Monte-Cristo's Daughter.

SEQUEL TO

ALEXANDER DUMAS'

GREAT NOVEL, THE "COUNT OF MONTE-CRISTO," AND CONCLUSION OF "EDMOND DANTÈS."

By

Edmund Flagg

"Monte-Cristo's Daughter," a wonderfully brilliant, original, exciting and absorbing novel, is the Sequel to "The Count of Monte-Cristo," Alexander Dumas' masterwork, and the continuation and conclusion of that great romance, "Edmond Dantès." It possesses rare power, unflagging interest and an intricate plot that for constructive skill and efficient development stands unrivalled. Zuleika, the beautiful daughter of Monte-Cristo and Haydée, is the heroine, and her suitor, the Viscount Giovanni Massetti, an ardent, impetuous young Roman, the hero. The latter, through a flirtation with a pretty flower-girl, Annunziata Solara, becomes involved in a maze of suspicion that points to him as an abductor and an assassin, causes his separation from Zuleika and converts him into a maniac. The straightening out of these tangled complications constitutes the main theme of the thrilling book. The novel abounds in ardent love scenes and stirring adventures. The Count of Monte-Cristo figures largely in it, and numerous Monte-Cristo characters are introduced. "Monte-Cristo's Daughter" is the latest addition to Petersons' famous series, consisting of "The Count of Monte-Cristo," "Edmond Dantès," "The Countess of Monte-Cristo," "The Wife of Monte-Cristo," and "The Son of Monte-Cristo."

New York:
WM. L. ALLISON COMPANY
Publishers.

CONTENTS

Monte-Cristo's Daughter.

SEQUEL TO ALEXANDER DUMAS' GREAT NOVEL, "THE COUNT OF MONTE-CRISTO," AND CONTINUATION AND CONCLUSION OF "EDMOND DANTÈS."

CHAPTER I.

MONTE-CRISTO AND THE PRIMA DONNA.

The Count of Monte-Cristo was in Rome. He had hired one of the numerous private palaces, the Palazzo Costi, situated on a broad thoroughfare near the point where the Ponte St. Angelo connects Rome proper with that transtiberine suburb known as the Leonine City or Trastavere. The impecunious Roman nobility were ever ready to let their palaces to titled foreigners of wealth, and Ali, acting for the Count, had experienced no difficulty in procuring for his master an abode that even a potentate might have envied him. It was a lofty, commodious edifice, built of white marble in antique architectural design, and commanded from its ample balconies a fine view of the Tiber and its western shore, upon which loomed up that vast prison and citadel, the Castle of St. Angelo, and the largest palace in the world, the Vatican.

The Count of Monte-Cristo had always liked Rome because of its picturesque, mysterious antiquity, but his present mission there had nothing whatever to do with his individual tastes. He had fixed himself for a time in the Eternal City that his daughter Zuleika, Haydée's[1] child, might finish her education at a famous convent school conducted under the auspices of the Sisterhood of the Sacred Heart.

Zuleika was fifteen years of age, but looked much older, having the early maturity of the Greeks, whose ardent blood, on her dead mother's side, flowed in her youthful veins. She had attained her full height, and was tall and well-developed. She strongly resembled her mother, possessing brilliant beauty of the dreamy, voluptuous oriental type. Her hair was abundant and black as night. She had dark, flashing eyes, pearly teeth, full ruby lips and feet and hands that were of fairylike diminutiveness, as well as miracles of grace and dainty shapeliness. In temperament she was more like Haydée than the Count, though she possessed her father's quick decision and firmness, with the addition of much of his enthusiasm.

The Palazzo Costi was magnificently furnished, so the Count had made no alterations in that respect, bringing with him only the family wardrobe and a portion of his library, consisting mainly of oriental manuscripts written in weird, cabalistic characters and intelligible to no one but himself.

The household was made up solely of the Count, his son Espérance,[2] his daughter Zuleika, the faithful Nubian mute Ali and five or six male and female domestics. Having no other object than his daughter's education, the Count wished to live in as thorough retirement as he could, but it was impossible for him to keep his presence a secret, and no sooner had it become known that he was in Rome than he was besieged by hosts of callers belonging to the highest nobility, mingled with whom came numerous patriots, disciples of the unfortunate Savonarola, distinguished for their firm devotion to the cause of Italian liberty.

At an early hour of the morning upon which this narrative opens the Count of Monte-Cristo sat alone in a small apartment of the Palazzo Costi, which had been arranged as his study and in which his precious manuscripts were stored in closely locked cabinets. The Count had a copy of a Roman newspaper before him, and his eyes were fixed on a paragraph that seemed to have fascinated him as the serpent fascinates the bird. The paragraph read as follows:

"Mlle. Louise d' Armilly, the famous prima donna, who will sing to-night at the Apollo Theatre her great rôle of Lucrezia Borgia, has, it appears, a deep impenetrable mystery surrounding her. She is French by birth, and is said to be the daughter of a banker, who vanished under peculiar circumstances, but, as she positively declines to speak of her history, we can only give the rumors concerning her for what they are worth. M. Léon d' Armilly, brother of the prima donna, who supports her in Donizetti's opera, also refuses to be communicative. At any rate, the mere hint of the mystery has already caused quite a flutter of excitement in high society circles and that is sufficient to insure a crowded house."

"Louise d' Armilly!" murmured the Count, half-audibly. "The name is familiar, certainly, though where I have seen or heard it before I cannot now recall. The lady is French by birth, the paper says, and that fact, at least, is a sufficient pretext for me to visit her. I will call on her as a fellow countryman, and the interview will demonstrate if she is known to me."

The Count arose, went to his desk and, seating himself there, wrote the following brief epistle:

"Edmond Dantès,[3] Count of Monte-Cristo, desires permission to call upon Mlle. Louise d' Armilly at ten o'clock this morning. In this desire M. Dantès is actuated solely by the wish to lay the homage of a Frenchman at the feet of so distinguished an artiste of his own nation as Mlle. d' Armilly."

Having finished, sealed and addressed this note, the Count touched a bell which was immediately answered by the ever-watchful Nubian.

"Ali," said the Count, in the Arabic tongue, "take this letter to the Hôtel de France and wait for a reply."

The faithful servant bowed almost to the floor, took the missive and departed. When he had gone, the Count walked the apartment with the long strides habitual to him at such times as he was engrossed by some all-powerful thought.

"Surely," he muttered, "this artiste can in no way interest me personally, and yet I feel a subtile premonition that it would be wise in me to see her."

He was still pacing the study when Ali returned. The Nubian's usually impassible face bore traces of excitement and horror. He prostrated himself at his master's feet and, with his visage pressed against the floor, held up his hand, presenting to the Count the identical letter of which he had been the bearer.

"Why, how is this, Ali?" asked the Count, frowning. "My letter sent back without an answer. The seal has been broken, too. It must have been read."

The mute slowly arose and began an eloquent pantomime which his master readily translated into words: "You went to the Hôtel de France and sent up the letter. In ten minutes it was returned to you by the lady's valet, who said all the answer the Count of Monte-Cristo deserved from his mistress was written on the back."

Ali nodded his head in confirmation of his master's translation, looking as if he expected to be severely reprimanded for being the bearer of such an indignity. The Count, however, merely smiled. Curiosity rather than anger predominated in him. He turned the letter over and read, scrawled in pencil in a woman's hand, the following brief and enigmatical but insulting communication:

"Any Frenchman save the ignominious M. Dantès, the so-called Count of Monte-Cristo, would be welcome to Mlle. d' Armilly. That person she does not wish to see and will not."

The Count was perplexed and also amused. The fervor of the prima donna made him smile. He certainly did not know her, certainly had never seen her. Why then was she so bitter against him? He could make nothing out of it. Was it possible her name was really as familiar to him as it had seemed? The irate artiste had surely heard of the Count of Monte-Cristo and, therefore, could not be mistaken in regard to his identity, but in what way could he have injured her or incurred her anger? The more he thought of the matter the more perplexed he grew. As he was debating within himself what action he ought to take, there was a knock at the door and a domestic entered, handing him a card upon which was inscribed: "Captain Joliette."

"Ha!" cried Monte-Cristo, "he comes in time. He will aid me in solving this mystery."

He motioned Ali from the study, and directed the valet who had brought the card to show the visitor up at once. In another instant Captain Joliette entered the room. The Count sprang forward to greet him.

"Welcome, Captain," said he. "I have not seen you since our stirring adventures in Algeria.[4] I hope you are well and happy. By the way, what are you doing, in Rome? I was not aware you were here."

