MONTE-CRISTO, THE MARTYR.

In the Hotel de Monte-Cristo all is sad and silent. The very walls and the furniture had a funereal air. In the large chamber lie the bodies of Jane and Esperance, the son of Monte-Cristo. How much beauty, youth and tenderness were to be swallowed up in Mother Earth! Jane, vailed in lace, had a tender smile upon her lips. Esperance, in his serene repose, was the image of Monte-Cristo in his early days.

Near the bed were two men watching Fanfar, the faithful friend of the Count, who had saved him and his son at Ouargla; Goutran, the companion of Esperance, who knew the greatness of that young soul. The two sat in silence, and hardly dared look at each other. They were both oppressed with remorse.

Monte-Cristo had gone away, obeying a sentiment of delicacy, wishing to leave his son in entire liberty to develop in such direction as his nature demanded. But when he went he said to these men, “I confide to you the one treasure that I have in the world watch over him.”

And they had made answer that they would protect him from harm with their lives. They were living and Esperance was dead. They heard in their ears like the tolling of a funeral bell, the words, “Too late! Too late!” If they had arrived in time they would certainly have prevented the catastrophe, but this was the result this motionless form with hands crossed on his breast.

Coucon and Madame Caraman, down stairs, were weeping and watching.

Fanfar and Goutran were silent, as we have said, for the same question was upon the lips of both men, and both knew that there was no answer. Had not the Count said, “If any peril demands my presence summon me, and within three days I will be with you.” And it would be precisely three days at midnight since Fanfar sent the summons.

Would he come? The clock struck half-past eleven, and no Monte-Cristo. Must they then lay in the grave the mortal remains of the son of Monte-Cristo without a farewell kiss on the pale brow from his father? They felt as if it were another wrong of which they would be guilty toward this unhappy father.

Fanfar was buried in thought. He saw Esperance, when almost a child he defied the Arabs. He saw him borne in his father’s arms from Maldar’s Tower. And Goutran, too, thought of the last words that the Vicomte had said to him: “To love is to give one’s self entirely, in life and in death!”

The lamps burned dimly. The clock struck twelve. The two men started, for the door opened noiselessly and a man of tall stature entered. It was the Count of Monte-Cristo. His eyes were dim, his shoulders bowed, and his steps awakened no echo. He was dressed in black.

The two men did not move nor speak. They seemed to feel that no human voice should break this awful stillness.

Monte-Cristo walked to the side of the bed and looked at his son, long and steadily. What thoughts were hidden in that active brain?

And now Fanfar beheld a terrible, unheard-of thing. When Monte-Cristo entered, his hair was black as night, and as he stood there his hair began to whiten. What terrible torture that man must have undergone in those minutes. Age, which had made no mark on this organization of iron, suddenly took possession of it. First, his temples looked as if light snow was thrown upon it, and then by degrees the whole head became white. Those who saw this sight will never forget it.

Monte-Cristo bent low over the bier on which Esperance lay. He took his son in his arms as a mother lifts her child from the cradle, and bearing the body Monte-Cristo left the room.

Suddenly shaking off the torpor which had held them motionless, Fanfar and Goutran started in pursuit. But in vain did they search the hotel, Monte-Cristo had vanished with the body of his son.