The Count of Monte Cristo – Day 310 of 400

Towards the evening of the third day. Albert, completely exhausted with the exercise which invigorated Monte Cristo, was sleeping in an arm-chair near the window, while the count was designing with his architect the plan of a conservatory in his house, when the sound of a horse at full speed on the high road made Albert look up. He was disagreeably surprised to see his own valet de chambre, whom he had not brought, that he might not inconvenience Monte Cristo.

“Florentin here!” cried he, starting up; “is my mother ill?” And he hastened to the door. Monte Cristo watched and saw him approach the valet, who drew a small sealed parcel from his pocket, containing a newspaper and a letter. “From whom is this?” said he eagerly. “From M. Beauchamp,” replied Florentin.

“Did he send you?”

“Yes, sir; he sent for me to his house, gave me money for my journey, procured a horse, and made me promise not to stop till I had reached you, I have come in fifteen hours.”

Albert opened the letter with fear, uttered a shriek on reading the first line, and seized the paper. His sight was dimmed, his legs sank under him, and he would have fallen had not Florentin supported him.

“Poor young man,” said Monte Cristo in a low voice; “it is then true that the sin of the father shall fall on the children to the third and fourth generation.” Meanwhile Albert had revived, and, continuing to read, he threw back his head, saying, “Florentin, is your horse fit to return immediately?”

“It is a poor lame post-horse.”

“In what state was the house when you left?”

“All was quiet, but on returning from M. Beauchamp’s, I found madame in tears: she had sent for me to know when you would return. I told her my orders from M. Beauchamp; she first extended her arms to prevent me, but after a moment’s reflection, ‘Yes, go, Florentin,’ said she, ‘and may he come quickly.'”

“Yes, my mother,” said Albert, “I will return, and woe to the infamous wretch! But first of all I must get there.”

He went back to the room where he had left Monte Cristo. Five minutes had sufficed to make a complete transformation in his appearance. His voice had become rough and hoarse; his face was furrowed with wrinkles; his eyes burned under the blue-veined lids, and he tottered like a drunken man. “Count,” said he, “I thank you for your hospitality, which I would gladly have enjoyed longer; but I must return to Paris.”

“What has happened?”

“A great misfortune, more important to me than life. Don’t question me, I beg of you, but lend me a horse.”

“My stables are at your command, viscount; but you will kill yourself by riding on horseback. Take a post-chaise or a carriage.”

“No, it would delay me, and I need the fatigue you warn me of; it will do me good.” Albert reeled as if he had been shot, and fell on a chair near the door. Monte Cristo did not see this second manifestation of physical exhaustion; he was at the window, calling, “Ali, a horse for M. de Morcerf—quick! he is in a hurry!” These words restored Albert; he darted from the room, followed by the count. “Thank you!” cried he, throwing himself on his horse. “Return as soon as you can, Florentin. Must I use any password to procure a horse?”

“Only dismount; another will be immediately saddled.” Albert hesitated a moment. “You may think my departure strange and foolish,” said the young man; “you do not know how a paragraph in a newspaper may exasperate one. Read that,” said he, “when I am gone, that you may not be witness of my anger.”

While the count picked up the paper he put spurs to his horse, which leaped in astonishment at such an unusual stimulus, and shot away with the rapidity of an arrow. The count watched him with a feeling of compassion, and when he had completely disappeared, read as follows:—

“The French officer in the service of Ali Pasha of Yanina alluded to three weeks since in the Impartial, who not only surrendered the castle of Yanina, but sold his benefactor to the Turks, styled himself truly at that time Fernand, as our esteemed contemporary states; but he has since added to his Christian name a title of nobility and a family name. He now calls himself the Count of Morcerf, and ranks among the peers.”

Thus the terrible secret, which Beauchamp had so generously destroyed, appeared again like an armed phantom; and another paper, deriving its information from some malicious source, had published two days after Albert’s departure for Normandy the few lines which had rendered the unfortunate young man almost crazy.

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