fully that the tempestuous heaving of his breast subsided, as turbulent and foaming waves yield to the sun's genial influence when the cloud has passed. This silence, self-control, and struggle lasted about twenty seconds, then the count raised his pallid face.
"See," said he, "my dear friend, how God punishes the most thoughtless and unfeeling men for their indifference, by presenting dreadful scenes to their view. I, who was looking on, an eager and curious spectator,—I, who was watching the working of this mournful tragedy,—I, who, like a wicked angel, was laughing at the evil men committed, protected by secrecy (a secret is easily kept by the rich and powerful), I am, in my turn, bitten by the serpent whose tortuous course I was watching, and bitten to the heart!"
Morrel groaned.
"Come, come," continued the count, "complaints are unavailing; be a man, be strong, be full of hope, for I am here, and will watch over you."
Morrel shook his head sorrowfully.
"I tell you to hope. Do you understand me?" cried Monte-Cristo. "Remember that I never uttered a falsehood and am never deceived. It is twelve o'clock, Maximilian; thank Heaven that you came at noon rather than in the evening, or to-morrow morning. Listen, Morrel!—it is noon; if Valentine is not now dead, she will not die."
"How so?" cried Morrel, "when I left her dying?"
Monte-Cristo pressed his hands to his forehead. What was passing in that brain, so loaded with dreadful secrets? What does the angel of light, or the angel of darkness, say to that mind, at once implacable and generous? God only knows.
Monte-Cristo raised his head once more, and this time he was calm as a child awaking from its sleep.
"Maximilian," said he, "return home. I command you not to stir—attempt nothing; not to let your countenance betray a thought, and I will send you tidings. Go!"
"Oh! count, you terrify me with that coolness. Have you, then, power against death?—Are you superhuman?—Are you an angel?"
And the young man, who had never shrunk from danger, shrank before Monte-Cristo with indescribable terror. But Monte-Cristo looked at him with so melancholy and sweet a smile, that Maximilian felt the tears filling his eyes.
"I can do much for you, my friend," replied the count. "Go; I must be alone."
Morrel, subdued by the extraordinary ascendency Monte-Cristo exercised over everything around him, did not endeavor to resist it.
