“No,” said Morrel; “is some one dead in his house?”
“The general has just blown his brains out,” replied Monte Cristo with great coolness.
“Oh, what a dreadful event!” cried Maximilian.
“Not for the countess, or for Albert,” said Monte Cristo; “a dead father or husband is better than a dishonored one, — blood washes out shame.”
“Poor countess,” said Maximilian, “I pity her very much; she is so noble a woman!”
“Pity Albert also, Maximilian; for believe me he is the worthy son of the countess. But let us return to yourself. You have hastened to me — can I have the happiness of being useful to you?”
“Yes, I need your help: that is I thought like a madman that you could lend me your assistance in a case where God alone can succor me.”
“Tell me what it is,” replied Monte Cristo.
“Oh,” said Morrel, “I know not, indeed, if I may reveal this secret to mortal ears, but fatality impels me, necessity constrains me, count” — Morrel hesitated. “Do you think I love you?” said Monte Cristo, taking the young man’s hand affectionately in his.
“Oh, you encourage me, and something tells me there,” placing his hand on his heart, “that I ought to have no secret from you.”
“You are right, Morrel; God is speaking to your heart, and your heart speaks to you. Tell me what it says.”
“Count, will you allow me to send Baptistin to inquire after some one you know?”
“I am at your service, and still more my servants.”
“Oh, I cannot live if she is not better.”
“Shall I ring for Baptistin?”
“No, I will go and speak to him myself.” Morrel went out, called Baptistin, and whispered a few words to him. The valet ran directly. “Well, have you sent?” asked Monte Cristo, seeing Morrel return.
“Yes, and now I shall be more calm.”
“You know I am waiting,” said Monte Cristo, smiling.
“Yes, and I will tell you. One evening I was in a garden; a clump of trees concealed me; no one suspected I was there. Two persons passed near me — allow me to conceal their names for the present; they were speaking in an undertone, and yet I was so interested in what they said that I did not lose a single word.”
“This is a gloomy introduction, if I may judge from your pallor and shuddering, Morrel.”
“Oh, yes, very gloomy, my friend. Some one had just died in the house to which that garden belonged. One of the persons whose conversation I overheard was the master of the house; the other, the physician. The former was confiding to the latter his grief and fear, for it was the second time within a month that death had suddenly and unexpectedly entered that house which was apparently destined to destruction by some exterminating angel, as an object of God’s anger.”
“Ah, indeed?” said Monte Cristo, looking earnestly at the young man, and by an imperceptible movement turning his chair, so that he remained in the shade while the light fell full on Maximilian’s face. “Yes,” continued Morrel, “death had entered that house twice within one month.”
“And what did the doctor answer?” asked Monte Cristo.
“He replied — he replied, that the death was not a natural one, and must be attributed” —
“To what?”
“To poison.”
“Indeed?” said Monte Cristo with a slight cough which in moments of extreme emotion helped him to disguise a blush, or his pallor, or the intense interest with which he listened; “indeed, Maximilian, did you hear that?”
“Yes, my dear count, I heard it; and the doctor added that if another death occurred in a similar way he must appeal to justice.” Monte Cristo listened, or appeared to do so, with the greatest calmness. “Well,” said Maximilian, “death came a third time, and neither the master of the house nor the doctor said a word. Death is now, perhaps, striking a fourth blow. Count, what am I bound to do, being in possession of this secret?”
“My dear friend,” said Monte Cristo, “you appear to be relating an adventure which we all know by heart. I know the house where you heard it, or one very similar to it; a house with a garden, a master, a physician, and where there have been three unexpected and sudden deaths. Well, I have not intercepted your confidence, and yet I know all that as well as you, and I have no conscientious scruples. No, it does not concern me. You say an exterminating angel appears to have devoted that house to God’s anger — well, who says your supposition is not reality? Do not notice things which those whose interest it is to see them pass over. If it is God’s justice, instead of his anger, which is walking through that house, Maximilian, turn away your face and let his justice accomplish its purpose.” Morrel shuddered. There was something mournful, solemn, and terrible in the count’s manner. “Besides,” continued he, in so changed a tone that no one would have supposed it was the same person speaking —“besides, who says that it will begin again?”