiring and enterprising excavator. Among the
paintings were fine specimens of the skill of Albert Dürer, Murillo, Rubens,
Van Dyck, Rembrandt, Sir Joshua Reynolds and other votaries of the brush
whose names are immortal. These paintings did not hang on the walls, for
they were covered with rich tapestry from the looms of Benares and the
Gobelins, but rested on delicately fashioned easels, themselves entitled to a

high, rank as works of art. In the salons were statues by Michael Angelo,
Pierre Puget and Pompeo Marchesi, and paintings by Claude Lorraine,
Titian, Sir Thomas Lawrence, Correggio and Salvator Rosa.
The vast library was encircled by lofty bookcases of walnut and ebony,
filled with rare and costly volumes from the curiously illuminated missals
of monkish days to the latest scientific works, together with a liberal
sprinkling of poetry and fiction; upon tables, stands and mantels were
superb ornaments in brass repoussé work and grand old faïence, including
some wonderful specimens of ancient Chinese crackle ware, the peculiar
secret of the manufacture of which had been lost in the flight of ages.
At an exquisite desk of walnut, carved with grotesque images, sat the Count
of Monte-Cristo; he was busily engaged in writing, and beside him lay a
huge pile of manuscript that was ever and anon augmented by an additional
sheet, hastily scrawled in strange, bewildering Semitic characters.
The Count showed but small trace of the passage of years; he did not look
much older than when he left the Isle of Monte-Cristo with Haydée on that
voyage which was destined to result so disastrously for the Alcyon and her
ill-fated crew. To be sure, his hair was slightly flecked with gray, but his
visage still retained its full outline, and not a wrinkle marred its masculine
beauty. He was clad in an exceedingly picturesque costume, half Greek and
half Turkish, while upon his head was a red fez from the centre of which
hung down a gilt tassel.
As he wrote his eyes sparkled and he seemed filled with enthusiasm. At
length he threw aside his pen, and rising began to pace the vast apartment
with long strides. "Alas!" he muttered, "perhaps after all I am only a vain
dreamer, as hosts of others have been before me. But no, my scheme is
feasible and cannot fail; it is based on sound principles and a thorough
knowledge of mankind; besides, the immense wealth that an all-wise God
has placed at my disposal will aid me and form a mighty factor in the cause.
In the past I used that wealth solely for my own selfish ends, but now all is
different; I have no thought of self—the philanthropist has replaced the
egotist; I have aided the poor, relieved the stricken and brought joy to many
a sorrowing home, but hitherto I have acted only in isolated cases; now I
meditate a grand, a sublime stroke—to give freedom to man throughout the

entire length and breadth of the Continent of Europe. If I succeed, and
succeed I must, every down-trodden human being from the coast of France
to the Ural Mountains, from the sunny Mediterranean to the frozen Arctic
Ocean, will reap the benefit of my efforts and shake off the yoke of tyranny.
Where shall I begin? Ah! with France, my own country, the land that gave
me birth. I shall thus return good for evil, and Edmond Dantès, the prisoner
of the Château d'If, will free the masses from their galling chains. My most
potent instrument will be the public press; by means of journals I will
found, or buy, the minds of all Europeans shall become familiarized with
the theory of universal liberty and ripened for sweeping revolutions and the
establishment of republics; I will also call fiction to my aid; struggling
novelists and feuilletonists shall receive liberal subsidies from my hand on
condition that they disseminate my ideas, theories and plans in their
romances and feuilletons; thus will I reach thousands upon thousands who
hold themselves aloof from politics, and almost insensibly they will be
transformed into zealous, active partisans of the order of things that is to be;
poets, too, shall sing the praises of freedom louder and more
enthusiastically than ever before; in fine, no instrument, no means, however
humble and apparently insignificant, shall be neglected when the proper
moment arrives, but until it does arrive I must wait, wait patiently, wait
though while waiting an internal fire consume me, and my veins throb with
anxiety and expectation to the point of bursting."
He sank into a chair, and, burying his face in his hands, was lost in
profound thought.
Meanwhile, a lovely woman, leading a beautiful girl of eight years and a
handsome boy of nine, had noiselessly entered the apartment. It was
Haydée, the wife of Monte-Cristo, Haydée grown mature and more
beautiful than ever. Her night-black tresses were gathered in two wide
braids at the back of her shapely head, so long that they reached below her
waist. Her eyes were as bright as stars, and her slender hands, tipped with
their pink nails, as white as the lily; her tiny feet, encased in Cinderella
slippers of rose-hued satin, peeped out from beneath ample Turkish
trousers, which were semi-transparent and disclosed the outlines of her
beautifully turned limbs; she wore a close-fitting gilet of pearly silk,
adorned with gilt fringe and cut low, displaying her snowy neck and
magnificent shoulders; her arms were encompassed but not hidden by

flowing sleeves of filmy gauze as fine as the tissue of a spider's web; about
her neck flashed a collar of brilliant diamonds of enormous value, and on
her tapering fingers were rings of emerald, ruby and sapphire; on her head
was a red fez, precisely similar to her husband's; her countenance, a perfect
revelation of angelic beauty, was wreathed in sunny smiles that betokened
thorough happiness and contentment.
The little girl, Zuleika, the daughter of Monte-Cristo, was her exact image,
a reproduction of her lovely mother in miniature, a promise of rare delight
for the future. The child's costume was also modeled after Haydée's, but
with modifications suited to her tender years. Zuleika was of a gentle,
loving disposition, but a vein of romance and poetry had already developed
itself in her notwithstanding her extreme youth. She sighed for the unknown
delights of the sea, and the wail of the surf sounded to her like the most
delicious of mysterious harmonies. Her infant imagination peopled the
watery realm with spirits of good and evil always in contention, and the
great ships, with their huge white sails, that she saw in the distance from the
sandy beach of the Island of Salmis, were in her eyes the mighty birds of
Arabian story.
The boy, Espérance, the son of Monte-Cristo, resembled his father both in
disposition and appearance; his youthful soul was full of noble aspirations,
while his daring and bravery filled even the hardy fishermen of the coast
with wonder and amazement. He was a very manly and handsome child;
quick, enthusiastic and energetic; his father's hope and his mother's idol;
though Haydée saw, with extreme uneasiness, that the little lad was wise
beyond his years, and was already devoted to Monte-Cristo's somewhat
visionary schemes, which he appeared to grasp in all their complicated
details. His attire was that of a Greek fisher boy; his trousers, rolled up
above his knees, displayed his naked legs and bare feet; in one hand he held
a rough sea cap that he had removed from his head at the door of the library.
Espérance loved, above all other things, to be with the fishermen on the
beach, and his joy knew no bounds when he was permitted to accompany
them on their fishing expeditions to the waters beyond.
Haydée remained silently gazing at Monte-Cristo for a moment; then,
advancing into the middle of the room, she stood beside him with the
children. Zuleika, dropping her mother's hand, sprang lightly upon her

father's knees, and, clasping him about the neck with her chubby arms,
kissed him rapturously.
The Count started from his deep reverie and returned his daughter's kiss;
then, looking up, he perceived Haydée and Espérance.
"Ah! my loved ones," said he, "so you are all here!"
"Yes, papa," returned Zuleika, in a clear, crystal voice, that sounded like the
tinkle of a fairy bell, "we are all here—mamma, Espérance and 'Leika!"
Monte-Cristo smiled faintly, and patted the little girl tenderly on the cheek.
"Haydée," said he, "fortune favors us in our children; they are, indeed, a
blessing to us."
"A veritable blessing, my lord," answered the lovely Haydée, "but still I
cannot help feeling some terror at the thought that Espérance may one day
be drawn into those political struggles you have so often foretold, and in
which it is your intention to act a prominent part."
"Papa will lead the people to victory, and I will fight by his side!" cried
Espérance, proudly.
Haydée gazed sadly at the enthusiastic boy, and tears came into her gazelle-
like eyes.
"Oh! my lord," she said to her husband, "teach Espérance the arts of peace,
implant in his boyish bosom, while there is yet time, the love of home and
domestic joys."
The Count glanced admiringly at the little lad, who stood with dilated
nostrils and eyes flashing fire; then, turning to Haydée, he said in an
impressive tone:
"My beloved wife, Espérance is but an infant, and it may be years ere
Europe shall awake from her lethargy and strive to overturn the thrones of
her despots; before that period, the period of revolution and bloodshed, our
son may change his opinions and cease to be the ardent Republican he is
now."

"No, no," protested the enthusiastic boy; "I will be a Republican all my
life!"
Monte-Cristo smiled sadly, and, drawing the lad to his knee, said to him:
"Espérance, my son, you are yet too young to know the ways of the world
and the snares that monarchs set for the inexperienced and unwary. There
are temptations at their command capable of winning over even the most
zealous enemies, and they never hesitate to use them when the opportunity
offers. At the proper time I will instruct you fully about all this; now, you
cannot understand it."
As Monte-Cristo ceased to speak, Ali entered the library, followed by three
native servants attached to the palace. The Nubian bowed low before his
master and reverently kissed Haydée's hand; the servants did likewise. Then
Ali handed the Count a sealed letter, making signs to the effect that he had
found it tied with a cord to one of the palm trees on the lawn.
Monte-Cristo opened the letter and glanced at the signature; as he did so a
look of surprise and annoyance settled upon his face.
The note was written in the French language, and read as follows:

Count of Monte-Cristo: I am in hiding on the Island of Salmis and
must see you without delay. Meet me at midnight in the almond grove
near the eastern shore. Be sure to come alone.
Benedetto

"Humph!" said the Count to himself as he finished reading this singular
epistle. "I thought I was rid of that scoundrel forever, but it seems that the
galleys at Toulon cannot hold him. Well, I suppose I must meet him;
otherwise he may take a notion to come here, which would be both
inconvenient and disagreeable. I imagine he wants a little money to enable
him to escape to the east; if that is all, I will gladly give it to be rid of his
presence, on the island. I prefer not to have as a neighbor a thief and an
assassin, even if he did shine so brilliantly once in aristocratic Parisian
society as the Prince Cavalcanti!"

"What is the matter, my lord?" asked Haydée, noticing the expression on
Monte-Cristo's countenance. "From whom is the letter?"
"Oh! it is nothing," answered the Count, with a smile. "A poor fellow
wishes my assistance, and is too modest to ask it in person; that's all!"
Haydée was not satisfied with this indefinite reply; she knew that the
contents of the letter so strangely conveyed to her husband had vexed and
troubled him; but she also knew that Monte-Cristo could be as silent as the
tomb about anything he wished to keep secret, and, therefore, judged it
useless to attempt further questions. Besides, a singular presentiment of evil
had taken possession of her at the sight of the ominous note, and she felt
certain that some disaster was threatened; hence, she determined to be
watchful and keep strict guard over her children until the mystery, whatever
it was, should be cleared up.
As the clock in his library struck the quarter before midnight, Monte-Cristo
arose from the chair in which he had been sitting; donning his fez and a
light cloak, he prepared to go to the almond grove on the eastern portion of
the island, the spot Benedetto had appointed for their meeting; prior to
setting out he slipped into his pocket a well-filled purse, and thrust a loaded
revolver into the belt he wore about his waist.
"The scoundrel was anxious that I should come alone, but he did not
prohibit me from arming myself," muttered he, with a grim smile, "and I
have seen too much of Signor Benedetto to care to leave the game entirely
in his hands!"
Quitting the palace by a private door, after making sure that everybody was
asleep and that he was unobserved, Monte-Cristo bent his steps in the
direction of the almond grove. It was a moonless night and very dark; the
air was rather chill, while the roar of the surf sounded louder than usual in
the crisp, bracing atmosphere. The Count gathered his cloak tightly about
him and walked steadily onward, notwithstanding the thick darkness. At
length the heavy odor of the almond blossoms warned him that he was
approaching his destination, and he paused to survey the scene.
About fifty yards away the almond grove loomed up, casting a denser shade
upon the surrounding blackness. The Count hastened his steps and in a few

seconds stood among the trees. As he paused the figure of a man emerged
from behind a huge fragment of rock and thus hailed him:
"Are you the Count of Monte-Cristo?"
"I am," was the firm reply.
"And are you alone, as I recommended?"
"Entirely alone. Now, if you have finished your questions, pray who are
you?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Merely for form's sake."
"Well, then, I am Benedetto."
"Of course. As it was too dark for me to distinguish your features, I simply
wanted to identify you. Now, state your business as briefly as possible."
"I escaped from Toulon long ago, and, after wandering all over Europe,
settled in Athens, where I remained until a week since, when the result of a
difficulty compelled me to quit the city."
"An assassination?"
"Yes, an assassination!"
Monte-Cristo shuddered to hear the cold-blooded villain talk so calmly of
his foul crime, but, conquering his aversion, he said between his teeth:
"Proceed."
"I fled from Athens under cover of the night and the next morning hired a
fisherman to bring me here in his boat, thinking that the island was
inhabited only by a few poverty-stricken wretches who gained a scanty
subsistence from the sea. On my arrival I was filled with terror at beholding
your magnificent palace, which I was told belonged to a great lord. I
naturally imagined that no one could inhabit such a dwelling save some
high official of the Greek Government, and, without making further
inquiries, again secured the services of the fisherman, who took me to the

neighboring Island of Kylo. There I was in safety, for I fell in with a band of
stout-hearted men, of whom I eventually became the chief."
"Bandits, no doubt!"
"Yes, bandits, if you will, but valiant men all the same. We prospered
exceedingly and imagined that our career could be continued with impunity
as long as we might desire; in this, however, we were sadly mistaken, for
one fatal night the Greek soldiery suddenly descended upon us and hemmed
us in on every side ere we were aware of their presence. We fought none the
less desperately on that account, and in the sanguinary conflict all my
companions were slain. I was grievously wounded and left for dead, but the
following day managed to crawl to the beach and contrived to be conveyed
hither, having learned by accident that the great lord of the Island of Salmis
was no other than my old friend of happier days, the Count of Monte-
Cristo, in short, yourself. Now, you know my story. I am a fugitive here as
in France, and need your aid to enable me to escape."
"You want money?"
"Yes."
"How much?"
"A million of francs!"
"Man!" cried Monte-Cristo, breathless with astonishment at Benedetto's
audacious demand, "you are out of your senses! I will give you a thousand
francs, but not a sou more!"
"Beware how you trifle with a desperate man!" hissed Benedetto.
"What have I to fear?" said Monte-Cristo, calmly. "You are alone."
"I am not alone, Count of Monte-Cristo; my stout-hearted friends of the
Island of Kylo are with me, and ready to support my demand!"
"Then you lied to me; your story was a base fabrication."
"Partly, Count; but enough of this—I want the million of francs; it is a small
sum for you to spare an old friend, who did you as much service as Prince

Andrea Cavalcanti! Are you going to give me the money?"
"I am not!" replied Monte-Cristo, drawing his revolver from his belt and
cocking it.
"Ho! ho!" laughed Benedetto, mockingly, "that's your game, is it? Again I
tell you to beware how you trifle with a desperate man!"
At the repetition of this phrase, as if it had been a preconcerted signal, a
dozen stalwart figures started up from the darkness and surrounded Monte-
Cristo, who instantly discharged his weapon right and left among them.
Several of the bandits fell, pierced by the balls, and Benedetto, with a loud
oath, leaped at the Count's throat, brandishing a long, keen-bladed dagger
above his head.
Raising his empty revolver, Monte-Cristo with a hand of iron struck his on-
coming assailant full in the face, stretching him instantly at his feet; but
scarcely had he accomplished this when three of the bandits sprang upon
him and hurled him to the earth beside Benedetto.
"Now," cried one of the miscreants with a frightful curse, at the same time
placing the muzzle of a pistol at the Count's temple, "now, my lord of
Salmis, your time has come!"
As he was about to fire, there arose a tremendous shout, and, headed by Ali,
who swung aloft a Turkish yataghan, the entire force of Monte-Cristo's
servants, armed to the teeth, swept down upon the astonished bandits. At the
same instant a pistol-shot rang out, and the man who had threatened to take
the Count's life fell to the ground a corpse. As Monte-Cristo regained his
feet he saw Espérance standing a short distance away, the smoking weapon
with which he had just killed his father's would-be murderer still clenched
in his boyish hand. The struggle that ensued was of short duration, for the
bandits, finding themselves outnumbered, speedily fled to their boats,
leaving their wounded comrades behind them.
When the Count realized that Espérance, his beloved son, had saved him
from death, he rushed to the heroic lad, took him in his arms and bore him
beyond the reach of danger; this done, he returned to aid Ali and the
servants, but they were already victors and in full possession of the field.

A search was made for the body of Benedetto, but it had disappeared.

CHAPTER III.
THE CONFLAGRATION.

As the Count of Monte-Cristo, Espérance, Ali and the servants approached
the palace on their return from the struggle with the bandits in the almond
grove, their ears were suddenly saluted by loud cries of terror. They came
from the library and thither Monte-Cristo hurried, followed by his son. On
the floor in the centre of the apartment Haydée lay in a swoon, and bending
over her mother was Zuleika, screaming and wringing her little hands. The
Count raised his wife and placed her upon a divan, while Espérance brought
a water-jar and bathed her temples with its cool, refreshing contents,
Zuleika meanwhile holding her mother's hands and sobbing violently.
At last Haydée recovered consciousness, and opening her eyes gazed wildly
around her; seeing her husband, Espérance and Zuleika safe beside her, she
uttered a faint sigh of relief. It was several moments longer before she could
speak; then she exclaimed in a tremulous voice:
"Oh! my lord, did you meet that terrible man?"
"What man, Haydée?" asked the Count. "Do you mean Benedetto?"
"I do not know his name; I never saw him before," answered Haydée; "but
his face was all battered and bleeding; on his uncovered head the locks were
matted and unkempt, and his garments were torn as if in wrenching his way
through a thicket of tangled briers."
"Benedetto, it was Benedetto!" cried Monte-Cristo. "You do not mean to
say he was here, in this room?"
"He was here and only a short time ago," replied Haydée, with a shudder. "I
was standing at the window with Zuleika when he rushed by me like a
whirlwind, and going to your secretary endeavored to open it, but in vain;
then with a cry of rage he ran to the window, leaped out into the darkness

and was gone! I know nothing further, for as he vanished I fell to the floor
in a swoon."
Monte-Cristo touched a bell and almost immediately Ali stood bowing
before him, as calm and unmoved as though nothing unusual had occurred.
"Ali," said the Count, "post all the servants within and without the palace,
and let the strictest watch be kept until dawn. The chief of the bandits, who
is no other than the former Prince Cavalcanti, was here in our absence and
must yet be hovering in the vicinity. See that he does not effect another
entrance, as his purpose is robbery if not murder!"
Ali signified by his eloquent pantomime that he had already taken it upon
himself to station the servants as his master directed, and that it would be
utterly impossible for any one to approach the palace without being seen
and seized.
As the faithful Nubian turned to retire, Monte-Cristo noticed that his right
hand was bandaged as if wounded, and inquired whether he had been hurt
in the conflict with the bandits. Ali explained that a dagger thrust had cut
his palm, but that the wound had been properly cared for and would soon
heal.
When the Count and his family were once more alone together, Haydée
threw herself at her husband's feet and humbly demanded pardon.
"What have you done to require pardon?" asked Monte-Cristo, in
astonishment. "Speak, but I forgive you beforehand.'
"Oh! my lord," said Haydée, still maintaining her kneeling posture despite
her husband's efforts to raise her, "oh! my lord, I have been guilty of a
despicable act, but my love for you and fears for your safety must be my
excuse. You left the letter you received so strangely this morning lying upon
your secretary. I opened it and hurriedly made myself acquainted with its
contents, for I had a premonition that some terrible danger threatened you.
Oh! my lord, pardon, pardon!"
Monte-Cristo raised her to her feet, and imprinted a kiss upon her pallid
brow.

"So then, it is to you, Haydée, that I owe my timely rescue from the hands
of Benedetto and his band of cut-throats! Had you committed even a much
more serious fault than peeping into my correspondence, that would be
more than sufficient to secure my full forgiveness. But do you know that
Espérance shot and killed the miscreant who held his pistol to my temple
and was about to blow out my brains?"
"Espérance?" said Haydée in bewilderment. "Did he not remain behind with
Zuleika and myself?"
"No, mamma," said the boy, holding his head proudly erect. "I could not
remain behind. I knew papa was in danger, and, taking a pistol that I had
seen Ali load this morning from the cabinet of fire-arms, I followed the
servants, arriving at the almond grove just in time."
Haydée ran to her son, and, taking him in her arms, pressed him fondly to
her heart, kissing him again and again.
"Oh! Espérance," she cried, "had I known you were in the midst of those
bloodthirsty cut-throats I should have died of terror! But you have saved
your father's life, my son, and I bless you for it!"
"He is a little hero," said Monte-Cristo, impressively.
Zuleika had thrown herself upon the divan, and, utterly worn out by the
excitement through which she had passed, was already wrapped in a deep
slumber. The Count, Haydée and Espérance, however, could not resign
themselves to sleep, and when the gray light of dawn appeared in the
eastern sky, they were still in the library and still watching.
Benedetto had not been seen again, and a diligent search of the entire
island, made by Ali and the servants, failed to reveal even the slightest trace
of him. He had evidently succeeded in finding some fisherman's skiff and in
it had made his escape.
This view of the case was confirmed a few hours later, when old Alexis
came to the palace and informed Monte-Cristo that his smack had vanished
during the night, having, in all probability, been carried off by thieves.

"I knew," said the fisherman, "that the Island of Kylo was infested by
bandits, but I had no idea they would venture here. Now, however, I thought
I had better put you on your guard."
"I am much indebted to you, Alexis," said the Count; then, slipping a purse
of money into his hand, he added: "Take that and provide yourself with a
new boat."
Alexis touched his cap, bowed and was about to withdraw when Monte-
Cristo said to him, assuming a careless tone:
"By the way, my good fellow, have you ever chanced to meet any of the
bandits you mentioned?"
"Often, Excellency," replied Alexis.
"What kind of men are they?"
"Bold, bad wretches, whose hands have been more than once stained with
innocent blood."
"What is their strength?"
"They number about fifty."
"Do any women dwell among them?"
"Yes, Excellency, their wives and sweethearts."
"Who is the leader of the band?"
"A strange, morose man, who has not been long in their midst."
"Is he a Greek?"
"No, Excellency, he is a foreigner."
"A Frenchman?"
"Quite likely, though I am not sure."
"What is his name?"

"He calls himself Demetrius."
"Did he ever question you about me?"
"Yes, Excellency."
"And what did you reply?"
"I told him you were the Count of Monte-Cristo."
"Ah! What did he say then?"
"He said he had heard of you before."
"That will do, Alexis; I have all the information I require."
The fisherman again touched his cap, and, making a low bow, took his
departure.
Under ordinary circumstances Monte-Cristo would not have been disturbed
by the presence of bandits so near the Island of Salmis, but it became an
altogether different thing when those bandits were led by Benedetto.
A month passed, but in it nothing occurred calculated to break the
tranquillity of the Count and his family. The bandits had not reappeared and
Benedetto had given no sign of life. The faithful Ali no longer deemed it
necessary to maintain his precautions against surprise, and the strict watch
that had been kept up day and night ever since the conflict in the almond
grove was abandoned. Haydée, Zuleika and Espérance resumed their usual
mode of life, having apparently dismissed the robbers from their minds,
while even Monte-Cristo seemed free from all uneasiness.
One night, while the Count was writing at a late hour in the library, he
yielded to fatigue and fell asleep over his papers. His slumber was troubled
with a strange and vivid dream.
A man in the picturesque garb of a Greek peasant, and wearing a mask on
his face, suddenly stood before him, with his arms folded upon his breast.
Monte-Cristo saw him distinctly, though unable to stir either hand or foot.
The singular visitant surveyed the Count long and steadily. There was
something vaguely familiar about him, but as to his identity the sleeper

could form no idea. At last he slowly removed the mask, and recognition
was instantaneous. The man was Danglars. He raised his right hand, and,
pointing with his forefinger at the Count, said deliberately, with a hiss like
some venomous serpent:
"Edmond Dantès, there is a bitter account open between us, and I am here
to force you to a bitter settlement!"
The light of the huge lamp, suspended from the ceiling, fell full upon
Danglars' countenance; it was as bloodless as that of a corpse, and the eyes
shone with a remorseless, vindictive glare. The banker continued in the
same hissing tone, his words penetrating to the very marrow of the
slumberer's bones:
"Count of Monte-Cristo, for by that name it still pleases you to be called,
listen to me. By the most ingenious and fiendish combinations possible for
a human being to contrive, you wrecked my fortune and with it my hopes.
You drove me ignominiously from Paris; in Rome you caused me to be
starved and robbed by Luigi Vampa and his brigands; then with the
malevolent magnanimity of an arch-demon you sent me forth into the world
a fugitive and an outcast. Count of Monte-Cristo, Edmond Dantès, low-born
sailor of Marseilles, modern Mephistopheles as you are, I will be even with
you! You have had your vengeance; now you shall feel mine! Here in the
Grecian Archipelago, on the Island of Salmis, I will torture you through
your dearest affections, and grind you to dust beneath my heel!"
As Danglars finished, his features changed and became those of Villefort,
while his Greek peasant's garb was transformed into the sombre habiliments
of the Procureur du Roi. Villefort's face wore the look of madness, but there
was a freezing calmness in his voice as he said:
"Edmond Dantès, Count of Monte-Cristo, gaze upon the ruin you have
made. Through you I was dragged down from my high position, exposed,
humiliated and deprived of reason. But although the mere wreck of my
former self, I am not utterly powerless, as you shall learn to your cost. You
raised up my infamous son, Benedetto, to be the instrument of my
destruction. Now, he shall work yours, and avenge his unhappy father!"

The apparition paused, sighed deeply, and then resumed in a tone of still
greater menace:
"Count of Monte-Cristo, look well to your beloved wife, Haydée, look well
to your heroic son, Espérance, look well to your darling daughter, Zuleika,
for this night they are in frightful danger! Look well to your fabulous
riches, for they are threatened; look well to your stately and magnificent
palace, for already the element that shall devour it is noiselessly and
stealthily at work! Count of Monte-Cristo, farewell!"
A heart-rending shriek rang in the sleeper's ears, a mighty flash dazzled his
eyes, and, with a grim smile upon his pallid countenance, Villefort
vanished.
Monte-Cristo awoke with a quick start and passed his hand across his
forehead, as if dazed; then he leaped to his feet and glanced breathlessly
about him. Danglars and Villefort had been only the idle coinage of his
brain, but the heart-rending shriek, the mighty flash, they were, indeed,
stern realities—the shriek was Haydée's, and the flash was fire!
"My God!" cried Monte-Cristo, standing for an instant rooted to the spot,
"can it be possible that this dream is the truth after all, and that I am even
now to feel the vengeance of those two men?"
He sprang into the spacious hall that was as light as day, and, as he did so,
the figure of a man rushed by him—it was Benedetto, and in his hand he
held a long knife dripping with blood. The Count turned and pursued him,
snatching a dagger from a table as he ran. At the door leading to the lawn,
he grasped him firmly by the shoulder and held him.
"Murderer!" he shouted, "whose blood is that upon your knife?"
"The blood of Haydée, the Greek slave!" hissed Benedetto, with a glare of
ferocious triumph, "the blood of Haydée, your wife! Edmond Dantès, I am
even with you!"
Monte-Cristo struck at the assassin with his dagger, but Benedetto eluded
the blow, and raising his own weapon inflicted a frightful gash upon the
Count's cheek.

A terrible struggle ensued. Monte-Cristo was possessed of wonderful
strength and activity, but in both these respects the two desperate
antagonists seemed fairly matched. Three times did the Count bury his
dagger in Benedetto's body, but, though the assassin's blood gushed
copiously from his wounds, he continued to fight with the utmost
determination. At length the men grappled in a supreme, deadly effort, but
Monte-Cristo, making a false step, slipped on the blood-spattered marble
floor, and Benedetto, with the quickness of thought, hurling him backward,
freed himself and bounding through the open doorway vanished in the
darkness beyond.
The Count uttered a groan of despair as he saw Haydée's self-confessed
murderer escape him, and staggered to his feet; the fierce conflict with
Benedetto had exhausted him, and he stood for an instant panting and
breathless. The shrieks had now grown fainter and the hall was full of
smoke. During all this time neither Ali nor any of the servants under him
had appeared, a circumstance that, to Monte-Cristo, seemed inexplicable.
He, however, did not pause to give it thought, but dashed up the stairway
and strove to reach his wife's apartment; blinding, stifling clouds of smoke,
through which penetrated the glare of the conflagration, drove him back
again and again, but he renewed his attempts to force a passage with
undaunted energy and courage. Finally, compressing his lips and holding
his nostrils with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, he gave a
headlong plunge, and succeeded in reaching Haydée's door; it was open,
displaying a scene that caused the Count's heart to sink within him; the
whole chamber was one sea of flame; fiery tongues, like so many writhing
and hissing serpents, were licking and consuming the costly tapestry, the
richly carved furniture and the magnificent objects of art; the curtains of the
bed were blazing, and upon the couch lay the senseless form of the wife of
Monte-Cristo, the pallor of her faultless countenance contrasting painfully
with the ruddy glow of the devouring element. In Haydée's breast was a
gaping wound, from which her life blood was slowly oozing in ruby drops.
Rendered utterly reckless by the terrible sight, the Count madly rushed to
the couch, tore his beloved Haydée from it, and, clasping her tightly against
his bosom, staggered into the corridor with his precious burden. There the
smoke had increased in volume and density, but, summoning all his

resolution and endurance to his aid, he plunged through it, and finally was
successful in reaching the library.
Then, with the swiftness of a flash of lightning, the husband was replaced
by the father, and Monte-Cristo, for the first time since Haydée's shrieks
had awakened him from his dream, thought of his children. Where were
they and what had happened to them? The Count felt a cold perspiration
break out upon his forehead, and a feeling of unspeakable dread took entire
possession of him. Haydée demanded immediate attention, but Espérance
and Zuleika must instantly be found and rescued. At the top of his voice
Monte-Cristo shouted for Ali, but no reply was returned. Fearing to leave
Haydée for even a moment, the Count strode about the library like a caged
wild animal, still holding her in his arms. He shouted again and again until
he was hoarse, calling distractedly upon Espérance, Zuleika and all the
servants in turn.
At last an answering shout came suddenly from the lawn, and old Alexis,
followed by several fishermen, leaped into the library through an open
window.
Resigning Haydée to Alexis, the Count, accompanied by the fishermen,
fairly flew to the apartment of his children, situated on a corridor in another
portion of the palace. There Espérance and Zuleika were discovered gagged
and bound; they lay upon the floor of their chamber, while Ali, who had
been treated in like manner, was extended near them. To release the
prisoners was but the work of a moment, and then it was learned that all the
servants under Ali were confined in their dormitory. They, as well as
Monte-Cristo's children and the Nubian, had been suddenly seized by a
party of rough-looking Greeks, evidently a portion of Benedetto's band.
Meanwhile the flames had spread from Haydée's chamber to the adjoining
quarters of the edifice, and the entire palace seemed doomed, for to check
the conflagration appeared impossible, but so happy had the Count been
made by the recovery of his son and daughter, unharmed, that he gave
himself no concern about the probable destruction of his magnificent
property.
Seizing his children, he directed Ali and the fishermen to release the captive
servants, and hastily returned to the library. As he entered the room Haydée

uttered a low groan and opened her eyes; she was lying on a divan, where
old Alexis had placed her. Espérance and Zuleika sprang to her side; she
took each by the hand, and as she did so they saw the wound in her breast.
Zuleika burst into tears. Espérance compressed his lips and grew deadly
pale.
"My loved ones," said Haydée, faintly, "I feel that I am about to leave you
forever, perhaps in a few moments. Be good children and obey your father
in all things. Espérance, Zuleika, stoop and kiss me."
They did as she desired; her lips were already purple and cold; the stamp of
death was upon her features. Suddenly her frame was convulsed and her
eyes assumed a glassy look.
"Monte-Cristo, my husband, where are you?" she said, in a broken voice.
"Here, Haydée," answered the Count, approaching.
He strove to appear calm, but could not control his emotion.
"Nearer, nearer, Edmond," said Haydée, growing weaker and weaker.
The Count sank on his knees beside his dying wife and put his arms about
her neck.
"Oh! Haydée, Haydée," he sobbed; "thrice accursed be the infamous wretch
who has done this!"
"Edmond, my children, farewell," gasped Haydée; "I am going to a better
land!"
The death rattle was in her throat; she raised herself with a mighty effort,
gazed lovingly at her husband and children, and strove to speak again, but
could not; then a flickering shade of violet passed over her countenance,
and she fell back dead.
Espérance and Zuleika stood as if stunned; Monte-Cristo was overwhelmed
with grief and despair.
"The whole palace is in flames! Save yourselves, save yourselves!" cried a
fisherman, rushing into the library, followed by his companions, Ali and the

servants.
Monte-Cristo leaped to his feet, seizing the corpse of Haydée and raising it
in his arms. Ali grasped Espérance and Zuleika, and the entire party
hastened from the burning edifice. They were not an instant too soon, for as
they quitted the library the tempest of fire burst into it, accompanied by
torrents of smoke. The fishermen and servants, commanded by the Nubian,
had made every effort to save the doomed mansion, but in vain.
Monte-Cristo and his children found refuge in the hut of Alexis, to which
Haydée's body was reverently borne.
The wife of Monte-Cristo was buried on the Island of Salmis, and over her
remains her husband erected a massive monument.
Shortly afterwards the Count, Espérance and Zuleika, attended by the
faithful Ali, quitted the Island and took passage on a vessel bound for
France.

CHAPTER IV.
THE NEWS FROM ALGERIA.

Beauchamp, the journalist, sat at his desk in his editorial sanctum early one
bright morning in the autumn of 1841. He had gone to work long before his
usual hour, for important movements were on foot, the political atmosphere
was agitated and Paris was in a state of feverish excitement; besides,
Beauchamp had that day printed in his journal a dispatch from Algeria that
would be certain to cause a great sensation, and, with the proper spirit of
pride, the journalist desired to be at his post that he might receive the
numerous congratulations his friends could not fail to offer, as the dispatch
had appeared in his paper alone.
The sanctum had not an attractive look; in fact, it was rather dilapidated,
while, in addition, the disorder occasioned by the previous night's work had
not been repaired, and all was chaos and confusion.
Beauchamp was busily engaged in glancing over the rival morning papers
when Lucien Debray entered and seated himself at another desk. The
Ministerial Secretary smiled upon the journalist in a knowing way, and the
latter, nodding to him with an air of triumph, silently pointed to the pile of
journals he had finished examining. Lucien took them up, and without a
word began scanning their contents.
"Glorious news that from the army in Algeria!" cried Château-Renaud,
rushing into the sanctum.
"Glorious, indeed!" replied the editor, looking up from the paper over which
he was hurriedly skimming. On the huge table at his side, as well as beneath
it, and under his feet and his capacious arm-chair, nothing was to be seen
but newspapers.
"Take a chair, Renaud, if you can find one, and help yourself to the news.
You see I have Lucien similarly engaged yonder."

The Ministerial Secretary glanced up from his papers, returned his friend's
salutation and resumed his reading. He was dressed with his customary
elegance and richness, but his form and face were fuller than when last
before the reader, and his brown hair was besprinkled with gray.
"I congratulate you, Beauchamp, on being the first to give the news,"
continued Château-Renaud. "Not a paper in Paris but your own has a line
from the army this morning."
"Rather congratulate me and my paper on having a friend at court."
"Ha! and that explains the fact, otherwise inexplicable, that an opposition
journal has intelligence, which only the Bureau of War could have
anticipated! Treason—treason!"
The editor and the Secretary exchanged significant smiles.
"Oh! I don't doubt that your favors are reciprocal," continued the young
aristocrat, laughing. "I've half a mind to be something useful myself—
Minister—editor—anything but an idler and a law-giver—just to
experience the exquisite sensation of a new pleasure—the pleasure of
revealing and publishing to the world something it knew not before. Why,
you two fellows, in this dark and dirty little room, are the two greatest men
in Paris this morning—or were, rather, before your paper, Beauchamp, laid
before the world what only you and Lucien knew previously. Oh! the
delight, the rapture of knowing something that nobody else knows, and then
of making the revelation!"
"And this news from Algeria is really important," remarked the editor.
"Important! So important that it will be before the Chambers this morning,"
replied the Secretary.
"So I supposed," said the Deputy, "and called to learn additional particulars,
if you had any, on my way to the Chambers."
"We gave all we had, my dear Lycurgus, and for that were indebted to an
official dispatch, telegraphed to the War Office, and faithfully re-
telegraphed to us by our well-beloved Lucien."

"It's true, then, as I have sometimes suspected, that the wires radiate from
the Minister's sanctum to the editor's?" was the laughing rejoinder.
"It must be so, or there's witchcraft in it. There's witchcraft, at any rate, in
this new invention. Speed, secrecy, security and surety—no eastern genius
of Arabian fiction can be compared to the electric telegraph; and how
Ministers or editors continued to keep the world in vassalage, as they
always have done, without this ready slave, seems now scarce less
wonderful than the invention itself. Instead of detracting from the power of
the press, the telegraph renders it more powerful than ever."
"But affairs in Algeria—is not the news splendid!" cried the editor. "Why
did we not all become Spahis and win immortality, as some of our generals
have?"
"As to immortality," said the Secretary, "we should have been far more
likely to win the phantom as dead men than as living heroes."
"Debray was at the raising of the siege of Constantine," said Beauchamp
laughing, "and knows all about the honors of war."
"Yes, indeed, and all about the raptures of starvation, of cold and hunger,
after victory, and the ecstatic felicity of being pursued by six Bedouins, and
after having slain five having my own neck encircled by the yataghan of the
sixth!"
"And how chanced it that you saved your head, Lucien?" asked the Count.
"Save it—I didn't save it; but a most excellent friend of mine—a friend in
need—galloped up and saved it for me."
"Yes," replied Beauchamp, "our gallant friend, Maximilian Morrel, the
Captain of Spahis—now colonel of a regiment, and in the direct line of
promotion to the first vacant bâton—eh, Lucien? A lucky thing to save the
head of one of the War Office from a Bedouin's yataghan. Up—up—up,
like a balloon, has this young Spahi risen ever since."
"You are wrong, Beauchamp. Not like a balloon. Rather like a planet.
Maximilian Morrel is one of the most gallant young men in the French
army, and step by step, from rank to rank, has he hewn his own path with

his good sabre, in a strong hand, nerved by a brave heart and proud
ambition, to the position he now holds."
"His name I see among the immortals in the dispatch of this morning. Well,
well, Morrel is a splendid fellow, no doubt, but it's a splendid thing to have
friends in the War Office, nevertheless, who will give that splendor a
chance to shine—will plant the lighted candle in a candlestick, and not
smother its beams under a bushel."
"Morrel has now been in Africa five whole years," said the Secretary—"a
few months only excepted after his marriage with Villefort's fair daughter,
Valentine, (as was said) when he was indulged with a furlough for his
honeymoon."
"She is not in Paris?" asked Beauchamp.
"No; she leads the life of a perfect recluse with her child, during her
husband's absence, at his villa somewhere in the south—near Marseilles,
where the department forwards her letters."
"Yet she is said to be a magnificent woman," remarked the Count.
"Wonderful!" cried Beauchamp. "A magnificent woman and a recluse!"
"Oh! but it was a love-match of the most devoted species, you must
remember."
"True; she was to have married our friend, Franz d'Epinay."
"And died to save herself from that fate, I suppose—and afterwards was
resurrected and blessed Morrel with her hand and heart, and the most
exquisite person that even a jaded voluptuary could covet. Happy—happy
—happy man!"
"Apropos of dying," said the Secretary, "do you remember how fast people
died at M. de Villefort's house about that time?"
"Horrible! A whole family of two or three generations, one after the other!
First M. and Madame de Saint-Méran—then Barrois, the old servant of M.
Noirtier—then Valentine, and, last of all, Madame de Villefort and Edward,
her idol. No wonder that M. le Procureur du Roi himself went mad under

such an accumulation of horrors! By the by, Debray, is M. de Villefort still
an inmate of the Maison Royale de Charenton?"
"I know nothing to the contrary," replied the Secretary, who had resumed
his paper, and to whom the subject seemed not altogether agreeable. "He is
an incurable." Then, as if to turn the subject, he continued: "Apropos of the
immortals of Algeria, here is a name that seems destined even to a more
rapid apotheosis than that of the favored Morrel."
"You mean Joliette?" said the editor. "Who, in the name of all that is
mysterious and heroic, is this same Joliette? I have found it impossible to
discover, with all the means at the command of the press."
"And I, with all the means at the command of the Government. All we can
discover is this—that he is a man of about twenty-five; that he enlisted at
Marseilles, and in less than three years has risen from the ranks to the
command of a battalion. His career has been most brilliant."
"And to whose favor does he owe his wonderful advancement,
Beauchamp?" asked the Deputy, laughing.
"To that of Marshal Bugeaud, Governor-General of Algeria."
"Ah!"
"Who has indulged him with an appointment in every forlorn hope!"
"Excellent!" cried the Count. "What more could a man resolved to be a
military immortal desire? Immortality the goal—two paths conduct to it—
each sure—death—life!—the former the shorter, and, perhaps, the surer!
But there is one name I never see in the war dispatches. Do you ever meet
with it, Messrs. editor and Secretary—I mean the name of our brilliant
friend, Albert de Morcerf? The rumor ran that, after the disgrace and suicide
of the Count, his father, he and his mother went south, and he later to
Africa."
"I have hardly seen the name of Morcerf in print since the paragraph headed
'Yanina' in my paper, about which poor Albert was so anxious to fight me."
"Nor I," said Debray. "But where now is Madame de Morcerf? Without
exception, she was the most splendid specimen of a woman I ever saw!"

"High praise, that!" cried the Count, laughing. "Who would suppose our
cold, calculating, ambitious, haughty, talented and opulent diplomat and
aristocrat had so much blood in his veins? When before was he known to
admire anything, male or female—but himself—or, at all events, to be
guilty of the bad taste of expressing that admiration?"
"Debray is right," replied the journalist, somewhat gravely. "Madame de
Morcerf was, indeed, a noble and dignified woman—accomplished, lovely,
dignified, amiable—"
"Stop!—stop!—in the name of all that's forbearing, be considerate of my
weak nerves! You, too, Beauchamp. Well, she must have been a paragon to
make the conquest of two of the most inveterate bachelors in all Paris! But
where is this marvel of excellence—pardon me, Beauchamp," perceiving
that the journalist looked yet more grave, and seemed in no mood for
bantering or being bantered—"where is Madame de Morcerf at the present
time?"
"At Marseilles, I have heard."
"And is married again?"
"No. She is yet a widow."
"And is a recluse, like Morrel's beautiful wife?"
"So says report. They dwell together."
"How romantic! The young wife, whose hero-husband is winning glory
amid the perils of war and pestilence, pours her griefs, joys and
anticipations into the bosom of the young mother, who appreciates and
reciprocates all, because she has a son exposed to the same perils—and both
beautiful as the morning! A charming picture! Two immortals in epaulets
and sashes in the background are only wanted instead of one. But I must to
the Chambers. M. Dantès is expected to speak in the tribune this morning
upon his measure for the workmen."
"Do you know, Count, who this M. Dantès really is?" asked Debray.
"There's a question for a Ministerial Secretary to ask a member while a
journalist sits by! I only know of M. Dantès that he is the most eloquent

man I ever listened to. I don't mean that he's the greatest man, or the
profoundest statesman, or the wisest politician, or the sagest political
economist; but I do mean that, for natural powers of persuasion and
denunciation—for natural oratory—I have never known his rival. If Plato's
maxim, 'that oratory must be estimated by its effects,' is at all correct, then
is M. Dantès the greatest orator in France, for the effect of his oratory is
miraculous. There is a sort of magic in his clear, sonorous, powerful, yet
most exquisitely modulated voice, and the wave of his arm is like that of a
necromancer's wand."
"You are enthusiastic, Count," observed Beauchamp, "but very just. M.
Dantès is, indeed, a remarkable man, and possessed of remarkable
endowments, both of mind and body. His personal advantages are
wonderful. Such a figure and grace as his are alone worth more than all the
powers of other distinguished speakers for popular effect. 'The eyes of the
multitude are more eloquent than their ears,' as the English Shakespeare
says."
"I never saw such eyes and such a face," remarked Debray, "but once in my
life. Do you remember the Count of Monte-Cristo, Messieurs?"
"We shall not soon forget him," was the reply. "But this man differs greatly
from the Count in most respects, though certainly not unlike him in others."
"True," replied the Secretary; "in manners, habits, costume and a thousand
other things there is a marked difference. Besides, the Count was said to be
incalculably rich, while the Deputy has every appearance of being in very
moderate circumstances. But he leads a life so retired that he is known only
in the Chambers and in his public character. I allude to the Deputy's person,
when I speak of resemblance to that wonderful Count, who set all Paris in a
fever, and, more wonderful still, kept it so for a whole season. There is I
know not what in his air and manners that often recalls to me that
extraordinary man. There are the same large and powerful eyes, the same
brilliant teeth for which the women envied the Count so much, the same
graceful and dignified figure, the same peculiar voice, the same good taste
in dress, and, above all, the same colorless, pallid face, as if, to borrow the
idea of the Countess of G——, he had risen from the dead, or was a visitant
from another world, or a vampire of this. Her celebrated friend, Lord B

——, she used to say, was the only man she ever knew with such a
complexion."
"But, if I recollect rightly," said Beauchamp, "the Count of Monte-Cristo
was somewhat noted for his profusion of black hair and beard. The Deputy
Dantès is so utterly out of the mode, and out of good taste, too, as to wear
no beard, and his hair is short. His face is as smooth as a woman's, and he
always wears a white cravat like a curé."
"But he is, nevertheless, one of the handsomest men in Paris," added the
Count—"at least the women say so. You might add, the Deputy has many
gray hairs among his black ones, and many furrows on his white brow,
while Monte-Cristo had neither. Besides, M. Dantès has a handsome
daughter and a son who resembles him greatly, both well grown, while the
Count was childless."
"Well, well, be his person and family what they may," said the Secretary,
rising, "I wish to God the Ministry could secure his talents. I tell you,
Messieurs, that man's influence over the destinies of France is to be almost
omnipotent. His powerful mind has grasped the great problem of the age—
remuneration for labor. The next revolution in France will hinge upon that
—mark the prediction—and this man and his coadjutors, among whom
Beauchamp here is one, are doing all they can to hasten the crisis. The
whole soul of this remarkable man seems devoted to the elevation of the
masses—the laboring classes—the people—and to the amelioration of their
condition. His efforts and those of all like him cannot ultimately succeed.
But they will have a temporary triumph, and the streets of Paris will run
with blood! These men are rousing terrible agencies. They are evoking the
fiends of hunger and misery, which will neither obey them nor lie down at
their bidding."
"And the magicians who have summoned these foul fiends will prove their
earliest victims!" said Château-Renaud, in some excitement.
"Messieurs, listen a moment!" cried Beauchamp, rising. "Pardon me, but
this discussion must cease, at least here. It can lead to no good result. As the
conductor of a reform journal, I entirely differ with you both. But let not
political differences interfere with our personal friendship. Come, come, old
friends, let us forsake this place, redolent with politics, having a very

atmosphere of discussion, and repair to the Chambers, taking Véry's on our
way."
"Agreed!" cried the Deputy and the Secretary, and the three left the
journalist's sanctum arm in arm.

CHAPTER V.
EDMOND DANTÈS, DEPUTY FROM MARSEILLES.