"I am here simply by chance," answered the young soldier, with a blush that belied his words. "I was in Italy on a little pleasure trip and naturally drifted to the Eternal City. I learned only this morning that you were installed at the Palazzo Costi and instantly hastened to pay my respects."

When their cordial greetings were over and they were seated side by side upon a commodious sofa luxuriously upholstered in crimson silk, the Count said, abruptly:

"Captain, did you ever hear of a French opera singer named Louise d' Armilly?"

Again the young man colored deeply, a circumstance that did not escape the close observation of his companion, who instantly divined that the famous prima donna counted for more in the reasons that had brought the Captain to Rome than that gallant warrior was willing to admit.

"Yes," stammered Joliette, "I have heard of her, and report says she is a remarkably charming lady as well as a great artiste."

"Your tone is enthusiastic, my dear Captain," returned Monte-Cristo, smiling pleasantly. "Perhaps you are acquainted with Mlle. d' Armilly."

"Well, to confess, Count," said Joliette, with a laugh, "I am acquainted with her, and, curiously enough, part of my mission here to-day was to ask you to occupy a box at the performance of 'Lucrezia Borgia' this evening. Will you accept?"

"With genuine delight," was Monte-Cristo's ready answer. "I desire to see this mysterious prima donna for more than one reason. In the first place, her name is dimly familiar to me, though I cannot remember where I ever heard it, and, in the second place, she flatly refused a visit from me no later than this morning."

Joliette looked greatly surprised.

"Refused a visit from you, Count! I would not believe it did I not hear it from your own lips. Mlle. d' Armilly must be mad! She surely cannot know what an honor it is to receive a visit from the Count of Monte-Cristo!"

The Count smiled in his peculiar way, and handed the Captain Mlle. d' Armilly's singular reply to his note. The young man glanced at it in amazement, reading it again and again; finally he stammered out:

"It is her handwriting, but what can she mean?"

"That is exactly what I would like to know, and I see by your manner and words that you are powerless to enlighten me. Still, you can tell me who this Mlle. d' Armilly is, and that will in all probability furnish me with the key to her rather shabby treatment of me."

"My dear Count, I am acquainted with the young lady, it is true, but, like yourself, I am in total ignorance so far as her history is concerned. She is French, that is evident, and she has gone so far as to admit to me that Louise d' Armilly is only her professional name, but what her real name is she has more than once positively refused to disclose to me. She is equally reticent as to the rumors afloat regarding her. You are, doubtless, aware that she is reputed to be the daughter of a French banker who mysteriously disappeared. This she neither denies nor affirms; she merely maintains an obstinate silence whenever it is mentioned in her presence."

"Your recital interests me greatly, Captain," said Monte-Cristo. "You are more privileged than myself in that you enjoy the acquaintance of this eccentric young lady, but she does not seem to repose a greater degree of confidence in you than in me, for she has told you absolutely nothing."

"Well," said Joliette, "you will see her to-night, at any rate, despite her prohibition. She cannot keep you out of the theatre, for the box is purchased and here are the tickets."

"But she will be angry with you, Captain," said the Count, slyly, "for bringing such an undesirable auditor. I had better go alone and occupy some obscure seat. I do not wish you to forfeit Mlle. d' Armilly's smiles for me."

"Pshaw!" replied Joliette, "there is plainly some mistake. She does not know you, will not recognize you. She has certainly confounded you with some one else."

"Perhaps so," said Monte-Cristo; "but women's memories are good, and I warn you that you are taking a grave risk."

"None whatever, I assure you. It is more than likely that, in answering your note as she did, Mlle. d' Armilly was influenced solely by caprice. If she should ask me after the performance who was my companion, I have only to give you a fictitious name and she will be none the wiser."

That evening Captain Joliette and the Count of Monte-Cristo made their way through the dense throng in front of the Apollo Theatre, and were finally shown into a lower proscenium box commanding a full view of the stage. Monte-Cristo instinctively sought refuge behind the curtains and drapery of the box, where he could sit unobserved and yet be enabled to closely scrutinize the mysterious singer who appeared to have such an intense aversion for him.

Although still early the house was already crowded in every part, and throngs were unable to gain even admission. The vast audience was made up chiefly of the best and most fashionable society in Rome. It included many of the highest nobility, who occupied the boxes they held for the season. Everywhere the bright colored, elegant toilets of the ladies met the eye, while the gentlemen were brilliant in fête attire. Fresh young faces and noble old visages were side by side, the beauty of youth and the impressiveness of age, and the male countenances were not less striking than those of the females. Truly, it was a grand assemblage, one that should delight the heart and flatter the vanity of even the most capricious of prima donnas.

At first there was a low hum of conversation throughout the theatre, together with preliminary visits from box to box, but the flutter began to subside as the musicians appeared, and by the time they were in their places in the orchestra absolute silence reigned. When the conductor made his appearance he was greeted with a burst of applause, which he gracefully acknowledged with a profound bow. Then he grasped his bâton, tapped lightly upon the rack in front of him, and the delightful overture to Donizetti's great work commenced.

At its conclusion the curtain slowly rose and the opera began. Mlle. d' Armilly came forth in due course, and the house fairly rung with plaudits of welcome. She sang divinely and acted with consummate art, receiving loud encores for all her numbers. Monte-Cristo who was passionately fond of music, caught the prevailing enthusiasm and gradually emerged from the shelter of the protecting curtains and drapery. He had scanned Mlle. d' Armilly carefully through his opera-glass and was thoroughly convinced that she was a perfect stranger to him, although now and then a tone, a gesture or a movement of the body vaguely conveyed a sense of recognition of some tone, gesture or movement he had heard or seen somewhere before. The Count, however, reflected that all women possessed certain points of resemblance in voice and bearing; he, therefore, passed the present coincidences over as purely accidental, thinking no more of them.

For a long while Mlle. d' Armilly did not glance at the box occupied by Captain Joliette and the Count of Monte-Cristo,[5] and it was not until the former threw her a costly wreath of flowers that she turned her eyes in that direction. She was about bowing her acknowledgments, when her gaze rested upon the stately form of the Count. Instantly she paused in the centre of the stage, turned deadly pale beneath the paint of her make-up, and, with a loud scream, fell in a swoon. The curtain was at once rung down, and the director, stating that the prima donna had been seized with sudden and alarming indisposition, dismissed the audience. Captain Joliette rushed to Mlle. d' Armilly's dressing-room and the Count of Monte-Cristo wended his way back to the Palazzo Costi, utterly bewildered by what had taken place.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] A full account of the life of Haydée, will be found in that great romance "The Wife of Monte-Cristo," published complete and unabridged by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia.

[2] A full account of his life and of Espérance's remarkable career will be found in that absorbing novel, "The Son of Monte-Cristo," published complete and unabridged by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia.

[3] For a full account of the life and career of "Edmond Dantès," one of the most powerful and thrilling novels ever issued, see "Edmond Dantès," published complete and unabridged by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia.

[4] See "The Son of Monte-Cristo," complete and unabridged edition, published by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia.

[5] For a full account of the life and remarkable career of "The Count of Monte-Cristo," Alexander Dumas' masterpiece, one of the greatest romances ever written, see the illustrated and unabridged edition of it, published by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia.

CHAPTER II.

A STRANGELY SENT EPISTLE.

Zuleika, Monte-Cristo's daughter, had been for some months in the convent school conducted by the Sisterhood of the Sacred Heart. She was not a close student though a rapid learner, and was rather inclined to romance and adventure than to musty books of history and science. As has already been stated, she had the early maturity of Greek girls. Besides, she had attracted the attention of several Roman youths of high and noble lineage, who had eagerly paid her the homage due to her beauty and oriental attractiveness. Though but fifteen, she appreciated and felt flattered by this homage, and naturally was impatient of the restraint put upon her by the regulations of the convent school, which rigorously excluded all male visitors save parents or guardians.

In the first rank of her youthful admirers was the Viscount Giovanni Massetti. He was more ardent than any of the rest and, indeed, was desperately in love with the fair and bewitching child of the dead Haydée. He belonged to a family of great antiquity and boundless wealth, and was reputed to possess a vast fortune in his own right. The Viscount was only in his twenty-first year, but was exceedingly manly, dashing and gallant. He was quite handsome and was said to be the soul of honor, though his ardent temperament and headlong pursuit of whatever he most coveted not unfrequently involved him in serious troubles, from which, thanks to his own tact and the vast influence of his family, he generally came out unscathed.

