“Ah,” exclaimed Morrel, interrupting the count, “you had only lost your liberty, my father had only lost his fortune, but I have lost Valentine.”
“Look at me,” said Monte Cristo, with that expression which sometimes made him so eloquent and persuasive —“look at me. There are no tears in my eyes, nor is there fever in my veins, yet I see you suffer — you, Maximilian, whom I love as my own son. Well, does not this tell you that in grief, as in life, there is always something to look forward to beyond? Now, if I entreat, if I order you to live, Morrel, it is in the conviction that one day you will thank me for having preserved your life.”
“Oh, heavens,” said the young man, “oh, heavens — what are you saying, count? Take care. But perhaps you have never loved!”
“Child!” replied the count.
“I mean, as I love. You see, I have been a soldier ever since I attained manhood. I reached the age of twenty-nine without loving, for none of the feelings I before then experienced merit the apellation of love. Well, at twenty-nine I saw Valentine; for two years I have loved her, for two years I have seen written in her heart, as in a book, all the virtues of a daughter and wife. Count, to possess Valentine would have been a happiness too infinite, too ecstatic, too complete, too divine for this world, since it has been denied me; but without Valentine the earth is desolate.”
“I have told you to hope,” said the count.
“Then have a care, I repeat, for you seek to persuade me, and if you succeed I should lose my reason, for I should hope that I could again behold Valentine.” The count smiled. “My friend, my father,” said Morrel with excitement, “have a care, I again repeat, for the power you wield over me alarms me. Weigh your words before you speak, for my eyes have already become brighter, and my heart beats strongly; be cautious, or you will make me believe in supernatural agencies. I must obey you, though you bade me call forth the dead or walk upon the water.”
“Hope, my friend,” repeated the count.
“Ah,” said Morrel, falling from the height of excitement to the abyss of despair —“ah, you are playing with me, like those good, or rather selfish mothers who soothe their children with honeyed words, because their screams annoy them. No, my friend, I was wrong to caution you; do not fear, I will bury my grief so deep in my heart, I will disguise it so, that you shall not even care to sympathize with me. Adieu, my friend, adieu!”
“On the contrary,” said the count, “after this time you must live with me — you must not leave me, and in a week we shall have left France behind us.”
“And you still bid me hope?”
“I tell you to hope, because I have a method of curing you.”
“Count, you render me sadder than before, if it be possible. You think the result of this blow has been to produce an ordinary grief, and you would cure it by an ordinary remedy — change of scene.” And Morrel dropped his head with disdainful incredulity. “What can I say more?” asked Monte Cristo. “I have confidence in the remedy I propose, and only ask you to permit me to assure you of its efficacy.”
“Count, you prolong my agony.”
“Then,” said the count, “your feeble spirit will not even grant me the trial I request? Come — do you know of what the Count of Monte Cristo is capable? do you know that he holds terrestrial beings under his control? nay, that he can almost work a miracle? Well, wait for the miracle I hope to accomplish, or” —
“Or?” repeated Morrel.
“Or, take care, Morrel, lest I call you ungrateful.”
“Have pity on me, count!”
“I feel so much pity towards you, Maximilian, that — listen to me attentively — if I do not cure you in a month, to the day, to the very hour, mark my words, Morrel, I will place loaded pistols before you, and a cup of the deadliest Italian poison — a poison more sure and prompt than that which has killed Valentine.”