Beauchamp, Lucien Debray and Château-Renaud were not the only persons
puzzled with regard to the enigmatical M. Dantès; all Paris was more or less
bothered about him; his entire career prior to his appearance at the capital as
the Deputy from Marseilles seemed shrouded in impenetrable mystery, and
this was the more galling to the curious Parisians as his wonderful
oratorical powers and his intense republicanism rendered him the cynosure
of all eyes and made him the sensation of the hour. The Government had
instituted investigations concerning him, but without result; even in
Marseilles his antecedents were unknown; he had come there from the east
utterly unheralded, attended only by a black servant, and bringing with him
his son and daughter, but almost immediately he had plunged into politics,
winning his way to the front with startling rapidity. From the first he had
ardently espoused the cause of the working people, and such was his
personal magnetism that he had made hosts of admirers, and had been
chosen Deputy with hardly a dissenting voice. Some of the inhabitants of
Marseilles, indeed, remembered a youthful sailor named Edmond Dantès,
but they asserted that he had been dead many years, and that the Deputy
was unlike him in every particular.
As the young men passed the Théâtre Français, on their way to the Chamber
of Deputies, after a glass of sherry and a biscuit at Véry's, their attention
was attracted by a crowd gathered around an immense poster spread upon
the bill-board. There seemed no little excitement among the throng, a large
proportion of whom appeared to be artisans and laborers, and loud
expressions of admiration, accompanied by animated gestures, were heard.
Nor were there wanting also words of deep denunciation and of significant
threatening.
"Down! down with the tyrants! Bread or blood! Wages for work! Food for
the laborer!" and other cries of equally fearful significance were audible.

"Do you hear that, Beauchamp?" said Debray, quietly.
"Undoubtedly," was the equally quiet reply.
"Those laborers have deserted the daily toil which would give them the
bread they so fiercely demand, in order to discuss their imaginary misery,
and denounce those who are richer than themselves."
"But what brings them to the theatre at this hour?" asked Château-Renaud.
"The new play," suggested Beauchamp.
"Ah! the new play. 'The Laborer of Lyons,' is it not?"
"Yes," said Debray, "and one of the most dangerous productions of the
hour."
"It is evidently from the pen of one unaccustomed to dramatic composition,
yet familiar with stage effect," added the journalist. "And yet, without the
least claptrap, with but little melodramatic power, against strong opposition
and bitter prejudices, and without claqueurs, its own native force and the
popularity of the principles it supports have carried it triumphantly through
the ordeal of two representations. It will, doubtless, have a long run, and its
influence will be incalculable in the cause it advocates—the cause of human
liberty and human right."
"No doubt it will exert a most baneful influence," bitterly rejoined Debray.
"Without containing a syllable to which the Ministry can object, at least
sufficiently to warrant its suppression, it yet abounds with principles,
sentiments and theories of the most incendiary description, well calculated
to rouse the disaffection of the laboring classes to frenzy. Its inevitable
effect will be to give them a false and exaggerated idea of their wrongs and
their rights, and to stimulate them to revolution. Oh! these men have much
to answer for. They are drawing down an avalanche."
"They are the champions of human liberty," said Beauchamp, warmly, "and
will be blessed by posterity, if not by the men of the present generation."
"Truce to politics, Messieurs!" cried the Deputy, observing that his friends
were becoming excited. "I had heard of this play and its powerful character.
Who's the author, Beauchamp?"

"The production is attributed to M. Dantès, the Deputy from Marseilles,
with what truth I know not; but he is fully capable of composing such a
drama. To-morrow night, it is supposed, the author, whoever he may be,
will be compelled by the people to appear and claim the laurels ready to be
showered on him in such profusion. But it is nearly three o'clock,"
continued Beauchamp, "and M. Dantès is expected to speak in the early part
of the sitting."
"To the Chamber, then," said the others, and the trio mingled with the crowd
hurrying in the same direction.
"What a glorious thing is popularity!" exclaimed the Count.
"What a glorious thing to be the champion of the people!" rejoined
Beauchamp.
"And how glorious is that champion's glorious career!" cried the Secretary.
"Let the hydra alone. Like the antique god of mythology, it eats up its own
children as soon as they get large enough to be eaten. It is a fickle beast, and
the idol of to-day it crushes to-morrow."
The hall of the Chamber of Deputies was crowded when the three friends
entered. Although the hour for the President to take the chair had not yet
arrived, the benches were full, and the galleries, public and private, were
overflowing. Strong agitation was visible among the Ministerial benches of
the extreme left. The Premier himself was present, although his cold
countenance, like the surface of a frozen lake, betrayed neither
apprehension nor the reverse. Self-reliant, self-poised, calm, seemingly
insensible to surrounding objects and events, this man of iron, with a heart
of ice and a brain of fire, glanced quietly and fixedly around him, with his
cold, dark eye, which, from time to time, rested on the Communist benches
of the extreme right, unmoved by the stern glances hurled at him by his
many fierce opponents and the almost tumultuous excitement by which they
were agitated.
At length President Sauzet took the chair. The house came to order, and the
sitting opened with the usual preliminary business. A large number of
petitions from the workmen of Paris for employment by the Government
were presented and referred, and one immense roll containing a hundred

thousand names, which came from the manufacturing districts, was brought
in on the shoulders of two men and placed in the area before the President's
chair, escorted by a deputation from the artisans; it was received with an
uproar of applause from the centre of the extreme right of the benches, and
from the throngs of blouses in the galleries. The tumult having, at length,
subsided, the order of the day was announced to be the discussion of the bill
introduced by M. Dantès, having for its purpose the general amelioration of
the condition of the industrial classes in the Kingdom; and M. Dantès was
himself announced to be the first on the list to occupy the tribune. A deep
murmur of anticipation ran around the vast hall at this announcement. The
multitudes in the galleries leaned forward to gain a better view of this idol,
and to catch every syllable that might fall from his lips; and every eye
among the members was turned to the seat of M. Dantès, on the centre right
of the benches.
A tall figure in black, with a white cravat, rose and advanced to the tribune
slowly, amid a stillness as hushed and breathless as the prior excitement had
been noisy. In age, M. Dantès seemed about fifty or fifty-five. His form was
slight and his movements were graceful and dignified. His face was livid
and as calm as marble; but for the large and eloquent eye, dark as night, one
might have thought that broad white brow, that massive chin, those firmly
compressed lips and that colorless mouth were those of a statue. Yet in the
furrows of that forehead and the deep lines of that face could be read the
record of thought and suffering. The busy plowshare had turned up the deep
graves of departed passions. No one could gaze or even glance at that face
and not perceive at once that it was the visage of a man of many sorrows—
yet of a man proud, calm, self-possessed, self-poised and indomitable. His
hair, which had been raven black, now rested in thin waves around his
expansive forehead and was sprinkled with gray, while his intellectual
countenance wore that expression of weariness and melancholy which
illness, deep study and grief invariably trace.
Mounting the steps of the tribune with slow and deliberate tread, he drew
up his tall figure, and resting his left hand, which grasped a roll of papers,
upon the marble slab, glanced around on the turbulent billows of upturned
and excited faces, as if at a loss how to address them. Having read the bill,
after the usual prefatory remarks, he began by laying down the platform
which he proposed occupying in its advocacy and support, consisting, of

course, of abstract, self-evident propositions, which none could have the
hardihood to gainsay, yet, when once admitted, the deductions inevitably
flowing therefrom none could resist. The propositions seemed safe and
indisputable, but the deductions evolved from those propositions were as
frightful to the legitimist as they were delightful to the liberal. That each
man is born the heir to the same natural rights—that each man, alike and
equally with all others, has a birthright of which he cannot be divested and
of which he cannot divest himself, to act, to think and to pursue happiness
wherever he can find it without infringement on the rights of his fellow
beings—none were disposed to deny. That each human animal, as each
animal of inferior grade, has, also, the right of subsistence, drained from the
bosom of the earth, the great mother of us all, which without his
foreknowledge or wish gave him being, seemed, also, indisputable. But
when from these propositions were deduced that crime is rather the result of
misery than depravity, and that the office of government is more to prevent
crime by creating happiness than to punish it by creating misery, and that
for the natural rights resigned by the individual in entering into and
upholding the social system human government is bound to afford
employment and subsistence to each of its members, that labor and its
produce should be in partnership, that competition should be abolished, and
work and wages so distributed by the State as to equalize the condition of
each individual in the community, and, finally, that the claims of labor are
not satisfied by wages, but the workman is entitled to a proprietary share in
the capital which employs him, inasmuch as all the woes and miseries of
the laborer arise exclusively from the competition for work—when these
deductions were advanced the opulent and the conservative started back in
terror and dismay. Distribution of property, universal plunder, havoc,
bloodshed, sans culottism, a red republic and the ghastly shapes of another
Reign of Terror rose in frightful vividness before the fancy. As the speaker
proceeded to illustrate and sustain his positions, which were those of the
Communist, Socialist, Fourierist, call them which we may, and poured forth
a fiery flood of persuasion, invective, denunciation and shouts of applause,
mingled with cries of rage and dismay, rose from all quarters of the hall.
Unmoved and undaunted, that marble man, livid as a spectre, his dark eyes
blazing, his thin and writhing lip flecked with foam, his tall form swaying
to and fro, rising, bending—now thrown back, then leaning over the marble
bar of the tribune—continued to pour forth his scathing sarcasm, his

crushing invective, his eloquent persuasion and his unanswerable argument
in tones, now soft and tuneful as a silvery bell, then sad and pitiful as an
evening zephyr, then clear, high and sonorous as a clarion, then hoarse and
deep as the thunder, for a period of four hours, unbroken and continuous,
without stop or stay.
The effect of this speech, as the orator, pale, exhausted, shattered, unstrung,
with nerves like the torn cordage of a ship that has outridden the tempest,
descended from the tribune, baffles all description. Fearful of its influence,
the Minister of Foreign Affairs at once arose, and in order to divert the
attention of the Chamber asked leave to lay before it the late dispatches
from the seat of war, setting forth the glorious triumphs of the French arms
in Algeria. This intelligence, which, at any other time, would have been
received with rapturous enthusiasm, was listened to under the influence of a
counterirritant already at work, with comparative calmness, and its only
effect was to cause a postponement of the vote on the laborers' bill upon the
plea of the lateness of the hour, although not without strenuous opposition
from the extreme right. The rejoicing of the galleries at the triumph of their
champion and their fierce applause knew no bounds at the close of the
sitting, and their idol escaped being borne in his chair to his lodgings only
by gliding through a private exit from the hall to the first carriage he could
find.
"What think you?" cried Beauchamp, triumphantly, to the Ministerial
Secretary, as they were pressed together for an instant by the excited throng
on the steps as they left the hall.
"Think, Monsieur!" was the bitter rejoinder of the Secretary, whose
agitation completely overcame his habitual and constitutional self-
possession, "I think Paris is on the eve of another Reign of Terror!"
Beauchamp laughed, and the friends were drawn apart by the conflicting
billows of the crowd.

CHAPTER VI.
THE MYSTERY THICKENS.

M. Dantès' wonderful speech was the principal topic of conversation in
every quarter of Paris, exciting comment of the most animated description.
Of course, the workmen and their friends were delighted with it, and could
not find words strong enough to adequately express their enthusiastic
admiration for the gifted orator. Those belonging to the Government party,
on the other hand, denounced the speaker as a demagogue and the speech as
in the highest degree incendiary and dangerous. Strange to relate, whoever
spoke of the oration always mentioned the new play, "The Laborer of
Lyons," attributing its authorship to the mysterious Deputy from Marseilles,
and the drama received cordial endorsement or scathing censure, according
to the political opinions of those who alluded to it.
For these reasons curiosity in regard to M. Dantès ran higher than ever, but
instead of decreasing as he became more prominent, the mystery
surrounding him seemed only to thicken. Nevertheless, the Deputy was the
lion of the hour, or rather would have been, had he permitted himself to be
lionized, but this he persistently declined to do, holding aloof from society
and mingling with none save his political associates, though even to them
he was a problem they could not solve; they, however, recognized in him a
powerful coadjutor, and with that were forced to be content.

"The Hall of the Chamber of Deputies was last evening thronged to
overflowing. It had been understood that M. Dantès was to advocate
the People's Bill, and, as usual, it had but to be known that this
distinguished orator was to occupy the tribune to draw out all classes
of citizens. Nor was the vast multitude disappointed. A more powerful
speech has never been heard within those walls. More than four hours
was the audience enchained by the matchless eloquence of this
remarkable man, which was received with thunders of applause. A
report of this speech will be found under the appropriate head."

"The New Play entitled, 'The Laborer of Lyons,' recently produced at
the Théâtre Français with triumphant success, and which has caused
such a deep and universal sensation, is repeated to-night. There is
reason to anticipate that the author, who is supposed to be a celebrated
orator of the opposition, may be induced to comply with the call,
which will be again renewed, to avow himself."

Such were two paragraphs which the following morning appeared in
Beauchamp's journal, and similar notices of both speech and drama were
published in every other opposition sheet in Paris. In the Ministerial organ,
on the contrary, and in all the papers of like political bias, appeared the
following and similar paragraphs:

"The Speech of M. Dantès, last evening, in the Chamber of Deputies,
was one of the most dangerous diatribes to which we ever listened—
dangerous for the insidious and sophistical principles it advanced, and
the almost fiend-like eloquence with which they were urged. Where
are these things to stop? At what terrible catastrophe do these men
aim? What crisis do they contemplate?"

"The New Drama at the Théâtre Français, called 'The Laborer of
Lyons,' which is to-night to be repeated, is calculated and seems to
have been designed by its reckless author to produce the very worst
effects among the laboring classes. We deeply regret that it has been
suffered by the censors to be brought out."

The multitude called forth by paragraphs like these to witness the new play
was, of course, immense. Long before the time for the curtain to rise, the
vast edifice was crowded to its utmost capacity with an eager and
enthusiastic assemblage. Not only were the galleries, parquette and lobbies
filled with blouses, but the boxes were glittering with a perfect galaxy of
fashion, loveliness and rank. Conspicuous in the orchestra stalls were the
three friends—the Secretary, the journalist and the Deputy. In a small and
private loge in the second tier, concealed from all eyes by its light curtain of
green silk, and its position, but himself viewing everything upon the stage
or in the house, sat the author of the play, calmly awaiting the rising of the
curtain.

The performance at length began, and the piece proceeded to its termination
amid thunders of applause, which, as the curtain finally descended on the
last scene of the last act, became perfectly deafening, accompanied by cries
for the author. But no author appeared behind the footlights or in the
proscenium box; and, at last, the uproar becoming redoubled, the manager
came forward, and, in the author's behalf, tendered grateful
acknowledgments for the unprecedented favor, even by a Parisian audience,
with which the production had been received, but, at the same time,
entreated the additional favor that they would grant the author's request, and
permit his name, for the present, to remain unknown. He would, however,
venture to reveal this much, that the author was a distinguished friend of the
people. The earthquake of applause which succeeded this announcement
was almost frightful, and while the scene was at its height, the three friends
with great difficulty managed to extricate themselves from the multitude
which wedged up the lobbies, and to make their escape.
"A friend of the people!" cried Debray, bitterly, as his coupé, containing
himself and companions, drove off to Véry's. "From such friends let the
people be saved, and they may save themselves from their foes."
"And the play, what think you of that?" cried Beauchamp.
"That it is a most able and abominable production, eminently calculated to
cause exactly the evils which we have this night perceived—to excite and
rouse the worst passions of the mob, and render the masses dissatisfied with
their inevitable and irredeemable lot, and as dangerous as wild beasts to all
whose lot is more favored."
"Man has rights as man, and men in masses have rights, and one of those
rights is to know actually what those rights are," said Beauchamp. "The
most melancholy feature in the oppression of man is his ignorance that he is
oppressed. Enlighten him as to those rights, elevate his mind to appreciate
and value them, and then counsel him firmly and resolutely to demand
those rights, and quietly and wisely to obtain them."
"Aye! but will he obey such counsel?" exclaimed Château-Renaud. "Will
not the result of such enlightenment and excitement prove, as it ever has
proved, anarchy, revolution, guilt, blood? Who shall restrain the monster
once lashed into madness?"

"But you can surely perceive no such design in this play, and no such
effect," rejoined Beauchamp.
"In the abstract," replied the Count, "this production is unexceptionable—
most beautiful, yet most powerful. How it could have been the work of an
unpracticed pen, embodying as it does passages of which the first
dramatists of the romantic school might be proud, I cannot imagine.
Besides, there seems familiar acquaintance with stage effect and the way in
which it is produced. But that might have been, and probably was, the result
of some professional player's suggestions."
"And, then, the profound knowledge of the human heart evinced—its
passions, motives and principles of action," added the journalist. "There
seems an individuality, a personality in the production, which compels the
idea that the author is himself the hero, that he has himself experienced the
evils he so vividly portrays, that the drama is at once the effusion of his own
heart and the embodiment of his own history. Can that man be M. Dantès?"
"If it be he," cried the Secretary, "there is more reason than ever to call him
the most dangerous man in Paris. What with his speeches in the Chamber
and his plays at the theatre, all tending to one most unrighteous end, and all
aiming to inflame such an explosive mass as the workmen of Paris, he may
be regarded as little less than the very agent of the fiend to accomplish
havoc on earth!"
"Yet, strange to say, my dear Secretary," said the journalist, laughing, "you
have not yet estimated the tithe of this man's influence for good, or, as you
think, for evil. Rumor proclaims him to be as immensely opulent as
appearances would indicate him to be impoverished. That his whole soul, as
you say, is devoted to the people, with all his wonderful powers of mind
and person, is undoubted. That he has availed himself of that grand lever,
the press, to accomplish his purposes, be they good or bad, seems equally
certain. 'La Réforme,' the new daily, is undoubtedly under his control, if not
sustained by his pen and his purse, for it has a wider circulation than all the
other Parisian papers put together. It goes everywhere—it seeks the alleys,
not the boulevards, finds its way to the threshold of all, whether paid for or
not."
"Ah!" cried Debray, in great agitation. "Is it so?"

"And, then, not only is the public press subsidized by this man, if report is
not even falser than usual, but a whole army of pamphleteers, journalists,
littérateurs and students await his bidding, as well as some of the most
distinguished novelists and dramatists of the nation and age!"
"My God!" exclaimed the Count. "Can this be so?"
"Nay—nay," replied Beauchamp, "I make no assertions, I merely retail
rumors. But what cannot uncounted wealth achieve, directed by genius and
intelligence?"
"But is this man actually so wealthy?" asked Debray, pale with agitation.
"His manners, dress, equipage, residence and mode of life would indicate
just the reverse."
"I know not—no one knows," said Beauchamp. "It is only known to myself
and to a few others that he dwells in the mansion No. 27 Rue du Helder,
formerly the residence of the Count de Morcerf, and that his private
apartment is that pavilion at the corner of the court, where at half-past ten,
on the morning of the 21st of May, 1838, we breakfasted with our amiable
friend Albert, and were met by that remarkable man, the Count of Monte-
Cristo."
"I remember that morning well," said Château-Renaud.
"Everything, it is said, remains in that once splendid mansion precisely as
when it was deserted by the Countess and her son, at the time of the suicide
of the Count—everything except that glorious picture of the Catalan
fisherman by Leopold Robert, in Albert's exquisite chamber, which alone he
took with him."
"It is strange that a man so opulent as you represent M. Dantès to be, should
adopt his magnificence at second hand," observed Debray, coolly.
"But I do not represent him as opulent, my dear Lucien; and he certainly is
the last man either to invent magnificence or to adopt it. Why, he is as plain
in manners and mode as St. Simon himself. His dress you have seen; as to
equipage his only conveyance is a public fiacre; as to diet, household
arrangements and everything else of a personal nature, nothing can be more
republican and less epicurean than is witnessed at his house. His study,

Albert de Morcerf's pavilion, is said to be the only sumptuous apartment in
the whole establishment; and that sumptuousness is of a character entirely
literary and practical. His retinue consists of three servants, called Baptistin,
Bertuccio and Ali, the latter being a Nubian, although fame gives him a
perfect army of servitors prompt to execute his bidding. But I will not
indulge your skeptical and sarcastic nature, Lucien, with a detail of all that
rumor says of this wonderful man. I will only say that all he is, and has or
hopes for seems devoted to one single object—the welfare of his race."
"Has he a wife?" asked Debray.
"He is a widower, with two children, a young girl, called Zuleika, and a
youthful son, called Espérance. But my acquaintance with him is wholly of
a public character. I have never been in his house, and very few there are
who have been. But here we are."
And the coupé stopped at Véry's.

CHAPTER VII.
DANTÈS AND HIS DAUGHTER.

Even in the immediate vicinity of the Morcerf mansion, No. 27 Rue du
Helder, no one was aware that its new tenant was M. Dantès, the famous
Deputy from Marseilles. All the neighbors knew was that the palatial
edifice had been purchased by a stranger, who said he was acting for his
master, a man of great wealth lately arrived from the east. No repairs or
alterations had been made, while the Morcerf furniture was bought with the
house, the only new articles making their appearance being several huge
bookcases and a number of large boxes evidently containing books,
together with a host of traveling trunks filled, as was to be presumed, with
the wardrobe of the family. The servants took possession during the day and
were duly noted, but how or when the proprietor came could not be
ascertained, while after his installation glimpses of him were exceedingly
rare.
Occasionally, however, a beautiful girl, with an oriental look
notwithstanding her tasteful and elegant Parisian attire, would be seen for a
moment at the windows, but she invariably vanished on realizing that she
was observed. Sometimes, a handsome young man stood at her side, but he
also seemed anxious to avoid the scrutiny of the curious, although he
evinced less timidity than his companion, always withdrawing slowly and
with great deliberation.
It was after midnight. On the second floor of the pavilion once inhabited by
the Viscount Albert de Morcerf was now a spacious library. The walls were
lined with tall book-shelves, mounting to the lofty ceiling, and groaning
under ponderous piles of volumes, from the huge black letter folio of the
Middle Ages to the lightest duodecimo of the day; while in all parts of the
chamber, on the floor, tables and chairs, and in the deep embrasures of the
windows, were scattered huge masses of papers, pamphlets, manuscripts
and charts. Over the bookcases stood marble busts of Danton, Mirabeau,
Napoleon, Armand Carrel, the Duc de St. Simon and other great men whose

names are identified with France; between the windows looking out on the
garden, shrouded in shrubs and creeping plants, hung a full-length and
magnificent picture of Fourier. Near the centre of the apartment stood a vast
table covered with books, papers, manuscripts and writing materials, beside
which stood one of those sombre and massive arm-chairs, on the possession
of which the former proprietor had so felicitated himself, bearing on a
carved shield the fleur-de-lis of the Louvre, and in whose sumptuous and
antique embrace had, perhaps, reposed a Richelieu, a Mazarin or a Sully.
The windows were hung with heavy tapestry of ancient pattern and rich
dye, and also the walls, save where covered with books. A soft and
summery atmosphere, the warmth of which emanated from concealed
furnaces, neutralized the chill of an autumnal night, and the mellow chiaro-
oscuro of a vast astral diffused its lunar effulgence on all around.
Within this chamber was a man, who, with arms crossed upon his bosom
and eyes fastened in profound and seemingly mournful contemplation upon
the floor, slowly paced from one extremity of the spacious apartment to the
other.
This man was M. Dantès, representative of Marseilles in the French
Chamber of Deputies.
"At last, at last," he murmured, "the avenging Nemesis ceases to gnaw! At
length the angel Peace begins to smile! The tempest, which, for nearly thirty
years, has raved and swelled in my heart, begins to lull! At length I
commence to live—at length I realize and pursue life's true end. Let me
reflect," he continued, after a pause, "let me review the past. The past! alas!
my past is a painful blank! At twenty, from the very marriage-feast, from
the side of her whom more than life I loved, I was torn by the envy of one
man and the jealousy of another, and then, by the ambition of a third, to
whom nothing was crime if it but ministered to that unhallowed impulse, I
was plunged into a dungeon, whose counterpart only the vaults of hell can
furnish. For fourteen long years I was the tenant of a sombre tomb. The
agony, the despair of those awful years—oh! God! oh! God!" and he
shuddered and clasped his hands over his head as if to crush the
recollection.

After a pause he resumed: "And then those daily vows of vengeance! oh!
vain and impotent vows as then they seemed! vows of awful agony, of
fiendish retribution, though at that time I knew not all! I knew not that a
venerable father had pined and died of starvation through the wrong done to
me! I knew not that the woman I loved had become the bride of my
destroyer! Yet those vows, awful and blasphemous as they were, those vows
of vengeance have been terribly, dreadfully fulfilled! As the destroying
angel of God's retributive providence, I was endowed with superhuman
powers to walk the earth, to administer His justice and to execute His
decrees. For fourteen years was that vengeance prepared, yet delayed. At
last, it fell—it fell. All who had wronged me met their dreadful doom.
Ambition was changed to madness. Avarice was tortured with bankruptcy.
Falsehood sought refuge in self destruction; and all—all—all—even the
meanest of those who had contributed to blight my life—perished miserably
at my will! And did the guilty suffer alone? Alas! impious, remorseless,
horrible revenge! The innocent and the criminal suffered alike. A might
approaching omnipotence was vouchsafed me, but no power of
omniscience to direct my hand or stay its effects. Blind and mad I knew not
what I did. Those I most loved fell beneath the blow which crushed those I
most abhorred, and shared the same fate. The terrible agencies I had
summoned as my slaves became my masters. The fiends which, as ministers
of God's justice, garbed in the guise of angels of light, I had, by hideous
necromancy, evoked to aid me in righteous retribution, proved the dark
demons of hell and derided all orders to accomplish my bidding. The awful
engines I had set in motion I found myself powerless to arrest or control.
Effects ceased not with the causes in which they had their origin. The stroke
of vengeance, aimed at foes, recoiled on friends—recoiled on myself. And
when I fain would stop, when I would arrest the awful havoc which my will
had commenced, the dark ministers I had called up howled in my ears, 'On!
on! on! vengeance is thine! vengeance is thine!' They mocked my terror and
laughed at my apprehensions.
"At last there seemed a pause. Fate appeared to have done her worst, to
have executed her decrees. The blind agencies of vengeance blasted no
more, because there seemed no more to blast. The misery I had caused I
strove to alleviate, the innocent hearts I had crushed I endeavored to heal;
rejoicing in the joy I had created and the affection I gratified, once more I

loved—loved, but, oh! not as I first had loved—not with that deep, adoring,
delirious passion of my youth, and yet with a subdued, fraternal feeling I
loved; in the calm and sweet seclusion of a favored clime, parted from the
world with all its miseries and its crimes, environed by all that man or
nature could contribute to human bliss, I began to dream of happiness, in
the happiness I had created. But, alas! I forgot that man's happiness lies not
in his own hand, but in the hand of his Maker. I forgot that an omniscient
eye pursued me, that a blasphemed and omnipotent Power was over me.
The blow paused—hovered—fell, not upon me, not on the guilty, but again
it fell on the innocent; and she, who was my only hope, my beloved
Haydée, my wife, was snatched from my heart, ruthlessly murdered by that
fiend, Benedetto!"
The unhappy man pressed his hand to his forehead, and for some time
paced the chamber in silence; then, approaching a small alcove at one
extremity of the apartment, he raised the heavy and sumptuous hangings
and revealed a small silver casket of exquisite workmanship and
appointments, that sparkled as the mellow light poured in upon it. M.
Dantès knelt beside the ebony table on which this casket rested, and for
some moments seemed absorbed in prayer; then, rising and taking the
casket in his hands, he touched a spring, when the lid flew open, disclosing
a miniature portrait of Haydée, set in a frame of gold, ornamented with
flashing diamonds and emeralds; he gazed long and lovingly at this portrait,
that seemed designed to show how exquisitely fair God's creatures may be,
after which he kissed it reverently, closed the casket, restored it to the table,
and slowly dropped the hangings to their place. Resuming his walk, he said,
mournfully: "But the deepest wound will close; the heaviest grief, the
bitterest woe, becomes assuaged. Time, the comforter, soothes and
consoles. From this stroke of bereavement I at length awoke, and, at the
same moment, awoke to the conviction that my whole past had been an
error; that my life had been a lie; that the years which had succeeded my
imprisonment had been more utterly lost than those passed within my
dungeon itself; and there came to me the conviction that time, talent, power
and wealth had been worse than wasted—that the wondrous riches,
undreamed of save in the wildest flights of oriental fiction, and by a miracle
bestowed upon me, were designed for nobler, holier purposes than to
subserve a fiendish and blasphemous vengeance for even unutterable

wrongs, or to minister to the gratification of pride, and the satisfaction of
selfish tastes and appetites, however refined and sublimated.
"I looked around me—the world was full of misery—and the same
disposition which had plunged me into a dungeon was crushing the hearts
and hopes of millions of my race. My bosom softened by bereavement
yearned toward my suffering fellows, and the path of duty, peace and
happiness seemed open to my desolate and despairing heart. Resolution
followed conviction; the world was my field; liberty, equality and fraternity
were my objects. Not France alone, with her miserable millions, but Russia
with her serfs, Poland with her wrongs, the enslaved Italian, the oppressed
German, the starving son of Erin, the squalid operative of England, the
priest-ridden slave of Jesuit Spain, and the oppressed but free-born Switzer.
Great men and good men I found had already, with superhuman skill,
constructed a system, a machine for the amelioration of mankind's
condition, which needed only the co-operation of boundless wealth to set it
in motion. That wealth was mine! The common house for the laborer, the
asylum for the insane, for the orphan, the Magdalen, the destitute, the sick,
the friendless, the deserted, the bereaved, or the asylum for the victim of his
own vices, or the vices of others, for the depravity which originates in
misery, ignorance or fate—all these my riches could sustain. Around me, in
the accomplishment of this design, the uncounted wealth intrusted to my
stewardship has already gathered the mightiest minds in every department
of intellect, and the best hearts; and if but a few years are vouchsafed us to
carry out the system we have adopted, all Europe, despite her throned and
sceptred tyrants, impiously claiming the right to oppress by the will of God,
shall be free! Silently but surely, the principle of human liberty is
ceaselessly at work, undermining thrones and overthrowing dynasties. The
hush that precedes the tornado even now broods over Europe; nations
slumber the heavy sleep that preludes the earthquake. The hour of
revolution is at hand—of social regeneration, disenthrallment, redemption,
over all the world. In every capital of Europe the mine is prepared—the
train laid to be lighted, and from this solitary chamber the free thought on
the lightning's pinion flies to Vienna, St. Petersburg, Rome, Madrid, Berlin,
London, over mountain and plain—over sea and land—through the forest
wilderness and the thronged city; taken up by the press, it makes thrones
totter and tyrants tremble—tremble at an influence which emanates they

know not whence and contemplates a purpose they know not what—an
influence whose mystery they are impotent to penetrate, and whose
shadowy but awful right they are powerless to resist!"
At that instant the silvery tinkle of a bell was heard at the table, and a low
and continuous whizzing as of clockwork at once commenced. The Deputy
advanced hastily to the table. The register of the electric telegraph like a
living thing was unfolding the secrets of events at that moment transpiring
at the furthest extremity of the Kingdom! Eagerly seizing the slip of paper
which was gliding through the machine, he glanced over the cabalistic
cipher there traced. "Lyons—Marseilles—Rome—Algeria," he murmured.
"All goes well." And while the wonderful register, like a thing of life, still
whizzed, clicked and delivered its magic scroll, covered with characters
unintelligible to all but him for whose eye they were designed, he touched a
spring, and a row of ivory keys resembling those of a piano-forte was
revealed. Then rapidly touching them with the fingers of one hand, while he
held up before him the endless slip of paper in the other as it was evolved,
he transferred its cabalistic contents, character by character, to their distant
destination.
And when the day dawned on Paris, Berlin, Vienna and Madrid, the
intelligence thus concentrated, and thus distributed in that solitary chamber,
was laid by the press before a hundred thousand eyes, in a language which
each could comprehend, for in every capital of Europe unbounded wealth
had established a press which groaned in unceasing parturition for human
rights, causing princes to tremble and ministers to wonder and grow pale;
over each press, thus set in motion as if literally by an electric touch a
thousand miles away, presided men of the greatest powers and most varied
attainments which philanthropy or covetousness could enlist, while the
result of their labors was sown broadcast among the poorest and humblest,
without price or compensation, pouring light upon their darkened
understandings and giving them knowledge of their rights.
Nor was the newspaper press alone active. The feuilleton press was also at
work; and magazines, reviews, pamphlets, whole libraries of volumes, were
flung like Sibylline leaves on the four winds of heaven. Fiction, the drama,
religion, art, literature, moral and mechanical science—all departments of
intellect—silently, unseen, yet surely exerted their omnipotent influence for

the attainment of one single glorious end—the happiness, rights, freedom of
man; all this was under the guidance of one powerful mind and benevolent
heart, wielding the resistless necromancy of countless and exhaustless
treasure! Not a point in all Europe whence influence could radiate and be
distributed was there at which this man, in one brief year, had not set in
motion the press and the telegraph, those tremendous levers of the age to
move the world, and all the more powerfully to move it because oft unseen.
Not a court was there of emperor or prince, czar or kaiser, king, duke or
potentate in which dwelt not his emissary, who suspected, least of all, knew
everything that occurred, and, on the lightning's wing, dispatched it to its
destination, so that the most important decrees of the cabinet-council of
Vienna were exposed to the whole world by the Parisian press long before
they had been communicated by Metternich to his sovereign. And thus,
often, the ruler first learned the purposes of the Minister. Not a city or
village was there in all Europe which nourished not in its bosom the germ
of reform and revolution, while the great principle of association combined,
embodied, and concentrated into a focus energies and influences which
would otherwise have proved comparatively powerless.
The click and buzz of the register ceased—the engine had revealed its
secret—the shadowy tale had been caught up as it fell and given to the press
of all Europe, thence to be laid before men's minds.
Exhausted by the severe mental toil, and by the lateness of the hour, the
Deputy sank back into his arm-chair and clasped his hands. "Glorious,
omnipotent science!" he exclaimed in low and trembling, yet eager and
enthusiastic tones. "Wealth must yield in power to thee, for what wealth can
rival thy achievements or secure thy results? Thou hast girt the earth with
web-work, forced the lightning to syllable the unspoken thought and made
man's mind ubiquitous like God's; ere long, thou wilt have knit together
with thy magic spells a world of mankind into one vast brotherhood!"
M. Dantès ceased and, closing his eyes wearily, continued to think over the
possibilities of the future. As he sat there motionless and seemingly asleep,
a light footfall was heard in the apartment and his daughter stood before
him. Zuleika was now sixteen, tall and matured beyond her years; she
greatly resembled her dead mother, Haydée, the beautiful Greek, and the
half-oriental costume she wore helped to render the resemblance still more

striking; her abundant hair was the hue of the raven's wing, her feet and
hands were those of a fairy, while her large and expressive eyes flashed like
diamonds, and her parted lips, as red as rubies, disclosed perfect teeth of the
whiteness of pearls. A shade of anxiety settled upon her handsome
countenance as she bent over her weary father. The Deputy opened his eyes
and glanced at her.
"Why are you up so late, my child?" he asked, fondly. "I thought you were
sleeping soundly long ere this."
"I was waiting for you, papa," replied Zuleika, in a low, musical voice, that
sounded like a chime of tiny bells; "I could not retire to my couch while
you were toiling."
M. Dantès pointed to a stool; the young girl brought it and seated herself at
his feet; he drew her to his knee, smoothing her tresses gently and
affectionately.
"So you would not desert me, darling?" he said, with a glad smile.
"No, indeed, dear papa," answered she, nestling closer to him.
"Will you always love me as you do now, Zuleika?" asked the father,
looking down into the liquid depths of her eyes.
"Oh! papa, what a question, what a singular question!" said the girl,
springing to her feet, throwing her arms around his neck, and kissing him
again and again.
"But love of another kind and for another will come along after awhile,"
said the Deputy sadly, "and then you will forget your father."
Zuleika blushed and hung her head in maidenly modesty; then she
exclaimed:
"No, no, papa; never will I forget you whatever may happen!"
"Ah! my darling, you know not what you are saying; it is only natural for a
woman to cast her father aside and cleave unto her husband."

"But, papa, I have not even a lover yet, and, besides, I am not a woman; I
am merely a little girl and your own, true, loving daughter."
"Yes, yes, but you must remember that last year, young as you were then,
you attracted marked attention from several youthful Romans of the best
families in the Eternal City, and that one of them, the Viscount Giovanni
Massetti, went so far as to ask me for your hand."
At the mention of Massetti's name the blush upon Zuleika's cheek
deepened. She trembled slightly, but said nothing; her heart fluttered
painfully, but the pain was not altogether disagreeable. The young Viscount
was evidently not unpleasing to her.
M. Dantès resumed, looking at her fixedly the while:
"My daughter, as you were then attending the convent school I felt it my
duty to deny Giovanni Massetti's solicitation, nay, his ardent, impetuous
prayer, but I did not deprive him of all hope; I gave him permission to urge
his suit with you personally after a year from that time had elapsed. Did I
do right?"
Zuleika maintained silence, but blushed and trembled more than ever, while
her heart fluttered so that she placed her hand upon her breast to still it.
"Come, come, my daughter, answer me," said the Deputy, kindly, "did I do
right? Tell me what your little heart says."
"I do not know, oh! I do not know!" cried Zuleika, bursting into tears.
"There, there now," said her father, soothingly; "I did not mean either to
frighten or wound you. If the Viscount is displeasing to you I will answer
his letter to-morrow and tell him as gently as possible that he has no hope of
winning your hand."
"What! have you received a letter from Giovanni?" exclaimed Zuleika, with
sudden interest, her tears vanishing instantly and her pretty face brightening
up.
"Ho! ho!" said M. Dantès to himself, "Mademoiselle has waked up in
earnest now." Then he added aloud: "Yes, one came this afternoon. The
Viscount is in Paris, and has claimed the privilege I accorded him a year

ago, provided you interposed no objection. However, the matter can
speedily be settled. Young Massetti is a man of honor, and will not for an
instant think of troubling with his attentions a lady to whom they cannot
prove acceptable."
"Oh! papa, papa, don't tell him that; he wouldn't come here if you did;
besides, did—did—did I ever tell you that Giovanni's attentions would
prove unacceptable to me?"
"No, not in so many words," answered M. Dantès, archly, "but I inferred as
much from your manner and tears just now. So I am to understand that you
do not want me to reply to the Viscount's letter, am I?"
"Oh! yes, I want you to reply to his letter, but—but——"
"But what, darling?"
"I do not wish you to tell him there is no hope!"
"You think there is hope, then?"
"I—I—am afraid so, dear papa!"
"Yet a moment ago you told me you had no lover, and were merely a little
girl!"
"I did not know then that Giovanni was in Paris, and I—I—thought he had
forgotten all about me."
M. Dantès smiled as he said:
"That makes all the difference in the world, doesn't it, Mademoiselle?"
"Yes," answered Zuleika, innocently; then she added in a tone of great
earnestness: "Write to Giovanni in the morning, and—and tell him I shall be
delighted to see him."
"I will write and inform him that, so far as I have been able to discover, my
daughter does not object to receiving a visit from him."
"Oh! that would be too cold and formal, and Giovanni is such an old
friend."

"Well, well," said M. Dantès, "I will so frame my reply as to give entire
satisfaction both to you and him. Now, my child, kiss me and retire to your
couch, for it is very, very late."
Zuleika embraced her father and kissed him repeatedly; then, with beaming
eyes and a countenance overflowing with happiness she ran lightly from the
apartment.
As she tripped joyously away, M. Dantès arose from his arm-chair and
gazed after her with a look of the utmost sadness.
"Oh! my daughter, my daughter," he murmured, "soon will you also quit
me, and then I shall be alone, indeed! True, Espérance will remain, but,
generous, manly and heroic as he is, he can never fill the void Zuleika will
leave. Oh! Haydée, Haydée, my beloved wife, why were you torn so
ruthlessly from your husband's heart!"
Zuleika's dreams that night were rose-hued and delicious, and in all of them
the central figure was the youthful Roman Viscount.
When day dawned M. Dantès was still pacing his library.

CHAPTER VIII.
A VAST PRINTING HOUSE.

A street somewhat famous in Paris is the Rue Lepelletier, famous not for its
length, for its breadth, for the splendid edifices it exhibits, or for the scenes
and events it has witnessed, but famous for the exploits beheld by its
neighbors, and the magnificent structures by them displayed. Not that the
Rue Lepelletier can boast no fine edifices, for the grand opera-house would
give the loud lie to such an assertion. And then there is the Foreign Office
near by, the Hôtel of the Minister of Foreign Affairs at the corner of the
Boulevard and the Rue des Capucines, and other noted places.
But there is one structure on the Rue Lepelletier not very noticeable save
for its immense size and its ancient and dingy aspect, which has witnessed
more scenes and events, and is more important than all its more splendid
neighbors put together.
This edifice is of brick, five stories in height, and, as has been intimated, is
time-stained, storm-stained, smoke-stained and stained, it would seem, by
all other conceivable causes of stain, so begrimed and dingy, yet so
venerable and imposing, does it seem.
This vast and ancient pile can be said to represent no order of architecture.
Architectural elegance appears not to have been thought of when it was
designed, and yet the façade of the old building seems to bear the same
relation to the building itself as the face of an old man bears to his body,
and that face is full of character, as are the faces of some men—sombre,
sedate, serious, almost sinister in aspect. This old face, too, seemed full of
apertures, through which unceasing and sleepless espionage could be kept
up on the good citizens of the good City of Paris. Doors, and especially
windows, numberless, opened and looked upon the street, and on a cul de
sac at one end of the edifice.
One of the doors opening on the cul de sac, at its further extremity, was
broad, low, dark and sombre; like the gates of hell, as portrayed by the

English bard, it "stood open night and day." If you entered this door and
advanced, you would immediately find yourself ascending a narrow,
gloomy and winding flight of stairs. Having with difficulty groped your
way to the top, without having broken your neck, by having first reached
the point from which you started, to wit, the bottom; or your shins, by
stumbling against the steps—having, I say, accomplished the ascent to the
first landing, your further passage is effectually stopped by a massive door,
which resists all your efforts to open it; and, as you are contemplating the
dangerous descent which you now think you are immediately and inevitably
forced to make, an ivory bell-handle against the wall, beside the door,
arrests your attention, with the words around it, which, with difficulty, you
decipher by the dim light, "Editor's Room—No Admittance," followed by
the encouraging, but somewhat contradictory word, "Ring," which,
doubtless, means this: "If you are a particular friend of the editor, or have
particular business with him as a journalist, ring the bell, and perhaps you
may be admitted." Supposing either of these positions yours, you "ring the
bell," and immediately you are startled by the tinkling of a small bell in the
darkness close beside you, and the ponderous door, firm as a barricade till
then, is now opened by unseen hands—by the same hand, indeed, and by
the same action of that hand which caused the bell to tinkle.
You enter the door, and find yourself in a corridor or passage, long and
dark, for everything in this building is dark, and gaslight is the only light
eighteen hours in the twenty-four; you find yourself in a corridor, I say,
running the entire depth of the building, and bringing you back again
toward the Rue Lepelletier, which you left on entering the cul de sac, to
seek the low entrance below. As you traverse the endless gallery, your
attention is arrested by a deep hum, as of many voices at a distance, with
which the entire structure seems pervaded, accompanied by a heavier
sound, which rises and falls with measured stroke. This mysterious hum
might have been heard when you first approached or entered the building;
but the silence and solitude of the corridor have caused you to notice it now
for the first time, and to wonder at its cause.
Now had you the power of those magicians, necromancers, clairvoyants and
demi-devils, whether of the flesh or the spirit, who, at a glance, can gaze
through massive walls and peer down the chimneys of a great city, and who,
almost without glancing at all, can see through partitions, key-holes and

iron doors, your wonder at the cause of these unknown sounds would
instantly cease, while it would be yet more excited by those causes
themselves, for the vast building all around you, and through which you are
passing, and which envelops you in its ceaseless hum, like the voice of a
great city, would seem to you nothing less than a leviathan of life and action
—a Titan—a Frankenstein—a mental and material giant, with its acoustic
tubes, like veins and arteries, running all over the structure, just beneath the
surface of the walls, and uniting in every apartment; with its electric wires,
like bundles of nerves, which, having webbed the whole body with
network, converge into a focus-tube, and thence pass down into the vaults,
through the massive foundations, and beneath, the pavements of the
thronged streets of the metropolis, and thence, rising again to the surface,
branching on distinct, diverse and solitary routes without the suburbs all
over Europe. You would see, too, the mighty heart of this Titan, whose
heavy heavings you have felt, heard and wondered at—THE PRESS—in its
subterranean tenement, amid smoke and flame. The press; which, like the
animal heart, receives eventually all that the veins convey to it, and flings
forth everything in modified form through lungs and arteries. Tireless and
untired in its action, never ceasing, never resting, for as well might a man
think to live when his heart had ceased to beat, as a printing office exist
when the throbbings of its press were no longer felt; and as well could a
man be supposed to live without breath as a printing-office of the nineteenth
century without its lungs, the steam engine, or its breath of life, the subtle
fluid by which it is moved.
But to drop metaphor. In the basement of the building you would find the
press-room, with its steam engine, its furnaces, its presses, its dark demi-
devils, and ghostly and ghastly gnomes and genii groping or flitting about
amid the glare and gloom, begrimed and besmoked, seemingly at work at
unhallowed yet supernatural toil, which toil, as if a punishment for sin, like
that of Sisyphus, or the daughters of Danae in the heathen Tartarus, was
eternal. The press never stops.
On the first floor you would perceive the financial and publishing
department in all its endless ramifications, with the separate bureaus for
folding, enveloping, mailing, etc.

On the second floor—but that you will shortly behold, and it will describe
itself.
On the third floor you would discover immense magazines of material—
paper, ink, of every hue and quality, and type of every known description;
and all in quantities seemingly as useless as incalculable.
On the fourth and fifth floors you would find the composition rooms,
whence fly the winged words all over the world, peopled by its whole army
of compositors; while from the long platoons of cases, "click—click—
click" is heard, the sole and unceasing sound which alone in those
apartments is ever suffered to fall on the ear. If we add that the entire
structure is warmed in winter by heated air, conveyed in tubes from the
furnaces of the press, our description will be complete, and we may say
such is the printing office of the nineteenth century in Paris. How changed
from that of German Guttenberg or English Caxton, three hundred years
before! Such is it by daylight. Flood every object and apartment with
gaslight, and you have the scene at night—through all the night, for couriers
and dispatches never cease to arrive—and the journal issues with the dawn
—and the workmen are relieved by constant and continuous relays. Such an
office gives employment to hundreds and bread to thousands. It demands
twenty editors, exclusive of their chief, twenty reporters, exclusive of the
same number in the commercial and mercantile corps; twenty-five clerks
and bureau agents, sixty carriers, twenty mechanicians and margers, sixty
folders, twenty pressmen, seventy correctors and compositors and five
hundred distributors, besides a numberless and nameless army of attachés
and employés too numerous to be specified. The aggregate compensation of
this army is ten thousand francs per day, the annual income is nine millions
of francs, the circulation is ninety thousand copies daily, and each number
is read by half a million people, and through their influence by half a
million more.
The daily tax of the Government is nine thousand francs. The press has
been called the Third Estate of France. It is not! Nor is it the second—nor is
it the first! It combines all three. Nay, the power of all three united equals
not its tithe; and its position—its rank!—royalty itself bows to the press!
Ask the history of the past ten years. Point to the man of power or position
in the court or State, who owes it not to the press! Where is the statesman

who is not, or has not been, a journalist, or the savant, the philosopher, the
philanthropist, the poet, the orator, the advocate, the diplomat, even the
successful soldier? The sword and the pen are emblems of the power of
France—its achievements and its continuance; Sir Bulwer Lytton says,

"The pen is mightier than the sword!"