On Zuleika's arrival in Rome and before she had been placed in the convent school, the Viscount Massetti had made her acquaintance in a way that savored of romance and that made a deep impression upon the inexperienced young girl. In Monte-Cristo's carriage, attended only by a timid femme de chambre, she was one day crossing one of the two bridges leading to the Island of San Bartolomeo, when a trace broke and the horses took fright. The terrified driver lost control of them, and the mad animals dashed along at a fearful rate, almost overturning the carriage. Zuleika had arisen in the vehicle, which was an open barouche, and was wildly clinging to the back of the front seat, her face white with fear and her long black hair, which had become loosened, streaming out behind her. Her wide open eyes had in them a look of tearful supplication most difficult to resist. The young Viscount, who was riding over the bridge on horseback at the time of the accident, could not resist it. He sprang from his horse and, as the carriage passed him, leaped into it. Seizing Zuleika by the waist, and holding her tightly to him, he then made another spring, alighting safely with her upon the roadway of the bridge. The flying horses were ultimately stopped and the occupants of the badly shattered vehicle rescued from their dangerous situation. This adventure caused the Count of Monte-Cristo to throw open the doors of his palazzo to the young Italian, and he had been a frequent visitor there up to the time of Zuleika's departure for the convent school.

In the interval both the Viscount and the girl had become much attached to each other, and then this mutual attachment had rapidly ripened into mutual love of that ardor and intensity experienced only by children of the southern or oriental sun. Young Massetti had avowed his passion to his beautiful charmer, and the avowal had not caused her displeasure; it was, on the contrary, exceedingly agreeable to her and she did not seek to conceal the fact from her enthusiastic suitor.

The momentous interview took place in a densely shaded alley of the garden of the Palazzo Costi one sultry afternoon of the early autumn. The youthful couple were seated very near each other upon a rustic bench. Massetti held Zuleika's small, soft hand in his and the electric touch of her tiny and shapely fingers thrilled him as the touch of female fingers had never thrilled him before. He gazed into the liquid depths of her dark, glowing eyes and their subtile fire seemed to melt his very soul. The close, sultry atmosphere, laden with heavy, intoxicating perfumes, was fraught with a delirious influence well calculated to set the blood aflame and promote the explosion of pent-up love. The thick, green foliage enclosed the pair as in a verdant cloud, effectually concealing them from observation. The opportunity was irresistible. Giovanni drew closer to his fascinating companion, so closely that her fragrant breath came full in his face, utterly subjecting him and totally obliterating all caution, everything save his absorbing passion for the palpitating girl whose slight, but clear-cut form, gracefully-outlined beneath her flowing, half-oriental garments, touched his. Suddenly carried away by a powerful transport, he threw his arm around the young girl's yielding waist and drew her without resistance upon his bosom, where she lay, gazing up into his flushed, excited countenance with an indescribable, voluptuous charm, mingled with thorough confidence and unhesitating innocence. Panting in his clasp, her ruby lips partly opened as if for breath, and the ardent Italian hastily, recklessly imprinted a fiery kiss upon them. Zuleika, with an almost imperceptible movement, returned this chaste, but ravishing salute.

"Oh! how I love you!" murmured Giovanni, quivering from head to foot in his wild ecstasy, and clasping the lovely girl still tighter.

She made no verbal response, but did not stir, did not strive to extricate herself from his warm embrace This was a sufficient answer for the quick Italian. Zuleika, the beautiful Zuleika, returned his love, favored his suit. His joy approached delirium.

"Oh! Zuleika," he whispered, gazing directly into her night black eyes, "you love me, I am sure! Give me the treasures of your virgin heart! Be mine—be my wife!"

"Oh! Giovanni," returned the quivering girl, in a low, but sweetly modulated voice, "I do love you—God alone knows how much!—but I am too young to be your wife! I am only a child, not yet out of school. My father would not hear of my marrying for several years to come. Can you not wait?"

"It will be a hard task, Zuleika," answered the young man, excitedly; "but, still, I will wait if you give me a lover's hope. Promise to marry me when you are at liberty to do so, nay, swear it, and I shall be satisfied!"

"I can neither promise nor swear it, Giovanni, without my father's approval and consent. He is a wise, experienced and thoughtful man, tender and mild to every one he loves, though hard and implacable to his enemies. Speak to him of me, of your love, of your wish. He will listen to you and he will not imperil his daughter's happiness. Go to him without delay, and rest assured that whatever he says or does will be for the best interests of us both."

She had released herself from his clasp and drawn slightly away from him, not in terror, not in prudery, not in coquetry, but as a measure of prudence. She felt intuitively that the wild, intense passion of her Italian adorer must be kept within discreet limits.

"I cannot speak to your father yet," replied Giovanni, hesitatingly. "He might listen to me, it is true; but he would treat our love as a mere childish fancy that time could not fail to dim, if not obliterate. I am deeply in earnest, Zuleika, and could not bear to be treated as a thoughtless, headlong stripling, who did not know his own mind. Ridicule, even in its mildest form, would fire my blood, fill me with mad projects of revenge. I prefer not to ask your father for your hand until certain of a favorable reception of my suit. You comprehend my scruples, do you not, Zuleika? I love you too dearly not to win you when I ask!"

"But you will speak to my father?" said the girl, in faltering tones.

"Yes, darling, oh! yes; but not until that hated convent school has ceased to oppose its barriers between us. When you have left it, when you have completed the education the Count designs for you, I will seek your father and ask you of him for my wife; until then, until I can with safety speak, at least promise me that you will love no other man, encourage no other suitor."

"That I will do," responded the girl, joyously. "Rest assured I will love no other man, encourage no other suitor!"

Unable to control himself, the Viscount again clasped the object of his adoration in his arms, and again their lips met in a long, passionate kiss of love.

So it was settled, and Zuleika went to the convent school of the Sacred Heart, feeling that her happiness was assured, but impatient of and dissatisfied with the long delay that must necessarily intervene before the realization of her hopes, the dawn of her woman's future.

The Viscount Massetti, though he had professed himself willing to wait, was, on his side, thoroughly discontented with the arduous task he had undertaken. It was one thing to make a rash promise in the heat of enthusiasm, but quite another to keep it, especially when that promise involved a separation from the lovely girl who had inextricably entwined herself about the fibres of his heart and was the sole guiding star of his life and love.

The convent school of the Sacred Heart was located in the convent of that Sisterhood, about three miles beyond the Porta del Popolo on the northern side of Rome. The convent was a spacious edifice, but gloomy and forbidding, with the aspect of a prison. Narrow, barred windows, like those of a dungeon of the middle ages, admitted the light from without, furnishing a dim, restricted illumination that gave but little evidence of the power and brilliancy of the orb of day. At night the faint, sepulchral blaze of candles only served to make the darkness palpable and more ghastly.

The huge school-room was as primitive and comfortless in its appointments and furniture as well could be. The walls were of dressed stone and loomed up bare and grisly to a lofty ceiling that was covered with a perfect labyrinth of curiously carved beams, the work of some unknown artist of long ago. The scholars' dormitories were narrow cell-like affairs, scantily furnished, in which every light must be extinguished at the hour of nine in the evening. Once admitted to the school, the pupils were not permitted to leave its precincts save at vacation or at the termination of their course of studies, a circumstance that heartily disgusted the gay, light-hearted Italian girls sent there to receive both mental and moral training. Another source of grave vexation to them was the regulation, already alluded to, that rigorously excluded all male visitors, with the exception of parents or guardians.

Attached to the convent was an extensive garden, full of huge trees that had, apparently, stood there for centuries, so bent, gnarled and aged were they. An ancient gardener, with a flowing beard as white as snow and scanty locks of the same spotless hue, aided by two or three assistants almost as ancient as himself, attended to the lawns and vast flower-beds, the latter being kept constantly filled with plants of gorgeous bloom and exquisite fragrance. The picturesque appearance of the garden contrasted strongly and strangely with the rigid and staid aspect of the convent edifice, and this garden was the one spot where the pupils felt at home and thoroughly enjoyed themselves. They were allowed to walk there at noon and towards twilight in the evening, under the supervision of Sister Agatha, a sharp-sighted and vigilant nun, who never failed to rebuke and correct her vivacious charges for even the slightest infraction of discipline. Still, the girls enjoyed themselves in the garden, for its extent and the fact that Sister Agatha could not be everywhere at once enabled the frisky and light-hearted pupils to indulge in many an escapade.

One noon Zuleika, who was in an unusually despondent frame of mind, strayed from the rest of her companions and strolled beneath the centenarian trees. Unconsciously she approached the lofty wall of the garden. She seated herself at the foot of a gnarled old elm, the leafy branches of which descended to the ground and effectually screened Monte-Cristo's daughter from view. At least, so she thought, but though she could not be seen by any within the garden enclosure she was plainly visible from the wall and the trees looming above it without.

As Zuleika sat pondering on her lot and sadly thinking of her separation from her lover, she heard or imagined she heard a singular noise amid the thick boughs of an immense chestnut tree immediately outside the garden wall. She started up in affright, but could discern nothing unusual, and the singular noise was not repeated. The strangest part of the whole affair, however, was that the noise had sounded like her own name uttered by a human voice. This increased her terror and confusion, and she was about to flee from the spot when an oblong pebble to which something white was attached fluttered over the wall and fell at her feet. She was now more alarmed then ever and took several steps backward, the while regarding the white object that lay where it had fallen, motionless and fascinating.

Finally her curiosity obtained the mastery, and, approaching the suspicious object with the utmost caution, she bent over to examine it. It was an ordinary envelope and, no doubt, contained a letter. For whom was it intended? Obviously for one of the pupils. It was a clandestine epistle, too, otherwise it would have come by the regular channel through the post office. Perhaps it was a love letter. At this thought she gave a guilty start and gazed piercingly into the chestnut tree, but nothing was visible there save boughs and leaves. After all, the epistle was, doubtless, destined for some swarthy-visaged Italian beauty, and many such were in the convent school. That it had fallen at her feet was certainly but a mere coincidence. It was not, it could not be intended for her! Its rightful owner, who had clearly received many similar notes in the same way, knew where it was and presently would come for it. The envelope had fallen face downward, and she could not see the address. She touched it with her foot, then cautiously turned it with the tip of her shoe. She saw writing. It was the address. Somehow the arrangement of the characters seemed familiar to her, though she was so dazed and confused she could not make out the name. Her curiosity was unworthy of her, she knew, unworthy of Monte-Cristo's daughter. What right had she to pry into the heart secret of one of her school companions? Still she gazed; she could not help it. Suddenly she stooped and took the envelope from the ground. The address riveted her eyes like a magician's spell. Great heavens! it was her own name—Zuleika!

Hurriedly snapping the slight string that bound the envelope to the stone, she thrust the former into the bosom of her dress. Then she glanced around her, half-fearing she had been seen by some of the pupils or the watchful Sister Agatha. But no, she was unobserved, and even now her companions and the nun were at such a distance that she could read her letter without the slightest danger of being discovered or interrupted. The temptation was strong. She yielded to it. She would read the letter. She felt convinced that it was from the Viscount Massetti, and the conviction filled her with unutterable joy. She had not heard a word concerning him since she had been immured within the sombre walls of that dismal convent, and now she had tidings of him in his own handwriting! It was rapture! What had he written to her? An assurance of his love, no doubt, and, perhaps, an exhortation to her to keep her part of their agreement—to love no other man, to encourage no other suitor! Surely she loved no one else—she never could love any one but Giovanni Massetti, for did he not possess her whole heart, all the wealth of her ardent youthful affection?

She kissed the envelope, then opened it, took out the letter, which was written in pencil, and read:

Dearest Zuleika: I can keep from you no longer. I must see you once more and again call you my own. I strove to attract your attention just now in the chestnut tree outside the wall. I uttered your beloved name, but you did not seem to understand me. This evening at twilight I will scale the wall. At that time be at the elm where you now stand and I will meet you there. Do not fail me, and, above all, do not be afraid. I assure you that no harm can possibly befall either of us. Meet me, darling.

Your own,

Giovanni.

Zuleika stood staring at this passionate note with sensations made up of amazement, rapture and dismay. Giovanni, her lover, was coming. He would stand there, on that very spot, and she would see him in all the glory of his youthful manhood, with the radiant love-light in his eyes. But how if he were discovered? What then would become of him and of her? She shuddered at the possibilities of danger. But on one point she was resolved—she would meet him let the danger be what it might. How Giovanni would manage to avoid observation she did not know, but she would trust to his judgment and discretion.

She glanced in the direction of the pupils and Sister Agatha. They were coming slowly towards her. Again secreting her lover's epistle in her bosom, she went to meet them.

CHAPTER III.

THE INTRUDER IN THE CONVENT GARDEN.

As the hour for the evening promenade drew near, Zuleika became painfully excited, and uneasy. She longed with all her heart to see Giovanni Massetti again, to hear the ardent words of love he would be sure to utter, but would she be doing right to meet him clandestinely and alone? Her mind misgave her. Of course she could trust her young Italian lover, for he was the very soul of chivalry and honor. But did others know this? How would her conduct be judged should the other pupils and Sister Agatha steal upon them unawares? Giovanni might escape without recognition, but with her it would be altogether different. She could escape only by coining an ingenious lie, and at that her whole nature revolted. She could not stoop to an innocent deception, much less to an absolute falsehood. Why had Giovanni tempted her? Why had he sought to place her in a situation he must know would be perilous? There was but one answer—because of his love—and that answer was sufficient to induce her to take the risk, however great it might be. Yes, she would meet him at the appointed time and spot.

At length the bell rang for the promenade, and Sister Agatha headed the little procession for the garden. For a brief space Zuleika lingered with her companions among the shady walks and gorgeous flowers, but at the first opportunity stole away and sought the leafy elm, beneath the friendly boughs of which she was to receive the welcome yet dreaded visit from the Viscount Massetti. She gained the rendezvous unobserved, with loudly beating heart. The young Italian was not there. She searched eagerly but vainly for him in the gathering twilight. What had happened to prevent his coming? She was on thorns of anxiety. Perhaps he had attempted to scale the wall and had fallen, sustaining some severe injury! Perhaps even then, while she was waiting for him, he was lying outside the wall, bruised and bleeding! But what could she do? Only wait, wait, with torturing thoughts seething in her troubled brain.

She listened intently. Not a sound. If Giovanni were wounded, disabled, he was maintaining a most heroic silence. She drew a magnificent gold watch, the exquisite case of which was thickly incrusted with diamonds, from her belt and glanced at the dial. It was after seven o'clock, and by eight all the scholars were required to be safely housed within the convent. Besides, she was not sure that she would not be missed, searched for and found. What should she do, what course should she take?

As she was debating within herself, uncertain whether to remain or return, there was a rustle amid the foliage of the chestnut tree immediately outside the garden enclosure, and a man's form swung from one of the branches to the top of the wall. Zuleika's emotion well-nigh overcame her. She had recognized Giovanni. In another instant he had leaped from the wall to the ground and was at her side. He stretched out his arms to her and the girl, all of a tremble, impetuously cast herself into them.

"Oh! Giovanni!" she murmured. "At last. I feared some terrible accident had befallen you."

"I am safe, darling Zuleika," answered the young Italian, folding her in a close embrace and showering ardent kisses upon her forehead and lips. "But you, dearest, you are well? You have not forgotten me, have not ceased to love me?"

"Forgotten you, ceased to love you, Giovanni!" whispered the quivering girl, in a tone of slight reproach, gazing fondly into his eyes. "Have I not given you my solemn promise to love you only?"

"Forgive me, my own!" cried the youthful Viscount. "What is a lover without fears and doubts? They are the proof of the strength of his adoration!"

They seated themselves at the foot of the branching elm, the friendly shelter of which shut them in. Then Zuleika said, with apprehension in her voice:

"Why did you come here, Giovanni? Are you not aware that you are running a great risk and putting me in peril? If we are found together, you will be ignominiously expelled and I severely punished. Besides, think of the disgrace for us both in such an event! The matter will get abroad, furnish food for gossip and certainly reach the ears of my father and brother, whose displeasure I dread more than all else! Think, too, that Espérance will call you to account for your conduct, and I could never bear a quarrel between you and him in which, perhaps, blood might be shed!"

"Never fear, Zuleika," replied Massetti, gallantly. "Should we be discovered I will shield you. As to your father and brother, they cannot be displeased, for I will explain all to them and end by demanding you in marriage. Why have I come here? Simply because I could hold aloof from you no longer. I felt that I must see you, speak with you, renew my vows of love. Oh! Zuleika, the world is all dark to me without your smile!"

"But you promised me to wait!"

"I know it; but I miscalculated my strength when I made that promise. Could I see you I might be patient; but to wait for weeks and weeks without even a glimpse of your dear face, without once hearing the sound of your beloved voice, is utterly beyond me. I cannot do it!"

"You must. Nothing else can be done. My father wishes me to remain at the convent school for a year, and the rules positively prohibit your visits. Be patient yet awhile, Giovanni. We both are very young and have a life of happiness to look forward to. Besides, we can see each other at the Palazzo Costi during vacation, and that is something."