But I have left you, dear reader, perambulating the dim corridor—so dim
that your eyes can hardly decipher, although it is now high noon, the
various signs upon the series of doors in the wall on your left, designating
the various rooms of the editorial corps, for to the editorial department is
devoted the second floor of this extensive edifice. The last door in this
prolonged series bears the name of the chief journalist. You ring a bell, are
bid to enter, and the apartment is before you. Immense windows, rising
from the floor to the ceiling, and opening upon a balcony, which overhangs
the Rue Lepelletier, afford abundance of light for your eye to detect
everything in the room by day, and an immense chandelier with gas-burners
and opaque shades, pouring forth its flood of mellow radiance, would
facilitate the same investigation yet more at night. Beneath the chandelier is
spread the immense oval slab of the table. At it sits a man writing. Well, let
him write on, at least for the present. Beside him, pile upon pile, pile upon
pile, rise papers, wave after wave, flood upon flood, nothing but papers; on
the floor beneath his feet, on the table and under the table, before him,
behind him, and all around him, naught but papers, papers, rising, rising, as
if in wrathful might and stormy indignation, while the very walls are lined
with papers in all languages, from all climes and governments, and of every
age and dimension, deposited in huge folio volumes and arranged in huge
closets, along one whole side of the room. From the four continents, yea,
and from the islands of the sea likewise, has this vast army come. In those
tall closets extending from floor to ceiling might be found the full files for
years of every leading paper in every part of Christendom, affording a
treasury of reference, universal, unfailing, exhaustless, of knowledge of
every conceivable description, rapidly found by means of exact and copious
tables of contents.
Upon the other side of the apartment extend ranges of shelves, from floor to
ceiling, filled with ponderous tomes in black substantial binding, seeming
to belong to that class of standard works chiefly valuable for reference as

authorities, and bearing ample testimony in their wear and tear, and their
soiled appearance, to having been faithfully fingered. No thin, delicate and
perfumed duodecimo is there, resplendent in gold and Russia, with costly
engravings on steel, and letter-press in gilt or hot-pressed post. No, the
books, the table, the journalist and the whole chamber bear the dark, stern,
toil-soiled aspect of labor, the severe air of practical utility. The only
ornaments, if such they can be styled, are busts—the busts of the silver-
tongued Vergniaud and a few of his political brothers—the victim Girondins
of '92 being conspicuous. Here, too, in a prominent niche is the noble front
of Armand Carrel, the brave, the knightly, the chivalric, the true
Republican, the true statesman, the true journalist, the true man—Armand
Carrel, who, with Adolphe Thiers, his associate, sat first in this apartment as
its chief—Armand Carrel, who fell years ago before the pistol of Émile de
Girardin, a brother journalist, the founder of the cheap press, the hero of
scores of combats before and since, yet almost unscathed by all.
Such are some of the ornaments of the chief editor's sanctum. At the further
extremity of the apartment, the wall is covered with maps and diagrams, as
well as charts of the prominent cities and points in Europe; and a large table
beneath is heaped with books of travel, geographical views, and historical
scenes arranged with no regard to order, and seeming to lie precisely as
thrown down after having been used.
In a word, the whole room bears unmistakable evidence of stern, practical
thought. In it and about it display is everywhere scrupulously eschewed.
Practical utility is the only question of interest as touching the instruments
of an editor, as of those of a carpenter; and the workshop of the journalist
bears no inconsiderable similarity to that of the artisan in more respects
than one. To each a tool is valuable, be that tool a book or a chisel, only for
its usefulness, and the facility and rapidity with which it will aid the
possessor to accomplish his ends, and not for its beauty of form, or
costliness of material or construction.
In one respect only was there variance from this settled custom to be
perceived, and that was in that delicate mechanism embodying the triumphs
of modern science, which facilitates transmission of thought, and which, by
skillful adaptation, made this one chamber a focus to which ideas and
feeling in every other apartment of that vast establishment converged, and

which enabled one man, without rising from his chair, to issue his orders to
every department, from press-room to composing-room, from foundation
stone to the turrets of that tall pile, everything being governed by the will
and impulse of a single mind. Indeed, to such an extent is labor-saving
carried in the Parisian printing office that the compositor may never have
seen the journalist whose leaders he has spent half his life in setting up, for
copy, proof and revise glide up or down as if by the agency only of magic,
and the real actors rarely meet.

CHAPTER IX.
ARMAND MARRAST.

The journalist who now occupied the editorial chair was seemingly about
thirty-five years of age, and one whom the ladies would call "a fine-looking
man." His stature was about the average, his shoulders broad and his form
thick-set. His face was long and thin, his forehead full and capacious,
though not high, and was furrowed by thought. His beard, which, like his
hair, was black, encircled his chin, and a moustache was suffered to adorn
his lip. His dress was black and a plain stock, without a collar, surrounded
his throat. His eyes were large, black, and piercing, and the expression of
his countenance was contemplative and sad.
Such is a hasty limning of the personal outlines of the first journalist in
Paris, the chief editor of the chief organ of the democracy in Europe,
Armand Marrast, of "Le National."
An air of depression, exhaustion and regret was upon his face as he sat
beside the table, with a pen in his hand and paper before him, in a
thoughtful mood, as if planning a leader for his journal, of which but a
single line was written. Whatever were his reflections, they were evidently
far from pleasant; but the single line traced at the head of the paper
indicated the source of his uneasiness. It read:
"Again the House of Orléans triumphs!"
Throwing down his pen, he folded his arms, and began hastily pacing the
chamber.
"Again the House of Orléans triumphs!" he bitterly exclaimed. "Aye, again
and again! It is thus forever, and thus forever seems likely to continue.
Every measure, however imperative, of the opposition, ignominiously fails
—every measure of the Government, however infamous, succeeds. And so
it has been for twelve years. Ah! what a barren sceptre did the Three Days
of '30 place in the hands of the French people! The despotism of a Citizen

King has been as deadly as that of the Restoration, and more insulting. For
twelve years his acts have been but a continuous series of infringements
upon the rights, and insults to the opinions, of the men of July. The
Republican party is trampled on. Freedom of the press, electoral reform,
rights of labor, restriction of the Royal prerogative, reduction of the civil
list, all these measures are effectually crushed. The press is fettered, and its
conductors are incarcerated. Out of a population of thirty-three millions, but
two hundred thousand are electors. Out of four hundred and sixty deputies,
one-third hold places under the Government, the aggregate of whose
salaries would sustain thousands of starving families at their very doors.
Paris, despite every struggle of freedom, is, at this hour, a Bastille. The line
of fortification is complete. Wherever the eye turns battlements frown,
ordnance protrudes, bayonets bristle. Corruption stalks unblushingly abroad
in the highest places, and the frauds of Gisquet all Paris knows are but those
of an individual. The civil list, instead of being reduced, is every year
enlarged. A Citizen King receives forty times the appropriation received by
the First Consul, while his whole family are quartered on the State. The
dotation to the Duke of Orléans, on his marriage, would have saved from
starvation hundreds of thousands whose claim for charity far exceeded his.
Thank God, his own personal unpopularity defeated the dotation designed
for the Duke of Nemours. But the appanages were granted because the
King's life was attempted by an assassin. A Citizen King, indeed! This man
cares only for his own. He would be allied to every dynasty in Europe. His
policy is unmixed selfishness. His love for the people who made him their
monarch is swallowed up in love for himself. Millions have been wrung
from the sweat of toil to accomplish a worse than useless conquest,
thousands of Frenchmen have been sacrificed on the burning sands of
Africa, and all for what?—that a throne might be won for a boy—a boy
without ability, or experience, and now the Duke of Aumale is Governor-
General of Algeria, while hundreds of brave men are forgotten."
As these last words, which indicated the cause of the present agitation, were
uttered by the excited journalist a door at the further end of the apartment
softly opened, and a young man of very low stature and boyish in aspect
entered. He seemed, at a first glance, hardly to have attained his majority,
though actually he was ten years older. His face was round, yet pale, his lips
full, his brow commanding, his eye large, dark and thoughtful, and His

characteristic expression mild and benevolent. He wore a dark frock coat,
buttoned to the chin, and a plain black cravat was tied around his neck.
The journalist was so deeply absorbed in his meditations that for some
moments he seemed unaware that he was no longer alone, and he might
have remained yet longer in that ignorance had not the guest approached
and exclaimed:
"Algeria!"
The journalist raised his head and hastily turned.
"Ah! Louis, is it you?" he said, cordially extending his hand; "I'm glad
you've come. But why did I not hear you?"
"For two reasons, my dear Armand," said the visitor, seating himself in an
editorial chair: "one, that I came in by the private entrance, and the other,
that you were too zealously engaged in cursing the recent appointment of
the King to hear anything short of a salvo of artillery."
"Ah! that cursed appointment! What next I wonder? Thank God, the old
man has no more sons to make governors, although he'll never be satisfied
till each one of them has a crown on his head, by his own right or the right
of a wife."
"And what care we whom the boys marry, so long as marriage takes them
out of France? Montpensier can find favor in the eyes of the Spanish
Infanta, Christina's sister, and thus balk England; be it so, yes, be it so,
especially since it can't be helped or prevented."
"But this affair of Algeria, Louis—"
"Is a very different affair you would say. No doubt, no doubt. As to Algeria,
I have always viewed it as a very costly bauble for France, 'an opera-box' as
the Duke of Broglie once said, 'rather too expensive for France.'"
"But then it has been a splendid arena for French valor. It has given the
rough old Bugeaud a Marshal's bâton, and has made the gallant
Lamoricière, his sworn foe, a general officer, thanks to his own intrepid
conduct and the court influence of his brother-in-law, Thiers."

"In the late dispatch appear the names of some new candidates for
advancement, I perceive."
"You allude to Morrel and Joliette among others, I suppose. Morrel has
received a regiment, and Joliette is Chef d'Escadron of Spahis. Luckily for
aspirants, and thanks to disease and slaughter, there is no lack of
vacancies."
"The name of Morrel I have seen before in the 'Moniteur,' but Joliette—who
is he?"
"A sort of protégé of Bugeaud, 'tis said. He is reported to have enlisted at
Marseilles, and in three years has risen to his present position from the
ranks. He is of a good family, rumor says, but, suddenly reduced by some
calamity, he became a soldier."
"He must be a brave fellow, Armand! As I said before, Algeria has been a
fine field for the development of military genius. My chief objections to
French conquests are these—they have drained millions from France which
should have been devoted to the cause of labor, and have tended to dazzle
the masses with the glory of the achievements of French valor abroad; thus
while thousands of the young and enterprising have been lured away to fill
up the ranks, and to seek fame and fortune, the minds of those remaining
have been withdrawn from their own wrongs, oppression and suffering, and
from efficiently concerting to sustain the measures of their friends for their
relief. There is not a race in Christendom so fond of military glory and
achievement as the French. Dazzled by this, the people, the masses—"
"The people, the masses!" impatiently interrupted the journalist. "You know
me, Louis; for years you have known me well, for years have we devoted
every energy of heart and soul to the cause of the people, and for years, ever
since we came to man's estate, have we been equal sufferers in the same
cause—"
"Sufferers in the cause of the people of France, in the cause of man, we
both, doubtless, have been, but not equal sufferers. What have been my
sacrifices or sufferings, my dear Armand, compared to yours? In that dark
hour when Armand Carrel fell—fell by an ignoble bullet in an ignoble
cause—fell in bitterness and without a hope for liberty in his beloved

France—I felt impelled to come forward and exert myself for the welfare of
my race, and endeavor to aid others in filling the gap created by his loss. To
France, to my country, did I then, though but a boy, devote myself—France,
my country!—for such I feel her to be, though I was born in Spain and my
mother was a Corsican. Since that hour my pen has been dedicated to the
cause of the people, the dethronement of the Bourgeoisie and the
organization of labor. As to sacrifice or suffering, I have sacrificed only my
time and toil at the worst. I have not been deemed worthy of suffering even
a fine for a newspaper libel, and my paper has never been thought worth
suppression!"
"And what have I accomplished, Louis?" asked Marrast, gloomily. "My life
seems almost a blank."
"With Armand Carrel, you have for fifteen years been the champion of
Republicanism in France, and with you, as leaders, has all been
accomplished that now exists. When Carrel died, on you fell his mantle. As
editor of 'La Tribune,' your boldness and charging Casimir Perier and
Marshal Soult with connivance in Gisquet's scandalous frauds brought upon
you fine and imprisonment. Your boldness and patriotism during the
insurrection of the 5th and 6th of June, 1832, once more caused your paper
to be stopped and your presses to be sealed. In April, '34, your press was
again stopped, and you, with Godefroi Cavaignac, were thrown into Sainté
Pélagie, whence you so gallantly escaped, though to become an exile in
England. Again, in '35, you were sentenced to transportation. So much for
sufferings; as to sacrifices—why, you have been utterly ruined by fines!"
"Well, Louis, well," was the sad answer, "granting all this, my sacrifices and
sufferings are only the more bitter from the fact of having been utterly in
vain, entirely useless. You, Louis, have been wiser than I. Your journal is
well named 'Bon Sens.'"
"Possibly wiser," was the reply, "and possibly less bold. But does not
discretion sometimes win what boldness would sacrifice? In rashly
struggling for all we sometimes lose all. Prudence and perseverance, my
dear Armand, are invaluable."

CHAPTER X.
THE COMMUNISTS.

At this moment the private door opened, and three men entered the editorial
sanctum.
Marrast quickly turned, and his friend was silent.
"Ha! Albert, Flocon, Rollin!" he cried. "Welcome, welcome! Our friend,
Louis Blanc, was just about wasting on me a sermon upon patience, but
now he'll have an audience worthy of the subject. Be seated and listen!"
"Patience!" exclaimed Flocon. "Well, I'm sure we need it."
"That we do, in our present low estate," echoed Rollin.
Albert said nothing, but smiled with sarcastic significance.
When the salutations were over and the party, all but Marrast, who
restlessly paced the room, were seated, Louis Blanc looked around on his
friends with a sad smile, and continued:
"Marrast is right, Messieurs. I was, indeed, preaching patience. I was
endeavoring to soothe his irritation and chide his depression with a sermon;
since we are all old friends and fellow-sufferers in the good cause and have
a common interest in knowing the reasons of failure and the means of
triumph, I will by your leave proceed."
"Aye, dear Louis, go on!" cried Marrast, kindly. "But you are the most
youthful sage I ever listened to."
"Yes, Louis, proceed; you look like a curé," said Rollin, laughing.
"I subscribe to Louis Blanc's creed, be it what it may," added Flocon,
briskly.
"And so do I," said Albert, gravely, in a deep tone.

Of the new visitors, Ledru Rollin was a man of medium stature, about
thirty-five years of age and dressed in the extreme of the mode. His
complexion and hair were light, his eyes large, blue and protruding, his
mouth prominent, and his full cheeks covered with whiskers, which like
those of Marrast, were closely trimmed and met beneath his chin. His head
and shoulders were thrown back, and his air was bold and independent. He
was a lawyer of talent, who had gained celebrity as advocate of the accused
on many occasions of State prosecutions.
Flocon was an older man than Rollin, and his countenance bore the wary,
vigilant and suspicious look which experience alone gives. He was low in
stature, thick-set and close-knit in figure; his eyes seemed always half
closed; his brow was broad and massive; his face was long; a moustache
was on his lip, and his hair was closely cut. The outline of his head and the
expression of his face seemed those rather of one born on the banks of the
Rhine than on the banks of the Seine, so calm and passionless did they
appear. His dress was plain but neat. Flocon was the chief editor of "La
Réforme," the name of which indicates its character. It was this man who, in
February, 1833, repressed the violence of his partisans and saved the office
of the "Gazette de France," yet the very next day published his celebrated
letter to the Legitimists, which, for audacity, force and pungency was only
equaled by the paralyzing effect it produced. The fines, imprisonments and
civil incapacities to which this man had been subjected for assaults upon a
government he deemed corrupt, for the ten years preceding, had been
literally numberless.
Albert was a man of fifty or more, with a large head, square German face
and forehead, a large hazel eye, fixed and unexcitable, hair closely cut, and
beard upon his chin and lip. His dress was a long iron-gray frock coat,
buttoned closely to his chin. His face was rather thin, and his complexion
bronzed. His name had for years been identified with reform; and though a
manufacturer himself, of the class of workmen, being proprietor and chief
engineer of a large machine factory at Lyons, he had established and
sustained in that city a paper to advocate his principles, named "La
Glaneuse," the prosecution of which by the Government for libel and the
fining and imprisonment of its editor formed an originating cause of the
revolt in Lyons of April, 1834. For the part played by this man in the revolt
thus arising, he was sentenced to transportation, a penalty afterwards

commuted to fine and imprisonment. He was a man of few words,
remarkably few, but of deep thought and prompt action, and, in moments of
crisis and emergency, a man of unshaken and inflexible nerve. To the casual
observer, he seemed only a silent man, or a sullen one, astute or stolid; in
times of peril he was a man of iron, but a man of action and passion, too,
moving with resistless might. To rouse his powers, mental or physical,
demanded, indeed, circumstances of unusual import, but once roused they
were irresistible.
Such were the personages now assembled in the office of "Le National;"
and, of those five men, all were connected with the press, directly, as editor
or proprietor, save only Ledru Rollin, and he was a writer for "La
Réforme," as well as an advocate.
The name of Louis Blanc's paper was, as has been said, "Le Bon Sens."
But to return to the narrative.
"And you really wish a sermon from me, old comrades, with patience as the
text?"
"Aye—aye—aye!" exclaimed all.
"Suppose I add to it this line I find on the paper before me on the table, that
our good Marrast had just written as the text for a paragraph which would
probably have cost him another fine and imprisonment, had the paragraph
been completed and published?"
"Read! read!" cried Rollin.
"With your permission, Armand?"
"Certainly," replied the editor, still continuing his promenade.
"'Again the House of Orléans triumphs!'" read Louis Blanc, aloud.
"And is it not true—the accursed tyrants?" vociferated Rollin.
"Aye, true!" was the mild answer; "alas, too true! That perfidious House
does triumph, and for that very reason the fact should never be
acknowledged by its opponents."

Rollin shook his head, and, throwing himself back in his capacious chair,
folded his arms, sunk his chin upon his breast and closed his eyes.
Marrast continued his walk.
Flocon remained silent and thoughtful.
Albert gave a significant smile.
"Oppose ceaselessly, but quietly, every act of despotism this Bourgeois
Government may attempt; but, be the result what it may, never admit
yourselves discouraged, depressed, dismayed, defeated. From every fall rise
like Antaeus, with renewed vigor. Nor is it wise or prudent in those engaged
in a great and glorious cause to provoke danger, to brave penalty, when
nothing of good to that cause can reasonably be expected. Prudence, policy,
patience and perseverance accomplish more than rashness, yet are not
inconsistent with intrepidity, boldness, patriotism and philanthropy the most
exalted. Comrades, what says the past, the past ten years, in whose events
we have all so intimately mingled? Shall I tell you?"
"Aye! 'L'Histoire de Dix Ans,'" said Flocon.
"We are all sure of being immortal there, in that same book of yours! Eh!
Louis?" cried Rollin, opening his large blue eyes.
Louis Blanc smiled and continued:
"Shall I convince you, comrades, by the history of the past ten years, the
scenes we have all witnessed, the events we have all deplored, the defeats
we have all sustained, the insulting ovations we have all been forced to
behold and the unceasing triumphs and tyranny of the House of Orléans
that, had patience and prudence been our motto, these defeats and triumphs
would never have been witnessed, because these premature revolts would
never have been made?"
Albert bowed and gave his peculiar smile.
"Our friend Albert smiles, and well he may. He has had a sad experience in
this error of premature outbreaks. In April, 1834, he exerted every energy to
restrain the revolt in Lyons, as chief of the Société des Droits de l'Homme,
and as the undoubted friend of the operatives. But his efforts were futile.

Exasperated, urged on by less experienced leaders, they were in full tide of
revolution, and could no more be restrained in their unwise rising than
could the mountain cataract in mad career be dammed. The result was, of
course, defeat—most disastrous defeat. Hundreds of the people perished,
and our friend was imprisoned and fined for taking part in a movement,
which he had in vain attempted to quell, and then, with the certainty of
defeat, had joined, rather than desert the people who trusted and relied on
him."
"A noble act!" cried Marrast, as he paced the room.
Albert quietly smiled, but otherwise his countenance remained unmoved.
"And was it not a most noble and a most wise act," continued the author of
"The Ten Years," "when our friend Flocon, by an energetic and eloquent
harangue, restrained the indignant people from razing to the ground the
office of the 'Gazette de France,' the organ of the Duchess of Berri, and his
bitter foe? Terribly would that rash act have recoiled on us, and yet, at the
same time, with this most patriotic and prudent deed before us, a wilder
measure than even that was adopted, and it was quelled only by force. You
all remember the events. In February, '33, Eugène Brifault, in his 'Corsair,'
alluded jestingly to the mysterious pregnancy of the mother of Henry V.,
Duke of Bordeaux, as did every one, she then being imprisoned at Baye
because of her prior conspiracy to place her son on the throne, and her
secret marriage in Italy being unrevealed. The Legitimists of 'Le Revenant'
challenged; the allusion was repeated, and a second trial and a death
ensued. 'Le National' and 'La Tribune,' regarding these repeated challenges
as a menace to the Republicans, hurled defiance at the Legitimists, and
demanded twelve distinct rencontres in behalf of as many names of our
friends posted at their offices, among which those of Armand Carrel,
Godefroi Cavaignac and Armand Marrast were conspicuous. The challenge
is accepted—the names of twelve Legitimists are furnished—Armand
Carrel selects Roux Laborie—they fight, and Carrel is dangerously
wounded—the police then interfere—the affair ends with Flocon's terrific
and audacious defiance flung down at the whole Legitimist and Orléans
parties in the columns of 'La Réforme.' Now, what to Republicans were the
quarrels of Legitimists and Orléanists? If we were to be ruled by a king,
what cared we whether that king were Henry V. or Louis Philippe? How

would the sacrifice of Carrel, Marrast, Cavaignac, or of any of those twelve
brave men have been repaid, or made up? And afterwards, alas! in July of
'36, when Armand Carrel, causelessly assuming a quarrel not his own,
because of a fancied attempt to degrade the press, by rendering its issues
accessible, by cheapness, to the masses, was slain in the Bois de Vincennes
by the vulgar bullet of Émile de Girardin, of 'La Presse.' What reparation to
our cause was it that our champion had died like a hero, and Châteaubriand,
Arago, Cormenin and Béranger wept around his grave? Alas! that
inestimable life belonged to his country and his race, and not to himself, to
fling away in an obscure quarrel."
"But we are not all of us Armand Carrels," said Rollin.
"And yet, to the great cause of human liberty, and the amelioration of man's
condition, to which each of us stands sworn, are pledged our lives. To
hazard that cause, by the sacrifice of those lives, or by rashly and unwisely
attempting its advancement, makes us violators of our vows, quite as much
in reality as if we had become traitors."
"But the instances you cite are those only of individual rashness, Louis, and
not of the people, or of their leaders acting in concert," remarked Marrast.
"True, concert of action has been chiefly needed, but I have only to recall
the dates and places of our repeated attempts and defeats, for the past ten
years, to convince you all that those attempts were premature, and had they
not been so, they might have been successful—that they have frittered away
energies which, properly concentrated and directed, might have achieved a
revolution; and that while they have betrayed our designs and depressed our
friends, have enabled our foes insultingly to triumph and caused them to be
on the constant qui vive to anticipate our movements. What but premature
and undigested uprisings were the conspiracy of the bell-tower of Nôtre
Dame, in January of '32, when 'Le National' was seized—or the
disturbances in La Vendée—or those in Grenoble—or those in Marseilles—
or those in the Rue des Prouvaires—or those in April, during the cholera,
when Casimir Perier died—or those of the 5th and 6th of June, on the
occasion of General Lamarque's funeral, on pretence of avenging upon the
Government the affront offered during the obsequies of Casimir Perier, the
victim-Premier of the cholera? For the part taken by 'La Tribune,' then

conducted by Marrast, in this revolt, its press was seized and sealed. The
same was the fate of 'La Quotidienne,' and the same would have been the
fate of 'Le National,' but for its barricades. Well do I remember the meeting
of our friends in this very apartment on the night after General Lamarque's
funeral. The great shade of the venerable warrior seemed among us,
repeating for our counsel and imitation his last impressive words, 'I die but
the cause lives!' But, alas! we observed it not. Doubt, dissension, dismay
and despair were in our midst. All was dark—all was defiance and
denunciation, crimination and recrimination—brother's hand raised against
brother. Armand Carrel that night sat in this chair, but he was not the man to
command his own will or opinions; how could he then bring to obedience
and concert the conflicting impulses of others? Armand Carrel was a
wonderful man. His motto, like that of Danton, was this: 'Audacity,
audacity, always audacity!' Yet with all the audacity of Danton, he had little
of his firmness. An officer under the Restoration, a conspirator at Bifort, in
arms in Spain against the white flag, three times a prisoner before a council
of war—in 1830 he was with Thiers, the founder of this journal; but
everywhere he carried the exactitude of the camp; even in dress, manner
and bearing he was a soldier—lofty, haughty, seemingly overbearing, yet, at
heart, noble and generous, and to his friends accessible in the extreme. To
his military notions, nothing could be accomplished without soldiers, and
for the people to carry a revolution against soldiers seemed to him absurd."
"Armand Carrel would have been, nevertheless, a good revolutionist,
Louis," said Marrast; "but he was a bad conspirator. He had no faith in the
people, no confidence in the efforts of undisciplined and unarmed masses."
"And therein," said Rollin, "he greatly erred."
"Although we can as yet boast of having accomplished but very little by
them, Ledru," added Flocon, with a meaning smile. "The masses are easily
roused, but they don't stay roused, and then they often get unmanageable,
even by those by whose summons they were stirred up. They fight well, but,
somehow or other, they always get beaten; they succumb at last, and bow
their necks to the yoke lower than ever."
"It is not the people," said Louis Blanc, "it is we the leaders, who are to be
blamed. We rouse them before we are ready for them—before we have

prepared them or anything else for a result; and then it is not strange that
they only rush bravely on to death and defeat. We seize on the occasion of a
funeral for an outbreak without organization, and the cuirassiers of the
military escort trample our ranks beneath their horses' hoofs. But for
unusual efforts, such would have been the case at the funeral of Dulong, the
Deputy who fell in a duel with General Bugeaud, in January of '34."
"What were the circumstances?" asked Rollin.
"Armand recollects them better than I," replied Louis Blanc.
"The circumstances were these, as I remember them," said Marrast.
"General Bugeaud remarked in the course of a speech in the Chamber that
'obedience is always a soldier's duty.' 'What if the order be to become a
turnkey?' asked Dulong, in allusion to the General's position in relation to
the Duchess of Berri, during her pregnancy and confinement at Baye.
Armand Carrel endeavored to pacificate, but the effort failed. They met in
the Bois de Boulogne at ten o' clock in the morning; the weapons were
pistols; the distance forty paces. Bugeaud fired almost as soon as he turned,
advancing only a few steps; his ball entered above Dulong's right eye, and
at six o'clock that evening he was dead."
"There was a splendid ball at the Tuileries that night, was there not?" asked
Flocon.
"There was, and this, with other things, excited in the masses the idea that
their champion was the victim of a Royalist conspiracy, which all the
influence of Armand Carrel and Dulong's uncle, Dupont de l'Eure was
hardly sufficient to suppress. But Dupont immediately resigned his seat in
the Chamber. He would sit no longer in a body one man of which he
deemed the murderer of a beloved nephew. The obsequies were grand.
Armand Carrel pronounced the eulogy, and two hundred and thirty-four
deputies wet the grave with their tears. The people were greatly excited,
and, as has been said, were with great difficulty restrained by Carrel and
Dupont. Had they been suffered to revolt, the only result which could have
followed would have been a terrific outpouring of their blood, furnishing
another instance, I suppose, of the evil of impatience; is it not so, Louis?"

"Undoubtedly," was the reply; "and only two months after that other
instance actually occurred, for our warning, in the revolt at Lyons, with
which we are all familiar, and in which we were all actors, most of us to our
sorrow. This was in April. Albert's journal, 'La Glaneuse,' had been seized
for libel on the Government, and the editor fined and imprisoned. Next a
reform banquet of the operatives was forbidden, although but a year before
Garnier Pages had been suffered to banquet the Lyonnese to the number of
two thousand, and although at no period had so many gorgeous festivities
and public balls been given by the rich Royalists, as if in premeditated
scorn of the banquet prohibited to the poor Republicans. The result was so
prompt as to seem inevitable; there was a strike of the operatives, an
insurrection of the people. Albert was sent to Paris as an envoy, to find a
man to lead the revolt. MM. Cabet and Pages were deemed too moderate.
Cavaignac would go only with Cabet. Lafayette was too feeble, but gave his
name and letters. Carrel and Marrast were not members of the Société des
Droits de l'Homme, and Albert had been cautioned that Carrel was too
moderate. Thiers had denounced 'La Tribune,' and Marrast's friends were
hiding him from the police. In despair concerning his mission, the envoy
was about returning home, when he was sent for to Armand Carrel's house,
and Carrel offered to go to Lyons and lead the revolt, provided Godefroi
Cavaignac would accompany him. Now these friends had long been at feud,
but all private grievances were forgotten in this crisis of the cause, and
Albert is just about preceding them in the post-chaise, to announce their
coming, when, lo! the telegraph says, 'Order reigns in Lyons!' Here, then,
after a terrific slaughter, was recorded another fruitless revolt, because a
premature one. Nay, it was infinitely worse than fruitless. Not only did the
Republicans utterly fail in their attempts, not only were they cruelly crushed
by the Royal mercenaries, but they were openly derided in their defeat, and
the cause was gloomier than ever. The slaughter of women and children in
the streets of Lyons, and on their own hearthstones, in the course of this
insurrection, was hideous, and is graphically portrayed in the memorial of
our friend Ledru Rollin, as advocate in the matter. But, as if all this were
not enough for our persecuted cause, the decease of the great and good
Lafayette, the idol of freemen all the world over, took place in the following
May. Alas! his sun went down in clouds. His end was dark. Bitter
maledictions quivered on his dying lips. He had lived to mourn that July
day, only three years before, when, on the steps of the Hôtel de Ville, he

had, with his own hands, been called to invest a cold-blooded, perfidious,
selfish, and most ungrateful tyrant with Royal robes. Alas! there was order
in Lyons—Lafayette was in his grave—peace reigned in Paris—the House
of Orléans triumphed!"
"Those were dark days," said Marrast, sadly.
"They were, dear Armand, dark, indeed, for you and your friends, for your
journal had been suppressed, and you were an inmate, with Cavaignac, of
Sainté-Pélagie."
"Whence you both, bravely and boldly effected your escape more than a
year afterwards and fled to England, to the most glorious discomfiture of
the knaves who put you there!" cried Rollin. "Vive la République! yet,
Messieurs! We've all seen dark days, and the present is none of the
brightest; and we've all come together at these old headquarters of liberty
just to be unhappy together, just to help each other be miserable, which, in
fact, is vastly happier unhappiness than being miserable alone. At all events,
that's what I want. But it can't always be right. I predict a revolution before
another ten years shall have rolled round, which shall make immortals of us
all—that revolution for which we have been waiting, watching, toiling and
writing, lo! now these thirteen years and upward, for the which waiting,
watching, toiling and writing we have some of us been fined, who had
money enough to pay a fine, and others imprisoned and hunted about and
persecuted. Why, there's Albert and Flocon haven't been able to get a franc
cleverly warm in their pockets these ten years, before forth it was drawn in
the form of a fine; while as for Marrast, he has the perfect air and bearing of
a bandit, so often has he seen the inside of a dungeon; and our friend Albert
isn't much better looking. As for Louis and myself, why, we never knew
what it was to have a franc get warm in our pockets, so we escaped having
any drawn forth by Ministers, and they have never thought us worth
prosecuting or imprisoning. But they may change their minds when Louis'
book, that is to make us all immortal, comes out. Eh, Louis?"
Louis Blanc smiled, but made no answer.
"Well, it is only meet, I suppose, that I should receive my share of the
blows," said Marrast. "I'm sure I'm not very delicate or very ceremonious in
bestowing them. Besides, every one of my predecessors has endured the

same—Carrel, Thomas, Bastide; while poor Rouen, the proprietor, would
have been ruined, indeed, a dozen times with fines, but for his enormous
profits. Why, this old office has been a perfect butt for Ministers to fire at—
it has received a dozen fusillades, at least; but it stands yet, and, strange as
may have been the scenes it has witnessed, it will witness yet other and
stranger ones, and we shall all be witnesses thereof, and actors in them, too,
or greatly do I err."
"So be it, with all our hearts!" was the general shout.
"Apropos of State prosecutions against 'Le National,'" said Louis Blanc,
"that was a most exciting time when Rouen was brought by Thiers before
the Court of Peers, for a libel on that most august and erudite body."
"Aye! and a most, liberal, honest and honorable conclave—the thrice-
sodden and most solemn knaves and mules!" cried Rollin.
"Rouen at the bar demanded Armand Carrel for his defence," continued
Louis Blanc. "To refuse was impossible, but a bitter pill must it have been
to Thiers and Mignet to consent. They must have foreseen what came. Both,
now in the Ministry, only four years before both had been in 'Le National'—
Thiers as the colleague of Carrel, and Mignet as a collaborateur. The files of
the journal were produced, and, lo! there stood paragraphs proven to have
emanated from the pens of the prosecutors far more libelous and venomous
on the august peers than anything Rouen had published. You all remember
the scene that ensued and won't forget it soon."
"No; nor shall we soon forget that noble passage in Armand Carrel's
defence," said Flocon, "in which he evoked the shade of Marshal Ney, and
from the wild excitement that followed, one would suppose that it had
really risen in the hall, bleeding and ghastly, and pointing to its wounds,
like the ghost of Banquo, to blast his hoary, jeweled and noble assassin,
who, seated on those very seats, had sentenced him to an infamous doom.
Carrel was instantly stopped, but General Excelmens rose in his seat and
pronounced the charge true. It was then reiterated with tremendous applause
from the galleries. How Carrel escaped punishment for contempt is not
known. Rouen was convicted of libel on the peers, of course; his sentence
was a fine of ten thousand francs and imprisonment for two years."

"But of what words did this famous libel actually consist?" asked Ledru
Rollin.
"Louis can tell you better than I," said Flocon.
"Why, the words were severe enough, no doubt," replied Louis Blanc, "but
Thiers and Mignet had themselves expressed the same ideas a hundred
times, though in less powerful and pointed language. The passage which
seems particularly to have given offence was this, that in the eyes of eternal
justice and those of posterity, as well as in the testimony of their own
consciences, these renegades from the Revolution, these returned emigrants,
these men of Ghent, these military and civil parvenus, these old Senators
and spoiled Marshals of Bonaparte, these Procureur Generals, these new-
made nobles of the Restoration, these three or four generations of Ministers
sunk in public hatred and contempt, and stained with blood—all these,
seasoned with a few notabilities, thrown in by the Royalty of the 7th of
August, on condition they should never open their lips save to approve their
master's commands—all this farrago of servilities was not competent to
pronounce on the culpability of men seeking to enforce the results of the
Revolution of July!"
"It was not until the commencement of 1835, I think," said Marrast, "that
Ministers opened a general onslaught upon the Parisian press. 'Le
Républicain' was interdicted that year. It was then, too, that the laws against
public criers and newspaper hawkers were instituted. As far back as '33,
however, Rodde had braved all such prohibitions by selling and with
impunity, too, his own paper in the streets. In May of '35 came on the
general prosecution of the press. Rollin was advocate in the defence. There
were warm words between Armand Carrel and his friend Dupont, the
lawyer, and there was at one time apprehension of a duel."
"The position of Armand Carrel with Thiers, his former colleague, was, at
that time, a singular one," remarked Rollin. "Each seemed to be on the
constant search for opportunities to exasperate the other. The editor assailed
the Minister in his columns, and the Minister retaliated by an arrest. Carrel
censured and ridiculed Thiers, though he respected his abilities, and Thiers
feared and hated Carrel, though he admired his talents."

"It was about this time that Fieschi exploded his infernal machine at the
King, was it not?" asked Flocon. "Thiers arrested Carrel then, I know."
"It was on the 28th of July of '35, at ten in the morning, on the Boulevard
du Temple. This was the second attempt on the King's life, the first having
been that of Bergeron, in November of '33. Carrel was arrested as an
accomplice, it was pretended, for every one of these attempts has been
attributed to the whole body of the Republicans, while they were utterly
ignorant of them until they took place, and then bitterly denounced them.
But the Government has made capital out of all these insane attempts, and
against the opposition, too."
"I've heard it asserted," said Rollin, "that the Government got up some of
those little exhibitions of fireworks for that very purpose. They are quite
harmless, so far as the old man is concerned—wonderfully so—and Fieschi
was made a perfect fool of, so ridiculously lionized was he by King, Court
and Ministers. Our friend Marie was advocate for that wretched old man,
Pépin, Fieschi's accomplice, more a ghost than a living creature."
"You are entirely right, friend Rollin," said Louis Blanc, "in the idea that
every one of these attempts strengthens the Government and recoils on the
opposition. No one should so vigilantly and vigorously watch for and
suppress such attempts as we. Heaven defend the old despot from the
assassin's weapon, as it seems well inclined to do, or the deed will surely be
attributed to us. Every unsuccessful attempt at assassination is viewed like
an unsuccessful attempt at revolt on the part of the opposition, and injures
our cause accordingly. Better never to attempt than never to succeed."
"Do you think it true, Louis, as was reported," asked Marrast, "that as soon
as the smoke of Fieschi's explosion swept off, and the old man found
himself standing unharmed amid a heap of slain and mangled, Marshal
Mortier and Colonel Rieussec being among the killed, his first exclamation
was this, with, ill-concealed gratification, 'Now I shall get my appanages
and the dotations for the boys.'"
"Nothing is more probable," said Louis Blanc. "That old man has but one
impulse—selfishness, and but one attachment—to his family—his family,
because it is his. His purse and family have for years been his sole objects
of love. To aggrandize his own has been for years his sole end and aim. He

parcels out the thrones and kingdoms of Europe among his children as if it
were but a family estate."
"What thoughtful selfishness!" exclaimed Flocon; "and at a moment, too,
when he had but just escaped an awful death, and all around him flowed the
blood and lay scattered the lacerated limbs of his faithful servants, either
dead or dying with groans and shrieks of most agonizing torture, and all
because of himself; how disgraceful that, at such a terrible moment, his first
thought should have been of the few more francs his trembling hand was
striving to tear from a people by whom he had already been made the
richest man in Europe, and which the occurrence of this dreadful event
might serve to win for him."
"Well," said Rollin, "whether this event aided to win the appanages and
dotations, and was so designed, or not, it is very sure the aforesaid
appanages and dotations were secured. No wonder that such attempts
succeed each other so rapidly—one every year, at the least! When was the
next, Louis—that of Alibaud, I think?"
"That took place about sunset on the 25th of June, '36," was the reply.
"Alibaud discharged a walking-stick-gun at the King, as he left the
Tuileries, on his way to Neuilly, at the corner of the Porte Royale. That
Alibaud was a mere boy, and a very interesting and intelligent boy, too; but
for some mysterious cause he did not find favor with the court, as did
Fieschi. He evidently attempted the assassination from conviction, from a
feeling of manifest destiny. After his failure, he only wished to die, and to
die at once. All who have succeeded Alibaud have been but vulgar cut-
throats."
"In what year was the insurrection of Armand Barbes and Martin Bernard?"
asked Flocon. "That proved most disastrous to our cause."
"That was in '39, May, I think," answered Rollin. "Barbes, Blanqui and
Bernard were arraigned as leaders. Marie and myself were advocates for
Barbes. Blanqui was sentenced to death and Barbes to the galleys for life.
But we obtained commutation of penalty for both."
"And where is to be the end of all these things?" asked Marrast, gloomily,
as he continued pacing the chamber with folded arms, his head resting on

his bosom. "Are the ten years on which we have now entered to be
characterized by the fruitless efforts of the past? Are the people of France
again, and again, and again to strike for freedom, only to be stricken into
the dust and trampled beneath the armed heel of a despot's myrmidons? Are
the streets of Lyons, Paris and Marseilles again to be drenched with the life-
blood of their dwellers, poured out as freely as water and as fruitlessly? Are
we all again, for full ten years, to toil, strive, struggle and suffer; to be
hunted down like the vilest criminals, and, like criminals, plunged into the
most pestilential dungeons; to be stripped like slaves of our hard-won
earnings, and to be deprived of the most humble franchises of men claiming
at all to be free; to be treated with scorn and contumely, and to be debarred
the exercise of those common rights, which, like air and water, belong to
all; I say, brothers, are all these scenes to be repeated during the ten years
on which we have now entered, as they have been witnessed during the ten
years now past?"

"You speak sadly, Armand," observed Rollin.
"Not so sadly as I feel. I have listened with attention to the recapitulation of
the political events of the past ten years in France; and most plainly, and as
sadly as plainly, does the result prove that every movement in our cause has
been as premature as it has been unsuccessful."
"May we not gather wisdom, which shall conduct us to success in the
future, from the very errors and disasters of the past?" remarked Flocon.
"Alas!" despondingly replied Marrast, "what is there in our present to
promise a bright future more than was in our past to promise us a bright
present? Our great leaders of another generation have all left us, one after
another—all have dropped into their graves. The cold marble has closed
over their venerable brows, and they rest well. Yet they died and made no
sign of hope. On us, young, inexperienced and rash, has devolved their task;
but the mantle of their power and virtue has not, alas! descended with that
task to aid in its momentous accomplishment. General Lamarque's sun went
down in clouds. Midnight, deeper than Egyptian darkness, brooded over the
delirious deathbed of Lafayette. Armand Carrel fell without hope; and are
we wiser than they? How often, oh! how often have I listened to the words
of wisdom that fell from those eloquent lips, even as a boy reverently
listens to a parent—for such was Armand Carrel to me. Upon this very spot
have I stood, in that very chair has he sat, that chair, which, with mingled
shame and pride, I reflect is now filled by me—shame, that it is filled in a
manner so unworthy of him—pride, that I should have been deemed fit,
after him to fill it at all—in that very chair, I say, has his noble form
reclined, when he for hours, even from night till the next day's dawn, dwelt
with sorrowful eloquence upon his country's present, and looked forward
with gloomy foreboding and prediction for the future. It almost seems to me
that this mighty shade is with us now!"
"And why was all this despondency, my dear Armand?" remarked Louis
Blanc, mildly. "Was it not because our noble and gifted friend was
essentially a soldier, not a civilian, not a statesman, not a revolutionist? Had
Armand Carrel gone to Algeria, he would have died—if died he had not in
an unknown duel, with an unknown bravo—he would have died a Marshal
of France—a Bugeaud, a Chaugarnier, a Bedeau, a Cavaignac, a Clausel, a

Lamoricière. Carrel had no faith in the masses to achieve a revolution. He
never believed that they could even withstand a single charge of regular
troops, much less repel and overcome it."
"Not even with barricades?" asked Rollin.
"Not even in defence of barricades," continued Louis Blanc.
"Regular troops have much to learn," added Rollin, with a significant smile.
"They will see the day—aye! and we all shall see it and rejoice at its
coming, despite all melancholy prognostications, when the people of Paris
will dictate abdication to the king of the barricades, from the top of the
barricades, the people's throne! Nor will that event tarry long!"
"I doubt it not, I doubt it not, Ledru!" exclaimed Louis Blanc, rejoiced that
one of the youngest and least stable of their number appeared free from the
apprehensions of one of the most influential and seemingly most reliable. "I
accept the omen indicated by your enthusiasm. But I accounted for the
vacillation and distrust of our lamented friend, Armand Carrel, by reverting
to the fact that he relied entirely on regular troops, military skill, scientific
tactics and severe subordination. Now, all of these belonged to our
oppressors and none of them to us; and, inasmuch as he could not perceive
that enthusiasm, passion for freedom, love of country and family, and the
very wrath and rage of desperation itself sometimes not only supply the
place of discipline, arms and the knowledge requisite to use them, but even
enable vast masses to break down and crush beneath their heel the serried
ranks of veteran troops, he could only despair at the prospects apparently
before him. Besides, Armand Carrel, like all military men, was a man of
action, not reflection—of execution, not contrivance—a soldier, not a
conspirator. At the head of ten thousand veteran troops, he would have
charged on thrice their number without discipline, with the confident
assurance of sweeping them from his path as the chaff of the threshing floor
is swept before the blast; but, with an undisciplined mob, as he
contemptuously called the masses, he would have moved not a step. The
larger the multitude, the less effective and the more impossible to manage
he would have deemed it. A revolution accomplished by means of the three
arms of the military service—artillery, cavalry and infantry—horse, foot
and dragoons, he could readily conceive; but a revolution conducted to a

successful issue only by means of pikes, axes, muskets and barricades,
never, to the hour of his death, despite the victory of the Three Days, could
Carrel comprehend."
"Besides," said Flocon, "it must not be forgotten that Armand Carrel,
though a most devoted friend to Republicanism, was never a member of the
Société des Droits de l'Homme—was never, as we all now are—a
Communist, a Socialist, a Fourierist, a friend to the laborer. No wonder he
hoped so little for the people, and trusted to accomplish so little through
them."
"There can be no doubt that the social principle which Republicanism is
now unconsciously assuming all over France," mildly remarked Louis
Blanc, "is lending to the cause incalculable strength. How terribly
impressed with a conviction of the justice of the cause in which they
perished must have been the unhappy insurgents of Lyons, when, with this
motto on their banner: 'To live toiling or die fighting,' they marched firmly
up to the cannon's mouth and fought, and, thus fighting, fell. Yet this
conviction is not peculiar to the workmen of Lyons. It pervades all Paris, all
France, and needs only to be roused to act with an energy which no human
power can resist. Social Republican will be the type of the next revolution
in France—it must be. The French people have been dazzled by the mirage
of liberty ever since '89,—but it has been only a mirage. On the last three
days of July, '30, the people of Paris drove out one Bourbon to enthrone
another. True, 'The State is myself,' was not the despotic motto he assumed,
as did one of his successors, but it was 'Me and my family,' which has
proved equally selfish, if not so absolute, and far more dangerous to
freedom. With Lafayette and Benjamin Constant, the Citizen King they had
made, quarreled as soon as on his throne, and Lafitte and Dupont de l'Eure,
his supporters, were banished from the Court. Casimir Perier was called to
crush the Liberals. Armand Carrel assailed the act, and urged a republic. 'Le
National' was prosecuted, and insurrections followed. Thus was the
Revolution of the Three Days won by the people to be seized and enjoyed
by the Bourgeoisie. The next revolution will be won by the people, too, but
the people will enjoy it!"
"And how progresses our principles, Louis, among the people?" asked
Marrast, who had listened attentively to every word that had been uttered.

"Never so gloriously as now, Armand, never! Never has there been such a
diffusion of information upon the subject of the rights of labor as now.
Pagnerre tells me every day that volumes, tracts and pamphlets on this topic
disappear like magic from his shelves."
"Has not the Minister a hand in this mysterious disappearance of
Communist literature?" asked Rollin. "We all know he is quite frantic on the
topic of popular education."
"Oh! yes, we all understand Guizot's love for the people! His system of
education promulgated in 1833 was so very beautiful that it was almost a
pity it was utterly impracticable. But Guizot has very little to do with
Pagnerre's book-shelves, or with Pagnerre in any way, except to prosecute
him from time to time for publishing Cormenin's withering tracts designed
for the Minister himself, and yet it would almost seem there was a design to
exhaust the market of the publications of our friends; only the great mass of
them go to the provinces and large quantities abroad. My own little
brochure, 'The Organization of Work,' after having fallen stillborn from the
press, died a natural death and been laid out in state for a year or two on
Pagnerre's shelves, all at once is resurrected, runs through half a dozen large
editions, and is translated into half a dozen languages. The same is true of
Lamartine's 'Vision of the Future,' and the same of Cormenin's tracts, and of
the ten thousand brochures on this same subject of Communism in all its
different shades and phrases, and in every variety of size, form and style of
writing and appearance. These publications are adapted to every taste and
comprehension. The workman is suited as well as the savant. All this savors
of magic. Even my most sanguine anticipations are surpassed by reality.
There will never long lack a supply for a demand, be that demand what it
may. A demand for Fourier literature has turned all the pens in Paris hard at
work upon it—novelists, essayists, pamphleteers—while the Porte St.
Antoine, the Porte St. Martin and all the minor theatres, where are found the
masses, swarm with melodramas, farces and vaudevilles on the same
subject, and none of you have forgotten the powerful play, entitled 'The
Laborer of Lyons,' attributed to M. Dantès, recently produced with such
success on the boards of the Français itself."
"And who is this M. Dantès," asked Ledru Rollin, "if you will suffer me to
interrupt?"

"Decidedly the most remarkable man in the French Chamber of Deputies,"
replied Marrast. "In powers of natural eloquence I never saw his rival."
"Nor is that all," added Louis Blanc. "Unlike most men noted as mere
orators, he is a sound logician, as well as a polished rhetorician. As a
political economist he has few equals. To that subject he seems to have
devoted much study, while his familiarity with the political history of
France and of the times generally all over Christendom seems boundless. In
debate, you observe he is never at a loss for fact or argument, let the
discussion take what direction it may."
"And he has celebrity also as a writer, has he not?" asked Ledru Rollin.
"The author of 'The Laborer of Lyons' must be a man of distinguished
literary genius," was the reply.
"Better than all," said Flocon, "he is devoted heart and soul to the good
cause."
"Such devotedness to a cause I never witnessed," said Marrast. "He puts us
all to the blush. With him it appears a matter of direct individual interest.
He is perfectly untiring. He is like one impelled by his fate. Love or
vengeance could not force onward a man to the attainment of an object
more irresistibly than he seems forced, and that, too, without the slightest
apparent stain of personal interest or ambition. That man appears to me a
miracle—a pure philanthropist. He strives, struggles, suffers, sacrifices, and
all with the sole object of ameliorating the condition of his race."
"It is, indeed, wonderful," said Rollin, thoughtfully. "Do you know, Marrast,
anything of his past history?"
"Little, if anything. Of himself he never speaks, and I can gather nothing
from others. Even his constituents had known nothing of him but a few
months before he became their representative in the Chamber. His
popularity with them he owes to his efforts to ameliorate their condition. At
his own expense he established among them a Phalanstrie, which is now in
most successful operation."
"He is rich, then?" asked Flocon.

"Seemingly not, to judge from his habits of life," replied Marrast. "Not a
man in the Chamber is more Republican in garb, manner, equipage or
residence than he, and yet he may be rich."
"Is he married?" asked Rollin.
"He has been, I am told," said Marrast. "But we interrupt you, Louis. You
were alluding to the unusual influences now at work for our cause."
"I was about speaking of the newspaper press," said Louis Blanc. "Never
has there been known such a revolution in favor of Reform and Communist
journals, and to none is this better known than to some of ourselves. There's
Flocon's new journal, 'La Réforme,' that has leaped at once into a
circulation never before achieved but by long years of toil and enterprise.
The old 'National,' we need but to look around us to be sure, was never
more prosperous than now, while I am free to confess that my journal, 'Le
Bon Sens,' which has been a sickly child ever since its birth, has, within
three months, tripled its number of readers, or, at least, its payers. The same
is in the main true of 'Le Monde,' by La Croix, 'Le Journal du Peuple,' by
Dubose, 'Le Courier Français,' by Chatelain, 'La Commerce,' by Bert, 'La
Minerve,' by Lemaine, 'La Presse,' by Girardin, and all the journals in Paris
which diffuse true ideas upon labor and the rights of the people, be they in
other respects what they may. Even the 'Charivari,' which views the old
King and his Ministers as fair butts of ridicule, perceives a marked increase
in its patronage since it commenced that course, which sudden popularity
naturally excites it to increase of zeal in the same path. Besides all this, an
army of new papers, aiming to aid the great cause, have not only sprung up
of late, like mushrooms, in Paris, but all over France, and even all over
Europe; and so far appear they from interfering with each other's prospects
that the more there are the better they seem sustained and the more ably
conducted. A swarm of new and unknown writers for the press on this great
subject seems all at once to have appeared from unseen hiding-places."
"This is very strange, Louis," said Marrast, "and yet it is, doubtless, very
true. I had observed what you remark myself, although I have viewed the
movement less hopefully for the cause of the Republic than you."
"Depend upon it, Armand," said Louis Blanc, smiling, "that Republicanism
and Socialism are identical terms, as much so as Communism and

despotism are antagonistic terms."
"But how do you account for this wonderful change, this unprecedented
fever for Fourierism?" asked Flocon.
"I don't pretend to account for it at all. The merits of the cause have,
perhaps, begun to be properly appreciated. Unusual efforts have been made
by our friends of late. Whole nations and epochs are sometimes seized with
a contagious mania for peculiar species of literature, as for everything else.
But I will hint to you a suspicion which I have recently entertained, namely,
that, after all, the rapid sale and ready market for every species of Fourier
literature is not an unerring indication of the amount of reading of such
literature, or the demand that actually exists of buyers as well as readers—
individual ones at least. As for the journalistic literature, that I have learned
is, without doubt, gratuitously distributed, to a great extent, among the
masses."
"But can the masses read the papers?" asked Marrast.
"Each family, house, neighborhood, café or cabaret, at any rate, has, at least
one reader," said Rollin; "and all the men, women and children have ears to
hear, if not power to comprehend. But some of these papers, which I have
seen, come down in style to the very humblest comprehension."
"Can it be," asked Flocon, "that there is such a club as a society for the
diffusion of social knowledge in Paris, after the form of that in London,
instituted by Lord Henry Brougham and his Whig coadjutors, for the
diffusion of general information, and so opposed by the Tories."
"If there be such an association," said Louis Blanc, "it has managed to elude
all my vigilance thus far, and that of the Government, too, for Guizot can
perceive, if no one else can, the inevitable effect of all this, and he has no
idea that the dear people of France shall be educated by any one save
himself. But, actually, there seems to me to exist too much unity of purpose
and action in this enterprise for it to be the work of an association. I should
rather suppose one powerful and philanthropic mind at the head of the
movement, were there not two things so plainly opposed to it as to forbid
the idea—the first being that there is no one man in Europe who is rich
enough to expend such immense sums upon such an enterprise, if he would,

and the second that there is no man who has the subject sufficiently at heart
to do it, if he could."

CHAPTER XI.
"WAIT AND HOPE."

Just then a light rap was heard at the private door, which Marrast
immediately hastened to open, as if in anticipation of the arrival of a friend.
A brief and rapid colloquy ensued; then M. Dantès, the Deputy from
Marseilles, was introduced. He seemed acquainted with, and to be held in
high regard by all present. His dress, as usual, was black, with a white
cravat, and his manner and bearing had all that magnetism and dignity
which so deeply impressed those he met.
"I find you in private conference, do I not, Messieurs?" asked he, glancing
around with a smile. "I pray you let me not interrupt. I have called but for a
moment to speak with M. Marrast respecting a measure in the Chamber,
and have consented to enter only at his solicitation."
"You are right, M. Dantès," replied Marrast, "in supposing us engaged in a
private conference, and upon matters of deep import, though conferences in
this office can never be so private or so important as not to derive benefit
from the presence and counsel of the Deputy from Marseilles."
"Most true," observed Louis Blanc; "and so far from intrusion do we view
your arrival that we can but consider it most opportune that we have the
privilege of referring to you a question on which, between us, especially
between our friend Marrast and myself, there seems some little diversity of
sentiment."
"It would, I fear," said M. Dantès, "be unpardonable arrogance in one so
young as I am in the great cause of human liberty to offer counsel to you,
who are all veterans, and most of you little less than martyrs to your
enthusiasm. But no good citizen will shrink from the responsibility of
declaring the results of his reflections on all topics which have reference to
the general weal."

"We differ mainly in this," said Marrast: "Louis Blanc attributes the
Republican failures of the past ten years to prematurity and want of
preparation in our attempts, and contends that all those reverses may be
retrieved by patience and prudence in future, while, to my mind, there is
nothing to indicate for the future, from the same causes, different results
than those experienced in the past."
"Concert of action," said M. Dantès, mildly, "is always an indispensable
requisite in the accomplishment of every enterprise which relies for its
success on association, or the combined efforts of individuals laboring for a
common end; yet, with all the concert of action which can possibly be
attained, the best arranged and best digested scheme in the world may be
ruined by premature movement. Of this we surely have sad proof in the
history of the past ten years alluded to. There is something of truth in the
declaration so frequently made that the French people are not yet prepared
for freedom. If this be so, then it is the duty of their friends to prepare them.
It is folly to suppose that the masses should, at first, intuitively know all
their rights and the best mode of vindicating them. This they must be
taught; and, to this end, the press should be unceasingly at work, not only
all over France, but all over Europe, in diffusing correct views upon life and
labor, and political rights and powers. There should be, also, concert of
action among the friends of freedom, and clubs should at once be instituted
in every city, town and village in France, which should be in private and
intimate correspondence with similar clubs at Paris and in all the capitals of
Christendom. There should, likewise, be unity of action introduced among
the masses themselves. In a city like Paris, and among a people like the
French, secret signals can easily be arranged, by which, at any hour of the
night, or of the day, fifty thousand laborers in their blouses might be
concentrated at any point where their presence is required, and that, too,
with arms in their hands furnished from secret arsenals; and thus would
those pitiable slaughters of helpless insurgents, like those of sheep in the
shambles, we have so often witnessed, be avoided, if nothing besides were
gained. The people are ever but too ready to pour out their blood, and the
most difficult and delicate task in our enterprise is, after all, to restrain them
—to impress upon them the all important maxim, without which nothing
great, good or enduring is achieved, those three words in which all human
wisdom is contained, 'Wait and hope.'"

"And for what are we to wait and hope, for which we have not already in
vain waited and hoped the past ten years?" asked Marrast.
"The true hour to strike!" was the firm answer.
"And that hour, when will it come?"
"It may come quickly, as it will come surely, soon or late! It cannot be that
the Revolution of July should continue much longer to result in the solemn
mockery it has. It cannot be that its friends should much longer be withheld
from those by whom it was achieved, only to aggrandize one old man and
his sons. It cannot be that the unmitigated and disgusting selfism of Louis
Philippe, and his efforts to ally himself with every crowned head in Europe
—not for the glory of France, but for his own—will much longer be
overlooked or their perils masked. The appanages grasped by himself—the
dotation and bridal outfit of the Duke of Orléans—the dotation sought for
the Duke of Nemours, and his appointment as Regent during the minority of
the Count of Paris—the Governorship of Algeria bestowed on the youthful
and inexperienced Aumale, to the insult of so many brave and victorious
generals—the naval supremacy, to which has been exalted the ambitious
Joinville, and his union to the opulent Brazilian Princess—the effort to unite
the young Montpensier with the Infanta of Spain—the environment of Paris
with Bastilles, with the avowed purpose of fortifying order by turning the
ordnance which should protect into enginery of destruction—an immense
standing army—the notorious corruption of officials, and the audacious
dabbling of Ministers in the stocks, if not the King himself, by means of
information obtained by the Government telegraph, and withheld from the
people, or of information manufactured by the telegraph designed to affect
the Bourse—the unprecedented number of placemen occupying seats in the
Chamber of Deputies, yet receiving exorbitant salaries as incumbents of
civil offices, one man being often in receipt of the salaries of several
offices, though performing the duties of none—the fact that Ministers have
maintained majorities by unblushing bribery in elections—that hardly one
man in two hundred is an elector—the profligate arts of corruption by
which every able man is bought by the Court—the disgraceful censorship of
the press and the drama—the enormous appropriations for the civil list,
wrung out by grinding taxes from the toil and sweat of millions—the absurd
assumption, yet the monstrous power, over the press and its conductors, of

that conclave of hoary dotards called the Chamber of Peers—the utter and
most impious disregard of the deprivation and misery of the operative and
laborer, although arrayed side by side with the insolence and wealth
pampered by the taxes torn from themselves—the total forgetfulness of the
self-evident truth of the right of all men to labor, unrestricted by the baleful
influences of the competition of capitalists—these facts, properly urged and
set forth by the press, from the tribune and in the clubs, in connection with
due enlightenment of the masses upon their rights as to labor and its reward
and the duty of government thereupon could not fail to prepare the popular
mind, all over France, and all over Europe, for reform—for revolution."
"Unquestionably," cried Louis Blanc, "such would be the effect; and it
would not only prepare the people for reform, and stimulate them to obtain
it, but it would make them Republicans—true Republicans—American
Republicans! The Americans do not plume themselves on the title citizen,
but they work; they dispute little about words, but clear their lands; they do
not talk of exterminating anybody, but they cover the sea with their ships,
they construct immense canals, roads and steamers without jabbering at
every stroke of the spade about the rights of man. With them, labor, merit,
talent and honest opulence are honored and rewarded aristocracies. Such
Republicans would furnish France more Washingtons, Jeffersons and
Madisons, and fewer Robespierres, Dantons and Marats!"
"There can be no doubt," remarked Flocon, "that the paramount interest in a
republic is that of those who work, that the labor question is of supreme
importance, that the profound problem now submitted to the industrial
nations of Christendom demands satisfactory solution, and that the long-
enduring and most iniquitous miseries of those who toil must cease.
Reform, revolution and government which achieve not these, achieve
nothing! They would be worse than useless. The measures suggested by our
distinguished friend seem to me eminently calculated to attain the
consummation we desire."
"A good government must and always will systematically uphold the poor,
and ever interpose to protect the weak against the strong," said Louis Blanc.
"The state should be tutelary for the ignorant, the poor and the suffering of
every description. We must have a guardian government—a government
that will accord the aid of that mighty engine, credit, not to the rich only,

but also to the poor. It must interpose likewise in the matter of industry, and
exclude that antagonistical principle of competition—the poisoned fount of
so much virulence, violence and ruin. Our maxim is, brothers, and in this do
we all concur, 'Human Solidarity,' and our motto, 'Unity, Liberty, Equality
and Fraternity.' All men are of one family, and once thoroughly sensible of
this kindred, discord, hate and selfism will no longer be possible."
"The views advanced," said Ledru Rollin, "so far as they tend to the
elevation of the masses and to popular preparation for reform,
Republicanism or revolution, have my most cordial approval; but I would
beg to ask how long are the people to 'wait and hope?' When is to come the
hour to strike?"
"Who can tell," said M. Dantès, in his low, clear and musical tones, "at what
moment the breath will come which may hurl on its errand of devastation
the avalanche which the snows and suns of centuries, perchance, have been
preparing for its awful mission? In the stillness of the night-time, beneath
the clear blue sky of summer, or amid the ravings of the midnight tempest,
its dread march is ordered, and in resistless, crushing sublimity it begins to
move on to accomplish its terrible errand. Who may predict the precise
moment when the earthquake shall rock, the tornado sweep, the red
lightning scathe, or the lava flood desolate? And who shall tell the day or
the hour when the people, in their majesty and might, shall rise to avenge
their wrongs? The snow-flake falls fleecily on the mountain's top through
many a long and silent night; a land green as Eden smiles over the volcano;
through many a calm and sunny day the electric flame gathers in the
firmament! At length, when least expected, the avalanche sweeps, the
volcano bursts, the red bolt strikes. France is the victim of many wrongs.
Which one of them shall prove the last drop in her cup of bitterness we
know not. France is divided into many political sects, and all but one aim at
revolution. Which one of all shall it be to set the ball of revolution in
motion? The Legitimists, who consider the Duke of Bordeaux the rightful
heir, and Louis Philippe a usurper; the Bonapartists, who think they evoke
the great shade of Napoleon in the person of his unworthy descendant; or
the old Republicans? As for the Conservatives, let them with Guizot at their
head, uphold themselves if they can, and let the dynasties under Barrot and
Thiers overthrow and succeed their factional foes. Their petty quarrels we
care not for. Nor shall we, the Communists, ever suffer ourselves to be

deemed the revolutionary party; but the revolution once commenced, let us
throw ourselves into its torrent, and with our thorough, perfect and secret
organization, we cannot fail to shape it most successfully to our own, our
righteous ends. The hour when revolution may commence we cannot
predict, as it is not our policy to start or precipitate it; but that hour may
come quickly. It must come on the demise of Louis Philippe, which event
cannot be long delayed, and it may be precipitated before. Nor will France
alone be convulsed. As the news of that old man's death, on the lightning's
wing, spreads over Europe, the electric wire will prove but a train passing
through repeated mines, which, one after the other, will explode with awful
devastation. Berlin, Vienna and St. Petersburg, the strongholds of despotism
in Europe, each will totter—all but the last will fall. The press is powerless
on the Russian serf. Russia will be the tyrant's last citadel. Italy will throw
off the Austrian yoke and be free. Gregory XVIII. will shortly die. A wise,
far-seeing and benevolent priest, named Giovanni Maria Mastai Ferretti,
born at Sinigaglia, and now a cardinal, with the title of SS. Peter and
Marcellinus, will succeed to the Papal See, and Italy will be a republic;
Genoa, Venice, Naples, Lombardy, Piedmont and Sardinia will be sister yet
sovereign states, forming one union—the constellation of freedom, the
favorite scheme of Napoleon's better days at last achieving reality.
Switzerland, with her green hills and her field Morgarten, her priestly
despots expelled, shall also be free. But I weary you, Messieurs."
"By no means," cried Marrast, cordially clasping M. Dantès by the hand. "I
have listened in silence to your earnest exposition of the policy you suggest,
and so truly do I subscribe to it that, henceforth, I am your disciple and
adopt your motto, 'Wait and hope' for my own. But it is nearly two o'clock.
In an hour the Chamber sits."
"And, meanwhile, Messieurs," interrupted M. Dantès, "I know not that we
can better employ ourselves, after so protracted a séance, than to repair to
Véfour's. This talking is hungry work, and listening and thinking, which are
by far more tedious, are still more so. So to Véfour's."
"The séance 'National' is closed!" cried Ledru Rollin, laughing, as the whole
company descended the gloomy stairs.

CHAPTER XII.
THE MYSTERIOUS PRIMA DONNA.

All fashionable Paris was excited over the announcement of a new prima
donna, whose wonderful achievements in Italian opera had set even the
exacting critics of Italy wild with enthusiasm and delight.
This great artiste was no other than the renowned Louise d'Armilly. She had
never before sung in the presence of a Parisian audience, but her fame had
preceded her, and it was accepted as certain that her triumph at the
Académie Royale would be both instantaneous and overwhelming.
She was to assume the rôle of Lucrezia Borgia, in Donizetti's brilliant opera
of that name, a rôle in which the enterprising director of the Académie
Royale assured the expectant public that she possessed no equal.
For weeks every Parisian journal had been sounding her praises with
unremitting zeal, and now her name was as familiar as a household word in
all the high society salons, where the ladies and their gallants could talk of
nothing but the approaching operatic event, while in the cafés and on the
boulevards an equal degree of interest was exhibited.
Even the masses, notwithstanding the political agitation in which they were
involved, had caught the prevailing excitement, and the leaders of the
contending parties themselves paused amid their heated discussions to talk
of Louise d'Armilly.
The career of this young and beautiful artiste had been remarkable. Her
début had been made at Brussels, about two years before, in company with
her brother, M. Léon d'Armilly, and there, as well as at all the theatres of
Italy, La Scala, Argentina and Valle, they had roused a perfect storm of
operatic enthusiasm.
The origin of this young artiste was veiled in the deepest mystery. Rumor
ascribed to her descent from one of the oldest and most respectable families

of France; and domestic trials, among which was a matrimonial
misadventure, no less than the arrest of an Italian Prince whom she was
about to wed, on the bridal night, as an escaped galley slave, were assigned
as the cause which had given her splendid powers to the stage.
At an earlier hour than usual—for Parisian fashion never fills the opera-
house until the curtain falls on the second act—the Rue Lepelletier was
crowded with carriages, La Pinon with fiacres, and the Grande Batelière
and the passages to the Boulevard des Italiens with persons on foot, all
hastening toward that magnificent edifice, constructed within the space of a
single year by Debret, to replace the building in the Rue de Richelieu
ordered to be razed by the Government because of the assassination at its
door of the Duke of Berri, in 1820—that magnificent structure which
accommodates two thousand spectators with seats.
Among the first in the orchestra stalls were Beauchamp and Debray, whose
attention was divided between the stage and the arrivals of splendidly
attired elégantes in the different loges, during the overture. All the élite of
Paris seemed on the qui vive.
"It will be a splendid house," observed Debray.
"The débutante, be she whom she may, should feel flattered by such an
unexampled assemblage of all the ton of Paris."
Orchestra, balcony, galleries, amphitheatres, lobbies and parterre were
packed; every portion of the vast edifice, in short, was thronged except a
few of the loges and baignoires, into which every moment brilliant
companies were entering.
"Who is that tall, dark military man, with the heavy moustache, now
making his way into the Minister's box?" asked Beauchamp, after a pause.
"That man is no less a personage than the Governor of Algeria, Eugène
Cavaignac, Marshal of Camp," said Debray. "He reported himself at the
War Office this morning, and is the lion of the house."
"Ah!" cried the journalist; "and that is the hero of Constantine! What a
frank, open countenance, and what a distingué bearing and manner!"

"You would not suppose all that man's life passed in a camp, would you?"
"His career has, I understand, been remarkable," said Beauchamp.
"Very. His father was a Conventionist of '92, a famous old fellow, who,
among other terrible things laid at his door, is said to have pawned an old
man's life, old Labodère, for his daughter's honor; somewhat, you
remember, as Francis I. spared St. Valliar's life for the favor of the lovely
Diana of Poitiers, his only child. His aged mother is yet living, a woman of
strong mind, though seventy, and he does nothing without her advice. His
brother Godefroi's name was notorious as that of a powerful Republican
leader for years before his decease. At eighteen Eugène entered the
Polytechnic School. At twenty-two he was a sub-lieutenant in the engineer
corps of the second regiment. In '28 he was first lieutenant in France; in '29
he was captain; in '34 he was in Algeria; and, in '39, his cool, bold, decided
but discreet conduct had made him chef de bataillon, despite the fact that he
had incurred the Royal displeasure some years before by a disloyal toast at
a banquet. In '40 he was lieutenant-colonel; in '41 marshal of camp, and
first commander of division of Tlemeen; in '43, he was conqueror of
Constantine, at the first siege of which I so nearly lost my own valuable
head, and he is now Governor of Algeria, after service there of fourteen
years."
"And the tall and sinewy man beside him, presenting such a contrast to
Cavaignac, with his light complexion, gray hair, and sullen and not very
intelligent expression?"
"Oh! that is General Bugeaud, by some deemed the real conqueror of
Algeria. But he's not at all popular with the army. His manners are simple
and excessively blunt. He is a perfect despot with his staff, 'tis said; yet he
is quite a wag when in good-humor, and, at Ministerial dinners, can unbend
and make himself as agreeable as need be wished. His voice is as harsh as a
Cossack's, and in perfect contrast to that of Cavaignac, which is the richest
and most musical you ever heard, yet distinct, emphatic and impressive."
"Bugeaud incurred intense odium with the opposition for his unwarranted
severity as jailor of the Duchess of Berri, in '34, and his killing Dulong in a
duel, because of a deserved taunt on the subject."

"Bugeaud did his duty," said the Secretary, "though a man of his nature
could hardly perform such a duty with gentleness. Bugeaud is not a
gentleman; he knows it, and don't try to seem one. He is only a soldier. But
there comes his very particular foe; General Lamoricière. That magnificent
woman on his arm is his wife and the sister of the lady who follows, with
her husband, the ex-Minister, Adolphe Thiers."
"What a contrast!" cried Beauchamp. "The tall and elegant figure of
Lamoricière, in his brilliant uniform of the Spahis, half oriental, half
French, with his lovely wife, and the low, swarthy little ex-Minister in
complete black, with his huge round spectacles on his nose nearly twice the
size of his eyes, and a wife on his arm nearly double his stature. Why,
Thiers reminds me of a Ghoul gallanting a Peri."
"And yet that same dark little ex-Minister has perhaps, in many respects the
most powerful mind—at all events, the most available mind—impelled as it
is by his restless ambition, in all France. Do you observe how incessantly
his keen black eye flashes around the house, beneath his huge glasses?"
"He seems perfectly aware that every eye in the house is directed toward his
loge. But is it true that his brother-in-law owes his rapid rise to his influence
at Court?"
"By no means," replied Debray. "If there is a man in the French army who
has achieved his own fortunes, that man is Lamoricière. He went to Algeria
a lieutenant, and bravely and gallantly has he attained his present brilliant
position. It was he who proposed the creation of a corps of native Arab
troops, like the Sepoys of British India; and he was appointed colonel of the
first regiment of Spahis. Our quondam friend, Maximilian Morrel, has a
command in this regiment, and is a protégé of his illustrious exemplar."
"The hostility between Lamoricière and Bugeaud arises, I suppose, from the
latter's detestable disposition, his overbearing and dictatorial temper.
Lamoricière is not a man, I take it, to be the slave of any one."
"Rivalry in Africa is thought to have originated the feud," remarked Debray,
"and political differences in Paris to have inflamed it. Bugeaud is a
Legitimist, and Lamoricière a Republican."

"Silence!" cried the musical connoisseurs in the orchestra. "The curtain
rises."
As the curtain rose a hush of expectation reigned over the audience. The
hum and bustle ceased, and silence most profound succeeded. The
appearance of the fair cantatrice was the signal for such a reception as only
a Parisian audience can give, and the first strains that issued from her lips
assured them that their applause was not misplaced.
And surely never was the dark Duchess of Ferrara more faithfully
personated than by the present artiste. This vraisemblance, which is so
seldom witnessed in the opera, seemed to strike every eye. Her figure was
tall and majestic, and voluptuously developed. Her air and bearing were
haughty, dignified, and queen-like. Her complexion was very dark, but
perfectly clear; her forehead broad and high; her brows heavy, but
gracefully arched; her eyes large, black and flashing; her hair dark as night,
and arranged with great simplicity in glossy bands; and her mouth large, but
filled with teeth of pearl-like whiteness, contrasted by lips of coral wet with
the spray. The entire outline of her face was Roman, and exhibited in its
contour and lineaments even more than Roman sternness and decision; and
its effect was still more heightened by a large mole at one corner of her
mouth and the velvet robes in which she was appropriately costumed.
The scene between the Duchess and the Spaniard, Gubetta, was received
with the utmost applause, and the pathos of that between the son and his
unknown mother, which succeeded, touched the audience to tears; but when
the maskers rushed in and her vizard was torn off, and her true name
proclaimed, and, amid her heart-rending wailings, the curtain fell on the
first act, the shouts were perfectly thunderous with enthusiasm. The rôle of
Gennaro was performed by the brother of the cantatrice, Léon d'Armilly, a
young man of twenty, of delicate and graceful figure, and as decidedly
blonde as his sister was brunette. Nature seemed to have made a great
mistake in sex when this brother and sister were fashioned. Indeed, it
seemed hardly possible that they could be brother and sister, a remark
constantly made by the audience, and the kindred announced on the bills
was generally viewed as one of those convenient relationships often
assumed on the stage, but having no more reality than those of the dramatis
personæ themselves.

"A second Pasta!" cried Château-Renaud, entering the stalls immediately on
the descent of the curtain. "Heard you ever such a magnificent contralto?"
"Saw you ever such a magnificent bust?" asked Beauchamp.
"Were it not for a few manifest impossibilities," thoughtfully remarked
Debray, "I should swear that this same angelic Louise d'Armilly was no
other than a certain very beautiful, very eccentric and very talented young
lady whom we all once knew as a star of Parisian fashion, and who, the last
time she was in this house, sat in the same loge where now sit the African
generals."
"Whom can you mean, Debray?" cried Beauchamp.
"A certain haughty young lady, who was to have married an Italian Prince,
but, on the night of the bridal, in the midst of the festivities, the house being
thronged with guests, and even while the contract was receiving the
signatures, the Prince was arrested as an escaped galley-slave, and at his
trial proved to be the illegitimate son of the bride's mother and a certain
high legal functionary, the Procureur du Roi, now at Charenton, through
whose burning zeal for justice the horrible discovery transpired."
"Ha!" exclaimed Château-Renaud. "You cannot mean Eugénie Danglars,
daughter of the bankrupt baron, whom our unhappy friend Morcerf was
once to have wed?"
"The very same," quietly rejoined the Secretary; "but this lady cannot be
Mlle. Danglars, I say absolutely, for many sufficient reasons," he quickly
added; then, as if to turn the conversation, he hastily remarked: "Ah! there
are M. Dantès and M. Lamartine, as usual, together."
"M. Dantès!" exclaimed the Count, in surprise, looking around.
"Impossible!"
"And yet most true," observed Beauchamp; "in the third loge from the
Minister's to the right. What a wonderful resemblance there is between
those men—the poet and the Deputy! One would suppose them brothers.
The same tall and elegant figure, the same white and capacious brow, the
same dark, blazing eye, the same raven hair, and, above all, the same most
unearthly and spiritual pallor of complexion."

"No wonder M. Dantès is pale," said the Count. "Have you not heard of the
occurrence of this evening in the Chamber? M. Dantès was in the midst of
one of his powerful harangues against the Government, when suddenly, in
the middle of a sentence, he stopped—coughed violently several times, and
pressed his handkerchief to his mouth; then taking a small vial from his vest
pocket, he placed it to his lips, and instantaneously, as if new life had
entered him, proceeded more eloquently than ever to the conclusion of his
speech."
"I heard something of this," said Beauchamp.
"As he descended from the tribune his friends thronged around him,
anxious about his health. He quieted their apprehensions with his peculiar
smile of assurance, but I observed that his white handkerchief was spotted
with blood, and he almost immediately left the Chamber."
"That man will kill himself in the cause he has espoused," remarked
Debray. "See how ghastly he now looks. But so much the better for the
Ministry. He is a formidable foe. Indeed, that loge contains the two most
powerful opponents of the Government."
"And who are those men just entering the box?" asked Beauchamp.
"None other than the two rival astronomers of Europe," said Debray, "and
yet most intimate friends. The taller and elder, the one with gray hair, a
dark, sharp Bedouin countenance, and that large, wild, black eye, with a
smile of mingled sarcasm and humor ever on his thin lip, is Emanuel Arago.
The other, the short, robust man, with fair complexion, sandy hair, bright
blue eye and vivacious expression, is Le Verrier, the most tireless star-gazer
science has produced since Galileo. But hush! the curtain is up."
"Oh! it matters not," said the Count; "only Gennaro and the Spaniard appear
in the second act, and I have neither eyes nor ears save for the Duchess to-
night. But who are those, Beauchamp?"
"Where?"
"In the loge on the first tier, next to the Minister's and directly opposite to
that of M. Dantès?"

"Ah! two officers of the Spahis and two most exquisite women!" exclaimed
Debray. "They belong, doubtless, to the African party in the Minister's loge.
Your lorgnette, Count. What a splendid woman!"
Hardly had the Secretary raised the glass to his eyes before he dropped it
with the exclamation:
"A miracle! a miracle!"
"What?" cried both of the other young men, turning to the box at which
Debray was gazing.
"Messieurs, do you remember the fair Valentine de Villefort, whose
untimely and mysterious demise all the young people of Paris so much
bewailed, some two or three years ago, and whose lovely remains, we, with
our own eyes, saw deposited in the Saint-Méran and de Villefort vault at
Père Lachaise, one bitter cold autumn evening, and there listened most
patiently and piously to a whole breviary of mournful speeches, declarative
of the said Valentine's most superlative excellence?"
"Undoubtedly, we remember it well," was the reply.
"Then behold, and never dare to doubt the reappearance of the dead again to
the ocular organs of humanity."
"Valentine de Villefort!" exclaimed the Count, after a careful and
scrutinizing survey, "by all that's supernatural; and more exquisitely lovely
than ever!"
"Then it was true, after all, the strange story we heard," said Beauchamp,
"of the young lady's resurrection and marriage to Maximilian Morrel,
somewhere far away in parts unknown?"
"No doubt," replied the Count, "for, if I mistake not—and I'm sure I don't
mistake, now that I look more closely—that stalwart, splendid fellow, with
the broad forehead, black eyes and moustache, and the order of the Legion
of Honor on his breast, to set off his rich uniform of the Spahis, and on
whose arm the fair apparition is leaning, is no other than Maximilian Morrel
himself—the identical man who saved my worthless neck from a yataghan
in Algeria."

"How dark he's grown!" said Debray.
"No more so than all these African heroes—for instance, Cavaignac and
Lamoricière."
"But what a splendid contrast there is between the young Colonel of the
Spahis and his lovely bride, if such she be! He, dark as a Corsican; she, fair
as an Englishwoman—he, upright as a poplar; she, drooping like a willow
—his hair and eyes black as midnight, while her soft, languishing orbs are
as blue as the summer sky, and her glossy ringlets as brown as a chestnut!"
"On my word," said Beauchamp, "the Count grows poetical! Morrel had
better keep his beautiful wife out of the way! But have you discovered who
are the other couple in the box?" he added to the Secretary, who had his
lorgnette in most vigilant requisition. "Any more discoveries, Debray?"
A sigh might have been heard as the Secretary took his glass from his eye,
and replied simply:
"Yes."
"And who now?" asked Château-Renaud. "There seems no end to
discoveries to-night."
"The young man who, by his decorations, seems a chef de bataillon of the
Spahis," replied Debray, "I cannot make out. But, be he whom he may, he is
effectually disguised from his most intimate friends by his luxuriant beard
and moustache. As for the lady—there is but one woman in the world I have
ever had the good fortune to behold who could be mistaken for her."
"And that is?" said Beauchamp.
"Herself."
"And who is herself, Lucien?" asked Château-Renaud.
"Have you forgotten the Countess de Morcerf?"
"The Countess de Morcerf?—the wife of the general who was convicted by
the peers of felony, treason and outrage in the matter of Ali Tebelen, Pacha
of Yanina?" said Beauchamp.

"And who blew his brains out in despair?" added the Count.
"The same," said Debray. "She returned to Marseilles with her son Albert.
You remember Albert and his strange conduct in the duel with the Count of
Monte-Cristo?"
"One could hardly forget such chivalric generosity, such magnificent
magnanimity and such sublime self-control as were exhibited by the young
man on that occasion!" said Beauchamp. "It is to be hoped he was not
equally forbearing toward the Arabs in his African campaigns, although, as
his name has never been seen or heard since he entered the army, in all
probability he was."
"Well, well," cried the Secretary, impatiently, "the Countess retired to
Marseilles, and there she is said to have resided in utter seclusion, in
company only with Morrel's beautiful wife, devoting the vast wealth of the
deceased Count to philanthropic objects, having received it, as his widow,
only with the understanding it should be thus bestowed."
"But the rumor was," said Beauchamp, "and indeed I was so assured by M.
de Boville himself, Receiver-General of the Hospitals, at the time, that the
Countess gave all the Count's fortune to the hospitals, and that he himself
registered the deed of gift."
"Oh! that was only some twelve or thirteen hundred thousand francs," said
Debray. "Three months after her settlement at Marseilles, in a small house
in the Allées de Meillan, said to be her own by maternal inheritance, a letter
came to her from Thomson and French, of Rome, stating that there was a
deposit in their house, to the credit of the estate of the late Count, of the
enormous sum of two millions of francs, subject to her sole control and
order, as the Count's only heir, in the absence of his son."
"Two millions of francs!" cried the two young men in a breath.
"Even so, Messieurs," said Debray. "The story does sound rather oriental;
but I have reason to know that it is entirely true, for I made diligent inquiry
about it when last at Marseilles."
"And what took you to Marseilles, Lucien?" asked the Count significantly.

"The Ministry," replied Debray, with evident confusion, coloring deeply.
"But why does not the Countess marry again?" asked Château-Renaud,
surveying her faultless form and face through his glass. "In the prime of
life, rich, and, despite her past troubles, most exquisitely beautiful, it is
strange she don't make herself and some one else happy!"
"Especially as no one could ever accuse her of having very desperately
loved her dear first husband," added the journalist. "Why don't she marry,
Lucien?"
"How the devil should I know!" replied the Secretary in great confusion.
"You don't suppose I ever asked her the question, do you?"
"Upon my word," exclaimed the Count, laughing, "I shall begin to think
you have, if you take it so warmly. But, hist! the bell! The curtain rises. We
mustn't lose the third act of Donizetti's chef d'œuvre, with such a Lucrezia,
for any woman living."
But it was very evident that much of the magnificent performance of the
débutante and her companion, in the thrilling scene between the Duke and
Duchess of Ferrara and the young Captain Gennaro, was lost to the
Secretary.
"Do you observe, Beauchamp, how strangely fascinated with the new
cantatrice seems the young officer of the Spahis who accompanies the
Countess?" he whispered. "Do but look. He sits like one transfixed."
"And the Countess seems transfixed also, though not by the same object,"
was the reply. "How excessively pale, yet how beautiful she is! That plain
black dress, without ornament or jewel, and her raven hair, parted simply on
her forehead, enhance her voluptuous charms infinitely more than could the
most gorgeous costume. Heavens! what a happy man will he be who can
call her his!"
"Amen!" said Debray, and the word seemed to rise from the very depths of
his heart. "But she will never marry. Some early disappointment, even
before her union with Morcerf, has withered her heart, and the terrible
divorce which parted her from him, although she never loved him, will keep

her single forever. Her first and only love is either dead or—worse—
married to another."
"See, see, Lucien!" cried Beauchamp, hurriedly; "at whom does she gaze so
intently, and yet so sadly? It cannot be Lamartine, for there sits his lovely
young English wife at his side; nor can it be old Arago, nor young Le
Verrier; and yet some one in that box it surely is."
"M. Dantès?" cried Debray.
"Impossible! That man seems hardly conscious that there are such beings as
women. His whole soul is in affairs of state."
"His whole soul seems somewhere else just at present," exclaimed the
Secretary, bitterly. "Look!"
"How dreadfully pale he is!" said Beauchamp; "and yet his eyes fairly
blaze. Is it the Countess he gazes at?"
"Is it M. Dantès she gazes at?"
At that moment, amid the wild farewell of the mother to her son, upon the
stage, the curtain came down, and at the same instant, M. Dantès hastily
pressed his white handkerchief to his lips, and, leaning on the arms of
Lamartine and Arago, hastily left the box.
"Ha! the Countess faints!" cried Debray, as the door closed on M. Dantès.
"Do they know each other, then?"

CHAPTER XIII.
THE ITALIAN LOVER.

It was early in the evening succeeding the day on which M. Dantès had
answered Giovanni Massetti's letter. Zuleika was seated in the vast,
sumptuously-furnished salon of the magnificent Morcerf mansion, now, as
the reader already knows, the residence of the famous and mysterious
Deputy from Marseilles. She sat upon a superb green velvet-covered sofa,
half reclining in an indolent, picturesque attitude; behind the sofa and
leaning over its back stood a young Italian, a perfect model of manly
beauty; his ardent black eyes were riveted on Zuleika's blushing
countenance with a look of the most profound and enthusiastic adoration,
while his hand held the young girl's with a gentle, loving pressure, which
was returned with unmistakable warmth. The apartment was dimly lighted
and huge, sombre patches of shadow lay everywhere. Zuleika and her lover
were alone together; for some time they seemed too full of happiness to
speak, but finally Giovanni said, in a soft, flutelike whisper, as if unwilling
to break with loudly uttered words the delicious spell of his love-dream:
"Zuleika, darling Zuleika, so you did not once forget me during our long,
cruel separation?"
"Never for a single instant, Giovanni," answered the young girl, the flush
upon her cheek deepening as she spoke, her hand tightening about her
lover's and her lovely eyes filling with a soft fire. "But I sometimes feared
you had forgotten me!"
"You were always present in my mind and in my heart," replied the Italian
in a tone that thrilled her through and through. Stooping, he placed his lips
to her forehead and imprinted upon it a long and silent kiss; then, flushing
in his turn, he added, still holding his head against hers: "From the very
moment of our first meeting you have reigned in my bosom, my own, my
love, the queen of my destiny and my life!"

"Oh! Giovanni, Giovanni," murmured the young girl, "I am happy, so
happy!"
He kissed her again, this time upon her upturned lips that with a slight
movement almost imperceptibly returned the kiss, sending his blood
tingling through his veins and causing him to tremble with delight from
head to foot. No longer able to restrain himself, he hastily quitted the back
of the sofa, threw himself down beside her and clasping her in his arms
drew her unresistingly upon his bosom. Once there she did not offer to stir,
but even nestled closer to him and pillowed her head on his broad shoulder.
The tumultuous beating of both their hearts was audible amid the unbroken
silence that ensued. With one hand the Viscount tenderly smoothed her
silken tresses, and his arm tightened around her waist as if he had
determined never to release her again.
"Your father, in his letter of this morning," said Giovanni finally, "told me
there was hope, that you did not look upon my addresses with aversion, and
that I had his leave to pay court to you and ascertain your wishes from your
own dear lips. I hastened here this evening, and M. Dantès himself bade me
seek you in this salon. I came on the wings of love and found all my fondest
hopes realized; that I possessed your heart as you possessed mine. Oh! tell
me, Zuleika, that this is not all a dream, for it seems too delicious to be
true!"
"It is reality, Giovanni, blessed reality," answered the young girl in a low
voice.
"And do you really love me with all your soul?"
"With all my soul, Giovanni!"
The ardent Italian showered a flood of burning kisses upon her forehead,
cheeks and lips, and she quivered like a leaf in his embrace. Then he said,
with a shade of anxiety in his tone:
"And your brother Espérance, is he disposed to look upon me with
approval? You know that in Rome he did not see fit to include me in the
number of his friends. We had a little difference, you will remember, and
ever afterwards he was cold toward me."

Zuleika shuddered as she recalled the fact that the little difference alluded to
had been a violent quarrel that had nearly resulted in a duel between the two
young men. She had never known the details, for both her brother and
Giovanni had studiously concealed them from her; indeed, Espérance had
carefully avoided all mention of the Viscount's name ever since the day they
had become embroiled. Was M. Dantès aware of the trouble between his
son and the youthful Italian? She did not know, but, at the same time, felt
firmly persuaded that her father had fully investigated the doings, character
and family of her suitor, and would not have sanctioned a renewal of his
addresses to her had he not been perfectly satisfied in every respect. She,
therefore, answered:
"I am altogether ignorant as to what Espérance thinks of you, and cannot
say whether he still harbors resentment against you or not; but, whatever
may be his opinion and feelings, rest assured that he will never interfere to
cause his sister an instant of unhappiness, more especially as he knows that
my father looks upon you with a favoring eye."
"But how about the coldness existing between us?"
"Does it still exist on both sides?"
"Not on mine, Zuleika, not on mine. I forgave and forgot all long ago."
"Forgave and forgot! Then Espérance must have wronged you!"
"He did, Zuleika, and with the proverbial hot blood and headlong impulses
of the Roman youth I resented that wrong. But I could not remain at enmity
with the brother of the girl I loved, so when I became cooler I sought him
out and endeavored to apologize."
"And he accepted your apology?"
"He did not accept it, but turned on his heel and left me without a word. He
evidently thought me a coward and attributed my efforts toward effecting a
reconciliation to a desire to escape fighting him."
"But why did you quarrel in the first place? What was the cause of the
difference between you?"

The young Italian hung his head and did not answer. Zuleika saw that he
had grown deadly pale, and she felt his hand tremble nervously.
Freeing herself from his embrace, the young girl sprang to her feet and
faced him.
"Giovanni," said she, firmly, "tell me the whole story of this painful affair.
It is imperative that I should know it!"
"Do you doubt me, Zuleika, do you doubt me?" he asked, bitterly, and he
buried his face in his hands.
"Do I doubt you, Giovanni? No. But, if you love me, tell me all the details
of the trouble between my brother and yourself!"
"I cannot, I cannot, Zuleika!" he cried. "Command me to shed the last drop
of blood in my veins for you and I will do it without an instant's hesitation,
but I cannot tell you that terrible tale of deceit, treachery and bloodshed!"
He had arisen and was walking excitedly about the salon; his pallor had
increased and he trembled in every limb.
Zuleika stood with folded arms and gazed at him; she was calm and her
eyes had a look of determination the young man had never before beheld in
them; it filled him with dismay. A few moments ago she had been all love
and tenderness, a yielding, trusting maiden in her lover's arms; now, she
resembled a beautiful Amazon bent on achieving a victory, whom nothing
but unconditional surrender would satisfy.
"The story, the story," she repeated, "tell me the story!"
Her face was as white as marble and her faultless lips seemed chiseled from
stone. She looked so beautiful and tempting as she stood there, her
surpassing loveliness enhanced by the picturesque half-oriental, half-
Parisian dress she wore, that the Viscount felt his passion for her redoubled.
He flung himself at her feet and seizing the hem of her superb robe kissed it
rapturously.
"Oh! Zuleika, Zuleika," he cried, utterly unable to restrain himself, "I am
your slave! Place your tiny foot upon my neck and crush me where I lie! I
shall expire adoring you!"

"Giovanni," replied Zuleika, greatly moved by this display of devotion,
"rise and be a man!"
The Italian sprang up as if he had been struck by a thunderbolt; then he
endeavored to clasp her in his arms, but she quietly repulsed him.
"Zuleika," cried he, sadly, "you do not love me; you never loved me; I have
been the victim of a cruel deception!"
"If you think so," answered the young girl, quietly, "there is but one course
you can pursue as a man of honor—spurn the deceiver from you and never
look upon her face again!"
The young man gazed at her reproachfully.
"What have I done to turn you thus against me?" he asked, his tone
suddenly becoming humble.
"What have you done? You refuse to reveal this mystery to me, which, as
you yourself admit, involves deceit, treachery and bloodshed, and which,
for aught I know, has set an indelible stain upon your life! I love you truly,
love you with all the passion of a woman's nature, but I must know this
history that I may judge whether you are worthy of my love!"
"I assure you, Zuleika, that there is no stain upon my life, that there is
nothing in this history that tends in the least to dishonor me, but still I
cannot speak."
"Then we must separate."
"Oh! Zuleika, Zuleika, do not be pitiless! You will drive me mad!"
The young girl touched a bell and Ali, the Nubian, appeared.
"Monsieur is about taking his departure," said she to the faithful servant. "I
leave him in your hands."
And without a word of farewell to Giovanni, she swept from the salon like a
queen.
The Viscount gazed after her with indescribable sadness pictured upon his
handsome countenance. Then he followed Ali, put on his overcoat and hat

and regretfully left the house.

CHAPTER XIV.
THE MINUTE VIALS.