"It is nothing to a man who wishes to see you constantly, to be always with you. Oh! Zuleika, I cannot bear our separation, I cannot do without you!"

The young man had risen to his feet and uttered these words loudly, recklessly. Zuleika sprang up and caught him by the arm, her face white with terror.

"Control yourself, Giovanni, control yourself!" she whispered, in a frightened tone. "Speak lower, with more caution, or other ears than mine will hear you!"

But the Viscount did not heed her. He was fearfully agitated and his entire frame shook with excitement and emotion.

"Fly with me, Zuleika, fly with me now, this very moment, and be my wife!" he exclaimed, in a voice so strangely altered that Monte-Cristo's daughter scarcely recognized it. "I am rich, and my family has wealth and power sufficient to protect us against everything and everybody, even your father, with all his untold gold and influence! The Count of Monte-Cristo seeks to part us; that is the reason he has sent you here, to this convent, where you are little less than a prisoner!"

He caught her wildly in his arms and held her against his breast as if defying fate. Zuleika, more terrified than ever, struggled in his embrace and finally released herself. She faced Giovanni, and said, warmly:

"You do my father injustice. He does not seek to part us. He esteems you greatly, Viscount Massetti, loves you for the service you rendered me, his daughter, and will reward that service with the highest recompense in his power to bestow—my hand. But he considers me a child as yet, wishes me to have education and experience before I marry, that I may be a wife worth having and not a mere useless doll. Respect his wishes, Giovanni, respect him. He is a good, kind-hearted man, and will do right. His wisdom has been shown too often for me to doubt it!"

"His wisdom!" cried Massetti, bitterly. "Yes, he is wise, too wise to bestow your hand upon me, a mere Viscount! What is my family in his eyes? Nothing. What is my wealth? An utter trifle compared to his. I tell you, Zuleika, he does not wish us to marry. He designs you for some high potentate with riches to match the princely marriage-portion you will have!"

"No, no!" cried the girl. "You are despondent, and in your despondency misjudge him. He cares nothing for wealth or exalted station, but values a good name and an unstained reputation above all else."

"But will you not be mine, will you not fly with me from this wretched prison, in which I can see you only by stealth and like a criminal?"

The Italian's eyes sparkled in the twilight and his voice was full of eloquent persuasion. He fell upon his knees at Zuleika's feet, and, seizing her hand, kissed it passionately again and again. The trembling young girl was deeply touched by his love and entreaties. For a moment she wavered, but for a moment only; then reason asserted its sway and cooler reflection came to her aid.

"Rise, Giovanni," she said, with comparative calmness, "rise and be a man. This proposition is altogether unworthy of you, and, should I accept it, we would both be disgraced. I am yours, my heart is in your keeping, and I will be your wife at the proper time with my father's full consent. But I cannot fly with you, I will not!"

The young man sprang to his feet as if an electric bat had struck him.

"You have no confidence in me, then!" he cried, impulsively. "You do not love me!"

"Do not love you!" exclaimed the girl, winding her shapely arms about his neck, as her lovely head sank upon his bosom. "I love you with all my heart, with all my soul, and it is because I love you that I will not fly with you!"

Giovanni kissed her hair rapturously, excitedly, and the beautiful girl, looking ten times more beautiful in her pleading earnestness, added, sweetly, persuasively:

"Leave me now, darling. The bell for the pupils to return to the convent will soon ring and I must not be missed from among them. Leave me, but remember the maxim, 'Wait and hope!'"

The lover was about to reply when the sound of footsteps suddenly broke upon their ears. They glanced at each other, startled, uncertain what to do. Giovanni was the first to recover self-possession. He noiselessly parted the boughs of the elm and peered cautiously in the direction of the sound.

"Three men are rapidly approaching," he said, hastily, in a whisper. "They are almost here!"

Zuleika looked, in her turn, through the branches.

"The gardener and his assistants," she whispered, nearly petrified by consternation. "They have evidently learned that you scaled the wall and are in quest of you!"

"See," said Giovanni, breathlessly, pointing to a group behind the men. "A number of nuns are also coming!"

"They are searching for me! Oh! Giovanni, fly, fly instantly!"

"And leave you to suffer, to bear the weight of my imprudence! Never! I will stay and protect you!"

"You will not protect me by remaining. You will only compromise us both the more. Go, I beseech you, go, while there is yet time!"

With tears in her imploring eyes, Zuleika pushed her lover gently towards the wall. He gazed at her for an instant and then at the approaching men and nuns, who were now very near.

The girl clasped her hands supplicatingly, then mutely pointed to the wall.

"It is your wish?" asked Massetti, hurriedly.

Zuleika nodded her head affirmatively, and still more imperatively pointed to the wall.

"I will obey you," whispered the young Italian, "and I will 'wait and hope!'"

She had gained the victory. A joyous love-light came into her eyes, for the moment eclipsing her terror. Giovanni could not resist the temptation to embrace her, even in the face of the danger that threatened him. He wound his arms about her yielding form, drew her to him with a crushing strain, showering burning kisses upon her upturned lips.

"Farewell," he murmured, reluctantly releasing her, "farewell, my own!"

He turned from her and ran to the wall, scaled it with the agility of a cat and vanished.

When the gardener and his assistants reached the elm, they found Zuleika standing there alone. Had they seen Massetti scale the wall? Had they recognized him? These thoughts shot through the girl's agitated mind. She gave no attention to her own peril.

The men came to a halt and stood silently by, waiting for the nuns to arrive. Horror was pictured on their aged countenances, and they stared at Monte-Cristo's daughter as if she had committed some heinous, unpardonable crime.

The group of nuns speedily arrived, headed by Sister Agatha, who held an open letter in her hand. Zuleika gazed at this letter in silent dismay. It was hers, the one Giovanni had written her! How had it got into Sister Agatha's possession? She mechanically felt in her bosom where she had secreted it, as she thought, safely. Her hand touched only the empty envelope. The note must have fallen upon the floor of the school-room and been found by some malicious pupil, who, after reading it and discovering its compromising contents, had surrendered it to the nun, thus divulging the weighty secret.

Zuleika stood abashed and terror-stricken. No chance of escape now. No chance for deception had she wished to essay it. The letter told the whole story, and the proof of its truth was furnished, for was she not at the appointed rendezvous, and was it not probable that the men and the nuns had seen Giovanni quit her and scale the garden wall?

The nuns looked as horrified as the old servants, but they were more to be dreaded; they possessed the power of reprimanding and punishing, and what punishment would they think too severe in this extreme case? Sister Agatha spoke. Her tone was milder than Zuleika had expected.

"Oh! mademoiselle," she said, reproachfully, "what is this? A meeting with a lover, and within these holy precincts dedicated to celibacy, chastity and sacred things! What will your father, the Count of Monte-Cristo, say when your conduct is reported to him? You are young, and allowance must be made for youthful blood and passionate impulses; but still you have done wrong, very wrong! Is this man, who signs himself Giovanni and who just left you, your betrothed?"

"He is," murmured Zuleika, blushing and holding down her head.

"With your father's permission, mademoiselle?"

"My father does not object to him," replied the girl evasively.

"In that case your fault is not so great as I at first supposed," said the nun. "You are pardonable for receiving the man, who, with your father's consent, is in time to become your husband; but, nevertheless, in meeting him within the convent grounds you are censurable for lack of discipline, and also for conniving at a breach of our rule which excludes all male visitors, save parents or guardians."

Zuleika bowed her head in submission.

"The punishment," continued Sister Agatha, "shall be as light as possible, however, if you have never before met this man within the convent grounds."

"I have never met him here before," said Zuleika, "and I only met him in this instance because—because—"

She hesitated and burst into tears.

"Because what, my poor child?" asked the nun, kindly.

"Because I love him so, and because I was afraid, if I did not meet him, in his desperation he would seek me out in face of you all!"

"Have you ever written to him since you have been in this school?"

"Never!"

"Has he ever written to you before?"

"You hold his first letter to me in your hand!"

"How was this letter delivered, by what means did it reach you?"

Her face one mass of crimson, trembling from head to foot, Zuleika told the whole story of her adventure at noon that day. How she had strayed from her companions without any definite intention; how she had seated herself within the screening branches of the elm to meditate; how she had heard the singular noise in the chestnut tree, and, finally, how the letter, fastened to a stone, had come fluttering over the wall and fallen at her feet.

The nuns glanced at each other, horrified and amazed at the audacity of the young Italian.