Even to the Communists, with whom he had come into such close contact,
M. Dantès, the Deputy from Marseilles, remained as much of a mystery as
ever. Marrast, though now devotedly attached to him, admitted that he was
totally unable to fathom either his designs, or his methods of accomplishing
them, while Lamartine, who was in his company a large portion of the time,
when questioned concerning him, replied that all he knew of M. Dantès was
that he was a firm friend of the cause and an untiring worker in the interest
of the weary and oppressed masses.
Debray, though he had no tangible foundation for it, could not get rid of the
idea that the dangerous Deputy and the Count of Monte-Cristo were one
and the same individual, but Beauchamp, with the usual incredulity of
journalists, scoffed at the notion, and Château-Renaud derided it whenever
it was mentioned in his presence.
That M. Dantès had great wealth was, however, generally admitted, though
whence it was derived or in what manner it was invested no one could tell.
It was now no longer a secret that he had purchased and resided in the
magnificent mansion formerly owned by the Count de Morcerf, in the Rue
du Helder, and this circumstance, while it vastly augmented the interest
attaching to him, did not in the least detract from the enthusiasm felt for
him by the working classes.
It was night. In a large chamber, richly furnished, but dimly lighted, in the
mansion in the Rue du Helder, the same apartment once inhabited by the
Countess de Morcerf, motionless, and seemingly lifeless, with a
countenance as pale as alabaster, and as still, lay M. Dantès, the Deputy
from Marseilles. Although, in the ashy pallor of the lips and brow, and the
fixed, serene, almost stern aspect of the immovable face, might be read
unmistakable evidence of an exhausting and dangerous constitutional shock
to the system, yet none of that emaciation, over which broods the shadow of

the angel of death, resulting from protracted illness, was there to be seen.
The broad white forehead—the raven hair, sparsely sprinkled with silver—
the round temples—the delicately penciled brow, encircling, like a sable
arch, the large and almond-formed eye—the full calm lip, and the chiseled
chin and nostril—all these were as perfect now as when last before the
reader. The cheek was, perhaps, slightly sunken, but it could not be more
pallid than when last beheld; and but for that nameless quietude—that
"rapture of repose," as Lord Byron well expresses it—that placid languor
which sleeps on the features, which illness always creates and which
spiritualizes and intellectualizes the most common features, the invalid
might be supposed to be enjoying the most quiet slumber.
Excepting the invalid, there was no one in that chamber save the faithful
Ali, who moved noiselessly about, from time to time, or sat immovably
upon the floor and gazed on his master's pallid face.
As the silvery tones of the chamber clock tinkled forth the third quarter
after ten, the door opened, and a small, dark, thin man, with large whiskers,
keen, penetrating eyes, broad, bald forehead, thinly covered with gray hair,
and apparently about fifty years of age, briskly entered. It was Dr. Orfila, a
name somewhat known in medical science. Approaching the bed, he placed
his fingers upon the sick man's pulse, and gazed earnestly on his face for
some time in silence.
"Strange!" he at length muttered; "the most powerful drugs in the most
unheard-of quantities are powerless! Who, then, is this man, whose nature
so differs from that of every one else? Can he so have accustomed his
system to poisons, that, as with the King of Pontus, they are ineffectual to
help or to harm him? His constitution must be iron! The vitality of a dozen
men is in him, or he'd have been dead a month ago. Well, it's plain he's no
worse, if he's no better. Drugs are useless, and he must be left to nature and
his amazing constitution. This stupor, this utter death of all the faculties and
senses for so long a time, is wonderful. Fever, delirium, anything but this
death-like trance. It seems as if this man had been sleepless all his life
before, and that now his overwrought brain and heart were compensating
themselves for the toil and wakefulness of years. Could I but excite the
nerves!"

For some time the physician gazed in deep thought at the pale face of the
unconscious slumberer. Suddenly turning to the Nubian, he said to him:
"Ali, where does your master keep the drugs he has been for years
accustomed to take?"
The Nubian stared in mute amazement, but moved not from his rug.
"Ali," said Dr. Orfila, sternly, "unless I see and know those drugs, this night
your master dies."
The Nubian looked anxiously into the face of the physician, and then, as if
satisfied with the scrutiny, rose, and, with noiseless steps, left the room. In a
few moments he re-entered and placed in the physician's hands a small
casket of ebony, exquisitely worked and studded with gems. Taking it
hastily to the shaded lamp upon a table at the extremity of the chamber, he
attempted to open it, but his attempts were vain. Indeed, to all appearances,
it was a solid block of ebony, and its extreme heaviness, compared with its
dimensions, seemed to favor the idea.
"Well?" said the doctor, returning the casket, after a close scrutiny, to the
Nubian, who had followed him.
Ali took the casket, and instantly a portion of the top flew up, disclosing
within the centre of the cube of ebony a cavity lined with crimson velvet,
and a dazzling array of minute vials of crystal, each filled with a fluid—
pink, blue, green and yellow in hue, while the contents of several were
colorless. The Nubian had touched a spring concealed in the carving, and
known only to his master and himself.
The physician removed the minute vials one after another from their
receptacles, and held them up to the light; on each was a cipher, and on no
two was the same. Most of them were quite filled with the fluid contained,
but some were only half full, while one was nearly empty. Dr. Orfila looked
closely at the cipher upon each vial as he removed it from the casket. He
then held it to the light to determine its particular hue or shade, and
sometimes withdrew the crystal stopper ground into the deep mouth,
touching it cautiously and quickly to his nostril or the tip of his tongue.
"Morphia, cinchonia, quinia, lobelia, belladonna, narcotina, bromine,
arsenicum, strychnos colubrina, brucœa ferruginea," muttered the savant, as

he examined one vial after the other and replaced it. "Brucœa ferruginea—
ha! brucine! I thought as much," exclaimed he, holding up the vial, which
showed, by being nearly empty, that its contents had been used more
frequently than those of any of the others.
"How many drops of this is the greatest number your master has ever
taken?" asked Dr. Orfila.
The Nubian, who, it will be remembered, was a mute, held up both hands
with the fingers outspread, and then two other fingers of one of his hands.
"Twelve drops!" cried the astonished physician. "Impossible!"
Ali insisted on the assertion.
"And yet it must be so," the doctor added. "That would explain all."
Taking the vial and a minute crystal vessel, which he found in the casket, he
hastily but carefully dropped into the latter thirteen drops. Then filling the
vessel with water, he approached the patient, who still slumbered heavily
on, and placed it to his lips. For an instant he seemed conscious of the wish
of the physician, and with an effort the mixture was swallowed. Then he lay
as still and motionless as before.
Returning the vials and the vessel to their places, Dr. Orfila closed the
casket and gave it to the Nubian. He then gazed long and anxiously at the
torpid slumberer, standing at the bedside and watching that marble face.
At length the clock struck eleven. Dr. Orfila started and hastily glanced at
his repeater; then, turning to the Nubian, who had carried away the casket,
and, having noiselessly returned, stood silently beside him, he said:
"Ali, in one hour your master will be in high fever; in two hours he will,
probably, be delirious. He will then sleep soundly, and toward morning will
wake, I hope, in his right mind, but terribly exhausted and profusely
perspiring. At daylight I shall be here. You must not leave him for a single
instant as you value his life."
The Nubian clasped his hands above his head and bent his forehead almost
to the floor.

"If you think necessary, however, Ali, send for me before morning."
The physician gave one more look at his patient, pressed his fingers on his
pulse, placed his palm on his forehead, and then, taking his hat and cane,
left the chamber.

CHAPTER XV.
THE UNKNOWN NURSE.

When the rumor that M. Dantès had been taken seriously ill was first
circulated throughout Paris, it caused excitement in every quarter of the
city, filling the Communists and workmen with dismay and greatly elating
their opponents.
In the midst of the excitement a strange lady, very plainly attired, but whose
language and bearing gave unmistakable evidence of refinement and
aristocratic associations, made her appearance one morning at the office of
Dr. Orfila and humbly asked permission to nurse his distinguished patient.
The physician, somewhat surprised at such a request from such a woman,
immediately grew suspicious and demanded an explanation, when the lady
informed him that she had known the sick man in his youth and was still
deeply interested in his welfare. She refused to give her name, but solemnly
assured the doctor that, should he grant her petition, M. Dantès on his
recovery would be ready to thank him on bended knees.
Convinced at length that no harm was intended, the physician gave his
permission and the unknown lady was duly installed as nurse. She
discharged her duties with unflagging devotion and energy, satisfying even
the exacting Nubian, with whom she divided the watch at the bedside of the
unconscious deputy. Dr. Orfila was delighted, while Espérance and Zuleika
were overjoyed.
On—on—the sleeper still slumbered on! One—two—three—four quarters
after eleven tinkled in silvery numbers upon the delicate bell of the clock,
yet the closed eyelids and fixed lips moved not, gave no sign; but for the
light, though regular undulation of the chest, life itself might seem to have
fled forever. Yet life was still there!
How strange the bond which connects vitality with consciousness—the
body with the soul! And yet more strange is that phase of existence in
which the one moves on without the other. The mind sometimes is all life

when the body is dead, and oftener still is the body all life when the mind
seems gone. Mind, too, may frequently act independently, not only of the
body, as in dreams, but, also, of consciousness and of the heart; while the
body, as in somnambulism, may act altogether alone.
On—on—the slumberer breathed on, but he thought not, felt not, perceived
not. A revolution, an earthquake might heave around him, but the
convulsive throes of man or of nature would have been as nothing to him.
The brow would have remained as calm and as cold, and the cheek as pale
and as still, while, in all human probability, the faithful Nubian would have
sat as immovable upon his rug at the bedside of his beloved master, and
have gazed upon him as untiringly with his dark and sleepless eye.
As the last quarter after eleven sounded, followed immediately by the hour
of midnight, a small door beside the bed noiselessly opened, and a female
figure in white silently entered the room; but not so noiselessly was the
entrance effected as to escape the ear of the vigilant Ali. He glanced
hurriedly around; then, as if familiar with the apparition, and anticipating its
approach, he rose, and, taking his rug to the further extremity of the
chamber, again laid himself down, like a faithful dog, though not now to
watch.
Meanwhile the lady, quietly approaching the bed, gazed long and
mournfully at the slumberer's pale yet noble visage; then, kneeling, she
buried her face in her hands amid the coverings.
She was, probably, forty; yet, in the full and faultless perfection of her form
—in her graceful and yielding motions—in her statuesque bust, rounded
cheek and night-black hair, she would, to the casual observer, have
indicated hardly the half of that age. Her figure was tall and dignified, yet
mobile as a willow; her eyes were dark and luminous, and, in their profound
depths, slept a world of melancholy meaning. Her hair was simply parted
on a broad forehead, and was gathered in heavy masses low on the neck.
Her lips were full and red, and, when parted, exhibited teeth of dazzling
whiteness, while her complexion, which was very dark, was yet clear and
pure as the hue of the magnolia's petal. But that face was pale, very pale,
almost as colorless as that of the quiet sleeper at its side, and upon it rested
an expression of love unutterable, mingled with the sadness of death.

Such was the unknown nurse, the Countess de Morcerf, as she again was an
inmate of that apartment of which she had once, under circumstances how
different, been mistress; such was Mercédès, the Catalane of Marseilles,
again at the side of the man whom all her life she had loved, with none to
gainsay or forbid!
Upon that pale and motionless countenance she gazed long and deeply, and,
oh! the world of memory that passed through her mind!—the world of
thought and feeling that centred in that fixed gaze! At length, clasping her
hands upon her forehead, her eyes streaming with tears, she bowed her face
upon the bed, from which she had just raised it, and long seemed absorbed
in prayer.
Roused from this position by some movement of the slumberer, she started
up and watched him.
The shaded rays of the dim and distant lamp threw a faint glimmering of
light upon the pale countenance, but the quick eye of love instantaneously
detected a change. A slight flush was mounting the cheek, and gentle
perspiration was distilling upon the brow, while a smile played on the
mouth. Suddenly, as she gazed, those pallid lips moved. Astonished, she
listened.
"Marseilles! beautiful Marseilles!" said the sleeper. "Home of my boyhood,
home of my heart. I come!" Then quickly and sternly came the order, "Let
go the anchor—furl the sails—mate, take charge of the ship!" Then the
tones changed, and a joyful light shot over the face as the lips exclaimed,
"Now for my father! now for my love! Mercédès! Mercédès!"
Amazed, the fair watcher retained her position, and gazed and listened so
silently and breathlessly that the quick and audible beatings of her heart
might have been numbered.
"Mine—mine at last!" continued the dreamer. "The marriage-feast—the
marriage-feast!" But instantly the expression of the voice and the
countenance altered. The light of joy was shrouded in clouds. "Arrest—
arrest me?" was the exclamation—"me! at my marriage-feast! A dungeon
for me! Mercédès! Mercédès! My love—my wife! Oh! God! it is the
Château d'If! Despair—despair!"

Shocked, terrified at the terrible energy of these words, and the expression
of unutterable woe that rested on the countenance of the sleeper, the
affrighted woman, who comprehended but too well the fearful significance
of the abrupt and disjointed syllables, hastily arose as if to rouse the
slumberer from his dream or to call on the Nubian for aid.
But, before she could carry the purpose into execution, the aspect of the
Deputy's visage again had changed. A dark frown settled on the brow, a
spirit of fixed resolve contracted the firm lip and dilated the nostril, and the
word, "Vengeance—vengeance!" in whispers scarcely audible, but
repeatedly and rapidly pronounced, was heard.
A longer silence than before succeeded. At length another change swept
over the face, and the words, "Free—free—I am free!" burst from the lips;
then they murmured, "Treasure untold! wondrous wealth!—diamonds—
pearls—rubies—ingots of gold! The mad abbé's dream was reality!" Again
the countenance darkened. "Fourteen years in a dungeon for no crime!—a
father dead of starvation!—a bride the bride of the fiend who has done all
this—and he a peer of France—and his friends a millionaire of Paris and the
Procureur du Roi! Vengeance—vengeance—vengeance!" There was a
pause, and the dreamer exultingly continued, "It is done! The peer of France
is a disgraced suicide! The Procureur du Roi is a madman! The banker is a
bankrupt!" The dreamer again paused, and his countenance once more
changed. "Alas! alas! man is not God! 'Vengeance is mine, I will repay,
saith the Lord!' The innocent suffer with the guilty. To avenge a wrong has
been sacrificed a life, and only misery has been the recompense! No more
—no more—no more of this! Man and man's happiness be henceforth the
aim! To that be devoted wealth untold!"
The lips ceased to move. Gradually the high excitement of the features
passed away and was succeeded by an expression of sadness and love.
"Haydée—gone—gone to a better world. Mercédès—Mercédès—oh! does
she love me yet? The long lost idol of my heart!—the adored angel of my
life!—come! come! come!"
As the dreamer spoke, he spread wide his arms; when his eyes opened, and
his long slumbering senses returned, Mercédès, his own Mercédès, was,
indeed, clasped to his breast.

"Mercédès! Mercédès?" he faintly whispered. "Ah! it was no dream, for you
are, indeed, beside me and mine—mine forever!"
"Thine—thine—forever!" was the reply, and she clasped his feeble form to
her heart as she would have clasped that of a child.

CHAPTER XVI.
A NOTABLE FÊTE.

On the night of Monday, February 21st, 1848, all Paris was at the house of
M. Gaultier de Rumilly, in the Avenue des Champs Elysées. M. Gaultier de
Rumilly was well known as one of the leaders of the extreme left, though
the confidential friend of M. Odillon Barrot, and the fête was perfectly
understood to be a political reunion, rather than a social one. All the
accompaniments of the most splendid society events of the season were in
requisition. Even the brilliant balls given by the opulent citizens of New
York were eclipsed in luxury and splendor. There was the streaming of
lamps and chandeliers, the swell of enchanting music, the whirl of the
fascinating polka, redowa or mazurka, while throngs of richly attired and
lovely women were constantly enhancing the magnificence of the scene by
their arrival. The brilliancy of the occasion was also richly diversified by
the presence of an unusually large number of officers of the Municipal and
National Guards in full uniform, as well as of several belonging to the Line
or the regiments of Algeria.
It was about ten o'clock. Within, all was light, life and loveliness; without,
the winter wind moaned drearily through the leafless trees of the Boulevard,
and the drifting sleet swept along the deserted streets. It was a wild night.
Throughout all Paris seemed going forth a portentous murmur, like that
mysterious moaning of the ocean, which, with mariners, is the prelude of a
storm. An ominous whispering, as of many voices, seemed to sink and swell
on the sweeping night blast; then all was still. Again, in the distance, would
rise a sharp shout, or the stern, brief word of military command. At
intervals, also, one might imagine he heard a deep rumbling, as of heavy
ordnance and its tumbrels over the pavements, accompanied by the
measured tread of armed men and the clattering hoofs of cavalry horses.
Then these sounds died away, and along the narrow streets of Paris again
the night wind only swept, the bitter blast howled and the ominous
whispering, as of spirits, rose and fell.

It was a strange and stormy night—murky and chilly—while at intervals the
cold rain dashed down in cutting blasts. But within the magnificent mansion
of Gaultier de Rumilly all was light and loveliness, as has been said. The
splendid salons were already thronged, yet crowds of richly-attired guests
were constantly arriving.
"Ha! Beauchamp, just come?" cried Château-Renaud to his friend, as he
entered.
"By the grace of God, yes!" said the journalist. "What a night!"
"What a throng of men and women say rather!" was the reply.
"Very true. Who's here?"
"Ask who's not here, and your question may be easily answered. All Paris is
here! Women of every age and station, and men of all political creeds—
Conservatives, Dynastics, Legitimists, Republicans and Communists.
Indeed, this soirée seems to me, and I shouldn't wonder if it were designed
so to be, a general reunion of the leaders of all the great parties in France, to
compare notes and learn the news."
"And there is news enough to learn, it would seem. Is M. Dantès here?"
"He is, or was, and his beautiful wife, too, the most magnificent woman in
Paris. Morrel also is here with his fair bride."
"And who is that dark, dignified man in the Turkish costume, around whom
the ladies have clustered so inquisitively?" asked the Deputy.
"Why, that's the Emir of Algeria, the famous captive of the Duke
d'Aumale," was the reply.
"What! Abd-el-Kader! How comes he here?"
"Oh! as a special favor, I suppose; he has a respite from his sad prison."
"What a splendid beard, and what keen black eyes!"
"No, his eyes are decidedly gray, but so shaded by his extraordinary lashes
that they seem black. They say that he was more distinguished as a scholar,
in Algeria, than as a soldier, statesman or priest. In fact, he is as erudite as

an Arab can be, and his library, which is contained in two leathern trunks,
accompanied him in all his wanderings prior to his submission."
"And what think you really induced him to surrender himself?"
"Policy of the deepest character, and worthy of Talleyrand, Metternich or
Nesselrode, if we are to rely on the eloquent speech of Lamoricière in the
Chamber, the other day."
"I remember. Bugeaud spoke first, and Lamoricière followed. He thought
that the Arab Curtius leaped into the gulf because, by so doing, he was
convinced he could injure French interests more than by his freedom. Well,
perhaps he was right. He bids fair to be a hard bone of contention between
the opposition and the Ministry."
"If I mistake not, Lamoricière disclaimed all responsibility for accepting the
surrender, and placed it on the Governor-General, the young Duke, for
whom the Ministry is liable?"
"Yes; and Guizot announced that he would send the Emir back to
Alexandria, could security be given against his return to Algeria."
"As to the Emir's surrender, at which you wonder, the real cause is said to
have been not policy, but the universal passion—love."
"He is an Antony, then, instead of a Curtius."
"So it seems. At the moment when, with incredible efforts, he had effected
the passage of the Moorish camp, and was off like an ostrich for the desert,
the firing of the French, who had reached his deira, struck his ear. Back he
flew like the lamiel. Twice his horse fell under him dead—twice he was
surrounded and seized, and twice, by his wonderful agility, he regained his
freedom. At last, perceiving that all was lost, he turned his face again
toward the desert, and, for two days and nights, continued his flight. But his
heart was behind him. Certain of escape himself, he preferred hopeless
captivity with her he loved, and he returned."
"Quite poetical, on my word! Worthy of Sadi, the Arab Petrarch, himself!"
said Château-Renaud.

"He is decidedly a great man, that Abd-el-Kader. They say he bears his
misfortunes like a philosopher—or, better, a Turk—unalterably mild and
dignified, while his wives and his mother wail at his feet. Every morning he
reads the Koran to them, and during the orisons all the windows are open,
and a large fire blazes in the centre of the room."
"He is a decided godsend to the quidnuncs of Paris."
"So would be a Hottentot, or a North American savage," replied
Beauchamp.
"Rather a different affair this from the Ministerial soirée a week ago, I
fancy," remarked the editor.
"Rather. I will confess to you, Beauchamp, I attended that soirée from
curiosity to see whether M. Guizot retained his habitual placidity of manner
amid the clouds every day thickening around him."
"And what was the result?"
"Why, this. He was as polite and courteous as ever, and the same cold,
imperturbable smile was on his thin lip; but he looked careworn, and upon
his countenance was an expression of solicitude, when it was closely
watched, which I never saw there before. Ah, Beauchamp, I envy not the
Premier!"
"And the guests?" asked the journalist.
"Of guests there were but few; and the spacious salons of the Hôtel des
Affaires Étrangères looked dismal and deserted."
"The lovely Countess Leven—"
"Even she was absent."
"And the Countess of Dino?"
"Absent, too."
"The soirée must have been, indeed, dull without those 'charming queens of
intrigue,' as Louis Blanc courteously calls them. But tell me, Count, is the

Minister really the husband of the beautiful Leven, or is she only his par
amours?"
"No one knows. It is certain, however, that the great man devotes to the
enchantress every moment he can steal from the State, though to look at
him one would hardly suppose him a lover, in any meaning of the term. But
who knows? To read his writings can one imagine a purer man? But, then,
the affairs of Gisquet, Cubières, Teste, and, last and worst, Petit, whose case
was before the Chamber, do they not betray deplorable lack of firmness or
morality? But no more of this. Who is that dark, splendid woman to whom
young Joliette seems so devoted? I have seen them together before!"
"Why, you surely have not forgotten Louise d'Armilly, the charming
cantatrice! She has recently left the boards, to the irreparable loss of the
opera, having come into possession of an immense inheritance—some
millions, it is said, left by her father, who was once a banker of Paris. She is
asserted to be very accomplished and very ambitious, and, as the young
African paladin is thoroughly bewitched by her, and she by him, they will,
doubtless, be matched as well as paired."
"Has Lucien been here?" asked the Deputy, after a pause, during which the
young men surveyed the brilliant throngs that passed before them and
returned the salutations of their acquaintances.
"I think not. We have not met, at least," replied the journalist.
"He can hardly be spared to-night, I fancy. The Ministry have had a stormy
day, and are, doubtless, preparing for one still more stormy to-morrow."
"There was a perfect tempest in the Chamber this evening, I understand."
"Call it rather a hurricane, a tornado!"
"Ah! give me the particulars; here, come with me into this corner.
Unfortunately, I was not present. I was busy on the General Committee for
the Banquet of the Twelfth Arrondissement, to-morrow, at Chaillot. To
avoid all possibility of collision with the police, we resolved, you know, not
to have the banquet within the walls of Paris, and so there is to be a
procession to the Barrière de l'Etoile. I have been there since morning, and

reached the city only in time to come here. So, you see, I am edifyingly
ignorant of the latest news."
"Then I have to inform you that there is to be no banquet after all."
"No banquet! Why, I thought it was compromised between Guizot and
Barrot that the banquet should be allowed to proceed under protest, in order
that the question might be brought before the Supreme Court."
"Such was the purpose, but a manifesto of the Banquet Committee, drawn
up by Marrast, it is said, and, at all events, issued in 'Le National' this
morning, declaring the design not only of a banquet, but of a procession,
changed everything. The address sets forth that all invited to the banquet
would assemble at the Place de la Madeleine to-morrow at about noon, and
thence, escorted by the National Guard, and accompanied by the students of
the universities, should proceed by the Place de la Concorde to the Arc de
Triomphe, at the extremity of the Avenue des Champs Elysées, and thence
to the immense pavilion on the grounds of General Shian. Only one toast,
'Reform, and the right to assemble,' was announced to be drunk, and then a
commissary of police could enter a formal protest against the whole
proceeding on the spot, on which to base a legal prosecution, and the
multitude would disperse."
"A very sensible mode of procedure," quietly remarked the journalist, "and
one eminently calculated to relieve your friend Guizot and my friend Barrot
from the awkward dilemma of a direct issue."
"But so thought not my friend Guizot. Like his oracle, the sage
Montesquieu, he thought, 'Who assembles the people causes them to revolt.'
He took fright at the manifesto, as he was pleased to dignify the simple
programme in this morning's 'National,' and so, early in the sitting, it was
announced that the reform banquet was utterly prohibited by M. Delessert,
Préfect of Police, on the express injunction and responsibility of M.
Duchatel, Minister of the Interior, by and with the advice of M. Hebert,
Minister of Justice."
"Ha! and what said Odillon Barrot?" cried the journalist.
"He—why he said nothing at all, but immediately retired at the head of the
opposition from the Chamber."

"To consult?"
"Of course. An hour after, they returned in a body two hundred and fifty
strong, with Barrot at their head, who at once mounted the tribune and
denounced the despotism of the Ministry in forbidding the peaceful
assembling of the citizens, without tumult or arms, to discuss their political
rights. Duchatel replied, under great excitement.
"'Shall reform committees dare to call out the National Guard at their
pleasure?' he asked.
"'Will you dare to call out the National Guard?' retorted De Courtais,
fiercely. 'Only try it!'
"'The Government of France will never yield!' rejoined the Minister, pale
with fury.
"'Speak in your own name, Monsieur!' shouted Flocon.
"'I shall never speak in yours!' was the answer.
"'You play the game of menace!' cried Lesseps.
"'The Government will never yield!' again vociferated Duchatel.
"'Those were the very words of Charles X.!' observed M. Dantès, sternly.
The entire left responded in a terrific roar.
"'There is blood in those words!' shouted Ledru Rollin.
"'The Government will never yield!' the Minister of the Interior for the third
time vehemently exclaimed, and the right gathered around him. 'This is
worse than Polignac or Peyronet!' vociferated Odillon Barrot, his trumpet
tones rising above all others like a clarion in a tempest. Those hated names
were greeted by a yell of abhorrence perfectly savage from the left; then all
was uproar—a dozen voices simultaneously shouting at their loudest—
denunciation—menace—defiance—retort—clenched hands—extended
arms—furious gesticulations—every one on tip-toe—fiery eyes—stamping
feet—shouts of 'Order! order! order!'—and, amid all, the incessant tinkling
of old Sauzet's little silver bell, which was just about as effective in
restoring peace as it would be to quiet the tempest now howling through the

streets of Paris. At length, in utter consternation and dismay the old
President put on his hat, and, pronouncing the séance ended, rushed from
his chair amid a hurricane of uproarious shouts."
"And Odillon Barrot?"
"Odillon Barrot led the opposition members immediately from the Chamber
to his own house, where they have been ever since in deliberation. It was
six o'clock when the sitting closed, and they must be in consultation now, or
Barrot would surely be here, if but for a moment, out of respect to his
bosom friend, our host. Ah! there he is, just entering, surrounded by a
perfect army of Republicans—De Courtais, Marrast, Lesseps, Duvergier,
Flocon, Lamartine, Dupont and a whole host besides."
"How excited they look!" exclaimed the journalist. "Ah! Thiers approaches
them from the other end of the salon!"
"M. Thiers, like the worldly-wise and selfish man he is, has held himself
aloof from the banquet, and even declined the invitation accepted by a
hundred of his party; to-day he was absent from the Chamber and to-night
from the conclave, all with the aspiring, yet vain hope, that the King will
send for him to form a Ministry."
"And yet, in the Chamber, a few days ago, he said that he was of the party
of the revolution in Europe."
"True, but he added that he wished the revolution carried on by its moderate
supporters, and that he should do all he could to keep it in the hands of the
moderate party."
"'But if it should pass into the hands of a party not moderate,' continued the
crafty ex-Minister, 'I shall not abandon the cause of the revolution. I shall
be always of the party of the revolution.' But see, he singles out Marrast, of
all others!"
"And his old colleague of 'Le National' seems to give him no very cordial
reception," added the Deputy. "But let us move up and hear the
determination of the opposition relative to the banquet."

"That's the very question the little historian has just propounded to the great
journalist. Now for the answer."
"The opposition decide, Monsieur, to abandon the banquet," was the angry
reply of the editor to the ex-Minister.
"Indeed!" was the bland rejoinder; "and has a manifesto of this decision
been issued to the people?"
"It has; and it instantly called forth a counter manifesto from the electoral
committee of the Twelfth Arrondissement, expressing very natural
astonishment that, at the same time the opposition abandoned the banquet,
they had not abandoned their seats in the Chamber, and inviting them so to
do at once."
"And the Ministry?" anxiously asked M. Thiers.
"Will to-morrow be impeached, Monsieur!"
"Ah! indeed! indeed!" cried the smart little aspirant, gleefully rubbing his
hands.
At that moment General Lamoricière, the brother-in-law of Thiers, who
owed so much to the house of Orléans, hastily approached.
"I come straight from the Tuileries," he said, with considerable excitement.
"General Jacqueminot has just issued an order of the day, as commander-in-
chief of the National Guard, appealing to them as the constitutional
protectors of the Throne to take no part in the banquet. Orders have, also,
been issued for the rappel to be beaten at dawn, in the Quartier St. Honoré,
the scene of the contemplated procession. But it's all folly to rely on the
National Guard. They are of the people. Only the Municipal Guard and the
troops of the Line can be relied on in the civil conflict, which is sure to
come to-morrow."
"And the Ministers, what do they?" asked Thiers.
"Oh! they are not idle," replied the soldier. "The bastilles are armed, and
those of Montrouge and Aubervilliers are provisioned. The horse-artillery at
Vincennes are ready, on the instant, to gallop into the capital. Seventy
additional pieces of ordnance are now entering the barrières. The Municipal

Guard are supplied with ball-cartridges. The troops concentrated at sunrise
to-morrow will not be less than one hundred thousand strong. With these
men in the forts and faithful, the city can be starved in three days, National
Guard and all, if rebellious. Now is the crisis in which to test the
remarkable admission of M. Duchatel, in May, '45, that the bastilles of Paris
were designed to 'fortify order.' We shall see, we shall see!"
"And the Marshal Duke of Islay—where is he?" quietly asked Marrast, with
a significant shrug and smile.
At this mention of his bitter foe, a frown lowered on the fine face of
Lamoricière, as he briefly and sternly replied:
"With the King, Monsieur—General Bugeaud is with the King. But they
mistake, Monsieur. Eugène Cavaignac is the man for this emergency.
Bugeaud is a soldier—a mere soldier—Cavaignac is a statesman—a
Napoleon! Paris will discriminate between the two one day, and that
shortly."
And with an abrupt military salute the conqueror of Algeria walked away,
followed by his little brother-in-law, who seemed yet shorter and more
insignificant at the side of his towering and graceful form. At the same
moment, Ledru Rollin entered in great agitation, and, having glanced
hastily around, as if in search of some one in the assemblage, advanced
straight to the journalist and grasped his hand.
"By heavens, Armand, I think the hour has arrived!"
"Whence do you come?" was the quick question.
"From the Boulevards, where I left Flocon, Louis Blanc and M. Dantès,
with the people. I tell you, Armand, the people are ripe—ripe! The
Ministerial ordinances prohibiting the banquet have kindled a flame
wherever they have gone. The pitiful manifesto of the opposition and the
counter manifesto of the Twelfth Arrondissement have only served to fan
this flame into fury. It has been our care to restrain and direct, not to excite.
It is dark and cold without, Armand; the winter wind howls dismally along
the streets, the sleet freezes as it falls and the furious blast almost
extinguishes the torches by which, at the corners and at the cafés, the
different manifestoes of the day are being read to the eager throngs, on

whose faces, in the flare of the blood-red light, can be perceived the fury of
their hearts. The people, at length, are ripe! To-morrow all Paris will be in
arms!"
While Ledru Rollin was thus speaking, Louis Blanc entered and quietly
approached, courteously saluting his acquaintances on his way, and
stopping to exchange a few words with Madame Dantès, who inquired with
considerable anxiety for her husband.
"I have this moment left him, Madame," said Louis Blanc. "Be assured, he
is safe and well. Ah! how glorious to be an object of solicitude to one like
you!" he added, with a smile.
The lady smiled also, and offered an appropriate jest in reply to the
gallantry of the distinguished author, as he moved on to join his friends.
"The Ministry provokes its fate!" he said, in a low tone, as he approached.
"'Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad.' These men suffered
seventy reform banquets all over France. The seventy-first one they
prohibit, and that, too, by the exhumation of an old despotic edict of 1790.
This is exactly what we would have. It was the first, not the last banquet
they should have suppressed. Barrot was right to-day, in the Chamber, when
he said that had this manifestation been suffered the people would have
become tranquil."
"Tranquil, indeed!" cried Ledru Rollin. "That's exactly what we have
apprehended! No—no—it is too late! This Reform Banquet was, at first, but
an insignificant thing. In it we now recognize the commencement of a
revolution. The various announcements and postponements of this banquet
have caused an agitation among the masses favorable to our wishes, and the
threats and obstinacy of the Ministry have completed the work. The hopes,
fears, doubts and disappointments attending this affair have put the mind of
all Paris in a ferment, and excited passions of which we may take
immediate advantage."
"Aye!" cried Louis Blanc, "we may now do what I have always wished and
counseled—we, the Communists, may now take advantage of a movement,
in the origin or inception of which we had no hand."

"True, most true!" observed Marrast; "this is the work of the Dynastics—
Thiers, Barrot and the rest—the commencement of a reform under the law
which we design to make a revolution paramount to all law."
"They begin to fear already that they have gone too far, those discreet
men!" said Louis Blanc, smiling bitterly. "Did you observe how they
shuffled to-night at M. Barrot's, and finally resolved to abandon the
banquet, but, as a sop to the people, pledged themselves to impeach the
Ministry?"
"Ah! ha! ha!" laughed Ledru Rollin; "just as if their abandonment of the
banquet is to keep the people away from it to-morrow, any more than the
Ministerial ordinances! Why, not one man in ten thousand knows of the
existence of these manifestoes! But the faubourgs have been promised a
holiday for a fortnight past, and they don't intend to be put off again."
"Whether the Dynastics designed or wished to be compromised in this
affair," remarked Marrast, "they certainly are committed now, and it is too
late for them to get out of the movement. Indeed, I view it as nothing less
than a union of all the oppositions against the Crown—aye, against the
Crown, and for a republic! We comprehend this—they don't. They have not,
like us, waited seventeen years for a signal for revolution;—and now,
before God, I believe the hour is at hand! This is no accidental insurrection
of the 5th and 6th of June, '32—no outbreak at a funeral—no riot of
operatives—no unmeaning revolt, as in '39. It is a reform, with the first
names in France as its advocates and supporters, which we will make a
revolution if we can secure the National Guard."
"The National Guard is secured already," said Louis Blanc. "Are they not of
the people? At least twenty thousand of the National Guard are
Republicans. Of the remaining forty thousand, nearly all are well disposed
or neutral in feeling. Have I studied the National Guard for twenty years in
vain, and have all the measures of the Communists to secure them, when
the crisis came on, proved utterly ineffectual? On the National Guard we
may rely. The Municipal Guard are picked men, and well paid to support
the Throne—they will fight even better than the Line. With the Line and the
National Guard the people must seek to fraternize from the beginning—
with the other troops they have solely to fight—but, after all, general facts

and principles only can be laid down. Circumstances utterly beyond human
control must direct and govern, and vary and determine results when the
period of action arrives; and arrive it may at any hour of the day or night. At
this moment Paris sleeps on a volcano, the fires of which have long been
gathering through many a fair and sunny day! God only knows when the
volcano will burst; but, when the hour comes, let the people be prepared!"
As these enthusiastic words were uttered, the dark eye of the speaker
flashed and his lip quivered. The silver clock on the mantel, beside which
the conspirators stood, struck the first quarter after two. The night was
waning, but the festivity seemed rather to increase than diminish within the
salons of the magnificent mansion, while the storm howled even more
drearily without, and the rain, at intervals, in heavy blasts, beat even more
fiercely against the northern casements.
As Louis Blanc ceased speaking, M. Flocon entered the salon, and, as if by
some preconcerted arrangement, at once sought his political friends.
"What of the night, watchman?" cried Ledru Rollin, as the editor of "La
Réforme" approached. "The latest news! for 'That of an hour's age doth hiss
the speaker,' as the English Shakespeare says. The news! good or bad!"
"As I entered," said Flocon, "the house trembled with the jar of a train of
heavy ordnance, attended by tumbrels and artillery caissons, and escorted
by a regiment of horse, which rolled along the pavement of the Champs
Elysées."
"Good!" answered Marrast, with enthusiasm.
"All night," continued Flocon, eagerly, "through darkness and storm, whole
regiments of infantry have thronged the line of boulevards which stretch
from the Tuileries to Vincennes, and each soldier bears upon his knapsack,
in addition to all his arms, an axe to demolish barricades. The garrisons of
the arrondissements of Paris are already seventy thousand strong; and the
troops of the Line are concentrating around the Palais Bourbon and the
Chamber of Deputies."
"Excellent—most excellent!" joyfully exclaimed Louis Blanc. "The affront
will not be wanting! But where is M. Dantès?"

"He is still with the chiefs of the faubourgs and the committees of the Free-
masons and workmen, in the Rue Lepelletier, issuing his last instructions
for the morrow. Messieurs, that man is a magician! His zeal in the good
cause puts the boldest of us all to the blush. By most indefatigable energy
and indomitable perseverance, he has brought about a systematic, almost
scientific organization and fraternity, through various modes of rapid
intercommunication between the innumerable classes of operatives of every
description throughout the whole capital and its faubourgs, so that, within
six hours, he can have in military array an armed mass of one hundred
thousand blouses upon the boulevards. The workshops alone, he tells me,
can furnish fifty thousand. The rapidity with which he conveys intelligence
through this immense army and their utter subservience to his will and
subordination to his orders are all so wonderful that it is impossible to
determine which is most so. To control a Parisian populace has hitherto
been deemed a chimera. With M. Dantès it is an existing reality. Not an
army in Europe is so obedient or so prompt as his army of workmen. The
secret is this—they know him to be their friend. All over Paris are to be
seen his workshops, savings banks, hospitals and houses of industry and
reform, and, in the suburbs, his phalansteries and his model farms. That he
has the command of boundless wealth is certain; but whose it is, or whence
it comes, no one can divine; and never did man make use of boundless
wealth to attain his ends more wisely than he does! Why, I am told that the
pens of half the littérateurs and feuilletonists of Paris have for years past
been guided by his will and compensated from his purse to accomplish his
purposes. 'The Mysteries of Paris' and 'The Wandering Jew' are but two of
the triumphs of his policy. And his system of philanthropy seems not
bounded by France, but to embrace all Europe. The Swiss Protestant and the
Italian patriot have each felt his effective sympathy as well as the French
workman; and in the same manner as with the operatives so has he obtained
influence and weight with the National Guard, and to such an extent that of
the sixty thousand one-half would obey his orders with greater alacrity than
those of Jacqueminot himself. I tell you, Messieurs, he is a magician!"
"Hush! hush!" cried Marrast; "he is entering now!"
"He pauses and looks around him!" said Louis Blanc.
"He looks for us; I will go to him!" remarked Flocon.

"He looks for his wife," replied Louis Blanc. "There, he catches her eye.
See how eagerly she flies to him!"
"That is the finest pair in Paris," remarked the journalist.
"And the most devoted," added Ledru Rollin. "They have been man and
wife for some time, it is said, and any one would take them for lovers at this
moment."
"Have they children?" asked Flocon.
"No; but M. Dantès has by a former wife a son and daughter, who rival in
good looks the celebrated children of our friend Victor Hugo," returned
Louis Blanc.
"I met Arago, Lamartine, Sue, Châteaubriand and some other celebrities at
his mansion in the Rue du Helder one night, recently," continued Marrast,
"and I thought I never saw a house arranged with such perfect taste. The
salons, library, picture-gallery, cabinet of natural history, conservatory, and
laboratory were superb—everything, in short, was exquisite."
"And then one is always sure to meet at Madame Dantès' soirées," added
Louis Blanc, "exactly the persons who, of all others, he wishes to see, and
whom he would meet nowhere else, poets, painters, authors, orators,
statesmen and artists of every description—in fine, every man or woman,
whether native or foreigner, distinguished for anything, is certain to be met
with at M. Dantès' house."
"I once met there," said Flocon, "Rachel, the actress, and Van Amburgh, the
lion-king."
"M. Dantès is a perfect Mæcenas in encouraging merit, as every one
knows," remarked Marrast; "and he manifests especial solicitude to show
that he appreciates worth more highly than wealth—genius than station.
Poverty and ability are sure recommendations to him."
"Madame Dantès is, I am told, as devoted to the good cause as her
husband," remarked Flocon.
"She is a second Madame Roland!" exclaimed Louis Blanc. "France will
owe much to such women as she and her friend Madame Dudevant!"

"She differs greatly from Madame George Sand in some respects, I fancy,"
said Marrast; "but, if she at all rivals that wonderful woman in devotedness
to the cause of human rights, whether of her own sex or ours, she deserves
well of France. In her charities, it is notorious, she has no rival. Half the
mendicants of the capital bless her name, and she is at the head of a dozen
associations and enterprises for the amelioration of the condition of the
destitute, suffering and abandoned of her sex."
"Upon my word, Messieurs," cried Ledru Rollin, "your praises of M.
Dantès and Madame, his beautiful wife, are perfectly enthusiastic—so
much so, that, in your zeal, you utterly forgot another matter quite as
momentous. I am so unfortunate as to know M. Dantès only as one of the
great pillars of our noble cause, and a man who, for nearly six years, has
proven himself an apostle of man's rights, and ready, if need be, to become
a martyr! That's enough for me to know of him!"
"But who really are M. Dantès and his wife?" asked Flocon.
"Who really are any of us?" laughingly rejoined Louis Blanc.
"Who really is any one in Paris," continued Marrast, "the blood-royal
always and alone excepted?"
"Of M. Dantès this only is known," said Louis Blanc, "that for five or six
years past he has been a Deputy from Marseilles, Lyons and other southern
cities, all of which have been eager to honor themselves by returning him as
their representative, as one of the boldest and most eloquent Republicans in
all France; as for Madame Dantès, we know her to have once been the
Countess de Morcerf, but now the wife of our friend, and one of the noblest
and most lovely matrons in Paris. What need have we to know more? But
our friend comes."
While this conversation was proceeding, Dantès and Mercédès had joined
each other, and their hands were quietly clasped.
"Is all well, Edmond?" was the anxious inquiry of the fond wife, in low,
soft, musical tones, as she fixed upon his pale face her dark eyes, beaming
with the tenderest solicitude.

"All is well, love," replied the husband. "You will pardon my protracted
absence, when I tell you it has been unavoidable—will you not, Mercédès?"
"Will I not? What a question! But I have been so anxious for your safety,
knowing the perilous business in which you are engaged; and the night is so
tempestuous."
"You forget that I have a constitution of iron, dear," replied Dantès; "you
forget that I was a sailor once, and the storms were my playthings!"
"But you will go home with me now, Edmond, will you not?" she anxiously
asked, placing her little white hand on his arm and gazing beseechingly into
his eyes.
"Have I ever passed one night from your arms, my Mercédès, since we
were wed?" was the whispered response. "Ah! love, any pillow but thy soft
bosom would be to me a thorny one! You have spoiled me forever!" he
added, smiling.
"And shall we go now, Edmond?" eagerly asked the delighted woman. "Oh!
I'm so weary of this fête!"
"I must exchange a few words with our friend Louis Blanc, whom I see
yonder, with others of our party, and then, dear, we will to our pillow. We
are both weary. Au revoir!"
"Edmond—Edmond!" cried the lady, as her husband was going, "do you see
Joliette and Louise in the redowa yonder?"
Dantès looked and, with a well pleased smile, nodded assent; a more
brilliant and well-matched pair could hardly have been found, Joliette in the
splendid uniform of an officer of the Spahis, and she in her own
magnificent beauty, fitly garbed.
M. Dantès was received with marked respect by the knot of Republicans as
he approached.
"I am delighted to meet you all, and to meet you to-night, or, rather, this
morning," said Dantès, warmly, "in order that I may render you an account
of my stewardship for the past six hours. They have been hours big with
fate; and the first day of Republican France has already commenced.

Messieurs, we can no longer remain blind to the fact that the long looked
for—hoped for—expected hour has come—the hour to strike—strike home
for liberty and for France! To-morrow the streets of Paris will swarm with
blouses!—the Marseillaise will be heard!—barricades rise!—the Ministry
be impeached! Next day the National Guards will fraternize with the
people!—blood will flow!—the Ministry resign! On the third, the King
abdicates!—the Tuileries are surrendered!—a Regency is refused!—a
Republic is declared! And this day, two weeks hence, liberty will be
shouted in the streets of Vienna and Berlin, and every throne in Europe will
tremble! The honors of prophecy are easily won," continued the speaker,
with a significant smile that lighted up his features, pale with enthusiasm
and exhaustion, "when the problem of seventeen years approaches solution
with mathematical certainty!"
"Are our plans all complete?" asked Louis Blanc.
"So far as human forethought or power could render them so, our efforts
have, I trust, been effectual," was the reply. "Yet the events of every hour
will induce changes, and render indispensable policy now undreamed of.
Ah! Messieurs, we must none of us sleep now! Not a moment must escape
our vigilance! Not an advantage must be sacrificed! We can afford to lose
nothing! Without leaders, the people are blind! Not, for an instant, must
they be abandoned! To-morrow, let the masses gather at different points!
Next day let barricades choke the Boulevards; and, if the conflict come not,
be it precipitated—provoked! Thursday, an hundred thousand men must
invest the Tuileries, and a Provisional Government be declared in the
Chamber of Deputies! The Bourbons will then be in full flight, and France
will be free! And now, Messieurs, will you permit me to suggest the
propriety of our separation? Yonder Ministerial Secretary has had his eye
upon us ever since he entered."
The expediency of the suggestion of M. Dantès was at once perceived; the
conspirators parted and one after the other, by different routes, shortly
disappeared. As for M. Dantès, he threw himself carelessly in the way of
the Ministerial Secretary to whom he had alluded, who was no other than
our friend Lucien Debray, and saluted him with most marked and winning
courtesy.

"Will the Ministerial Secretary suffer me to compliment him upon his
indefatigable industry and exertions to-night to fortify order in Paris and
sustain the administration?"
Debray bowed somewhat confusedly at this remark, and having returned a
diplomatic reply, from which neither himself nor any one else could have
elicited an idea, M. Dantès continued the conversation.
"Let me see, it is now nearly three o'clock," he said, consulting his repeater;
"at half-past two you received an order, signed by the Duke of Montpensier,
and directed to the War Ministry, commanding that seventy-two additional
pieces of artillery be transported from Vincennes to Paris before dawn. That
order was issued, and the ordnance is now on the boulevard!"
"How!" exclaimed the astonished Secretary.
"At Vincennes, the horses of the flying artillery stand harnessed in their
stalls! All night infantry have been pouring into Paris, and, obedient to
midnight orders, every railway will disgorge, at dawn, additional troops!"
"Are you a magician?" asked the astonished Secretary.
"Shall I reveal to you the Ministerial tactics for the morrow's apprehended
insurrection?" coolly asked Dantès, with a smile. "The salons of the
Tuileries have not been deserted to-night. 'Can you quell an insurrection,
General?' asked the King of the Marshal Duke of Islay. 'I can kill thirty
thousand men,' was the humane answer. 'And I, sire, can preserve order in
Paris without killing a score,' said Marshal Gérard, the hero of Antwerp, 'if I
can rely on my men.' 'What is your plan, Marshal?' asked the King. Shall I
give you the Marshal's reply, my friend?"
"You were present—you know all!" exclaimed Debray.
"Not quite all," thought Dantès, "but I shall before we part. Well," continued
he, aloud, "the Marshal's strategy was this—exceedingly simple and
exceedingly efficacious, too, provided, to use the Marshal's own words, he
can rely on his men. It is this: Occupy the Tuileries, the Hôtel de Ville, the
Halles, the Louvre and other prominent points with a heavy reserve of
infantry and artillery, and sweep the boulevards, and the Rues St. Honoré,
de Rivoli, St. Martin, St. Denis, Montmartre and Richelieu with cavalry. A

simple plan, is it not? Almost as simple as that of the insurrectionists
themselves—a barricade on every street and one hundred thousand men in
the Place du Carrousel!"
"The Government will not yield, Monsieur!" said Debray, firmly. "The
Minister is unshaken. To crush an unarmed mob cannot severely tax the
most skillful generals in Europe."
"True, they are unarmed," returned Dantès, with apparent seriousness.
"Their leaders should have thought of that—arms are so easily provided—
but then they can rely on their men!"
"We have yet to see that!" replied Debray, with some asperity.
"True, we have yet to see it. It is only a matter of belief now; then it will be
a matter of knowledge. Seeing is knowing," added M. Dantès, with his
peculiar smile. "But, pray, assure me, M. Debray, are the Ministry and their
advisers, indeed, sanguine of the issue to-morrow!"
"They are certain!" replied the Secretary, with energy. Then, feeling that he
had, perhaps, made a dangerous revelation, he quickly added: "I have the
honor, Monsieur, to wish you a very good night! It is late!"
"Say, rather, it is early, Monsieur!" replied Dantès. "I have the honor to wish
you a very good morning!"
The Secretary returned the courtesy, turned away, and, after exchanging a
few words with M. Thiers, disappeared.
"They are certain, then!" soliloquized M. Dantès, as Debray quitted the
salon. "I was sure I should know all before he left."
Then, rejoining Mercédès, who was patiently awaiting him, they stepped
into their carriage, as the drowsy tones of the watchman rose on the misty
air, "Past four o'clock, and all is well!"