"Zuleika," said Sister Agatha, "I told you your punishment should be as light as possible. You have been exposed and reprimanded; the blush of shame has been brought to your cheek! This, I think, is penalty sufficient for a first offense, considering also that it was, in a measure, forced upon you. But beware of a second infraction of our rules! Now, return to your companions."

So it happened that Zuleika suffered but slightly for the imprudence and headlong devotion of her lover. Fearing gossip, the Sisterhood of the Sacred Heart suppressed the matter, and the Count of Monte-Cristo never heard of it. Zuleika expected ridicule from her companions, but the warm-blooded, romantic Italian girls, instead of ridiculing her, looked upon her as a heroine and envied her the possession of a lover daring and devoted enough to scale the wall of a convent garden.

CHAPTER IV.

A STORMY INTERVIEW.

When Captain Joliette entered the dressing-room of Mlle. d' Armilly, after quitting the Count of Monte-Cristo at the Apollo Theatre on the sudden termination of the performance of "Lucrezia Borgia," he found the prima donna lying upon a sofa and slowly recovering from the effects of her swoon. Her maid and the ladies of the company, the latter still in their stage attire, were giving her every attention. It was a strange and somewhat grotesque scene—a real drama with theatrical surroundings. The blazing lights, enclosed by their wire spheres, threw a ruddy glare upon the faces of those present, making them appear weird and witch-like in their paint and powder. On chairs and tables lay Mlle. d' Armilly's changes of dress for the performance and her street garments, while upon a broad shelf in front of a mirror were the various mysterious articles used in her make-up—rouge, grease-paint, poudre de riz, etc., together with brushes and numerous camel's hair pencils. A basin filled with water stood on a washstand, and on the floor was the pitcher, in company with a heterogeneous collection of stage and street boots belonging to the eminent songstress. The director of the theatre was standing anxiously beside the suffering prima donna, mentally calculating the chances of her ability to appear the following night. Léon d' Armilly was walking back and forth in the small apartment, wringing his hands and shedding tears like a woman, while at the open door lounged the tenor and baritone of the troupe, their countenances wearing the usual listless expression of veteran opera singers who, from long habit, are thoroughly accustomed to the indispositions and caprices of prima donnas and consider them as incidental to the profession.

As Captain Joliette came in, Léon ran to him and exclaimed amid his tears:

"Oh! how could you bring that odious man to your box! See how the very sight of him has affected my poor sister!"

At these words Mlle. d' Armilly roused herself and, springing to her feet, faced the young soldier in a fit of uncontrollable rage.

"How dare you," she cried, her eyes flashing and her voice tremulous with anger, "come here, to me, after what has occurred to-night!"

"I was not aware, Louise," answered he, apologetically, "that you had such a terrible aversion to the Count of Monte-Cristo."

"The Count of Monte-Cristo!" exclaimed the director. "Was he in the house this evening? What an honor!"

The irate prima donna flashed upon him a terrible glance.

"If you consider it an honor to have that monster in your theatre," she fairly hissed, "I will sing for you no more!"

The humiliated director walked away without making a reply. He deemed it the part of wisdom not to embroil himself with an eminent artiste who was capable of bringing him in so much money, and who also was capable, he thought, of breaking her engagement if she saw fit to do so. He, therefore, left the dressing-room. The others, seeing that Mlle. d' Armilly was evidently about to have a hot dispute with her admirer and that she was sufficiently restored to need no further care, also quitted the apartment.

When they were alone, the prima donna turned fiercely upon the Captain, exclaiming:

"And you profess to love me, too! Was it love that induced you to bring my worst enemy here to-night? It was hatred rather! Captain Joliette, you hate me!"

"You know I do not, Louise," said the young soldier, warmly. "You know I love you to desperation!"

"Why then was the so-called Count of Monte-Cristo in your box?"

"I was not aware that you knew him; indeed, I felt convinced that he was a total stranger to you, and his conduct to-night tended to confirm that conviction. He looked at you without the slightest sign of recognition; and so far from being your enemy is he that he gave you louder and more enthusiastic applause than any other man in the entire theatre."

"It is his art, Captain Joliette! I tell you that man is as cunning as a serpent and as remorseless as a tiger. Only this morning he sought to gain access to me, with what iniquitous motive I know not; but I returned his letter, with an answer that must have galled his pride to the quick!"

"I saw that answer," said the Captain. "Monte-Cristo showed it to me himself at his residence, the Palazzo Costi."

"What!" cried Mlle. d' Armilly, with augmented anger. "You saw it, read my very words, and yet brought him to your box?"

"Listen, Louise, and be reasonable. He told me that your name seemed familiar to him and yet he could not recall where or under what circumstances he had heard it. He was astonished at the tone of your reply to his formal and, I must say, very civil note. I was sure there must be some mistake on your part, that you had confounded him with some other person. I had gone to the Palazzo Costi expressly to invite him to hear you sing, to have such a great man present and assist at your triumph! I felt proud of you, Louise, proud of you as an artiste and as a woman, and I wanted my friend of friends to share my exalted appreciation of you. Such were the reasons that induced me to bring him to my box to-night, and, surely, if I committed an error, I deserve pardon for my motives!"

"I will never pardon you, be your motives what they may!" cried Mlle. d' Armilly, vindictively. "His presence ruined the performance and disgraced me, me, Louise d' Armilly, in the eyes of all Rome!"

The Captain stood speechless, appalled by her fury. White with rage, her eyes flashing and her bosom heaving, she looked like some beautiful demon.

"I would have triumphed as usual had he not been here," she continued, furiously and bitterly, "and to-morrow the Eternal City would have been at my feet, I would have been an acknowledged queen, nay, even greater than any sovereign alive, but now I have failed and am nothing! Captain Joliette, for all this you are to blame, and yet you think you deserve pardon for your motives! Why, man, you are worse than an idiot! No, I will never pardon you, never!"

She strode about the dressing-room as she spoke, her small, white hands working as if ready to tear the young soldier to pieces. Joliette watched her for an instant and then said:

"You are a singular creature, Louise, a problem that I must admit I cannot solve. What is the Count of Monte-Cristo to you that you swoon at the mere sight of him? You certainly could not have been in any way associated with his past life, have suffered from the signal vengeance he took upon his enemies years ago!"

Mlle. d' Armilly paused suddenly in her excited walk, and, seizing the Captain by the arm with so strong a clutch that a thrill of pain shot through him, cried, menacingly:

"If you dare to mention Monte-Cristo's fiendish vengeance to me again, I will banish you forever from my presence!"

At that moment one of the officials of the theatre appeared at the dressing-room door.

"A note for mademoiselle," said he, bowing profoundly.

The prima donna took the missive from the man and glanced at the address upon the envelope. As she did so, she knitted her brows and cried out:

"His handwriting! Another insult! I will not read it!"

The official withdrew in confusion.

"Whose handwriting?" asked Joliette, his curiosity and jealousy simultaneously excited. Mlle. d' Armilly had frequently referred to her numerous admirers and the letters she received from them, and the Captain naturally jumped to the conclusion that this note had been sent by some ardent Roman suitor. He considered the artiste's exclamation and assumption of displeasure as mere artful tricks designed to deceive him.

"Whose handwriting?" repeated Mlle. d' Armilly; scornfully. "Must I explain everything to you?"

The young man had borne all his companion in her anger had heaped upon him with comparative equanimity, but he could not bear the idea of a rival, the very thought was torture.

"Louise," he pleaded, "let me see that letter, let me read it."

"What! Must you needs examine my private correspondence! Captain Joliette, you are going too far! You have done enough to-night, without adding insult to injury!"

"I did not seek to injure you, Louise, God knows! Neither do I wish to insult you; but that letter I must and will read!"

"You talk as if I were already your wife and slave. Adopt another and less authoritative tone, monsieur. Captain Joliette, you are not yet my husband!"

"Would that I were and were sure of your love, Louise! The continual uncertainty in which you keep me is insupportable! You refuse to let me read that letter?"

The young man, in his turn, began to pace the dressing-room excitedly, his jealous suspicions growing stronger and stronger.

Mlle. d' Armilly gazed at him triumphantly. She was proud of the vast influence she exercised over this brave and manly warrior. He would stand unmoved before the cannon's mouth, but she could make him quail and tremble!

"You refuse to let me read that letter?" he repeated.

"What if I do not refuse?" said she, in a softer tone.

"You will make me a very happy man!"

"Then read it, for I will not! Thus I show my contempt for its miserable and cowardly author!"

She crumpled the note in her hand and cast it on the floor. Then she placed her foot upon it.

Joliette stooped and took it from beneath her boot. He straightened out the envelope, opened it, removed the missive and read as follows:

"The Count of Monte-Cristo presents his respects to Mlle. d' Armilly, and begs leave to express his deep regret that his presence in Captain Joliette's box was the cause of such a grave catastrophe. He is utterly at a loss to realize why Mlle. d' Armilly should entertain so profound an aversion for him, and why the sight of him should so seriously affect her. If Mlle. d' Armilly would condescend to explain, he would regard it as a special favor. He trusts that Captain Joliette will in nowise be blamed for what has occurred, as that gentleman, when he invited the Count to share his box, was as thoroughly convinced as the Count himself that Mlle. d' Armilly did not know and would not recognize him."

As Joliette read the last lines that so completely cleared him, he could not suppress an exclamation of joy.

"Louise," he cried, "the Count of Monte-Cristo has written to exculpate me!"

"Indeed!" replied the prima donna, contemptuously.

"Yes; he also apologizes to you and asks you to explain why the sight of him so seriously affects you."

"He asks an explanation, does he?" cried Mlle. d' Armilly, her anger resuming sway. "He shall never have one!"

"But you will pardon me, as you see I am altogether blameless?"

"I will hold your pardon under advisement, Captain. My action towards you will be greatly influenced by your future conduct in regard to the wretch who calls himself Monte-Cristo!"

"You surely do not wish me to cast him off, to shun him?"

"Do you prefer him to me?"

"I love you, Louise, love you better than anything or anybody else in the whole world! But I greatly esteem the Count of Monte-Cristo. There are ties between us that you do not understand."

"I do not care to understand them. I have told you that this man is my enemy. That should be sufficient for you. My lover and my enemy cannot be friends. Choose between us!"

"Would you have me quarrel with him?"

"Quarrel with him? Yes; and not only that! I would have you fight him, kill him!"

The young man stood aghast. He was totally unprepared for this explosion, this savage, vindictive demand.

"Fight him, kill him, Louise! You cannot, you do not mean what you say!"

"Am I in the habit of using idle words?"

"Louise, Louise, I entreat you, do not impose such horrible conditions upon me!"

"Are you afraid of Monte-Cristo?"

"I am afraid of no man living, Louise; but I cannot challenge Monte-Cristo to a duel even for you!"

"Then you refuse to protect, to champion me?"

"Oh! Louise, how can you speak thus! I would gladly shed every drop of blood in my veins for you, gladly lay down my life for you, but do not ask me to lift a hand against the Count of Monte-Cristo!"

The beautiful woman looked at the energetic speaker haughtily and discontentedly. She was not a little disappointed. She had thought her influence over her suitor unbounded, but now it appeared that it had its limits. She, however, did not despair. Well knowing the wonderful fascination she possessed for men, she determined to bring all its batteries to bear upon Captain Joliette. She was bent on wreaking a terrible vengeance upon the Count of Monte-Cristo for some mysterious injury he had inflicted on her in the past, an injury in regard to which she refused to be communicative even to her accepted lover, and was resolved that Joliette should give the highest proof of his devotion to her by becoming the instrument of that vengeance.

With the shrewdness of an experienced woman of the world, she readily saw that a special effort would be required on her part to bend the gallant soldier to her will and compel him to execute her inexorable purpose. She would make that special effort and, in making it, would render herself so captivating, so enticing, so desirable that Joliette could not fail to be intoxicated with her charms and fascinations. Then under the mad sway of his blind passion, excited to the utmost, he would be ready to do anything for her, anything, even to the commission of a crime, even to shedding the blood of his dearest friend!

At this juncture Mlle. d' Armilly, turning from the Captain as if in high displeasure, for it was an important part of her plan to assume a certain degree of coldness towards him at first, touched a bell and immediately her brother Léon and her maid appeared.

"Franchette," she said, addressing the latter, "assist me with my street toilet. I have sufficiently recovered to return to the Hôtel de France."

Unmindful of the presence of the Captain and Léon, the designing prima donna at once began to remove the costume she had worn during the opera. The maid aided her in this operation with the outward impassibility of theatrical servants, though she imperceptibly smiled as she realized that this display of her mistress' personal charms was made solely for the purpose of rendering the young soldier still more the slave of that artful siren.

As Mlle. d' Armilly stood in her corset and clinging skirts of spotless white that delicately outlined her faultless shape, her fine throat, shoulders and arms displaying their glowing brilliancy, Captain Joliette gazed at her like one entranced. Never in all his life, he thought, had he looked upon a woman so thoroughly beautiful, so goddess-like. She was as perfect as a painting of Venus, and a thousand times more lovely for being alive. He held his breath as he saw her bosom palpitate and felt that he would give all he possessed in the world to call her his own, to be with her forever.

Léon seemed somewhat abashed by his sister's proceeding and blushed like a girl, the crimson tide giving his countenance a beauty altogether feminine.

The toilet operation completed, Mlle. d' Armilly surveyed herself triumphantly in the mirror. She was well aware that she had riveted her chains very tightly upon her lover, but, for all that, she could tell only by actual experiment if he were sufficiently under her dominion to accede to her wishes concerning the Count of Monte-Cristo. Hence she determined to make that experiment without delay, ere cool reflection had come to the dazzled warrior's aid and enabled him to realize that a trap had been laid for him.

Quitting the mirror, she went to Captain Joliette's side and, placing her hand on his arm, as she threw into his eyes all the magnetism of her glance, said, in a dulcet tone:

"Will you accompany me to the hôtel, Captain?"

The young man joyously assented, and soon an elegant equipage was bearing him swiftly towards the prima donna's apartments.

CHAPTER V.

ANNUNZIATA SOLARA.

It was a bright, warm afternoon in spring, and the Piazza del Popolo, Rome's great promenade, was crowded with gay pleasure-seekers of both sexes, while the Corso and the two other principal thoroughfares diverging from this extensive public square were also thronged with young and old. The trees were covered with fresh green foliage, and multitudes of blooming flowers adorned the Piazza and the windows of the adjacent palaces and humble dwellings. Sounds of joy and mirth were heard on every side, while now and then strains of soft music were audible. It was truly a most inspiring scene of light and life. Flirtations were frequent between beautiful dark-visaged girls, with hair and eyes like night, in their picturesque attire, and manly-looking youthful gallants, while here and there sullen and sombre glances spoke of jealousy as fierce as fire, hinting of marital vengeance and love tragedies characteristic of the hot-blooded, impetuous Italians.

In the midst of the throng on the Piazza two youths were strolling, arm in arm. They were the Viscount Giovanni Massetti and Espérance, the son of Monte-Cristo. Fast friends they seemed, and gayly they chatted as they passed leisurely along. Their spirits were in full harmony with the animated scene around them, and they were evidently not insensible to the charms of the many pretty maidens they encountered and upon whom they cast admiring glances.

Suddenly a peasant girl of dazzling beauty appeared in the Piazza very near them. She was apparently about seventeen, glowing with sturdy health, her full cheeks the hue of the red rose. Her sleeves, rolled above the elbows, displayed perfect arms that would have been the envy of a sculptor. Her feet were bare and her short skirts afforded dazzling glimpses of finely turned ankles and limbs of almost faultless form. Her face had a cheery and agreeable expression, not unmixed with piquant archness and a sort of dainty, bewitching coquetry. She was a flower-girl, and was vending bouquets from a basket jauntily borne on one arm. She addressed herself glibly to the young men she met, offering her wares so demurely and modestly that she seldom failed in finding appreciation and liberal customers. There was not even a suspicion of boldness or sauciness about her, but she had that entire self-possession engendered by thorough familiarity with her somewhat risky and perilous vocation.

Giovanni and Espérance caught sight of her simultaneously. Both were struck by her appearance and demeanor, to which her gaudy but neat and clean peasant costume gave additional éclat.

"What a handsome girl!" exclaimed Espérance, involuntarily.

"A divinity!" replied the Viscount, excitedly.

Then they glanced at each other and laughed, evidently rather ashamed of the admiration they had so enthusiastically expressed.

"Her first words, however, will scatter the illusion to the winds," said Espérance, cynically. "She is, no doubt, as ignorant as she is pretty."

"Quite likely," rejoined Giovanni. "The outside beauty of these peasant girls generally conceals much internal coarseness, not to say depravity."

They were about pursuing their way, when the girl advanced, offering them her bouquets. Her voice was so sweet, so melodious, so deliciously modulated, that the young men paused in spite of themselves. She stood in a most graceful attitude, her parted coral lips exhibiting teeth as white and glittering as pearls. A subtile magnetism seemed to exhale from her that was not without its influence upon the two youths. Besides, her words did not betoken that ignorance alluded to by Espérance or that depravity the Viscount had spoken of.