CHAPTER XVII.
THE REVOLUTION BEGINS.

Tuesday, the 22nd of February, the birthday of the immortal Washington
and the first of the Three Days of the French Revolution of 1848, broke
darkly and gloomily on Paris. The night had been tempestuous, and the
wind still drove the sleet through the leafless trees of the Champs-Elysées
and howled drearily along the cheerless boulevards.
The streets were dismal, desolate and deserted. Here and there, however,
through the gray light of the winter dawn, could be caught the semblance of
a figure closely muffled, whether for concealment, disguise, or protection
from the biting blast was doubtful, stealing along; these figures often met
and exchanged ominous signs of recognition.
"Is the procession still to take place?" asked one of another of these persons,
pausing for an instant as they hurried along.
"Yes!" was the emphatic answer. "Dupont, Lamartine and the sixteen others
who are faithful are resolute."
"And the rendezvous?"
"Is the Place de La Concorde."
"And the hour?"
"Twelve."
Whereupon the conspirators parted.
Gradually the number of persons in the streets increased as the morning
advanced. Chiefly, these were artisans, lads, blouses and workmen.
"Whither so early this disagreeable morning?" cried a peaceable-looking
shopman of the Rue de Rivoli, who was taking down his shutters for the
day, to a friend who was hurrying by.

"I don't exactly know where I am going," was the reply. "We were all
roused at daybreak in the Quartier St. Honoré by the rappel, and so I happen
to be awake."
"And are the National Guard turning out in good numbers?"
"No. They don't turn out at all. The drummers are followed by a crowd of
gamins in blouses, who shout Vive la Réforme and sing the Marseillaise."
"The National Guard don't turn out!" cried the alarmed shopman; "then I'll
not take down my shutters!"
And as his friend moved on to the Madeleine, he took the precautionary
measure he had spoken of.
At nine o'clock troops were in motion all over Paris, and the roll of the
drum was heard in every street.
At ten o'clock ten thousand men were assembled at the Madeleine.
"Is there to be a banquet?" asked one of another, as they met on the Rue
Royale.
"No. It is a procession. The people are to march to the Chamber of Deputies
and sing the Marseillaise."
All the avenues to the Palais Bourbon and part of the Place around the
Madeleine were now occupied by the 21st Regiment of the Line and
mounted Municipal Guards. Before the Chamber of Deputies was
marshaled a squadron of dragoons, and a battalion of the 69th Regiment of
Cuirassiers stood ready to charge on the throng.
At eleven o'clock two thousand students in blouses from the Parthenon were
joined by an immense column of workmen from the faubourgs, and, having
fraternized in the Place de la Concorde, advanced in perfect order in
procession, led by National Guards, shouting the Marseillaise and the
Hymn of the Girondins. Slowly and solemnly moved the vast mass up the
Rue Royale to the Pont de la Concorde, leading to the Place of the Chamber
of Deputies.

At twelve o'clock the vast arena between the Chamber of Deputies and the
Madeleine contained thirty thousand people. Along the railing of the church
was drawn up a regiment of horse. A man in a tri-colored sash three times
read the summons and ordered the crowd disperse.
The order is disregarded! The charge is sounded! The dragoons rush with
sheathed sabres on the mass! Again and again they charge, but they cut
down none!
All at once a heavy cart with a powerful horse is discovered—the people
seize it—the horse is lashed into fury—he rushes on the double line of
dragoons and chasseurs—a breach is made—the crowd dash through—
some rush up the steps of the Chamber of Deputies—they force the gates—
they even enter the hall—then, suddenly panic-stricken at their own
audacity, they rush back! At this moment, along the Quai d'Orsay, gallops
up a strong detachment of the mounted Municipal Guard, led by General
Peyronet Tiburce Sebastiani, brother of the Marshal and uncle of the
unhappy Duchess of Praslin. A charge was ordered, the crowd was driven
over the bridge, and the Municipal Guard, a company of dragoons and a
squadron of hussars took up a position at the foot of the Obelisk of Luxor.
"Long live the dragoons!" shouted the people. "Down with the Municipal
Guard!" accompanied by hootings, groans, shouts and showers of stones.
The troops, with sheathed sabres, charged. One of the immense fountains
afforded the gamins a place of shelter. Suddenly the flood of water was let
on and they fled.
Thus began the revolution.
One o'clock tolled from the tower of the Madeleine. The area was clear.
Cavalry patrolled the boulevards. Infantry, bearing, besides their usual
arms, implements for demolishing barricades—axes, adzes and hatchets—
each soldier one upon his knapsack, followed.
At two o'clock, at the Hôtel des Affaires Étrangères, at the corner of the Rue
des Capucines and the Boulevard, an immense mass of men ebbed and
flowed like tides of the sea, and a tempest of shouts, groans and choruses to
national songs arose.

A commissary of police in colored clothes, and with the tri-colored sash, led
a body of Municipal Guards into the court. Deliberately they charge their
muskets with ball. "In the name of the Law!" shouted the commissary.
"Vive la Ligne!" responded the people, as they slowly retired.
"Away," cried a trooper to a blouse, in the Place de la Concorde, at the
corner, near the Turkish Embassy; "Away, or I'll cut you down!"
"Will you, coward!" replied the artisan, calmly, with folded arms. At that
moment a body of the people rushed on the Municipal Guards and drove
them for safety into their barracks; then they fled themselves to avoid the
fusillade of the enraged troops.
On the Pont de la Concorde the people stopped the carriage of a Ministerial
Deputy and saluted him with groans. The next moment Armand Marrast, of
"Le National," approached and was most rapturously cheered.
The money-changers, those seers of Napoleon, scented not yet the
revolution. On Friday, the three per cents. were 75f. 85c. On Tuesday they
opened at 73f. 90c. and closed at 74f.
The day advanced. The Republican and Communist power augments in its
systematized order. Paris swarms with insurgents. Bakers' and gunsmiths'
shops are plundered. Barricades are thrown up. A column rushes down the
Champs-Elysées, and, having been repulsed at an escalade of the railings of
the Chamber of Deputies, retires, shouting the Marseillaise and a chorus
from the new opera of the Girondins, "Mourir pour la Patrie." At dusk a
deputation of students, at the office of "Le National," presents a petition for
the impeachment of the Ministry.
That impeachment had already taken place!
"What news?" shouted a student to a workman, as he hurried along.
"There has been fighting in the Faubourg St. Marceau; half a dozen
Municipal Guards have been carried wounded to the hospital of Val-de-
Grace and a captain was killed."
"And is it true that the Guard has been disarmed on the Rues Geoffroi and
Langevin, and a gunmaker's shop near the Porte St. Martin broken into and

rifled?"
"I hadn't heard of that," was the hurried reply. "But I hear this, that the
guard-houses in the Champs-Elysées have been taken, and the troops driven
off, and that lamps and windows have been torn down."
At that moment another workman rushed along.
"The news!" shouted the student and the first workman.
"The railing of the Church of the Assumption has been torn away by the
people to supply arms; two women of the people have been crushed by a
charge of the Municipal Guard; the shop of Lepage, the armorer, in the Rue
Richelieu, has been entered by means of the pole of an omnibus used as a
battering ram; and barricades rise on the Rue St. Honoré."
At three o'clock a column of the people dashed down the boulevards,
smashing lamps and breaking shop windows. In the Rue St. Honoré and the
Rue de Rivoli an omnibus and two carriages were seized to aid in erecting a
barricade. A guard-house in the Champs-Elysées was burned. The troops at
the Ministry of Foreign Affairs were increased. No one was suffered to
pass. A Municipal Guard was dismounted and nearly killed by the people.
The crowd in the Rue Royale had become so dense that it was impossible to
pass to the Place de la Concorde. The troops charged. The people gave way.
Some were wounded badly; but still rose the shouts, "Vive la Ligne! Down
with the Municipal Guard!"
In the Place Vendôme stood a regiment of the Line. There was the hôtel of
M. Hebert, the Minister of Justice, and M. Hebert was hated by the people.
"Down with Hebert, the inventor of moral complicity!" yelled the populace,
but they made no attack.
It was ten o'clock at night. Many of the shops were closed, but the cafés and
restaurants were thronged. From time to time the shouts, "Down with
Guizot!" and "Vive la Réforme!" were heard and, also, the roll of drums as
a body of troops passed along; knots of individuals gathered around the
doors of bakers' shops, and, while they eagerly ate their bread and sausage,
as eagerly denounced Guizot and the Ministry.
But all was comparative order in Paris.

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE MIDNIGHT CONCLAVE.

It was twelve o'clock at night, on the 22nd of February, 1848.
Lights still gleamed in the vast edifice of "Le National" printing office, and
in the editorial chamber were assembled the chiefs of the revolution.
"All goes well," said Louis Blanc. "The blow is struck; let it only be
followed up, and the efforts of the past ten years will not prove vain!"
"How true was the opinion of M. Dantès respecting the National Guard!"
said Marrast.
"How true also respecting the workmen!" said Albert.
"How true respecting the Ministry!" said Ledru Rollin. "But where is M.
Dantès? Why is he not here?"
At that moment the private door opened, and M. Dantès, Flocon and
Lamartine entered.
"The news from the Chambers!" cried Marrast, as they approached.
"Three impeachments of the Ministry have been proposed," said Lamartine.
"By whom—by whom?" asked Louis Blanc. "By whom presented?"
"One by Odillon Barrot, one by Duvergier d'Hauranne and one by M. de
Genoude, Deputy from Toulouse."
"And what said Guizot?" asked Marrast.
"Nothing. He only laughed when the papers were handed him by old
President Sauzet."
"Ah!" cried Ledru Rollin.

"Few deputies were there," continued Flocon. "The opposition benches
were vacant. Guizot was there early, pale and troubled, but stern and
unbending. All the Ministers followed him."
"What was discussed?" asked Marrast.
"The Bordeaux Bank Bill."
"Ah!" cried Ledru Rollin again.
"Yes," continued Flocon, "until five o'clock that bill was discussed. Barrot
then ascended the tribune and deposited a general proposition to impeach
the Ministry."
"And what was done with it?" asked Louis Blanc.
"The President raised the sitting without reading it, but announced that the
bureaux should have it for examination on Thursday."
"Infamous!" cried Ledru Rollin.
"It is all as it should be," said M. Dantès, calmly.
"And the peers—what of them?"
"The Marquis de Boissy made an effort to get a hearing on the state of
Paris, but, of course, it was in vain."
"Is it true," asked Flocon, "that the rappel has been beaten to-day?"
"It was beaten in the Quartier St. Honoré, at dawn," said Louis Blanc, "and
this evening, at about five o'clock, in several of the arrondissements. But no
reliance need be placed on the National Guard. They are with us—they are
of the people—they shout, 'Vive la Réforme!'"
"But the Municipal Guard and the Line? I am told that an immense body of
them was this evening, at about eight o'clock, reviewed by the King and the
Dukes of Nemours and Montpensier, in the Place du Carrousel," said
Flocon.
"That's true," said Ledru Rollin; "I witnessed it myself in passing, and I
could not help saying, 'It is the last.'"

"Six thousand troops of the Line are on the boulevards, from the Madeleine
to the Porte St. Martin," said M. Dantès. "The Hôtel de Ville, the Places de
la Bastille, de la Concorde and du Carrousel, and the Quays frown with
artillery. To-morrow will be a warm day!"
"It has been rather warm to-day in some parts of Paris," said Louis Blanc,
smiling. "Was there ever a grander spectacle than that in the Place de la
Concorde at noon? At least one hundred thousand men were there
assembled. Rushing across the bridge, they gathered around the Chamber of
Deputies—then from the southern gate of the Tuileries issued two bodies of
troops, one of mounted Municipal Guards, the other infantry of the Line,
and, pressing on the dense mass, they drove them over the bridge. Only a
few old fruitwomen were crushed beneath the horses' hoofs, and a few of
the troops were wounded by pebbles, however."
"At the same time," said Flocon, "all the chains in the Champs-Elysées
were in requisition for a barricade, as well as all the public carriages, and
the people sang the Marseillaise, the Parisienne and the Hymn of the
Girondins. A guard-house was also consumed."
"Have you heard Bugeaud's remark at noon, when looking upon the Place
de la Concorde?" asked Marrast.
"We have been too busy to-day to hear anything," said Ledru Rollin.
"'Ah! we shall have a day of it,' said the bloodthirsty old hero. 'I care not for
the day,' said the pale Guizot, 'but the night!'"
"The people made quite a demonstration about Guizot, I hear," said Flocon.
"They assailed him with a shower of groans, it is said, and some of the
gamins flung pebbles at his gates."
"The most significant shout before the office of Foreign Affairs was this,"
said Ledru Rollin—"'Countess of Leven, where is the Minister?'"
"And the very moment this was occurring," said Flocon, "I understand that
M. Thiers, on his return from the Chamber, in passing through the Champs-
Elysées, narrowly escaped a most unwelcome ovation from the people. The
two rivals were duly and simultaneously honored it seems."

"Thus much for to-day," said Marrast; "what of to-night?"
"Barricades rise all over Paris," said M. Dantès. "But we can do no more.
Let us each retire to his home. To-morrow the National Guard will
fraternize with the people, and the Ministry will resign."
A few words of parting salutation passed, and all departed.
M. Dantès and Lamartine left the office in company.
"What say you, Edmond," asked Lamartine, "will your wife spare you long
enough from her pillow to make with me a brief tour of the town?"
"Mercédès is rather exacting," said Dantès, with a laugh; "but if your fair
lady will suffer your absence, mine must do the same, I fear."
"Well, then, let us first to the Hôtel de Ville, that grand centre of Paris in all
that is revolutionary."
As the two friends passed along, conversing on the events of the day and
the anticipations of the morrow, they were met, from time to time, by knots
of men at the corners, eagerly recounting the incidents of the hour; the roll
of drums was heard in the distance, and occasionally there came the heavy
and measured tread of infantry, the clatter of cavalry and the lumbering of
artillery, as they passed on their way. All the shops and cafés were closed.
Many of the lamps were demolished, and others were not lighted, the gas
being shut off. A fearful gloom brooded over the city. The winter wind
swept sharply and cuttingly along the deserted streets, and rain, which froze
as it fell, at intervals dashed down.
The Hôtel de Ville was encompassed by troops as the friends approached it.
"Is that a cannon?" asked Lamartine, pointing to a dark object that
protruded from an embrasure of the edifice.
"It is!" replied Dantès.
"Then the revolution has, indeed, begun! Artillery in the streets of Paris!"
"Behind each column of the portico of the Chamber of Deputies this day
frowned a concealed cannon!" was the significant response.

The friends turned off from the Hôtel de Ville, and, crossing the right
branch of the Seine, were under the deep shadows of Nôtre Dame. But all
was tranquil and still. Only the howlings of the wintry blast were heard
through the towers and architectural ornaments of the old pile. Up the Rue
St. Jacques, into the Quartier Latin, they then proceeded, but the students
and the grisettes seemed to be fast asleep. Turning back, they passed the
Fish Market, and here a large body of cavalry had bivouacked. Patrols
marched to and fro; officers in huge dark cloaks smoked, laughed and
chatted, regardless of the morrow. The friends went on. All was dark in the
faubourg which succeeded. Not a light gleamed, save, in some lofty
casement, the fainting candle of the worn-out needlewoman or of the
overtasked student.
"Ah!" exclaimed Lamartine, as they passed one of these flickering lights,
"who knows what plotting head and ready hand may be beside that candle?
Who knows of the weapon burnished, the cartridge filled and the sabre
sharpened by that light for the morrow?"
"The morrow!" exclaimed M. Dantès; "that morrow decides the fate of
France!"
And the friends parted.

CHAPTER XIX.
THE SECOND DAY.

The 23d of February dawned on Paris as a city under arms. Artillery
frowned in all the public places; the barricades of the preceding night had
been thrown down as fast as erected; National Guards thronged the
thoroughfares; the people swarmed along the boulevards. In the
neighborhood of the Porte St. Denis and the Porte St. Martin, barricades
rose as if by magic, but were as if by magic swept away. Cavalry
bivouacked in the streets, and ordnance was leveled along their entire
extent. The avenues were closely invested, and even old men and women
were arrested on their way to their own thresholds. From time to time single
shots or volleys of musketry were heard in the distance, and wounded men
were carried past to the hospitals.
The Government had ordered all public carriages to be cleared from the
stands, that material for new barricades might not exist when the old ones
were demolished; but the people were busy, too, for the iron railings at the
hôtel of the Minister of Marine, in the Place de la Concorde, and at the
churches of the Assumption and St. Roch had been torn away to supply
weapons of attack or defence, or implements with which to tear up the huge
square paving stones of Paris for barricades.
At eleven o'clock the National Guard of the Second Arrondissement
gathered at the opera house in the Rue Lepelletier, and near the office of
"Le National." "Vive la Réforme!" "Vive la Garde Nationale!" "Long live
the real defenders of the country!"—these were the shouts, intermingled
with the choruses of national songs, that now rose from the people and the
National Guard.
At twelve o'clock the 2d Legion of the National Guard was at the Tuileries
to make a demonstration for reform. Its colonel, M. Bagnières, declared to
the Duke of Nemours that he could not answer for his men. At one o'clock,
accompanied by an immense multitude, with whom they fraternized, they

were again on the Rue Lepelletier. A squadron of cuirassiers and one of
chasseurs advanced to dislodge them.
"Who are these men?" cried the chef d'escadron.
"The people of Paris!" replied the officer of the National Guard.
"And who are you?"
"An officer of the 2d Legion of the National Guard."
"The people must disperse!"
"They will not!"
"I will compel them!"
"The National Guard will defend them!"
"Vive la Réforme!" shouted the people.
The National Guard and the cuirassiers united. The officer, chagrined,
turned back to his men and vociferated in tones of thunder:
"Wheel! Forward!"
And the whole body resumed its march down the Boulevard.
An hour afterwards a still larger body of troops, Municipal Guards mounted
and on foot, cuirassiers and infantry of the Line, came down the Boulevard
and made a half movement on the Rue Lepelletier, but, seeing the hostile
attitude of the National Guard, continued their march amid shouts of "Vive
la Réforme!" "Vive la Garde Nationale!" "Vive la Ligne!"
Twice, within an hour afterwards, the same thing occurred.
It was plain that the National Guard fraternized with the people.
The 3d Legion deputed their colonel, M. Besson, to demand of the King
reform and a change of Ministry. The colonel presented the memorial to
General Jaqueminot, who promised to place it in the Royal hands.

The 4th Legion marched to the Chamber of Deputies and presented a
petition for reform.
Col. Lemercier, of the 10th, arrested a man for shouting "Vive la Réforme!"
The man was liberated by his own troops, with shouts of "Vive la
Réforme!" The colonel withdrew.
The cavalry legion, the 13th, in like manner repudiated Col. Montalivet.
The Municipal Guard was ordered to disarm the 3d Legion. Both advanced
—bayonets were crossed—blood was about to flow. At that moment Col.
Textorix, of the National Guard, rushed up and exclaimed:
"Brothers, will you slay brothers?"
The effect was electrical. The muskets were instantly shouldered and the
combatants separated.
All over Paris the same scenes took place, with a few exceptions.
"Vive la République!" cried Ledru Rollin to Albert, who was hurrying down
the Rue Lepelletier, at about noon.
"Vive la République!" was the hearty response. "What of the National
Guard?"
"The Guard fraternizes with the people," replied Ledru Rollin. "What of the
blouses and the barricades?"
"Last night, the barricades of yesterday were swept from the streets, and
even the material of which to build them also, the pavements only excepted;
yet, at dawn this morning, the whole space between the Quartier Saint-
Martin des Champs, the Mont de Piété and the Temple, and all the smaller
streets were choked with barricades."
"And they were at once assailed?"
"By the troops of the Line, the Municipal Guard and the chasseurs of
Vincennes."
"Who were repulsed?"

"With most obstinate bravery. At the Rue Rambuteau, the 69th Regiment
was three times driven back; also at the corner of the Rue St. Denis and the
Rue de Tracy. In the Rue Philippeaux a ball passed through the face of a
soldier of the 21st of the Line infantry, and then through the head of a
voltigeur behind him. Sixteen soldiers fell in the attack on the barricade of
the Rue Rambuteau. A blouse pointed a pistol at an officer of the Municipal
Guard; the pistol hung fire, and the officer passed his sword through his
assailant's body. From this you can infer that we have had close fighting."
"I have heard that an assault was made on the armory of our friends, the
Leparge Brothers, for weapons; is it so?"
"There was an assault at about ten o'clock; but the windows were too strong
to be carried. There has been fighting in the Rue de Petit Carrel, and the
neighborhood of the Place Royale, I learn. Achmet Pacha, son of Mehemet
Ali, is fighting for us with the most wonderful intrepidity. A chef de
bataillon of the 34th was slain by a shot from a window, and some offices of
the Octroi have been burned. Three men were killed at the Batignolles, and
their bodies were accompanied by an immense throng to the Morgue."
"Have you heard that the 5th Regiment, as in 1830, has joined the people,
and that, on their way to the Préfecture of Police to liberate some of the
people who had been arrested, they stopped at the office of 'La Réforme,'
and were eloquently addressed by our friend, Louis Blanc?"
"What did he say to them?"
"He told them the fight was not yet over; that there must still be a banquet;
and that this time there must be no mistake—the workmen must have the
freedom they won!"
"Vive Louis Blanc!" cried Albert, and, in a higher state of excitement than
he had ever before been known to exhibit, he hurried off.
"I am for the Tuileries," said Ledru Rollin, as they parted.
"And I for the Palais Royal," said Albert.
"We meet to-night at the office of 'Le National?'"
"Without fail, at midnight!"

It was on the square at the south end of the Palais Royal that most blood
was spilled between the people and the troops. The Château d'Eau was
furiously assailed and obstinately defended—assailed by the people and
defended by six thousand picked troops. The people triumphed! Of the
troops, at least a thousand perished, and the remnant fled.
At three o'clock M. Rambuteau, Préfect of the Seine, waited on the King
and informed him that the National Guard demanded reform, and the
Municipal Guard a change of Ministry.
The King in dismay convened the Ministry.
"Can the Ministry maintain itself?" asked Louis Philippe.
"That question brings its own answer to your Majesty," replied Guizot. "If
you doubt the stability of your Ministry, who can trust them?"
"I have thought of the Count Mole," observed the King.
"He is an able man, sire," replied Guizot; "and his political connections
with M. Barrot and M. Thiers may aid him to form a Ministry. But, sire, not
an instant is to be lost. Your faithful Ministers will do all they can, but a
Ministerial crisis cannot be delayed; and, if your Majesty will permit the
suggestion, the emergency demands that to Marshal Bugeaud be given the
command of Paris."
"You will proceed to the Chamber to announce that M. Mole is entrusted
with the formation of a new cabinet," said the King.
And the council closed.
At four, an officer of the staff passed along the boulevards, announcing the
fall of the Ministry.
Instantly, with the speed of the telegraph, the intelligence flew to the
obscurest parts of Paris. Its effect was, at first, most cheering. Barricades
were deserted and arms thrown down; faces brightened, hands, almost
stained with each other's blood, were clasped; troops and people,
unwillingly fighting, embraced; all was triumph, joy and congratulation.

"All now is over—all is right at last!" was the exclamation of one man of
the people to another.
"Guizot has fallen, but the King has sent for Count Mole," replied a third,
with a dissatisfied air.
"No matter," cried the first speaker, "the system is overturned! What care
we who is Minister?"
"It is too late," replied the other. "Guizot has been forced away by the
people—Mole may be forced away, too—so may the King! No more tricks!
The people now know their power. There shall be no mistake this time!"
And the insurrectionists parted.
As the day closed, barricades rose in the Quartier du Temple, and there was
fighting between the people and the Municipal Guard. But the National
Guard came to the rescue, and the latter surrendered.
At nine o'clock Paris was illuminated. White, red, blue—yellow, orange,
green—these were the tri-colors of the lamps that poured their rich
effulgence from every window on the gloomy scene without. The streets
were thronged and the cafés crowded; men of all nations and Parisians of all
classes were in the streets; the rattle of musketry had ceased; the troops
were in their barracks and the people at their homes.
At the corner of the Boulevard and the Rue des Capucines, Flocon and
Louis Blanc met.
"Guizot has fallen!" cried the first.
"And the most intimate friend of the King has succeeded him! What have
we to hope for from the change?"
"What are we to do?" asked Flocon.
"In one hour the people will sing the Marseillaise before the Hôtel des
Affaires Étrangères!"
"The 14th Regiment of the Line is there," replied Flocon.
"So much the better! Blood will flow! The revolution will not stop!"

And the conspirators separated.
At ten o'clock, before the official residence of M. Guizot, himself then
absent, and probably in full flight for the coast, an immense crowd of the
people with torches was assembled. Their purpose was to sing the
Marseillaise. The 14th Regiment barred the way—the street was dimly
lighted—a single row of lamps along the courtyard wall was all the
illumination—a double line of troops was the defence.
"Let me pass!" cried the officer of the National Guard who led the people to
the officer who led the troops.
"Impossible!"
"In the name of the people, I demand to pass!"
"In the name of the Law, you shall not!"
"The people command! Forward!" cried the National Guard.
"Present! Fire!" shouted the officer.
There was a roll of musketry—a shrill shriek rang along the Boulevard—
the vast mass recoiled—the smoke floated off—sixty-three of the people of
Paris lay weltering in their gore!
"The blow is struck at last!" cried M. Dantès, rushing across the Boulevard,
pale and excited. "To arms, people of Paris, to arms!"
"To arms, to arms! Vengeance for our brothers!" was now the terrible cry
that burst from the infuriated populace. The congratulation—the
illumination—all was lost in the wild wish for vengeance.
At eleven o'clock that night an immense multitude, composed chiefly of
workmen from the faubourgs, was coming down the Boulevard des
Capucines. It was the largest and most regular throng yet seen. In front
marched a platoon of men bearing torches and waving tri-color flags.
Immediately behind walked an officer in the full uniform of the National
Guard, with a drawn sword in his hand, whose slightest command was
implicitly observed. Next came a tumbrel bearing the naked corpses of the
slain, whose faces, mutilated by their wounds and disfigured by blood,

glared horribly up, with open eyes, in the red torchlight that flared in the
night blast around! Behind this awful display marched a dense mass of
National Guards, succeeded by a countless mass of the people armed with,
guns, swords, clubs and bars of iron, chanting forth in full chorus, not the
inspiring Marseillaise or the Parisienne, but in awful concert sending upon
the night air the deep and dreadful notes of the death-hymn of the
Girondins, "Mourir pour la Patrie," intermingled with yells for vengeance.
Down the boulevards approach the multitude—more distinct becomes the
dirge—more redly glare the torches—and, amid all, more deeply rumble the
wheels of the death-cart on the pavement!
The funeral column reaches the corner of the Boulevard and the Rue
Lepelletier—the death-hymn rises to a yell of fury—the officer of the
National Guard turns the head of the column to the right—before it is an
edifice conspicuous by its illumination of huge and blood-red lamps—it is
the office of "Le National"—the crowd halts—one long loud shriek of
"Vengeance!" goes up—it is succeeded by the thrilling notes of the
Marseillaise from ten thousands lips, and "Marrast! Marrast!" is the shout
that follows.
The windows of the front office were thrown up, and the editor, surrounded
by friends, appeared. His speech was brief but fervid. He exhorted the
people to be firm—to secure their rights beyond recall—and promised them
ample retribution for past wrongs and security for future rights.
M. Garnier Pages, who stood at the side of Marrast, next addressed the
people in the same strain, amid thunders of applause.
Making a detour to the office of "La Réforme," the multitude were
addressed by M. Flocon, its editor; then, proceeding to the Place de la
Bastille, the corpses were deposited at the foot of the Column of July, and
the crowd dispersed.
The night that succeeded was an awful one. The streets, which an hour
before blazed with the illumination, were dark. Barricades rose in every
direction. At every corner shopmen, workmen, women, clerks and children
were at work. The crash of falling trees, the clank of the lever and the
pickaxe, the rattle of paving stones—these were the significant sounds that

broke the stillness. Every tree on the whole line of the Boulevard was felled
and every lamp-post overthrown; a barricade of immense strength rose at
the end of the Rue Richelieu; the troops offered no resistance; they piled
their arms, lighted their fires and bivouacked close beside the barricades. At
the Hôtel de Ville the troops of the Line and the Chasseurs d'Afrique quietly
ate their suppers, smoked their pipes and laid themselves down to sleep. On
the Boulevard des Italiens appeared three regiments of the Line, a battalion
of National Guards, a regiment of cuirassiers, and three field-pieces, with
their caissons of ammunition. The horses were unharnessed by the people,
the caissons opened, the ammunition distributed and the guns dragged off.
The troops, guards and cuirassiers fraternized.

CHAPTER XX.
ANOTHER MIDNIGHT CONCLAVE.

Again it was midnight. Again the chiefs of the revolution of '48 assembled
in conclave. The second of the Three Days had passed, but the streets of
Paris were all alive with excitement.
Every leader of the reform was there—Ledru Rollin and Flocon excited and
fiery, Louis Blanc exhausted and agitated, Albert stern and collected,
Lamartine pale and troubled, Marrast sanguine and confident—all of them
more or less disturbed but M. Dantès. As for him, the same calm smile was
on his lip, the same mild light in his eye and the same unchanging
resolution upon his countenance.
"Who attended the Chamber of Deputies to-day?" asked Marrast. "Did you,
Lamartine?"
"I did," was the reply, "and witnessed a somewhat stormy sitting. At three
o'clock, as usual, old Sauzet took the chair. Our friends were there in large
numbers; the Ministerial benches were also filled. Immediately after, M.
Guizot entered. He had been saluted with groans by the 10th Legion,
stationed on guard without, and with cries of 'Down with Guizot!' Calm,
undisturbed, stony in aspect, though strangely pallid, he entered and took
his seat. M. Vavin, Deputy for the Seine, instantly mounted the tribune. As
Deputy of Paris he had, he said, a solemn duty to fulfill. For twenty-four
hours Paris had been in insurrection. Why was this? He called on the
Minister of the Interior to explain."
"And what said Guizot?" asked Louis Blanc, eagerly.
"He said he thought the public interest did not demand, nor was it proper
for the Chamber at that time, to enter into debate on the subject. The King
had called M. le Comte Mole to form a new cabinet."
"And then the left cheered?" exclaimed Flocon.

"Most emphatically," was the reply.
"And what said Guizot then?" asked Ledru Rollin.
"He calmly said that no such demonstrations could induce him to add to or
withhold a single syllable of what he designed to say, or to pretermit a
single act he had designed to do. As long as his Ministry remained in office
he should cause public order to be respected, according to his best
judgment, and as he had always done. He should consider himself
answerable for all that might happen, and should in all things act as
conscience might dictate for the best interests of the country."
"A noble answer!" exclaimed M. Dantès, with enthusiasm.
Ledru Rollin and Louis Blanc assented.
"And what next?" pursued Flocon.
"After considerable confusion," continued Lamartine, "M. Odillon Barrot
rose and demanded, in consequence of the situation of the cabinet, a
postponement of the proposition for its impeachment, fixed for to-morrow."
"Ah! And what said the Chamber?" asked Flocon.
"The demand was so loudly reprobated that M. Barrot immediately said he
made the proposal in entire submission to the majority."
"And what said Dupin?" asked Ledru Rollin, eagerly.
"Dupin said the first thing necessary for the capital was order. Anarchy
must cease. The Ministry could not at the same time occupy themselves in
re-establishing order and in caring for their own safety. He demanded the
adjournment of the impeachment and of all business."
"And what did Barrot reply to that?" asked Louis Blanc.
"M. Barrot was silent; but the Minister of Foreign Affairs at once rose and
said with much energy that as long as his cabinet remained entrusted with
the public interest, which would probably be for some hours, it would cause
the laws to be respected. The cabinet saw no reason for the suspension of
the labors of the Chamber. The Crown was at that moment exercising its

prerogative, and it must be respected. So long as his cabinet was on those
benches, the Chamber need not suspend its labors."
"What was the vote on the question to postpone consideration of the
impeachment?" asked Flocon.
"Some of the opposition supported the motion, but the whole centre
opposed it, and it was lost. The Chamber immediately rose in great
agitation, and M. Guizot disappeared."
"It seems to me that the position of M. Odillon Barrot is a somewhat
peculiar one at this moment," observed Louis Blanc. "He is neither with the
Crown nor with the people, and yet both seem to confide in him."
"As I passed his house this evening, at about eight o'clock," said Flocon, "a
large multitude were in his courtyard shouting, 'Long live Odillon Barrot!'
A deputation of the people penetrated, I understand, even to his private
apartment, where he was in consultation with Thiers and Dupin. Barrot then
urged them to be moderate in their triumph and to retire. M. Garnier Pages,
who chanced to be there, urged them to do the same, and they went off
shouting louder than ever."
At that moment one of the reporters of "Le National" hastily entered and
handed Marrast a note.
"Whence do you come, Monsieur?" asked the editor.
"From the Tuileries, Monsieur," was the reply, and the reporter left.
The editor opened the note and read aloud:

"One o'clock—Count Mole, unable to form a cabinet, has this moment
resigned, and the King has sent for M. Guizot, M. Thiers and Marshal
Bugeaud.
"Half-past one o'clock—Marshal Bugeaud's commission as
Commander-in-chief of the National Guard and of the troops of the
Line, in place of Generals Jaqueminot and Peyronett Tyburce
Sebastiani, has just been signed by M. Guizot and his colleagues, the
Ministers of War and the Interior, and will appear in the 'Moniteur' of

this morning. Bugeaud's plan is this: Instant attack with an
overwhelming force of artillery, cavalry and infantry of the Line,
(which, he asserts, he has now all ready in position in anticipation of
this event, and well disposed to act,) on all the barricades. He promises
to sweep away every obstruction from the streets before dawn, though
at the cost of fifty thousand lives."

"Ha!" exclaimed all the conspirators, instantly springing to their feet.
"This, indeed, is resistance!" said M. Dantès. "But Bugeaud can concentrate
no more troops upon us. Every avenue to Paris will be effectually closed
before morning and even the telegraph stopped!"
"If this be true, we have not an instant to lose!" said Louis Blanc.
"I had a hint of this," began M. Dantès.
"Stay—stay, Messieurs!" cried Marrast, as the whole company was rushing
to the door. "Here is another and later dispatch."

"Two o'clock—Marshal Bugeaud has gone to complete his
arrangements for instant attack. M. Thiers has arrived, and, with
Odillon Barrot, Duvergier de Hauranne and de Remusat, has formed a
cabinet. General Lamoricière supersedes Marshal Bugeaud—the latter
is recalled and forbidden to fire on the people. He protests with
violence, and sheathes his sword in despair."

"To be sure he does, the old cut-throat!" cried Ledru Rollin. "The idea of
being let loose with his mastiffs on the people of Paris, like sheep pent up in
a fold, was to him a source of rapturous anticipation, and his rage at the
disappointment is proportional!"
"Messieurs!" cried M. Dantès, "this last step of the Government was all that
we required to insure our success. Thiers and Barrot mistake if they think
there is sufficient magic in their names to quell a revolution. In fact, neither
of them are trusted by the people. It is too late! Yesterday this might have
been done; but now the demand is not reform, but a republic—not 'down
with the Ministry,' but 'down with the dynasty!'"

The conspirators looked at each other and then at M. Dantès in amazement
and doubt. It was apparent they were as yet unprepared for language so
plain.
"M. Dantès is right!" cried Flocon. "To-morrow night when we meet we
shall all admit it!"
It was now nearly three o'clock, and the Republicans repaired to their
homes for a few hours' sleep before the exciting scenes anticipated for the
morrow.
As Louis Blanc and M. Albert passed up the Rue Lepelletier, and came
opposite the Hôtel of the Minister of Foreign Affairs, which, but a few
hours before, had been the scene of so much confusion and bloodshed, they
paused and looked around. The pavement was still dark and wet with the
gore of the slaughtered citizens, but the whole street was deserted and
silent. Here and there a solitary light might be detected in the attic windows
of the immense hôtel; but no other sign of life or human occupation was to
be perceived. True, there was an ominous sound of rising barricades in the
Boulevard beyond—the crash of trees, the click of steel on stone, the
lumbering of wheels—and, at intervals, a distant shout. But this excepted,
all was as quiet in Paris as if the old city had never known of insurrection.
"This spot will be noted in the future history of France," said Louis Blanc.
"Do you know the exact facts of the case, M. Albert? There are so many
rumors that we can with difficulty get near the truth."
"I was not present when the 14th delivered their fire," was the reply, "but I
learned from M. de Courtais, who hastened to the spot, that the colonel of
the regiment, now in prison, asserts that, at the moment of the arrival of the
crowd, a ball from a musket which accidentally went off, broke the leg of
his horse, and he, thinking this the signal for an attack, at once gave orders
to fire. Another story is that one of our young blouses blew out an officer's
brains with a pistol."
"Many of the troops must have fired in the air," said Louis Blanc, looking
around him, "for there were two hundred of them in line, I understand, and
their discharge was delivered across the whole breadth of the Boulevard
swarming with people."

"It was unfortunate for M. Guizot," rejoined M. Albert, with a sardonic
smile, "that his hôtel should have witnessed such a scene."
"But fortunate for the cause, nevertheless," replied Louis Blanc. "This last
movement is called the movement of the journalists, I understand."
"If suspicions are always as correct," said M. Albert, "there will be fewer
false ones, I fancy."
Louis Blanc made no reply, and the friends walked on up the Boulevard,
reconnoitering every spot.
At the Rue du Faubourg Montmartre they were stopped by a barricade,
which was rapidly rising under the united and vigorous exertions of several
hundred men. Steadily, sternly and silently, all that night they toiled, and
when the barricade was completed the tri-color flag was planted on its
summit, and a citizen-soldier stood beside its staff to defend it. On the other
side of the Boulevard, in the Rue Montmartre, rose another barricade
entirely finished.
"These men are resolved," said Louis Blanc.
"Desperate, rather," replied Albert. "They have counted the cost and
prepared to go on with the attempt they have begun at all hazards. It is
better to fight than starve, they think."
"But do you observe how few of them are armed?" asked Louis Blanc.
"We have provided for that deficiency. You will see arms enough for all to-
morrow," replied Albert. "Barricades first, arms afterwards!"
And, indeed, while he was yet speaking, a tumbrel loaded with arms of
every description drove silently up, and each man supplied himself with a
weapon that suited his fancy. In some instances the taste exhibited was
ludicrous in the extreme; there were swords without scabbards and bayonets
without guns—a towering helmet on the head of one man, and broad white
leather cross-belts on the shoulders of another—daggers and knives, sabres
and pikes mingled in grotesque confusion. But each individual was armed
with something, and, to crown all, a small piece of ordnance, borne on the

shoulders of four stout men, who staggered beneath its weight, was now
brought up and placed in battery.
"From such men what may we not hope!" exclaimed Louis Blanc. "But it is
near morning; let us proceed."
"I stop here," quietly said Albert.
"What! Pass the night here?" exclaimed his companion.
"The night is nearly passed now," replied Albert, with a smile. "I will sleep
a few hours with my men of the barricades, and be ready to help them
defend their work in the morning."
"You are devoted to the cause, Albert," said Louis Blanc, warmly grasping
his hand.
"Oh! no more than yourself," was the reply. "We are all devoted to it, but
each in his own way. You are an author, I am a workman. It is a light thing
for me to pass a night with only the sky for a canopy. It is a light thing for
you to pass a night in your study. A change of positions would possibly kill
us both!"
The friends grasped each other warmly by the hand and parted, the author
going to his study and the workman to his barricade.

CHAPTER XXI.
THE THIRD DAY.

The next morning the following placard attracted general attention:

"Citizens of Paris:
Orders have been given to cease firing everywhere.
We have just been charged by the King to form a new Ministry.
The Chamber will be dissolved and an appeal made to the country.
General Lamoricière has been appointed Commandant of the National
Guard.
Liberty! Order! Union! Reform!
Odillon Barrot.
Thiers."

Such was the placard which appeared at every corner in Paris on the
morning of Thursday, February 24th. At three o'clock it had been hastily
struck at the offices of "La Presse" and "Le Constitutionnel," and given into
the hands of the bill-posters. At daylight it was read by the early passers,
and, as soon as read, indignantly torn down with the significant murmur, "It
is too late!"
At eight o'clock a proclamation to the National Guard, signed by
Lamoricière and countersigned by Odillon Barrot, was similarly received.
At nine o'clock the 45th Regiment of the Line fraternized with the National
Guard, the 30th resigned its arms to the people, and the five companies of
Compiers yielded their quarters with all their arms and ammunition at the
first summons.

At ten o'clock a proclamation was posted up at the Bourse, signed by
Odillon Barrot and Thiers, ordering the troops not only to cease firing, but
to retire to their quarters. Immediately the trumpets sounded a retreat, and
the most important positions hitherto held by the Line were yielded to the
people. The men of the barricades could now concentrate and advance.
Magic there was none in the names of Barrot and Thiers to restrain them.
Both were viewed as deserters from their cause. The latter was openly
insulted by the populace wherever he appeared, and the former, though at
first respectfully listened to, was, at length, assailed with murmurs of
disapprobation on his way to the Tuileries.
In his editorial sanctum sat our friend Beauchamp, of whom for some time
we have lost sight, but who has, meanwhile, been most industriously at
work in his paper, "Le Charivari," in concert with "Le National" and other
larger sheets, in forwarding the cause of reform and, finally, of revolution.
The door opened and Château-Renaud appeared.
"Farewell, Beauchamp!" he exclaimed, "I've not a moment to lose! A post-
chaise is at the door! Farewell!"
"Off!" cried the journalist, in astonishment. "And whither—and why?"
"Yes, off for England—Italy—America—anywhere but France!" exclaimed
the young noble.
"And why?"
"Why?" cried the indignant Deputy. "Look around you and then ask what
there is left in France for me! Beauchamp," continued the young man
hurriedly and in low tones, "France will have no King at this hour to-
morrow! Mark the prophecy! The National Guard fraternizes with the
populace; the Line fraternizes with the Guard. The Government is, of
course, paralyzed. All is over; six hours hence the Tuileries will be
ransacked by a drunken mob!—Farewell!"
"One moment! Why do you leave in this way? Why do you not go to
Boulogne by the cars?"

"And do you not know—you, a journalist—that for three leagues around, in
every direction, every railway radiating from Paris has been torn up? Do
you not know that every public conveyance, even to the Mail Diligences,
has been stopped, and that all the telegraph stations have been dismantled—
all to prevent the further concentration of troops in Paris by the
Government?"
"I did hear of this, indeed," said Beauchamp.
"At dawn I was at the railway dépôt, having late last night, with extreme
difficulty, procured a passport. And whom think you, among crowds of
others, I encountered there? You would never guess, and I haven't time for
you to try. Lucien Debray, and with him—but that's impossible for you to
divine—she who was Madame Danglars, wife of the rich banker years ago.
Well, the banker is dead and she is immensely rich, and I suppose Lucien's
spouse into the bargain."
"And where go they?"
"Oh! to England of course—that grand reservoir of all emigrant royalists,
that asylum for all who love kings! But farewell, farewell! If I am not off
soon I may have to go without my head! And if you are not massacred by
your detestable party, I hope to hear of you yet as a Cabinet Minister.
Despite your abominable principles, you have my best wishes! Farewell!"
And with a hearty shake of Beauchamp's hand, the young noble was off for
an atmosphere more congenial to monarchists than was that of Paris.
Nor was he alone. Thousands fled from Paris in like manner that same day,
and the only cry that followed them was this:
"Let them go! Let them go!"
The streets of Paris were now choked with barricades—not the mere
temporary breastworks of the first and second days, which a single charge
of heavy dragoons would sweep away, but regular systematic, scientific
structures, erected apparently under the direction of military engineers, and
calculated upon every principle of art to insure resistance. Some of them
were of immense size—that, for example, at the corner of the Rue
Richelieu; some had port-holes from which protruded the mouths of

ordnance in battery; all were surmounted by a flag, tri-color or red, and all
were defended by desperate men. Some other thoroughfares were crossed
by many barricades—the Rue St. Martin, for instance, by thirty or forty.
The troops assailing these structures were mowed down, throughout the
day, in a manner which even their opponents deemed most merciless.
Instances of individual bravery on both sides were frequent. In the Rue
Mauconseil, a young man exposed himself on the top of the barricade, time
after time, firing with fatal aim, and every time a shower of balls from the
troops assailing whistled around him. But he stood untouched, and, at
length, the officer ordering the troops to fire at him no more, he retired at
once behind the breastwork. A boy in the Rue St. Honoré mounted the
barricade, enveloped in a tri-color flag, and dared the troops to fire on their
colors. He descended unharmed. An officer of the Line was summoned to
yield his sword. He did so, but first broke it in twain across his knee. The
same demand was made to a lieutenant of the Municipal Guard, with a
musket at his breast; he was bidden also to shout "Vive la République!" but
he only cried "Vive le Roi!" as the weapon was wrenched from his grasp!
Yet he was spared. Arms were demanded from every householder, and
when given, the gift was endorsed on the door in these words: "Here we
were given arms." One man received a sword splendidly decorated with
gems upon its scabbard and hilt. "I want only the blade!" he said, tearing it
away from its ornaments and grasping the naked steel!
At ten o'clock M. Odillon Barrot, General Lamoricière and Horace Vernet,
the great marine artist, proceeded on horseback to the barricades to induce
the people to disperse, but all their eloquent entreaties were received only
with insults. "No truce—no tricks—no mistake this time!" were the decisive
shouts with which they were greeted. A second time, in the Rue Richelieu,
General Lamoricière, accompanied by Moline Saint Gru bearing a palm-
branch, was equally unsuccessful. "It is too late!" was the terrible response
from the heart of the barricades, followed by a shower of stones, one of
which wounded General Lamoricière on the hand. A third time, in the Rue
Rohan, General Gourgaud, who even promised the abdication of the King,
met with the same utter defeat, and hastily fled from the fury of the monster
now thoroughly roused.
At twelve o'clock the rumor sped with lightning rapidity through the streets
of Paris that the troops, who had ostensibly been ordered to their quarters,

were, in fact, concentrated around the palace. Instantly rose the shout, "To
the Tuileries! To the Tuileries!" and a hundred thousand men from all
sections of the city marched toward the Palais Bourbon and the Tuileries!
The rumor of the concentration at the palace was true. The Place du
Carrousel was crowded with troops of every arm, including several
squadrons of cuirassiers, and six pieces of ordnance were in position, with
their ammunition caissons and their provisions and baggage wagons, as if
for a siege. The King, attended by his staff and accompanied by the Dukes
of Nemours and Montpensier, now descended into the court to pass the
troops in review. The Line shouted "Vive le Roi!" as the King rode along.
The National Guards, with tones and looks of menace and defiance, cried
"Reform!" The King replied, "Yes, my friends, you shall have reform," and
sad and dispirited turned away to his apartments; as he retired the bitter
murmur was heard from his aged lips, "Like Charles X."
A deputation of the people had been admitted within the limits of the Place
du Carrousel to announce the terms they would accept, but after a brief
parley had retired dissatisfied. The men of the barricades now invested the
Tuileries and the Palais Royal on every side.
Such was the scene without. Within, all was confusion and dismay. The
salons were thronged by deputies, peers, generals and marshals; Bugeaud,
Lamoricière, Dupin, Thiers, de Lasteyrie and many others were there,
together with all of the Royal family then in the capital, whether male or
female.
Meanwhile, the rattle of musketry, broken by the occasional roar of
ordnance, in the direction of the Palais Royal, indicated the severe struggle
then going on between the people and the troops; from time to time, the
furious shout of "To the guillotine with Louis Philippe!" reached the ear.
"Does your Majesty hear that?" asked the Duke of Nemours coldly of his
dismayed father. Alas! the old man was no longer the hero of July 3d!
"I do, my son," was the trembling reply. "Do you advise abdication?"
"Is there any other course left?" asked the Duke of Montpensier.

"Any other course!" cried the Queen, indignantly. "Oh! are you my son—
are you a son of Orléans, and can you talk thus of degradation? Are you a
soldier and do you fear? Mount!—mount!—charge on the rebels!—cut
them to the earth!—drench the pavement with their blood!—perish, but
yield not ignominiously thus!"
"Madame," said M. Thiers, solemnly, "it is too late! There must be an
abdication in favor of the Count of Paris, and the appointment of the
Duchess of Orléans as Regent, or all is lost!"
"Then if this must be, let it be done with dignity becoming a monarch," said
the noble Queen. "Let us all retire to St. Cloud. There may be dictated terms
of honorable capitulation. There—"
At that instant in rushed a man breathless, bearing a sheet of paper in his
hand, and exclaiming:
"Sire—Sire—your troops are delivering their arms to the people! In a
moment they will stand where you now stand! Sign this paper, or your life
and the lives of all your family will be sacrificed!"
That man was Émile de Girardin, the editor of "La Presse," and the
murderer of Armand Carrel, and that paper was an act of abdication.
"Ah! this is a bitter cup," said the old King as he placed his signature to the
sheet, "and doubly bitter presented by such a hand! Like Charles X.!"
At one o'clock, at the Bourse and at the corners of all the principal streets,
was posted this proclamation:

"Citizens of Paris: The King has abdicated in favor of the Count of
Paris, with the Duchess of Orléans as Regent.
A General Amnesty.
Dissolution of the Chamber.
Appeal to the Country."

But the people were now in the midst of the assault on the Palais Royal, and
to check them was impossible.

The Palais Royal consisted of two portions—the Château d'Eau, or palace,
and the other part, which though the property of the Orléans family was yet
rented by private persons, and was occupied for cafés, shops, dwellings and
places of entertainment—adorned by colonnades and arcades, and by trees,
statues and fountains in the magnificent quadrangle. The property of the
citizens was respected—that of the King only was assailed. For two hours
did the 14th Regiment pour forth its fire from the numerous windows of
that edifice and from the court below. At length, a band of bold
Republicans, headed by the chivalric Étienne Arago, musket in hand,
charged from the side of the Café de la Régence, followed by a detachment
of the National Guard, and, driving the troops into the building, surrounded
it with straw which they set on fire. The vast edifice was instantly filled
with smoke and flame. The defence ceased. The soldiers rushed out and
were instantly slain. The commander of the detachment was pierced by a
bayonet. The multitude rushed in, and the building was sacked. The richest
and most costly furniture and decorations were at once torn down, dashed to
pieces and thrown from the windows by the infuriated populace.
Within the Palace of the Tuileries is a subterranean passage, constructed for
the infant King of Rome and his nurses, which, plunging beneath the
pavements, and passing along the whole length of the gardens, under the
terrace beside the river bank, suddenly emerges at the gate of the Place du
Carrousel, in front of the obelisk. Into this passage, in wild panic,
descended the King and Queen of France, with all their children and
grandchildren, immediately upon the signing of the abdication, and just as
the doors were about to be forced. Emerging from the passage, the King,
leaning on the arm of his faithful wife, Marie Amélie, and followed by the
Royal party, crossed the Place de la Concorde as far as the asphalt
pavement. The Royal party now consisted of the King and Queen, the
Duchess of Nemours and her children, the Princess Clémentine and her
husband, the Duke Augustus of Saxe-Coburg, and the Duke of Montpensier
with his young and lovely Spanish bride, now enceinte and far advanced.
Ignorant of the language, only sixteen years of age, a stranger to the
customs and people of the country, and in her delicate situation, the position
of this young creature was peculiarly trying. At one moment she clung with
terror to her young husband's arm, which she refused for an instant to
resign, and the next laughed at her own terror, saying that one who in her

infancy had twice, in Madrid, been saved by being carried off in a sack
ought not now to fear when she had feet to carry herself away and was
suffered to use them! It is said that the fair Senora was forgotten in the
hurry of the flight and almost left behind!
As soon as the Royal party were perceived, they were surrounded by a
troop of National Guards as an escort, and a large number of officers of the
Line in various uniforms. The King leaned on the Queen, as if for support,
while she boldly advanced with a firm step and stern look. Both were in
deepest mourning for the recent death of the beloved sister of the King, the
Princess Adelaide.
Upon this melancholy procession the people gazed with mingled curiosity,
amusement, gratification and regret.
"They are going to the Chamber of Deputies to complete the abdication!"
cries one.
"Vive la Réforme!" shouts another.
"Vive la France!" shouts a second.
"Vive le Roi!" in suppressed tones falters a third.
"See the poor young Duchess!" cried a woman, who was availing herself of
her peculiar rotundity as a battering-ram to force her way through the
crowd.
"She had better have remained at home!" sneered a Dynastic bitterly.
"The poor little children!" exclaimed a young woman more remarkable for
prettiness than neatness, and more remarkable still for the scantiness of her
attire, nearly all of which had been torn from her rounded shoulders in the
throng.
The spirit which pervaded the mass was, evidently, by no means unfriendly
to the Royal family, and it was as evidently misunderstood by them, for,
suddenly, as if by fatality, on the very spot where Louis XVI. was beheaded,
just beyond the Pont Tournant, on the pavement of the Obelisk of Luxor, the
whole party, with no apparent necessity, came to a dead and complete halt.
Instantly the multitude was crowded upon them, and this augmented their

terror. The King dropped the Queen's arm and hastily raising his hat cried,
"Vive la Réforme!" All was in a moment uproar and confusion. The Queen
in terror at finding her husband's arm was gone turned hurriedly on every
side.
"Fear not, Madame," said a mild voice beside her. "The people will do you
no harm."
This was M. Maurice, editor of "Le Courrier des Spectacles."
"Leave me, leave me, Monsieur!" she exclaimed, in great excitement,
evidently mistaking the words. Then regaining her husband, she again
grasped his arm, and the mass at the same time opening its ranks, the two
hastened on to a couple of those little black one-horse vehicles, chancing
there to stand, which run to St. Cloud. In one of these already sat the
Duchesses of Montpensier and Nemours with two of the children. In the
other stood the two remaining children. Into the latter hurriedly stepped the
Royal pair. The door was instantly closed and the vehicle drove off at a
furious rate, surrounded by an escort of dragoons, cuirassiers and National
Guards, two hundred in number, taking the water-side toward St. Cloud.
The other carriage, similarly escorted, followed at a like rapid pace, the
children standing at the windows, their faces pressed to the glass, gazing
eagerly, with the innocent curiosity of infancy, on a scene from which their
future fate would take shape.
"He is gone!" shouted a stentorian voice, breaking the momentary stillness
as the carriages, surrounded by their escort, swept from the view.
"Let him go! Let him go!" was the stern and significant response. "We are
not regicides!"
"To the Tuileries! To the Tuileries!" was now the tremendous shout which
rose from the multitude, as they rushed toward the deserted palace.
But the Tuileries had already fallen. It was no longer the dwelling-place of
kings.
Even before the Royal abdication was declared, even before it was signed,
the troops of the Line in the courtyard of the palace—infantry, artillery,
dragoons—to the number at least of twenty-five thousand, were summoned

to surrender their posts, while the fraternal shout, "Vive la Ligne!" elicited
from the lips of many of the soldiers the answering cry of "Vive la
Réforme!" In vain was it that Marshal Bugeaud, the veteran of a hundred
battles, menaced and blasphemed. In vain did his old protégé and subaltern,
but now bitter foe, General Lamoricière, dashing from one end of the line to
the other on his white horse, entreat and persuade with his eloquent tongue.
The people insisted—the National Guard fraternized—the Line wavered.
And yet most imminent at that moment was their own peril.
The 1st, 2d, 3d, 4th, 6th and 10th Legions of the National Guard invested
the Tuileries, and others were on the march, accompanied by countless
masses of the people. Within the courtyard were twenty-five thousand of
the best troops in the world of every arm, and a park of ordnance charged to
the muzzle frowned upon the dense masses which swarmed the Place du
Carrousel. The watchful artilleryman stood at his cannon's breech, with the
lighted linstock in his hand, which he kept alive by constant motion. He
awaited but a word from the pale, firm lips of General Lamoricière, and that
vast and magnificent space now swarming with life would have been swept
as if by destruction's besom. Death in all its most horrid forms would have
been there. That pavement would have run with gore! The façades of those
splendid edifices would have been polluted with shreds and fragments of
human flesh, and spattered with human blood. Yet dreadful would have
been the sure retribution! Indiscriminate massacre of all unfortunate souls
within that Royal palace would have been inevitable and instantaneous. Yet,
such a catastrophe might be precipitated by a single word!—the avalanche
might be started by a single breath; and blood once shed, Paris would be
deluged!
"In the name of the people I demand to speak with the commandant of the
Tuileries!" shouted a young man in the uniform of an officer of the National
Guard, advancing to the iron railing of the court near the Rue de Rivoli.
It was Lieutenant Aubert Roche. The commandant was sent for and
immediately arrived.
"Monsieur, you are lost!" cried the young man.
"You are surrounded by sixty thousand men of the National Guard, and one
hundred thousand of the people of Paris!"

"What is demanded?" was the trembling response.
"That you evacuate the Tuileries!—resign it to the National Guard!"
"The troops shall be withdrawn, Monsieur. Orders for their retirement to the
palace shall be issued instantly."
"That will not do! The palace must be evacuated," insisted the Lieutenant,
"or the people will raze it to the ground!"
"Come with me, Monsieur," said the commandant.
The gate was immediately opened, and Lieutenant Roche, accompanied by
M. Leseur, chef de bataillon, bearing a flag of truce, followed the
commandant to the Pavillon de l'Horloge, where stood the Duke of
Nemours, pale with excitement, surrounded by generals.
"Monseigneur," said the commandant, "suffer me to present a deputation
from the people."
"Messieurs, what do the people demand?" asked the Duke in trembling
tones.
"The evacuation, this instant, of this palace, and its delivery to the National
Guard!"
"And if we do not comply?" asked Marshal Bugeaud, calmly.
"Then, Monsieur, you all are lost!" was the bold answer. "This palace is
surrounded by one hundred and sixty thousand men. The combat once
begun must be exterminating—must be a massacre! The 5th Legion of the
National Guard, to which I belong, is, at this moment, sacking the Palais
Royal. It may be here before we part!"
"The troops shall retire, Monsieur," said the Duke; and on the instant orders
for the retreat were issued.
The artillery went by the railing of the palace, and the staff and the Duke of
Nemours by the Pavillon de l'Horloge, their well-trained horses descending
the flight of steps. The cavalry followed, succeeded by the infantry.

The National Guards were then introduced by Lieutenant Roche, and
entered the court of the Tuileries by the gate of the Rue de Rivoli, their
muskets shouldered, with the stock in the air. At the same moment the
abdication of the King was declared. General Lamoricière had resigned.
The Ministry was dissolved. There was a tremendous shout, and the
conquerors of the Palais Royal rushed in to take possession of the Tuileries!

CHAPTER XXII.
THE LAST SESSION OF THE CHAMBER OF DEPUTIES.

The usual hour for the opening of the Chamber of Deputies was three
o'clock; but the startling events of the last two days, and especially of the
last two hours, demanded that it should be convened earlier.
At one o'clock the President of the Chamber, Sauzet, took the chair. On the
left bank of the Seine all the approaches were open, save the bridges of the
Place de la Concorde, where strong detachments of cavalry were posted on
guard.
Within the Chamber all was solemnity. About three hundred members were
present. The opposition seemed joyous and confident, though anxious. The
conservative party was troubled. The Ministerial benches were deserted.
At half-past one the President turned round in his chair, and kept his eye
fixed upon a side door, as if expecting some one to enter. Suddenly a bustle
was heard in that direction, and the Duchess of Orléans, in deep mourning,
attended by her two sons and followed by the Dukes of Montpensier and
Nemours, entered. The latter was received with marked expressions of
dislike. The Count of Paris, garbed in complete black, was conducted
through the crowd to the space in front of the President's chair; the Duchess
followed and seated herself in a fauteuil upon the same spot. On each side
of her was one of her sons, and behind her stood her brothers, the Dukes of
Nemours and Montpensier. This position was subsequently changed for one
more distant, but otherwise remained throughout relatively the same.
Being seated, the Duchess rose and bowed repeatedly to the assembly. At
the same moment an immense multitude of National Guards and the people
rushed in through the passages, and despite the shouts of the officers, "You
cannot enter!" the space beneath the tribune was instantly and densely
thronged. At the same time the public tribunes were invaded by a second
body of the people.

For some minutes the greatest uproar prevailed. At length it comparatively
ceased, and, in a moment of quiet, M. Dupin, who had accompanied the
Duchess of Orléans to the Chamber, ascended the tribune. The stillness was
instantly as great as had been the previous agitation.
"The King has abdicated," said M. Dupin. "The Count of Paris is nominated
as his successor and the Duchess of Orléans as Regent."
"It is too late!" shouted a man from the gallery of the people.
"The Count of Paris is proclaimed King by the Chamber and the Duchess of
Orléans Regent!' exclaimed the President.
"No—no—no!" was the almost unanimous shout that now rose in the
Chamber.
"I demand," cried M. Lamartine, "that the Royal family withdraw!"
The question was put, and the Duchess and her sons, after great hesitation,
were drawn away to a side door, at the further end of the hall. At the same
moment a new crowd of the people rushed in and took seats beside the
opposition members, by whom they were welcomed.
"I demand to speak!" cried M. Marie. "By the law of 1842, the Duke of
Nemours is Regent. How can the King abrogate that law? I demand a
provisional government!"
"A provisional government!" cried M. Crémieux. "We made a mistake in
'30. Let there be no mistake in '48!"
"A provisional government," said the Abbé Genoude, a Legitimist; "but it
must be the will of the people!"
M. Odillon Barrot, who had been long expected, now entered and
immediately mounted the tribune.
"The crown of July rests on the head of a woman and a child!" cried the
great lawyer.
The Duchess of Orléans instantly rose, as if about to speak, but, at the
urgent solicitation of those around her, resumed her seat.

"I call on the country to rally around this woman and this child," cried M.
Barrot, "the two-fold representative of the principles of July, '30!"
The voice of the speaker was drowned in shouts of dissent and of "Vive la
Réforme!"
"I dissent from the opinion of M. Odillon Barrot!" cried the Marquis de la
Rochejacquelin. "If he is right, the people are nothing!"
"Order—order!" cried the President, putting on his hat, but he was at once
induced to remove it.
At this moment another vast crowd burst into the Chamber, garbed in a
style so heterogeneous as to be grotesque—some with blouses—some with
dragoon helmets on their heads, some with weapons and many with flags.
"Down—down—down with the Throne!" was the terrible cry of this
infuriated mass.
"I demand that the sitting be suspended!" cried M. de Mornay.
"There can be no session at such a moment," said the President, putting on
his hat.
"Off—off—off with your hat, President!" cried the populace; and several of
their muskets were at once pointed at the President. The hat was removed.
The scene was chaos!
"Beware!" shouted M. Chevalier, editor of the Historical Library. "Beware
how you make the Count of Paris King! A provisional government we must
first have!"
"What right have you to speak?" shouted a man. "You are not a deputy!"
"In the name of the people, silence!" roared a terrific voice that drowned
every other.
It was the voice of Ledru Rollin.
Many of the deputies now withdrew, and their places were filled by the
people. The Duchess of Orléans sat calmly amid the uproar, and the Duke

of Nemours with equal calmness stood behind her chair.
"The throne has been tumbled from the windows of the Tuileries and is now
burning in the Place de la Bastille!" cried M. Dumoulin, who commanded
the Hôtel de Ville in July of '30, displaying the tri-color flag.
"No more Bourbons! Down with the Bourbons! Down with the traitors! A
provisional government!" shouted the people.
"Aye, a Republic!" cried M. Chevalier.
Crémieux, Ledru Rollin and Lamartine were at the same time in the tribune.
"In the name of the people, silence!" again roared the awful voice of Ledru
Rollin.
"A provisional government!" shouted one of the people.
"You shall have a provisional government!" exclaimed M. Maguin.
"In the name of the people—in the name of the people of Paris in arms,"
again began Ledru Rollin, "I protest against this King and this Regency.
The constitution of '9 demands the will of the people to fix a Regency. Yet
the law of '42 makes the Duke of Nemours Regent, and now it is the
Duchess of Orléans. I protest against it all! I demand a provisional
government!"
"Question—question!" shouted M. Berryer. "A provisional government!"
"In 1815," continued Ledru Rollin, "Napoleon abdicated in favor of the
King of Rome. The King of Rome was refused. In 1830, Charles X.
abdicated in favor of his grandson. The grandson was rejected. In 1848,
Louis Philippe abdicates in favor of his grandson—the Count of Paris!"
"Question—question!" again vociferated M. Berryer. "We all know those
histories!"
"In the name of the people," continued Ledru Rollin, "I demand a
provisional government, named by the people—not by the Chamber—but
by the people!"

Tremendous shouts followed, and M. Lamartine, who had stood beside
Rollin in the tribune, now took his place amid renewed shouts.
After an eloquent speech on the same side as his friend, he concluded by
demanding a provisional government, with an appeal to "the people—the
entire people—all who by the title of man have rights as men."
While Lamartine was yet speaking, a violent knocking was heard at the
door of the Chamber, which was forcibly burst open and a vast crowd
rushed in.
"Down with the Chamber! Down with the Deputies!" shouted the populace,
and muskets were instantly leveled at Lamartine, and, also, at the Royal
party.
"It is Lamartine! it is Lamartine!" was the cry of terror that rose from his
friends.
The muskets were lowered.
The Duchess and her party were at once withdrawn from the Chamber by a
side door, and having first retired to the Hôtel des Invalides, next fled to the
Rhine; the Duke of Nemours fled to Boulogne and thence to England.
"Silence—silence—silence!" shouted the President, violently ringing his
bell. But the uproar only increased. "I pronounce this session closed!" cried
the President, and putting on his hat he instantly left the chair.
Here ends the Chamber of Deputies.
A large number of the members withdrew with the President, but the
opposition remained, and with them the people and the National Guards.
After the noise incident to this departure had subsided, the venerable M.
Dupont de l'Eure, a gray-headed old man of eighty, was, by unanimous
acclamation, placed in the President's chair. Lamartine still remained in the
tribune, and repeatedly strove to make his voice heard, but in vain.
"In the name of the people, silence, and let Lamartine speak!" at length was
heard in the thunder tones of Ledru Rollin, rising above all other sounds.

Silence for a moment being obtained, Lamartine exclaimed:
"Citizens!—a provisional government is declared! The names of the
members will now be announced by the President!"
Lamartine then descended from the tribune; applause and uproar succeeded.
"The names of the members nominated for a provisional government I will
now read to you," said the aged President, rising and displaying a paper.
The following names were then read, and were repeated as they came one
after the other from the speaker's mouth by the reporters in loud tones:
Lamartine, Ledru Rollin, Arago, Dupont de l'Eure, Marie, Georges
Lafayette; all were received with general approbation.
"The members of the Provisional Government must be conducted by the
people to the Hôtel de Ville and installed!" cried a voice from the crowd.
"Let us adjourn to the Hôtel de Ville, Lamartine at the head!" said M.
Bocage.
Immediately Lamartine, accompanied by a large number of citizens,
withdrew. But a great multitude still remained upon the benches and in the
semi-circle of the Chamber.
"Citizens!" cried Ledru Rollin, "in nominating a provisional government
you perform a solemn act—an act which cannot be performed in a furious
manner. Let me once more repeat to you the names you have chosen, and as
they are repeated, you will say 'yes' or 'no,' precisely as they please you; I
call on the reporters of the public press to note the names and the manner in
which they are now received, that France may know what is here done."
The names of Dupont de l'Eure, Arago, Lamartine, Ledru Rollin, Crémieux,
Garnier Pages and Marie were then read out, and all, except the last two—
which were received with a few negatives—were confirmed by unanimous
acclamation. The names were then engrossed in capitals on a sheet of paper
and borne around the Chamber on the bayonet of a National Guard that all
might read for themselves.
"I have one more word to say," cried Ledru Rollin. "The Provisional
Government has immense duties to perform. We must now close this

meeting, that the Government may be able to restore order—stanch the flow
of blood, and secure to the people their rights."
"To the Hôtel de Ville!—to the Hôtel de Ville!" responded the people in a
tremendous shout. "Vive la République!—to the Hôtel de Ville!"
Headed by Ledru Rollin the excited multitude withdrew, and at four o'clock
all was as silent in the Chamber of Deputies as if not a voice had resounded
or a footstep had echoed within its walls for centuries. In the distance,
however, could be heard the repeated shout:
"Vive la République!—to the Hôtel de Ville!"

CHAPTER XXIII.
THE SACK OF THE TUILERIES.

Scarcely had the carriages conveying the Royal family disappeared on their
flight toward St. Cloud, when the whole mass of the populace poured as
with one simultaneous purpose into the deserted palace. The Palais Bourbon
had already been sacked; a like fate might be supposed to await the
Tuileries; but the Tuileries belonged to France, not to the House of Orléans,
and a certain respect was observed for everything but the insignia of
Royalty. For these was shown no regard. The throne itself of the state
reception-room—that throne on which sat Louis Philippe for the first time,
as King of the French, ere the Tuileries became his throne—was torn from
its base, and, having been hurled first in derision from the windows into the
court, was borne in mock triumph on the shoulders of men, who shouted
that now the throne was indeed supported by the people, to the Place de la
Bastille, and there consumed to ashes. In the courtyard, in the Rue de Rivoli
and on the quays, huge fires roared, fanned into fury by a hurricane of wind,
and fed by richly carved furniture, gilded chairs, canopies, pianos, sofas,
beds, costly paintings, splendid works of art and the Royal carriages
glittering with gold. The magnificent tapestries of the Gobelins were borne
as streamers, in frantic fury, along the boulevards; mischievous gamins
were frolicking about in the long scarlet robes worn upon Court occasions,
which they had filched from the Royal wardrobe; the escritoire of the King,
the key having been found in a tea-cup, was ransacked, and private letters,
books and the garments of ladies were strewn about the court and gardens
of the Tuileries. The cellars of the palace were soon filled with the
insurgents; but they declared the wine bad, as it never remained long
enough in the cellars of kings to get good! Destruction, not pillage, seemed
the order of the hour, and to guard against robbery the people took upon
themselves the arrest and punishment of offenders. The walls bore the
menace, "Robbers shall die!" In several instances the threat was carried into
immediate execution, and bodies, suffered to lie on the spot upon which
they had been cut down, bore on their breasts the label "Thief!" in terrible

warning. Sentinels also stood at the gates, and no one was allowed to leave
the palace without rigorous search.
In the apartments of the Duchess of Orléans, the table was found spread for
the dinner of herself and her children; upon the table were the little silver
cups, forks and spoons of the young Princes, and on the floor were scattered
their costly toys. The latter were gathered carefully up by a workman in a
blouse, and as carefully concealed in a corner. The former, together with all
jewels and other valuables found in the apartments of the Duchess, were
deposited in a bathing-tub, on which a workman seated himself as guard
and suffered no one to approach until the aforesaid valuables could be
conveyed by a detachment of the Polytechnic School to the Government
treasury. The story runs that, on the night succeeding the sack of the
Tuileries, the conquerors chose a king and queen, and that, in the palace
hall, was spread a banquet composed of the viands found in the Royal
kitchen and the wines found in the Royal cellars. The queen, who was a
soubrette more noticeable for beauty than for cleanliness of person, garbed
in Royal robes which she well became, and with a coronet upon her stately
brow, was seated in a chair of state and received the most extravagant
homage from her willing subjects, while groups of gamins, in the long
crimson liveries of the Royal household, boisterously frolicked before the
sans culotte court amid roars of merriment.

CHAPTER XXIV.
A MEMORABLE NIGHT.

Generally, the rogues throughout Paris, intimidated by the awful, immediate
and certain penalty for crime, forsook, for the time, their calling. A man
who attempted to fire the Palais Royal was shot at the Préfecture. Another,
for a like attempt on buildings in the Rue Monceau, met a like fate. In the
Rue Richelieu lay the bodies of two thieves, each with a ball through the
breast, and over the aperture the word "Thief" on a label. In like manner
were eight more robbers executed at once on the Place de la Madeleine. A
woman of the street wrested a bracelet from a lady's wrist; she was instantly
seized by the bystanders and shot. But for this summary punishment of
malefactors by the people, dreadful that night would have been the state of
Paris, without laws to enforce or a police to enforce them. It is true the
Château of Neuilly was sacked and burned, as well as the splendid villa of
the Baron Rothschild at Parennes; but both were supposed to be the
property of the King. It is true, also, that some rails on the Northern
Railway were torn up, and a viaduct between Paris and Amiens, and another
between Amiens and the frontier of Belgium were demolished; and that the
railway stations at St. Denis, Enghien and Pontoise and the bridge at
Asnières had been destroyed; but all this was done to prevent the
concentration upon the citizens of Paris of additional Royal troops.
A workman entered a house and demanded bread. Meat and wine were
offered him. "No," was the reply, "bread and water are all I want."
Yet such was the scarcity of food that horses were killed and eaten at the
Hôtel de Ville, on the third day of the Revolution.
"Arms—arms!" shouted a band of workmen, entering a house on the Rue
Richelieu. The proprietor, alarmed, shouted for help. "Do you think us
robbers?" was the indignant reply. "Give us your weapons!"
The weapons were given and the band retired; on the door they wrote,
"Here we received arms!"

At five o'clock, on the evening of the 24th of February, a proclamation to
the citizens of Paris, issued by the Provisional Government then in session
at the Hôtel de Ville, declared the Revolution accomplished—that eighty
thousand of the National Guard and one hundred thousand of the people
were in arms—that order as well as liberty must now be secured, and the
people, with the National Guard, were appointed guardians of Paris.
The effect of this proclamation was magical. Never was Paris so well
protected as on that night of the 24th of February, when, filled with
barricades, she had no police and was guarded by her citizens.
And how was constituted the Provisional Government whose power was
thus implicitly obeyed? It was founded by the people who obeyed it. This
was the only secret.
From the Chamber of Deputies to the Hôtel de Ville proceeded the members
of the Provisional Government. They marched under a canopy of sabres,
pikes and bayonets into halls stained with blood and encumbered with the
slain, and there, at a small table, while the conflict between the two
Republics had already commenced, within an hour had they organized their
body by the nomination of Armand Marrast, of "Le National," Ferdinand
Flocon, of "La Réforme," Albert, a workman, and Louis Blanc, the editor
and author, as Secretaries of the Government; their first official act was to
issue a proclamation to the people.
The scenes witnessed the night which succeeded in Paris will never be
forgotten by those who witnessed them. Patrols promenaded the streets, the
men of the barricades slept upon their weapons, beside their works, and
through all that night ceaselessly toiled the press to spread over all the
world the news of the great events of the three past days in Paris.
Upon the door of an edifice situated in the Rue Jean Jacques Rousseau—a
street which was filled with barricades of immense size and strength—was
posted a printed placard, "The Provisional Government," lighted by a single
lamp. Entering the door with a vast multitude, and ascending the dark and
winding staircase, you found yourself in a large room, dimly lighted and
crowded with armed men.
It was the editorial apartment of the office of "La Réforme."

At a large and massive table sat a dozen persons most industriously
employed in writing. Around them, looking on, rose the rough, stern faces
of the men of the barricades, seeming still more rough and stern by reason
of the shadowy light; in the hands of all were weapons.
"A copy of the names of the members of the Provisional Government!" was
the incessant demand of these armed men, a demand which the dozen
writers at the table were unable even by most indefatigable industry to
supply as fast as made. And as fast as the demand was satisfied, the armed
men would hurry away, only to leave room for the crowds constantly
entering.
"A copy for the Hôtel de Ville!" cried one.
"A copy for the Place Vendôme!" shouted another.
"A copy for the Palais Bourbon!" screamed a third.
"Are there no printed copies left?" asked many.
"They were gone long ago—twenty thousand copies," was the reply. "You
will see one at every corner. The demand was not expected. The printers
have just gone to sleep. They had not rested for fifty-two hours."
"Will 'La Réforme' appear in the morning?" asked another.
"Perhaps so," was the answer. "But all the people are worn out—writers and
compositors. Here is your copy of the names."
"Many thanks. Vive la République!"
With this shout, in concert with the same which constantly issued from a
hundred lips, the citizen folded up his precious document, and carefully
depositing it in his cap hurried off to communicate its contents to his
comrades of the neighboring barricade.
In another apartment of that same edifice were a large number of the
Republican party connected with "La Réforme."
"The Provisional Government is now in session," said one. "They will,
doubtless, make immediate provision for departments of State so important

as the post-office and the préfecture of police. Early to-morrow a
proclamation——"
"To-morrow may be too late," interrupted a large and muscular man. "The
post-office is more active than ever to-night. Every moment couriers are
arriving and departing. That powerful instrument remains in the hands of
the foes of our cause! Who may estimate the injury, the irreparable injury
which they may this night accomplish by its means!"
This man was Étienne Arago, brother of the great astronomer, and, for
sixteen years, celebrated as one of the boldest members of the Republican
party, as well as one of the bravest men in Paris.
"And the préfecture of police," observed another—"the present utter
derangement of all its functions may lead to most serious results. Already
those foes of freedom, Guizot and his colleagues, have been suffered to
secure their escape from the just indignation of an outraged people.
Delessert, the Préfect, has also fled!"
The man who said this was Marc Caussidière, a well-known Republican.
"Citizens!" cried M. Gouache, "this state of things must continue no longer.
In the name of the people, I demand that Étienne Arago immediately
assume the charge of the post-office, as its director, and that Marc
Caussidière fill the position of Préfect."
This demand was confirmed by acclamation, and committees for the
installation of the nominees into office at once accompanied them to their
respective departments.
The immense edifice of the post-office was surrounded by people, and its
numerous windows were flashing with lights. Within the utmost activity
seemed to prevail, and without couriers were leaving and arriving every
moment, and mail coaches were dashing up to discharge their burdens, or,
having received them, were dashing off.
"In the name of the people, entrance for Citizen Étienne Arago, Republican
director of the post-office!" shouted one of the committee.

Instantly a passage through the immense crowd in the courtyard was cleared
by the National Guard, and the director entered with his escort.
"In the name of the people, Citizen Dejean, you are dismissed," said
Étienne Arago, entering the private cabinet of the Director General.
"And who is to be my successor?" asked the astonished Count, rising to his
feet.
"In the name of the people, I am sent to displace and to succeed you," was
the answer.
"But your commission, Monsieur?"
"Is here," pointing to the committee.
"Before I resign the direction of this department," said the Count after some
hesitation, "I must ask of you for some record of this act, bearing your
signature, to be deposited in the archives of the office."
"Certainly, Monsieur, your request is but reasonable," answered Arago,
seating himself in the official chair. And writing a few lines to which he
affixed his signature, he coolly handed the document to his astonished
predecessor. It contained notice of his own appointment by the people, in
place of the Count Dejean, dismissed.
The Count read and folded the paper, and having made a copy of it, which
he laid carefully in his porte-monnaie, he placed the original on file among
the papers of the day belonging to the department. Then, courteously
bowing, he took his hat and cane and marched out of the building.

CHAPTER XXV.
THE PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENT.

In the Hôtel de Ville, closely closeted, sat the Provisional Government of
France. Over that stern old citadel, over the dismantled Palace of the
Tuileries, from the tall summit of the Column of Vendôme, over the Hôtel
des Invalides and in the Place de la Bastille is seen a blood-red banner,
streaming out like a meteor on the keen north-western blast. Eighty
thousand armed men invest the Hôtel de Ville, and wave on wave, wave on
wave, the living and stormy tide eddies and welters and dashes around that
dark old pile. All its avenues are held; its courts are thronged; ordnance
frowns from its black portals and against its gates; drums roll—banners
stream—bayonets glitter; and from those tens of thousands of hoarse and
stormy voices goes up but one shout of menace and command:
"Vive la République! Vive la République! No kings! No Bourbons! Down
—down forever with the kings!"
And upward to that dark old pile of despotism, as to the temple of Liberty
herself, are turned those tens of thousands of swarthy faces, dark with the
smoke of battle, yet livid with excitement and exhaustion—and as they
realize that within those walls the question of their fate and that of their
country is then being settled—that from that night's counsels in that vast
and ancient edifice are to flow peace and prosperity, and freedom and
plenty, or else all the untold terrors of anarchy, civil war, bloodshed,
violence and strife—what wonder that the sitting of the council seemed
endless and their own impatience became intolerable—that all imaginable
doubts and fears and absurd apprehensions took possession of their
inflamed imaginations?—that at one time the rumor should fly, and win
credence as it flew, that the Provisional Government were consulting with
the friends of Henry V.—or again, that they were considering the question
of a Regency—and that under such influences they should roar and yell,
and thunder for admission at the gates, and burden the air with their shouts?

"No Bourbons! No kings! No Regency! Death—death to all kings! La
République! La République! La République!"
At times, in terrific concert, would the thousands of uplifted throats roar
forth the chorus of that startling canticle of '92:

"Vive la république! Vive la république!
Debout, peuple Français! debout, peuple héroïque!
Debout, peuple Français! Vive la république!"

Then the song would change and the mournful notes of the "Death Hymn of
the Girondins,"—"Mourir Pour la Patrie"—would swell in wild yet solemn
cadence on the wintry blast:

DEATH HYMN OF THE GIRONDINS.

By the voice of the signal cannon,
France calls her sons their aid to lend;
"Let us go," the soldier cries, "to battle!
'Tis our mother we defend!"
To die on Freedom's Altar—to die on Freedom's Altar!
'Tis the noblest of fates; who to meet it would falter!

We who fall afar from the battle,
Lone and unknown obscurely die,
But give at least our parting blessings
Unto France and Freedom high.
To die on Freedom's Altar—to die on Freedom's Altar!
'Tis the noblest of fates; who to meet it would falter!

And thus all that terrible night, even until the morning's dawn, thronged
those men of the barricades around the Hôtel de Ville, and all the night,
even until the morning's dawn, calmly continued those men of the
Provisional Government of the French Republic, amid menace and
mandate, uproar and confusion, in their noble, yet arduous work. At
midnight a proclamation of the Provisional Government was read by
torchlight to the excited masses by Louis Blanc, from the steps of the Hôtel
de Ville, declaring for a government of the people by itself, with liberty,

equality and fraternity for its principles, while order was devised and
maintained by the people—which served somewhat to allay their
apprehensions and distrust. This proclamation appeared in all the morning
journals, and was placarded all over the city the next day.
That day was Friday, the 25th of February. But still the Provisional
Government remained in session, and still the armed masses of the
barricades, in congregated thousands, rolled in tumultuous billows around
the Hôtel de Ville. At length the populace, exasperated by impatience,
hunger and sleeplessness, with brandished bayonets rushed into the very
chamber of council, with furious cries, and with threats which were well
nigh accomplished. Again and again, at the entreaty of his colleagues, did
the brave, the eloquent, the wise Lamartine present himself upon the steps
of the Hôtel de Ville to assuage and quiet the rising tempest. Again and
again, throughout that fearful day, did he come forth, single-handed, to
wrestle with violence, turbulence, anarchy and strife; and again and again,
beneath the magic of his eloquent tongue, the storm lulled, the tempest
ceased. Again and again, throughout all that fearful day, were the acts of
that noble Government matured and sent forth. Proclamation followed
proclamation, and no branch of society seemed forgotten.
The names of the members of the Provisional Government were again
published. Caussidière and Sobrier were confirmed in the police
department, and Étienne Arago in that of the post-office. Merchants of
provisions were recommended to supply all who were in need; and the
people were recommended to still retain their arms. The Chamber of
Deputies was dissolved, the Peers were forbidden to meet, and the
convocation of a National Assembly was promised. To all laborers labor
was guaranteed and compensation for labor. At noon the garrison of the fort
of Vincennes was announced to have acknowledged the Republic, just as
the people were about to march upon it. To insure order and tranquillity, the
Municipal Guard was disbanded, and the National Guard entrusted with the
protection of Paris under M. Courtais, the commandant, who was ordered
immediately to recruit twenty-four battalions for active service. All articles
pledged at the Mont-de-Piété, from February 4th, not exceeding in value ten
francs, were ordered to be returned, and the Tuileries was decreed the future
asylum of invalid workmen. An attack on the machinery of some of the
printing offices was checked by a proclamation.

General Bedeau was appointed Minister of War, General Cavaignac
Governor of Algeria, and Admiral Baudin to the command of the Toulon
fleet. On the part of the army Marshal Bugeaud and on the part of the clergy
the venerable Archbishop of Paris gave in their adhesion to the Republic,
while the entire press, Bourgeoisie and the Provinces hesitated not an
instant. Indeed, from all quarters came in adhesions to the Republic. The
Bonapartes were among the first. Barrot and Thiers also came, but too late
to save themselves from contempt. Mr. Rush, the American Minister, the
first of foreign ambassadors acknowledged the Republic. The son of
Mehemet Ali was next. The Papal Nuncio succeeded, together with the
Ministers of the Argentine Republic and Uruguay. Next came the
ambassador of England; but those of Austria, Prussia, Russia and Holland
awaited instructions from home—little dreaming of the news they were
about to receive! The city of Rouen sent three hundred of its citizens as a
deputation, with abundant supplies of arms, by the morning cars of the
railway.
At about noon, the Pont Louis Philippe was destroyed by fire. Henceforth it
is to be "Le Pont de la Réforme." And so with all other names. Royal is to
give place to République, and "Liberté, Egalité et Fraternité" is to be again
inscribed on all public monuments.
The children of citizens killed in the Revolution were declared adopted by
the country. The civil, judicial and administrative functionaries of the Royal
Government were announced released from their oaths of office, the
colonels of the twelve legions of National Guards were dismissed, and all
political prisoners set free. Every citizen was declared an elector, and
absolute freedom of thought, the liberty of the press, and the right of
political and industrial associations secured to all were proclaimed.
A warrant for the arrest of the late Ministers was issued by the new
Procureur-General, M. Portalis, based on an act of accusation presented to
the Court of Appeals. But all of them had fled. Guizot is said to have
escaped from the Foreign Office in a servant's livery. When the people
broke into his hôtel, they found only his daughter, and retired. The other
members of the Ministry are said to have leaped from a low window of the
Tuileries, and to have escaped at the moment of the King's abdication. M.

de Cormenin was appointed Conseilleur d'État and M. Achille Marrast
Procureur-General to the Court of Appeals in Paris, in place of the refugees.
Such were some of the acts of the seven men constituting the Provisional
Government of the French Republic, during their first extraordinary session
of sixty-four hours—from the hour of four o'clock in the afternoon of
Thursday after the dissolution of the Chamber of Deputies to the hour of
four o'clock in the morning of Sunday, the 27th of February, when the
people of Paris consented to retire to their homes. But during all of this
period, night and day without intermission, every moment was the Hôtel de
Ville surrounded by tumultuous masses infuriated by suspicion,
apprehension and distrust. For two whole days and two whole nights armed
men incessantly inundated the square, the courts and halls of the Hôtel de
Ville. They insisted on giving to the Republic the character, the attitude and
the emblems of the first Revolution—they insisted on a Republic violent,
sweeping, dictatorial and terrorist, in language, in gesture and in color, in
place of that determined on, moderate, pacific, legal, unanimous and
constitutional. At the peril of their lives the Provisional Government
resisted this demand. Twenty times during those sixty-four hours was
Lamartine taken up, dragged, carried to the doors and windows or to the
head of the grand staircase, into the courts and the square, to hurl down
with his eloquence those emblems of terrorism, with which it was attempted
to dishonor the Republic. But the vast and infuriated mass refused to listen,
and drowned his voice in clamor and vociferation. At length, when well-
nigh exhausted in defence of the emblem of a moderate Republic, he
exclaimed: "The red flag has been nowhere except around the Champ-de-
Mars, trailed in the blood of the people, while the tri-color has been around
the world with our navy, our glory and our liberties!"
The furious and hitherto obdurate and bloodthirsty populace became
softened—tears were shed, arms were lowered—flags were thrown away,
and peaceably they departed to their homes. Never—never was there a
more glorious triumph of eloquence—of patriotism!
It was on the morning of Sunday, the 27th day of February, that the
Provisional Government deemed it prudent and proper for them to bring to
a close their initiative labors, and once more, for the last time, Lamartine
descended the steps of the great staircase of the Hôtel de Ville, and,

presenting himself in front of the edifice surrounded by his colleagues,
announced to the vast assembly the result of their protracted toil:
Royalty abolished—
A Republic proclaimed—
The people restored to their political rights—
National workshops opened—
The army and National Guard reorganized—
The abolition of death for political offences.
With louder and more prolonged acclamations than any other decree was
this last received. And, instantly, in accordance with this proclamation, the
director of criminal affairs, on the order of M. Crémieux, Minister of
Justice, dispatched on the wings of the wind, all over France, the warrant to
suspend all capital executions which were to have taken place, in virtue of
Royal decrees, until the will of the National Assembly, at once to be
convened, should be promulgated on the subject of the penalty of death.
The effects of this decree, as it sped on the lightning's wings, like a saving
angel, all over France, may be imagined perhaps, but portrayal is
impossible! Who can imagine even the joy, the rapture it brought to many a
dungeon-prisoner, who was counting the hours that yet remained to him of
life and preceded his awful doom, or to those who sorrowed over his
untimely—perchance his unjust fate!
Leaning on the arm of Louis Blanc, the youngest member of the
Government, the venerable Dupont de l'Eure, the eldest, accompanied by
the other members, now appeared on the balcony of the room formerly
called the Chamber of the Throne, but now the Chamber of the Republic!
Lamartine then advanced a step before his colleagues, and in a brief and
eloquent address proclaimed to that immense throng the existence of the
Republic.
The announcement was received with, acclamations of joy, and shouts of
"Vive le Gouvernement!"—"Vive Lamartine!"—"Vive Louis Blanc!"
mingled with those of "Vive la République!" loudly rose.

From the Hôtel de Ville, the Provisional Government proceeded in a body,
despite the rain which fell in torrents, accompanied by the people, to the
Place de la Bastille, there officially to inaugurate the Republic, agreeably to
announcement.
At the appointed hour, the Place de la Bastille was thronged. The National
Guard, consisting of two battalions from each of the twelve legions of Paris,
together with the Thirteenth Legion of cavalry and two battalions of the
Banlieu, were drawn up from the Church of the Madeleine to the Column of
July. And, there, at the base of that column erected in commemoration of
the Revolution which had made Louis Philippe King of the French, his
downfall was commemorated, and on the ruins of the throne then
established was now inaugurated a Republic!
During the ceremony of the inauguration, the "Marseillaise" was sung by
the National Guard and the people, and, at its conclusion, about the hour of
three, the troops filed off before the Column of July to the thrilling strains
of the "Marseillaise" and the "Mourir Pour la Patrie" of the Girondins. The
members of the Provisional Government, preceded by a detachment of the
National Guard and accompanied by the pupils of the Polytechnic School
and the Military School of St. Cyr, then descended the boulevards, followed
by the whole of the military and civic array, who chanted the national
songs. The effect was stupendous. Hour after hour the immense procession
moved on like a huge serpent through the streets of Paris; and, at length,
when its head was at the Hôtel de Ville, its extremity had hardly left the
Column of July.
It was night, on Sunday, the 27th of February, when the members of the
Provisional Government, for the first time during four days, returned to
their homes. But their work was accomplished. A Republic was gained,
proclaimed and inaugurated!

CHAPTER XXVI.
DANTÈS AND MERCÉDÈS.

It was a tempestuous night. The wind howled dismally through the streets
of Paris, and the rain and sleet dashed fiercely against the casements. At
intervals a wild shout might be caught as the blast paused in its furious
career, and then a distant shot might be heard. But they passed away, and
nothing save the wail of the storm-wind or the rushing sleet of the winter
tempest was distinguished.
But, while all was thus wild, dark and tempestuous without, light, warmth,
comfort and elegance, rendered yet more delightful by the elemental war,
reigned triumphant within a large and splendidly furnished apartment in the
noble mansion of M. Dantès, the Deputy from Marseilles, in the Rue du
Helder. Every embellishment which art could invent, luxury court, wealth
invoke, or even imagination conceive, seemed there lavished with a most
prodigal hand. The soft atmosphere of summer, perfumed by the exotics of
a neighboring conservatory, delighted the senses, the mild effulgence of
gaslight transmitted through opaque globes of glass melted upon the sight,
while sofas, divans and ottomans in luxurious profusion invited repose. To
describe the rare paintings, the rich gems of statuary and the other miracles
of art which were there to be seen would be as impossible as it would be to
portray the exquisite taste which enhanced the value of each and constituted
more than half its charm.
Upon one of the elegant sofas reclined Edmond Dantès, his tall and graceful
figure draped in a dressing robe, while beside him on a low ottoman sat his
beautiful wife, her arm resting on his knee, and her dark, glorious eyes
gazing with confiding fondness into his face.
Mercédès was no longer the young, light-hearted and thoughtless being who
graced the village of the Catalans. Many years had flown since then and
many sorrows passed over her. Each of these years and each of these
sorrows, like retiring waves of the sea, upon the smooth and sandy beach,

had left behind its trace. No, Mercédès was not now the young, light-
hearted and thoughtless girl she once was; but she was a being far more
perfect, far more winning, far more to be loved—she was a matured,
impassioned, accomplished, and still, despite the flight of years, most
lovely woman. She was one who could feel passion as well as inspire it, and
having once felt or inspired it, that passion, it was plain, could never pass
lightly away. Her face could not now boast, perhaps, that full and perfect
oval which it formerly had, but the lines of care and of reflection, which
here and there almost imperceptibly appeared, rendered it all the more
charming. In the bold yet beautiful contour of those features, in the full red
lips, in the high pale forehead and, above all, in those dark and haunting
eyes lay a depth of feeling and profundity and nobleness of thought, which
to a reflective mind have a charm infinitely more irresistible than that which
belongs to mere youthful perfection. There was a bland beauty in the smile
which slept upon her lips, a delicacy of sentiment in the faint flush that
tinged her soft cheek, and a deep meaning in her dark and eloquent eye
which told a whole history of experience even to a stranger; while the full
and rounded outline of the figure, garbed in a loose robe of crimson, which
contrasted beautifully with her luxuriant dark tresses, had that voluptuous
development and grace which only maturity and maternity can impart to the
female form. In short, never had Mercédès, in the days of her primal bloom,
presented a person so fascinating as now. She was a woman to sigh for,
perchance to die for, and one whom a man would willingly wish to live for,
if he might but hope she would live for him, or, peradventure, he might
even be willing not only to risk, but ultimately to resign his life, would that
fair being not only live for him, but love him with that entire and passionate
devotedness which beamed from her dark eyes up into his who now gazed
upon her as she sat at his feet. As for him, as for Edmond Dantès, his figure
had now the same elegance, his hand the same delicate whiteness, his
features the same spiritual beauty, his brow the same marble pallor, and his
eye which beamed beneath its calm expanse the same deep brilliancy
which, years before, had distinguished him from all other men and made the
Count of Monte-Cristo the idol of every salon in Paris and the hero of every
maiden's dream. Yet that face was not without its changes. Tears, care,
thought and sorrow had done their work; in the deep lines upon his brow
and cheek, in the silvery threads which thickly sprinkled his night-black
hair, and, more than all, in the mild light of those eyes which once glowed

only with vindictive hate or gratified revenge and in the softened expression
of those lips which once, in their stern beauty, had but curled with scorn or
quivered with rage could be read that the lapse of time, though it might,
indeed, have made him a sadder man, had made him also a better one.
The husband and wife were alone. They still loved as warmly as ever, and,
if possible, more fondly than when first they were made one.
Dantès stretched himself out on the sofa, and Mercédès, dropping lower
upon the low ottoman at his side, passed her full and beautiful arm around
his waist and pressed her lips to his forehead. He returned the embrace with
warmth, and placing his own arm about her form, drew it closely to his
bosom. Thus they remained, clasped in each other's arms, and thus they
fixed on each other eyes beaming with love, passion, bliss, happiness
unutterable.
"My own Edmond!" murmured Mercédès. "At length you are again with me
—all my own!"
"Am I not always your own, dearest?" was the fond reply.
"But during the week past, I might almost say during the month past, you
have been compelled to be so often absent from me."
"Ah! love, you know I was not willingly absent!" was the quick answer.
"No—no—no—but it was hardly the more endurable for that," said the
lady, with a smile. "Oh! the anxiety of the last three days and nights!
Dearest, I do believe I have not slept three hours during the whole of those
three days and nights!"
"And I, dear, have slept not one!" was the laughing rejoinder.
"But all is over now, is it not?"
"In one sense all is over, and in another all now begins. The monarchy is
ended in France, I believe, forever. The Republic has begun, and, I trust,
will prove lasting."
"And all the grand objects for which you have been striving with your noble
colleagues for years and years are at length accomplished, are they not?"

"That is a question, love, not easily answered. That the cause of man and
France has wonderfully triumphed during the past three days is, no doubt,
most true. But this victory, love, I foresaw. Indeed, it was but the inevitable
result of an irresistible cause. It was neither chance, love, nor a spontaneous
burst of patriotism that, on the first day, filled the boulevards with fifty
thousand blouses, which on the second won over to the people eighty
thousand National Guards, and on the third choked the streets of Paris with
barricades constructed by engineers and defended by men completely
armed. The events of the last three days, Mercédès, have been maturing in
the womb of Providence for the past ten years. It is their birth only which
has now taken place, and to some the parturition seems a little premature, I
suppose. This banquet caused the fright that hastened the event," added
Dantès, laughing.
"You are very scientific in your comparisons," replied Mercédès, slightly
blushing, "and I suppose I must admit, very apt. But tell me, love, is all
over? That is, must you be away from me any more at night, and wander
about, Heaven only knows where, in this dark and dangerous city, or
Heaven only knows with whom or for what?"
Dantès kissed his fair wife, and, after a pause, during which he gazed
fondly into her eyes, replied:
"I hope, I trust, I believe, dear, that all is over—at least all that will take me
from you, as during the past week. France has or will have a Republic. That
is as certain as fate can make it. But first she will have to pass through strife
and tribulation—perhaps bloodshed. The end surely, love, is not yet. But
France is now comparatively free. The dreadful problem is now nearer
solution than it ever was. Labor will hereafter be granted to all, together
with the adequate reward of labor. Destitution will not be deemed guilt. The
death-penalty is abolished. The rich will not with impunity grind the poor
into powder beneath their heels. Asylums for the suffering, the distressed,
the abandoned of both sexes will be sustained. The efforts which, as
individuals, we have some of us made for years to ameliorate the condition
of mankind, to assuage human woes and augment human joys, will
henceforth be encouraged and directly aided by the State. This Revolution,
love, is a social Revolution, and during the sixty-four hours the Provisional
Government was in session, in the Hôtel de Ville, I became thoroughly

convinced that the thousands and tens of thousands who, with sleepless
vigilance, watched their proceedings, had learned the deep lesson too well
to be further deceived, and that the fruits of the Revolution they had won
would not again be snatched from their lips."
"And the result of this triumph of the people you believe has advanced the
cause of human happiness?" asked Mercédès.
"Most unquestionably, dear, and most incalculably, too, perhaps."
"All your friends are not as disinterested as you have been, Edmond," said
Mercédès.
"And why think you that, dear?"
"For six full years I know you have devoted all your powers of mind and
body and all your immense wealth to one single object."
"And that object?"
"Has been the happiness of your race."
"Well, dear?"
"And now, when a triumph has been achieved—now, when others, who
have been but mere instruments—blind instruments, many of them, in your
hands to accomplish they knew not what—come forward and assume place
and power—you, Edmond, the noble author and first cause of all, remain
quietly in seclusion, unknown, unnamed, unappreciated and uncommended,
while the others reap the fruits of your toil!"
"Well, dear?" said Dantès, smiling at the warmth of his wife in his behalf.
"But it is not 'well,' Edmond. I say no one is as disinterested as you."
"Ah! love, what of ambition?"
Mercédès smiled.
"Let me tell you all, love, and then you will not, I fear, think me
disinterested," said Dantès seriously. "I should blush, indeed, at praise so
little deserved. You know all my early history. I suffered—I was wronged—

I was revenged. But was I happy? I sought happiness. All men do so, even
the most miserable. Some seek happiness in gratified ambition, some in
gratified avarice, some in gratified vanity, and some in the gratification of a
dominant lust for pleasure or for power. I sought happiness in gratified
revenge!"
Mercédès shuddered, and, hiding her face on the bosom of her husband,
clung to it more closely as if for protection. Dantès drew her form to his as
he would have drawn that of a child, and continued:
"I sought happiness in vengeance for terrible wrongs, and to win it I
devoted a life and countless wealth. What was the result? Misery!—misery!
—misery!"
"Poor Edmond!" murmured Mercédès, clinging to him closer than ever.
"At length I awoke, as from a dream. I saw my error. My whole life had
been a lie. I saw that God by a miracle had bestowed on me untold riches
for a nobler purpose than to make his creatures wretched. I saw that if I
would be happy I must make others happy, and to this end—the happiness,
not the misery, of my race—must my wealth and power be devoted. To this
end, then, did I devote myself, and to this end, for six years, have I been
devoted—to make myself happy by making others happy—you among the
rest, dear, dear Mercédès," he added, pressing her to his bosom. "And am I
then so disinterested?"
"But why should you achieve triumphs for others to enjoy, Edmond?" asked
the wife.
"You refer to the Provisional Government," said Dantès with a smile. "Well,
I see I must tell you all, even though by the revelation I prove myself utterly
unworthy of the praise of disinterestedness. I may tell you, love—you my
second self—without danger of being charged with egotism, what I might
not say to others. Our friend Lamartine is the actual head of this
Government. I had but to assent to the urgent entreaties to secure that
position for myself. These appointments seem the result of nomination by
the people. Yet they are not!"
"And why did you refuse to head the Government, Edmond?"

"I am ashamed to confess to you that I feared to accept," said Dantès after a
pause. "My own selfishness, not, alas! my disinterestedness, has kept me
from the post of peril. Perhaps, indeed, I can do far more for the cause of
my race as I am than I could by sacrificing myself for office and position; at
least, I hope so."
"Is the position of your friends then so perilous?" asked Mercédès.
"Dearest, they stand upon a volcano!" said Dantès, solemnly.
"Ha!" cried the lady in alarm.
"Mercédès—Mercédès!" continued Dantès with enthusiasm, "I sometimes
am startled with the idea that to me have been entrusted the awful powers of
foreknowledge, of prophecy, so fearfully true have some of my predictions
proved! The events of the past week I foresaw and foretold, even to minute
circumstances and the hours of their occurrence. And now—glorious as is
the triumph that France and the cause of man have achieved—I perceive in
the dim future a sea of commotion! All is not yet settled. Within one month,
revolution will succeed revolution throughout Europe! Berlin, Vienna, and
Madrid, perhaps also St. Petersburg, London, and all the cities of Italy, will
be in revolt. All Europe must and will feel the events of the past week in
Paris. Europe must be free!"
"And our friends—Lamartine—Louis Blanc?"
"Within six months Louis Blanc will be an exile, and Lamartine—he may
be in a dungeon or on a scaffold!"
"Ah!" exclaimed Mercédès, clinging yet more closely to her husband.
"But the cause of human happiness, human right and human freedom will
live forever! That must be, will be eternal—as eternal, my adored
Mercédès, as is our own deathless love!"

CHAPTER XXVII.
ESPÉRANCE AND ZULEIKA.

During the whole period of the memorable Revolution Zuleika never once
saw her brother, though she was burning with a desire to have an interview
with him on the subject that had caused the separation between her young
Italian lover and herself. Espérance made his home behind the barricades,
from the time the struggle began until the people finally triumphed; gun in
hand, he fought as heroically as the most devoted workman, fearlessly
exposing himself whenever the troops pressed his comrades in arms and
always in the thick of the fight. Begrimed with dust and powder, his
garments torn by bullets and bayonet thrusts, his hat battered and rent, he
encouraged the people by word and example, constantly shouting "Vive la
République," and contending for liberty with the bravery of a lion and a
persistency that never flagged. He, however, escaped without a single
scratch, returning to the paternal mansion utterly worn out, but altogether
unhurt, proud of having done his duty as a man and a patriot, and of having
sustained the glorious cause for which his father was working heart and
soul.
As he was slowly and wearily wending his way homeward, he suddenly
encountered M. Dantès and his friend Lamartine in the Rue Richelieu; his
gun was on his shoulder, and in his tattered attire, with the dust and powder
on his face and hands, he had the exact appearance of an insurrectionist and
a barricader. He touched his hat in military fashion to M. Dantès and his
illustrious companion, and was about passing on when his father recognized
him and, ragged and begrimed as he was, threw his arms enthusiastically
about his neck. M. Lamartine watched the Deputy from Marseilles and
could not restrain an expression of astonishment at his singular behavior. M.
Dantès smiled and, taking Espérance by the hand, said:
"M. Lamartine, you will, I know, make every allowance for me when you
learn that this young man, who has been fighting behind the barricades with
the people, is my son!"

The head of the Provisional Government instantly grew as enthusiastic as
M. Dantès himself; he grasped Espérance's free hand and, shaking it with
the utmost cordiality, exclaimed:
"Your son, M. Dantès! Let me congratulate you! Why he is a perfect hero!"
"I have but followed my father's teachings and done what he would have
done had he been my age and unable to serve the great cause of human
freedom in a more effective way!"
M. Dantès' eyes sparkled with joy and a faint shade of color appeared upon
his pale cheeks.
"What is your name, young patriot?" asked M. Lamartine, his excitement
and enthusiasm continuing to hold possession of him.
"Espérance," was the reply.
"Espérance—hope—the name is both appropriate and auspicious; with such
heroic young men as you fighting for our cause there is, indeed, hope, and
of the brightest and best kind!" cried Lamartine.
"Nay, nay," said M. Dantès, "do not flatter the boy; he has but done his
duty."
"Believe me, I do not flatter him," returned Lamartine; "I have simply told
him the truth; in time he will rival the devotion and achievements of his
noble father!"
"Enough, enough," said the Deputy, modestly; "we deserve only the credit
of executing God's will—we are merely instruments in His omnipotent
hand!" he added, impressively.
"And such instruments are exactly what we need in the present crisis. God
grant us plenty of them!"
The next morning Zuleika encountered Espérance on the stairway; she led
him into the salon, and, when they were seated, said:
"My brother, I have a question to ask of you."
A shadow crossed the young man's brow, and he quickly asked:

"Is it about the Viscount Massetti?"
"Yes."
"Then I must refuse to answer!"
"But the matter concerns my happiness, nay, my very life itself; think of
that before you finally refuse to answer my question!"
Espérance hastily and excitedly arose from his chair and stood in front of
his sister.
"Zuleika," said he, in an agitated tone, "beware of that man—beware of
Giovanni Massetti!"
"Beware of Giovanni, Espérance—and why?"
The young man began to pace the salon with short and nervous steps; his
hands twitched convulsively, and his face had suddenly assumed the
whiteness of chalk.
"Zuleika, Zuleika," he murmured, "I cannot, I cannot tell you why! It would
crash you to the very earth and make you blush with shame that you had
ever listened to the seductive tones of that doubly false Italian's voice!"
"But, Espérance," said Zuleika, "papa certainly knows all about Giovanni; if
he did not altogether approve of his character and conduct, he would never
have consented to admit him as a suitor for my hand!"
"A suitor for your hand, Zuleika! My God! has he then dared——"
"He has done nothing that an upright and honorable man should not do!"
interrupted Zuleika, warmly. "He did not even call here until he had written
to papa and obtained his full permission to do so."
"Zuleika," said Espérance, approaching his sister and taking her hand, "no
doubt Giovanni Massetti has conducted himself in all respects toward you
like a perfect gentleman, but, nevertheless, he is not fit to be my sister's
husband."
"But papa——"

"Has been deceived, as have many others, in regard to the true character and
standing of this so-called Roman nobleman."
"And is he not a nobleman?"
"Once more I must refuse to answer any question in regard to him. I can
only tell you to beware and shun him as you would a venomous serpent."
"Espérance, I love him!"
"Love him!—you love him, Zuleika! Oh! this is, indeed, torture!"
The young man dropped his sister's hand and flung himself upon a divan.
He was a prey to the most intense excitement.
Zuleika, deeply affected to see him thus, and remembering Giovanni's
mysterious behavior, together with his strange and ominous words, when
she had questioned him in regard to his quarrel with Espérance, felt for a
moment shaken and uncertain. She also recollected that, at the time of the
inexplicable difficulty between the two young men, she had heard rumors to
the effect that a youthful member of the Roman aristocracy had abducted a
beautiful peasant girl, in which affair he had been assisted by the notorious
brigand Luigi Vampa; the matter, however, had almost immediately been
hushed up and she had learned none of the circumstances. Could it be
possible that Giovanni Massetti was the youthful aristocrat alluded to by the
gossips and scandalmongers of the Eternal City—that he was the abductor
of the unfortunate peasant girl? She could not entertain such an idea, and
yet that abduction, in spite of all her efforts, would associate itself with her
Italian lover in her mind.
She arose from her chair and, going to the divan, seated herself beside
Espérance, determined to make a final attempt to draw his secret from him.
Throwing her arms tenderly about his neck she said, in a coaxing tone:
"If any sound reason exists why I should not love Giovanni Massetti, and
you know it, your plain duty as my brother is to tell me. Will you not tell
me, Espérance?"
Instead of replying, the young man buried his face in his hands and fairly
sobbed in his anguish. Zuleika was filled with pity for him, and, as she

gazed at him, tears came into her eyes; but still bent on discovering the
nature of the obstacle that had so suddenly loomed up between Giovanni
and herself, she continued after a pause, in the same coaxing voice:
"Espérance, I am no longer a child and should not be treated as one. What I
ask of you is only reasonable and just. If I stand on the brink of a gulf I
cannot see, it is your duty to inform me not only of my danger but also of
its nature. Am I not right?"
Heaving a deep sigh, Espérance replied:
"Yes, you are right, Zuleika; it is my duty to tell you all—and yet I cannot!"
"At least, tell me why you are compelled to maintain silence on a matter of
so much importance."
"Did you question the Viscount?"
"I did."
"And what answer did he return?"
"Like you, he refused to answer."
"Ah! then he has some sense of shame left!"
"Shame?"
"Yes, shame! And what did you do when he refused to speak?"
"I left him."
"And you will not see him again?"
"Not until he has decided to tell me all."
"Then you will never put eyes upon him more; he dare not tell you!"
"Dare not! And why?"
"Because, did you know the depth of his infamy, you would spurn him from
you!"

Suddenly a grave suspicion stole into Zuleika's mind and made her tremble
from head to foot. Might it not be that Espérance had been as deeply
involved in the mysterious and infamous affair of which he declined to
speak as Giovanni Massetti himself? The thought was torment, and totally
unable to restrain her keen anxiety to be instantly informed upon this topic,
Zuleika gasped out:
"Were you not, Espérance, as guilty as your former friend?"
The young man leaped to his feet as if a tarantula had bitten him.
"No, no!" cried he. "I was innocent of all blame in the matter! Luigi Vampa
——"
He abruptly checked himself and stood staring at his sister, as if in dismay
at having unguardedly uttered the brigand's name.
But Zuleika said nothing. Giovanni Massetti also had protested his
innocence, and the young girl knew not what to believe. Luigi Vampa? So
then he had been a party to this mysterious and terrible business, whatever
it was! And again she thought of the abduction of the beautiful peasant girl.
Could that be the fearful secret? Yes, it must be. Luigi Vampa had assisted
in that abduction, if report could be relied on, and the chief criminal had
been a youthful member of the Roman aristocracy. Oh! it was all plain now.
Zuleika shuddered and felt her heart grow heavy as lead, while a sharp,
killing pang ran through it. Had Espérance been misled by Vampa and the
Viscount? Had he discovered too late the infamy of the affair and
challenged Massetti on that account? This was, doubtless, the solution of
the whole enigma, and yet Zuleika hesitated to accept it as such. No, no, she
could not accept it without further and more convincing proof! But how
was that proof to be obtained? Neither the Viscount nor her brother would
speak; it was evident that their lips were sealed; possibly an oath to
maintain silence had been extorted from them under terrible circumstances
—an oath they feared to break even to clear themselves from a foul
suspicion. But Vampa? He might, perhaps, be induced to give the key to the
mystery. Vampa, however, was far away in Rome and inaccessible. Zuleika
made a wild resolve—she would write to the brigand and throw herself
upon his generosity; then she decided that the plan was impracticable; her
letter would never reach Vampa—it would be seized by the Roman

authorities and might cause additional trouble by reviving a smothered
scandal—and even should it reach the brigand, would he answer it? The
chances were a hundred to one that he would not. At this instant an
inspiration came to the tortured girl like a flash of lightning. Her father had
known Vampa in the past, and, perhaps, still possessed some influence over
him. She had heard the story of Albert de Morcerf's adventure in the
catacombs of Saint Sebastian, and was aware that the brigand chief had
released him from captivity without ransom at her father's simple
solicitation. Would not Vampa answer her questions if M. Dantès could be
influenced to write him and ask them? She had full faith in her father's
power to get a letter to the bandit notwithstanding all the vigilance of the
Roman authorities. Yes, she would go to him, tell all her suspicions without
reserve and beg him to write the letter; it was hardly likely he would refuse;
he could not, he must not. Thus resolved, Zuleika looked her brother full in
the face and said, calmly:
"I see I torture you with my questions, Espérance, that for some reason best
known to yourself you cannot answer them, and that it is useless to torment
you further. But something must be done and that at once. I am going to my
father!"
Espérance caught her wildly by the arm.
"You are mad!" cried he.
"It is you who are mad—you and Giovanni! I tell you, I am going to my
father; if you are innocent, you have nothing to fear from any revelation I
may make!"
With these words she freed herself from her brother's grasp and quitted the
salon, leaving Espérance standing in the centre of the apartment as if he
were rooted to the spot.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
CAPTAIN JOLIETTE'S LOVE.

In a small but cosy and elegant suite of apartments in a mansion on the Rue
des Capucines resided Mlle. Louise d'Armilly and her brother Léon; as has
already been stated, the celebrated cantatrice had retired from the boards in
consequence of having inherited a fortune of several millions of francs from
the estate of her deceased father, who, rumor asserted, had been a very
wealthy Parisian banker; Léon had abandoned the stage simultaneously
with his sister, who had invited him to share her suddenly acquired riches,
for, strange to say, the banker had not bequeathed to him a single sou.
The immense inheritance had been a complete surprise to Mlle. d'Armilly,
and for some time she had hesitated to accept it, as a condition imposed by
the will was her immediate withdrawal from her operatic career, and the
prima donna was as ambitious as gifted; but, finally, she had yielded to the
persuasive eloquence of the notary and the earnest entreaties of her friends,
canceling all her engagements, and with them abandoning her bright
professional future.
The director of the Académie Royale demanded a large sum to release the
artiste from her contract with him, and this was paid by the notary with an
alacrity that seemed to suggest he was not acting solely according to the
directions of the will, but was influenced by some personage who chose to
remain in the background; the notary also paid all other demands made by
the various operatic managers who claimed they would lose by Mlle.
d'Armilly's failure to appear; these amounts were not deducted from the
legacy, a circumstance that gave additional color to the supposition that the
will of the deceased banker was not the sole factor in the celebrated
cantatrice's good luck.
One evening, shortly after Paris had again quieted down, Mlle. d'Armilly
was seated in the little apartment that served her as a salon, and with her
was her brother Léon. The contrast between the pair seemed intensified in

private life. Louise had that dark, imperious, majestic beauty usually
possessed by brunettes; her figure was full and finely developed, her black
eyes had the deep, intense fire of passion, and her faultless countenance,
glowing with health and loveliness, indicated at once firmness, decision and
caprices without number. Léon, on the contrary, was delicate and feminine
in appearance; he had exceedingly small feet and hands, and a single glance
at his strikingly handsome face was sufficient to convince any experienced
judge of human nature that he possessed a mild and yielding disposition.
The young man bore not the remotest family likeness to his sister, and it
was difficult to realize that they could be in any way related.
Léon quitted his sister and, going to a piano that stood in one corner of the
apartment, softly opened it and commenced lightly running his fingers over
the keys; then he seated himself at the instrument and played an air from
"Lucrezia Borgia" with brilliancy and effect that only a finished performer
could attain. At the first notes Louise arose and approaching the piano stood
beside the player, her eyes sparkling with appreciation and delight. So
absorbed were the brother and sister that they did not hear a soft knock at
the door, and only at the conclusion of the air did they realize that a visitor
was in the apartment. Léon sprang from the instrument in confusion,
behaving like a startled girl, but Mlle. d'Armilly, with perfect self-control,
turned to the new comer and said, in a tone of mingled coquetry and
merriment:
"So, so, Captain Joliette, your military career has accustomed you to
surprising the enemy to such an extent that it has become second nature
with you, and you cannot avoid carrying your favorite tactics even into
private life!"
Captain Joliette, for it was, indeed, he, bowed and answered with a smile:
"You must allow me solemnly to protest against classing yourself and your
brother with the enemy! You are, both of you, very dear friends!"
"Especially Louise!" said Léon, with a sly look and a pretty little ringing
laugh.
"Léon, Léon, when will you learn wisdom!" exclaimed Mlle. d'Armilly, a
blush mantling her visage, and adding to its voluptuous beauty.

"Never, I suppose!" returned her brother, still laughing. "But I am already
well acquainted with the value of discretion and, therefore, will withdraw!"
As he uttered those words, Léon kissed the tips of his fingers to Louise and
Joliette, and lightly ran from the salon. When he had disappeared the
Captain folded Mlle. d'Armilly in his arms and kissed her tenderly upon the
forehead.
"Oh! Louise," said he, enthusiastically, "I love you more and more every
day!"
The former artiste gently disentangled herself from his embrace and,
smiling archly, led him to a chair; then she sat down upon another at a short
distance from him.
"No, no," said Joliette, warmly; "come and sit beside me on the sofa. Even
Léon sees that I adore you, and all my friends in Paris are aware that I am
seeking your hand in marriage. Why will you be so formal and distant with
me!"
She arose and did as he requested; Joliette, seated at her side, put his arm
about her waist. Louise did not resist, but still maintained an air of coquetry
that was displeasing to the ardent young soldier.
"Albert," she said, in a low, musical voice, "do you, indeed, love me as you
say?"
"Love you, Louise!" cried Joliette. "I would lay down my life for you!"
"Are you quite sure you love me for myself and not because of the
resemblance you say I bear to the woman you once so ardently admired?
What was her name?—ah! Eugénie Danglars!" said she, looking at him
with a piercing gaze.
"Quite sure, Louise, quite sure. Besides, Mlle. Danglars has disappeared,
has not been seen or heard of for several years, and, no doubt, is dead."
"And yet you do not mourn for her! How strange!"
"I never loved her as I love you, Louise. Eugénie Danglars was a capricious
and eccentric girl, and had she lived would have been a capricious and

eccentric woman. It was well for me she vanished when she did! But, by the
way, another singular and inexplicable coincidence is that Louise d'Armilly,
the name you bear, was also the name of Mlle. Danglars' music teacher. I
cannot understand it at all!"
"There is no necessity for you to understand it. Anyhow, it is a coincidence,
as you say—nothing more."
"Well, Louise, let us speak no further about either the resemblance or the
coincidence. Suffice it that I love you, and you alone—that I love you for
yourself."
"Your words make me very happy, Albert," replied Mlle. d'Armilly, and her
full red lips looked so luscious, ripe and alluring, that Joliette could not
resist the temptation to bestow a long, burning kiss upon them.
"Be my wife, then, dearest Louise," cried the Captain, "and I will prolong
your happiness until death shall strike me down!"
"Ah! Albert, men are so fickle; they become infatuated with women and
declare and, no doubt think, they could pass their lives at their charmers'
feet; but possession dulls the lustre of the brightest jewel, and the devoted
lover is speedily replaced by a careless, if not faithless husband, who,
instead of making his wife happy as he has sworn to do, forsakes her side to
bask in the smiles of sirens."
"It will never be so with me, my own, my love!" protested Joliette, kissing
her again and again. "I swear it."
"I know the value of a lover's oath, Albert," murmured Louise, with a
meaning look. "When I was the brightest operatic star of the day many of
them were breathed in my ear, but they were 'trifles light as air,' forgotten as
soon as uttered. Besides, should I consent to become your wife, you would
be forced to leave me in France and return to Africa in obedience to the call
of duty; the lovely women of Algeria are prodigal of their beauties and
endearments, and under the spell of some subtle Arab enchantress you
would either forget poor Louise d'Armilly altogether, or remember her only
as a clog upon your pleasures and amorous delights."

"Nay, nay, you wrong me; among all the dusky sirens of Algeria there exists
not one who could make me forget you for a single instant; they are brazen,
shameless women, who love with a recklessness and boldness that can only
disgust a Frenchman."
"But they can dazzle even a Frenchman, render him delirious with passion
and, ere he is aware, weave a web around him through which he cannot
break. My heart tells me you are as susceptible to feminine wiles as the rest
of your countrymen, and that, perhaps, you have already had half-a-dozen
love-affairs in Algeria."
"Oh! Louise, Louise, it grieves me to the soul that you can thus doubt me.
Give me a chance to prove my love and you shall be more than satisfied
that I can be loyal and true."
Mlle. d'Armilly gazed at him with a singular expression on her dark
beautiful countenance; it thrilled him to the very marrow of his bones, and
caused his arm that was about her waist to tremble violently; at that moment
the former cantatrice resembled Eugénie Danglars more than ever; her
breath, was hot and convulsive as it struck his cheek, and a faint suspicion
that all was not right—that she was playing a rôle with him, shot across his
mind for the first time; with this suspicion came jealousy, and, releasing her
waist, he said, in a gasping tone:
"You have another lover, Louise, a lover you prefer to me—am I not right?"
Mlle. d'Armilly laughed a short, nervous laugh, and answered in a voice
that seemed to mock him:
"I have had hosts of ardent admirers in my time. Do you refer particularly
to any individual?"
"I know not; I am beside myself with passion for you, and the mere fancy
that another man may have the first place in your heart is unbearable to me!
But there is one conclusive way in which you can prove my suspicion—my
jealousy—groundless; marry me!"
"Albert," replied Louise, with a renewal of the singular expression of
countenance that had so agitated him, "I shall never marry any one; I cannot
—I dare not!"

The young man was startled as if by an electric shock; he drew back and
gazed at her with wide-opened eyes, speechless from astonishment.
After a brief pause, Mlle. d'Armilly continued, in a dry, hard tone:
"You do not understand me and I cannot expect you to, for I can neither tell
you my motives nor lay bare my sad history to you; you must be content
with my decision—I shall not marry!"
Captain Joliette, strong man as he was, could not control his emotion; he
buried his face in his hands and groaned aloud. The young woman gazed at
him half pityingly, half triumphantly; she felt compassion for her stricken
lover, but, above all, gloried in the overwhelming power of her charms that
could so subdue a manly, victorious young soldier and make him her
helpless slave.
"Is there then no shadow of a hope?" at length asked Joliette, in a hoarse
whisper.
"Not the shadow of a hope!" replied Mlle. d'Armilly, firmly. "You can be
my friend, my brother, if you will, but never my husband."
The young man recoiled in horror at the suggestion that seemed to be
conveyed by this permission.
"What do you mean by friend?" he asked, a cold shiver passing through
him.
Louise laughed a short, nervous laugh, and, looking him full in the eyes,
replied:
"You know what I mean. I love you better than any man I ever met, save
one."
Captain Joliette slowly arose to his feet and stood staring at her, his passion
and his scruples waging a bitter battle within him for the mastery. The
temptress half reclined on the sofa, a miracle of seductive grace and
voluptuous beauty. He moved toward her as if to seize her in his arms; then,
suddenly checking himself, he asked, with a convulsive gasp:
"And that man—that one?"

"Was separated from me forever through the vile machinations of that
mysterious and cold-blooded fiend, the Count of Monte-Cristo!"
"The Count of Monte-Cristo?" exclaimed the young man, lost in
amazement.
"Yes, the Count of Monte-Cristo, who afterwards disappeared from Paris
and has not since been heard of."
"You mistake; the Count of Monte-Cristo is in Paris now; he calls himself
Edmond Dantès and is the celebrated Deputy from Marseilles over whom
everybody has gone wild for some time past."
Mlle. d'Armilly's eyes flashed with fury.
"Then I will have my revenge upon him at last!" she cried. "I will amply
repay him for introducing the so-called Prince Cavalcanti into my father's
house and thus breaking off the match between Albert and myself."
"Albert?"
"Yes; Albert de Morcerf."
"Now, Eugénie Danglars, I know you and it is useless for you to attempt the
denial of your identity longer!"
The young woman leaped up from the sofa, with terror pictured upon her
visage, and, seizing Captain Joliette by the arm with a powerful grasp, cried
out:
"And how, pray, do you know I am Eugénie Danglars?"
"You unwittingly betrayed yourself by revealing the names of Monte-Cristo
and Cavalcanti. Besides, Eugénie, look at me well—I am Albert de
Morcerf!"
With a wild cry the retired prima donna sank back upon the sofa.
"You Albert de Morcerf!" she exclaimed. "I cannot believe it!"
"But my mother, the former Countess de Morcerf, who is now the wife of
Edmond Dantès, will vouch for my identity."

The young woman passed her hand across her forehead as if dazed.
"If you are Albert de Morcerf, you must despise me after what has taken
place this evening," she said, bitterly.
"Despise you? No, I pity and forgive you."
"Albert," said she, softly, "come here and sit beside me on this sofa; I have
something to say to you."
The soldier obeyed; when he was seated, he said:
"Eugénie, why did you tell me I could be your friend?"
"Simply because I have long suspected your secret and wished to ascertain
the real nature of your feelings toward me. You not only resisted a terrible
temptation, the most terrible temptation to which a young, ardent and
passion-smitten man can be exposed, but by your honor conclusively
established the purity and sincerity of your love. Oh! Albert, Albert, are you
satisfied with my explanation and do you still think me worthy of you?"
"My own Eugénie, my happiness is far too great for words!" murmured the
delighted young man, gathering his beautiful companion in a warm embrace
and repeatedly kissing her ripe lips and blushing cheeks.
It was soon known throughout Paris that Captain Joliette and Albert de
Morcerf were identical, and that Mlle. d'Armilly was in reality no other than
Mlle. Eugénie Danglars, daughter of Baron Danglars, the once famous and
opulent Parisian banker; the report also was current that Albert and Eugénie
were engaged and would shortly be united in the bonds of matrimony.
Another bit of gossip was to the effect that the former cantatrice's brother
Léon was not a man but a woman; in short, the real Louise d'Armilly, who
had loaned her name to Eugénie Danglars and assumed male attire solely
for professional purposes. This story was speedily confirmed, for Léon soon
vanished and in his place appeared a most attractive and fascinating lady,
who very quietly assumed, or rather resumed, the name of Louise d'Armilly.
Still another rumor was that the wealth so strangely inherited by the former
prima donna was not a legacy at all, but a gift from the mysterious Count of
Monte-Cristo, who had thus striven to make amends to the daughter for the

misfortunes he had, while pursuing his scheme of wholesale vengeance, so
remorselessly heaped upon the head of the father.

CHAPTER XXIX.
ZULEIKA GOES TO M. DANTÈS.

M. Dantès was sitting alone in his library, busily engaged in reading a
favorite work on the subject of political economy, and from time to time
making copious notes. It was after midnight, and the vast mansion on the
Rue du Helder was as silent as the tomb; the lamp on the Deputy's table
burned brightly, but a large metallic shade concentrated the light and
reflected it upon the table, so that the other portions of the apartment were
shrouded in almost complete darkness.
As M. Dantès read a shadow suddenly fell on the page of his book, and
quickly looking up he saw his daughter Zuleika standing beside him; tears
were in her eyes and a look of melancholy rested upon her countenance.
"Why child," said her father, in a startled tone, "what is the matter with
you? You are weeping and seem very sad. Has anything happened to young
Massetti?"
"Not that I am aware of, papa," answered Zuleika, in a low voice. "But,
nevertheless, it is of him I wish to speak."
M. Dantès pushed his book from him, motioned his daughter to a seat and
prepared to listen as she did not begin at once, but seemed to hesitate, he
said, kindly:
"I am waiting, little one; proceed."
Thus encouraged, Zuleika summoned up all her strength and, with
downcast eyes, commenced:
"Papa," said she, "in the first place let me assure you that this is no mere
lovers' quarrel, but a matter of the utmost importance that demands
immediate action."
M. Dantès knitted his brows.

"Has the Viscount been guilty of any impropriety toward you?" he asked,
fiercely.
"No, papa, not toward me, but I fear he may have been guilty of
impropriety, or, at least, of indiscretion, with regard to another in the past."
"A woman, no doubt."
"Yes, papa, a woman—a Roman peasant."
"I heard of some such thing while you were at the convent school in Rome,
but dismissed it as a slander."
"There may, however, be some truth in it."
"But, now I recollect, Giovanni's name was not associated with the scandal;
it was a mere inference on my part that connected him with the youthful
member of the Roman aristocracy mentioned by the gossips."
"Perhaps I am unjust, papa, in reviving your suspicions, but Giovanni's
strange behavior when I asked him the cause of his quarrel with Espérance
and of the continued coldness between them, forced me to think there was
something wrong."
"His quarrel with Espérance? Ah! now I remember, there was a quarrel, but
I imagined it was settled, and that their relations were altogether friendly."
"They are enemies, papa, or seem to be, and that is not all—Espérance
accuses Giovanni of having been guilty of some infamous deed."
"You have spoken to Espérance then on the subject?"
"Yes, papa."
"And what did he say?"
"He dealt in vague denunciations, and positively refused to give me any
definite information."
"That is singular."

"But what is still more so is that both Giovanni and Espérance seem bound
by some fearful oath not to disclose the dread secret in their possession."
"Bound by an oath?"
"Yes, papa; but why both of them should have been so bound, unless they
were accomplices, I cannot see; I even went so far as to accuse Espérance
of complicity, whereupon he grew as white as chalk and protested his entire
innocence, and in his confusion uttered the name of Luigi Vampa."
"Zuleika, Zuleika, you certainly misunderstood your brother; he could not
have mentioned the name of that man! Do you know who this Luigi Vampa
is?"
"Perfectly, papa; Luigi Vampa is a notorious Roman brigand."
"Exactly, my child, and therefore could not possibly have had any dealings
either with the Viscount or Espérance."
"But I am sure of the name, nevertheless. Espérance said Luigi Vampa."
M. Dantès was evidently startled; he arose to his feet and paced the library
excitedly. Zuleika had expected this, and hence was not surprised. At last
her father resumed his seat, and when he again came within reach of the
lamp's rays she saw that his visage was even more pallid than usual and that
he was not a little agitated. She waited for him to speak, and in a few
seconds he did so.
"Zuleika," said he, in a tone of decision, "I will see both the Viscount and
my son in regard to this matter, for now that Luigi Vampa seems to have
had a share in it, close investigation is imperatively demanded."
"You may interrogate them, papa, but I am convinced in advance that you
will derive no information from either of them. The strange power that
holds sway over them you cannot break, but there is one thing you can do."
"What is that, Zuleika?"
"Write to Luigi Vampa!"
"Write to Vampa? Why should I do that?"

"Because I feel assured that he is in possession of the full details of the
terrible secret, whatever it may be, and will communicate them to you if
you ask him to do so."
M. Dantès gazed at his daughter curiously.
"What makes you think I have such influence over this Roman brigand?" he
asked, sharply.
"Oh! papa, do not be angry with me!" cried Zuleika; "but I have heard how
Vampa released the Viscount de Morcerf at your simple solicitation without
a single franc of ransom, though he had previously demanded a very large
amount from the unfortunate man as the price of his liberty. I have heard
this, and the natural inference I drew was that, if the brigand chief went so
far as to surrender his prey to you, he would certainly answer your letter
and tell you all he knew about the matter that so closely concerns my
happiness and Espérance's good name."
"I am not angry with you, my child," replied the Deputy, in a milder tone,
"for I know how deeply you have this affair at heart. I will write to Luigi
Vampa as you desire, this very night, and in two weeks at the furthest his
answer may be expected, but to-morrow I will talk with Espérance and then
will question the Viscount. Rest assured that this matter shall be sifted to the
bottom. I know the extent of your love for Giovanni Massetti; I also feel
confident that I am not deceived in him, and that he will be amply able to
prove himself entirely worthy of your hand. I have seen too much of men,
Zuleika, and studied them too deeply, to be deceived in reading character."
"Oh! thank you, thank you ever so much, papa, both for your promise, and
your kind, encouraging words. I, too, have full faith in Giovanni, but still I
cannot rest satisfied until his record is entirely and conclusively cleared. No
one must have the power to breathe even a suspicion against the good name
of your daughter's husband!"
"Spoken like a girl of spirit!" said M. Dantès, his eyes sparkling with
enthusiasm and admiration. "Now leave me, and I will write to Vampa."
Zuleika kissed her father and quitted the library with a much lighter heart
than she had entered it.

M. Dantès, by the exercise of his iron will, had managed to control himself
in her presence, but now that she had gone he gave free course to his
emotions. For a full hour he sat leaning on his writing-table, his frame
convulsed with anguish, and his mind filled with sad forebodings. He did
not for an instant doubt that both Espérance and the Viscount could clear
themselves from any criminal or dishonorable charge, if they would consent
to open their lips, but their silence and Zuleika's belief that they were bound
by some fearful oath gave him great uneasiness. Besides, his son had
mentioned Luigi Vampa's name, and the thought that the young man was
involved in some complication with the Roman bandit sent a chill to his
heart. He was convinced that whatever had occurred had been merely the
result of the folly and headlong disposition of youth, but this was scarcely a
consolation, for he well knew to what length young men sometimes allowed
themselves to be carried, especially in what they considered a love-affair.
In addition, the more he thought of the half-forgotten Roman scandal, the
more clearly its particulars returned to him. He remembered that a young
and handsome peasant girl had been mysteriously abducted, and that
eventually she had been brought back to her home by one of the shepherds
known to be in league with Luigi Vampa and his band. She asserted that she
had been carried off to the bandits' haunt by her youthful lover, who had
passed for a peasant lad, but was in reality a nobleman. This was all M.
Dantès could distinctly recall, though he was certain he had heard other
details that had slipped his memory. At the period of the abduction, he now
remembered, both Espérance and the Viscount were temporarily absent
from Rome; then followed their return and the quarrel that had almost
resulted in a duel, but had suddenly been patched up without apparent
reason. Had Espérance and the Viscount been concerned in the abduction?
That was a question that only they or Luigi Vampa could answer, and it was
evident the young men would not speak. Vampa then must be made to speak
for them; that was the sole course left to pursue, for the peasant girl had
disappeared immediately after her return, and her whereabouts were a
mystery.
M. Dantès drew writing materials before him and wrote his letter to the
brigand chief; it was brief, but to the point. When it was finished, it bore the
signature, "Edmond Dantès, Count of Monte-Cristo." The Deputy placed it
in the drawer of his table to go by mail the following morning, having first

folded and sealed it. "Thomson and French, Rome," was the direction it
bore.

CHAPTER XXX.
TWO INTERVIEWS.

The morning following the events detailed in the last chapter, as Espérance
was in his dressing-room preparing to take a short stroll through Paris, Ali
knocked at the door and signified that M. Dantès wished to see him at once
in the library. As such a summons was something unusual, the young man
immediately concluded that Zuleika had been in consultation with her
father and that he would now have to submit to a close and rigid
examination; he had expected such an examination, but, nevertheless, the
summons filled him with dismay and he grew pale as wax, his limbs
trembling beneath him and his hands working nervously; however, he
braced up as well as he could, and with as firm a step as it was possible for
him to assume walked toward the library. On the threshold he paused, and
his courage so utterly forsook him that he was tempted to take refuge in
flight, but the thought flashed through his mind that this would be cowardly,
and, making a supreme effort to control himself, he entered his father's
presence.
M. Dantès, who was seated at his writing-table examining a curious
manuscript written in Arabic characters, looked up as he came in and fixed
his eyes searchingly upon his son's countenance, noting its extreme pallor
and remarking with manifest uneasiness the difficulty Espérance
experienced in maintaining a firm demeanor. Motioning the young man to a
seat, he said:
"My son, I have sent for you on a matter of the utmost importance, and I
sincerely hope you will see fit to tell me in all frankness whatever you may
know in regard to it."
Espérance partially closed his eyes as if suffering intensely, bringing his
teeth firmly together and compressing his lips. As he did not speak, M.
Dantès continued:

"I have every reason to believe that the revelation I am about to ask of you
will be exceedingly painful for you to make, but you must consider that
your sister's happiness is deeply concerned and that, for that reason, no
matter what may be your motives, you have not the right to maintain
silence."
"I know what you mean, father," replied Espérance in an unsteady voice,
"but, notwithstanding the pain it gives me to do so, I must ask you, nay,
entreat you not to question me, for I cannot answer you!"
M. Dantès cast upon his son a glance that seemed to pierce him through and
through; the young man quailed beneath it and again partially closed his
eyes, while a faint blue shade was mixed with the waxen pallor of his
visage. The Deputy, though he had made a profound and exhaustive study
of men and their varied motives, though he was a skilled anatomist of the
human heart and a ready reader of the human countenance, acknowledged
to himself that this time he was completely baffled. Was it fear or guilt that
Espérance exhibited? He could not tell; but it was abundantly evident that
the young man was not acting a part, that he keenly felt the suspicions to
which he was exposing himself by his inexplicable conduct. At length M.
Dantès said, in a mild but determined tone:
"Espérance, my son, you can, at least, enlighten me upon a few points, and I
request, nay, I command you to do so. Are you bound by oath to preserve
silence concerning this matter?"
"I am bound by a most solemn oath!" answered the young man with a
shudder.
"And is Giovanni Massetti likewise so bound?"
"He is!"
"I will not ask you who administered that oath to you or under what
circumstances it was taken, although as your father I have a right to do so
and to compel you to answer; neither will I interrogate you further in regard
to the main question at issue, the complication in which you and the
Viscount seem to be so hopelessly involved; but I insist that you inform me
whether any guilt or stain of dishonor rests upon you!"

"Father," said Espérance, rising and lifting his right hand toward heaven, "I
solemnly swear to you that whatever wrong may have been done, whatever
crime may have been committed, I am entirely guiltless and that there is not
the slightest stain of dishonor upon me!"
"I believe you, my son," said M. Dantès, in a tone of conviction, "and this
unequivocal assurance from your own lips removes the weight of a
mountain from me. Now, tell me, is the Viscount Massetti as blameless in
this affair as you are?"
"The so-called Viscount Massetti is a black-hearted villain!" cried
Espérance, excitedly. "He is guilty of a foul and revolting crime, a crime
that should condemn him to a life of penal servitude!"
"But may you not be mistaken, may you not be the victim of some
delusion?" asked M. Dantès, anxiously.
"I am neither mistaken, father, nor the victim of a delusion," replied
Espérance, positively. "The charges that I make against that miserable
apology for a man I can fully substantiate should the proper opportunity
ever be offered me!"
"Zuleika informed me that, while you were speaking with her upon this
mysterious subject, the name of Luigi Vampa escaped your lips. Does that
notorious brigand posses a knowledge of this unfortunate matter?"
Espérance became violently agitated and instantly answered:
"That is a question my oath forbids me to reply to!"
"So be it," said M. Dantès; "but I have written him and he will reply for
you!"
"You have written to Vampa!" exclaimed the young man, with a terror-
stricken look. "Then all is lost!"
M. Dantès smiled, and, rising, placed his hand on his son's shoulder.
"Espérance," said he, calmly, "if neither crime nor dishonor attaches to you
in this affair, as you have sworn, you have nothing whatever to fear, and,

besides, Vampa's disclosures may relieve you of some portion of your
heavy burden."
"Oh! God!" groaned the young man, "if Vampa speaks how shall I be able
to prove my innocence!"
"My son," said M. Dantès, impressively, "God, whose name you have
invoked, will not desert you in your hour of need!"
Bowing his head in his hands and trembling like an aspen leaf, Espérance
quitted the library with a convulsive sob, as if the last ray of hope had been
withdrawn from his life and all was darkness and despair.
M. Dantès threw himself in his chair and for an instant was plunged in
absorbing thought; then he arose and putting on his hat and cloak left the
library; a few moments later he had quitted the mansion by a private door.
Closely muffling his face in the folds of his cloak, that he might not be
recognized, the Deputy from Marseilles passed hurriedly from street to
street until he stood before a massive building in the Rue Vivienne. He rang
the bell, and, when the concierge appeared, said to her:
"Is the Viscount Massetti at home?"
The woman, a large, fat, lumbering creature, cast a sleepy glance, that was
half-curious, half-suspicious, at him and answered:
"Yes, Monsieur; but he bade me deny him to everybody."
"He will see me, however, my good woman," said M. Dantès. "Take my
card to him."
The fat concierge took the card and glanced at it; when she read "Edmond
Dantès, Deputy from Marseilles," she stared at the famous Republican
leader like one possessed; then, filled with awe, she hastened away and
climbed the stairs as fast as her cumbersome legs would let her. She
returned, panting and puffing, followed by the Viscount's valet, who, with
much ceremony and obsequiousness, conducted the distinguished visitor to
his master's apartments.