"Buy some bouquets for your fair sweethearts, signors," she said. "They will gladden their hearts, for the perfume speaks of love!"

"Love!" exclaimed Giovanni, smiling at her earnestness and poetic language. "What do you know of love?"

"Ah! signor," she answered, blushing deeply and averting her eyes, "what girl does not know of love! Even the meanest peasant feels the arrow of the little blind god!"

The young men were amused and interested. Though belonging to the lower class, this poor flower-girl had certainly received some education and was endowed with a fair share of the finer feelings. Espérance felt attracted towards her, and Giovanni experienced a fascination not difficult to account for. Separated from Zuleika, filled with a lover's despair, the ardent Viscount was not averse to a little flirtation, more or less innocent. Here was his opportunity; he would cultivate this romantic and handsome girl's acquaintance. Where was the harm? He did not design being unfaithful to Zuleika, and this piquant peasant would be none the worse for brightening some of his sad hours. No doubt she was accessible and would welcome such a diversion, especially as he would pour gold liberally into her lap.

"I will buy some flowers of you, my girl," he said, encouragingly.

"Here is a beautiful bouquet, signor," said the girl, smiling joyously at the prospect of making a profitable sale, and handing him a magnificent selection of fragrant buds and bloom.

Giovanni took the bouquet and, at the same time, gently pressed the girl's taper fingers. They were soft and velvety to his touch. A delightful thrill shot through him at the contact. The flower-girl evinced no displeasure. Clearly she was accustomed to such advances. The Viscount slipped a gold coin of considerable value into her hand, again experiencing the delightful thrill.

"This is too much, signor," said the girl, looking at the coin, "and I have not the change. You must wait a moment until I get it."

"Never mind the change," answered Giovanni. "Keep the whole."

The girl looked astonished at such liberality, then a joyous smile overspread her beautiful visage.

"Oh! thank you, thank you ever so much, signor," she said, effusively, the color deepening on her tempting cheeks. Giovanni with difficulty restrained himself from kissing them.

"What is your name, my girl?" he asked, as she moved to depart.

"Annunziata Solara, signor," she replied, surprised that such a question should be asked her.

"Where do you live?"

"In the country, just beyond the Trastavere."

"Do you live alone?"

"No; with my father, Pasquale Solara."

"What is his occupation?"

"He is a shepherd, signor."

The girl bowed to the two young men and, with a glance at Giovanni that set his blood tingling in his veins, passed on and was speedily lost in the throng of promenaders.

Espérance, who had watched this scene with amused curiosity, broke into a hearty laugh as the Viscount turned towards him with something very like a sigh.

"Giovanni," said he, "the pretty Annunziata Solara has bewitched you!"

"Not quite so much as that, Espérance," replied the young Italian. "But she is a glorious creature, isn't she?"

"Yes, as far as looks go; but all is not gold that glitters, and this fair Annunziata may turn out a perfect fiend or fury upon a closer acquaintance!"

Giovanni gave his friend a glance of reproach.

"Do not insult her with such wretched insinuations," he replied, warmly.

Espérance smiled and said:

"You are smitten with her, that's plain!"

"I am not, but I admire her as I would anything beautiful."

"Put it as you please. At any rate, you will hardly be likely to see her again. She was a vision and has faded."

"But I do not intend to lose sight of her."

"You do not mean to say that you design seeking her out?"

"That is exactly what I mean to say."

Espérance looked at his friend quizzically and, at the same time, uneasily.

"When do you design seeking her out?"

"This very night."

"In the Trastavere?"

"No. You did not hear her aright. She said she lived in the country, just beyond the Trastavere. I will seek her there."

"What! Alone?"

"Alone."

"Beware, Giovanni! Her bright eyes may lead you into danger! How do you know that she has not some fierce brigand lover, who will meet you with a stiletto?"

"Nonsense! Your fears are childish!"

"I am not so sure of that. The country beyond the Trastavere is infested by daring robbers, who would not hesitate to seize you and hold you for a ransom. Only the other day the notorious Luigi Vampa performed just such an exploit, exacting a very large sum for the release of his prisoner, who was a wealthy nobleman like yourself."

"I will take the chances!"

"You are mad!"

"I am not. I have no fear of brigands. They would not dare to lay even a finger upon a Massetti!"

The young Viscount drew himself up proudly as he spoke. He believed the power of his family invincible.

Espérance was at a total loss to understand the firm hold this sudden infatuation had taken upon his friend. Of course, he fully comprehended the influence of female beauty over hot, headstrong youth, and he acknowledged to himself that Annunziata was really very beautiful and alluring; still, she was not more so than hosts of other girls who would be glad to win a smile from the Viscount Massetti at almost any price, and whose pursuit would be altogether unattended with danger. It was well known that the shrewd brigands frequently sent handsome young women to Rome to entice their prey to them, and might not Annunziata Solara, with all her apparent demureness, be one of those dangerous Delilahs?

After several further attempts to dissuade the Viscount from the rash venture he had decided upon making, all of which were vain, Espérance resolved that his impetuous friend should not go alone that night in quest of the fascinating Annunziata. He would follow him unseen and endeavor to protect him should the necessity arise. He knew the Viscount's nature too thoroughly to propose accompanying him, as such a proposition would undoubtedly be received with scorn, if not as an absolute insult. He would, however, keep track of him and, if all went well, Massetti would be none the wiser. If, on the contrary, his aid should be needed, he could come forward and give it. In that event, gratitude on the Viscount's part would prevent him from demanding an explanation of his presence.

Meanwhile the young men had continued their stroll and had passed from the Piazza del Popolo to the Corso. Giovanni was taciturn and moody. He looked straight ahead, failing to notice the gayly attired beauties thronging that great thoroughfare, who at ordinary times would have engrossed his attention. Not so with Espérance; he admired the vivacious ladies on the sidewalk or in their handsome carriages drawn by spirited horses. Now and then he recognized an acquaintance among them and bowed, but Giovanni recognized no one. He seemed plunged in a reverie that nothing could break. Scarcely did he reply to Espérance's occasional remarks, and when he did so it was with the air of a man whose thoughts are far away.

At the broad portico of the magnificent Palazzo Massetti, Espérance, the son of Monte-Cristo bade his friend farewell. As he turned to depart, he said:

"Is your determination still unaltered, do you yet intend to seek Annunziata Solara in the country beyond the Trastavere?"

Giovanni glanced at him keenly, as he replied, somewhat impatiently:

"My determination is unaltered. I shall seek her!"

"To-night?"

"To-night!"

Espérance said nothing further, but departed, full of sad forebodings. He felt a premonition of evil, and was certain that his infatuated friend would meet with some dire mishap during the romantic and hazardous expedition of that night. It was now quite late, and the young man hurriedly bent his steps towards the Palazzo Costi, maturing his plan as he walked along. He would inform the Count of Monte-Cristo that he had been invited to accompany some friends on a pleasure excursion, requesting his permission to absent himself from Rome for a few days. This permission obtained, he would assume the garb of an Italian peasant, make his way to the Ponte St. Angelo and there, in the shadow of the bridge, await the coming of the Viscount Massetti. When the latter had passed his place of concealment, he would follow him at a distance, keeping him in view and watching him closely.

Monte-Cristo made no objection to his son's proposed absence, and the young man, after a hasty supper, hurried to his sleeping chamber, where he soon assumed a peasant's dress he had worn at a recent masquerade. Stepping in front of a toilet mirror, he applied a stain to his face, giving it the color of that of a sunburnt tiller of the fields. When his disguise was completed, he surveyed himself triumphantly in the glass. Even his father could not have recognized him, so radically had he altered his appearance.

Gaining the street by a private door without being observed, he was speedily at the bridge. As he stepped into the shadow of one of the abutments, he heard the great clock of the Vatican strike seven. It was twilight, but everything around him was as plainly visible as in broad day. He glanced in every direction. No sign of Giovanni. Had the ardent young Viscount already crossed the Tiber?

He thought not, and waited patiently for a quarter of an hour. Still no sign. Then he began to grow anxious. Massetti had certainly passed over the bridge and he had missed him. He waited a few minutes longer, devoured by impatience and anxiety. At last he reached the conclusion that Giovanni had preceded him, had gone on alone, unprotected. He must have done so; otherwise he would certainly have appeared ere this. The thought was torture. To what unknown, what deadly perils was he exposing himself amid the marshes without the city walls? But perhaps he had not yet left the city walls behind him! A ray of hope came to Espérance. If Massetti were still within the limits of the Trastavere, he might by using due speed overtake him! He would make the attempt at any rate. As he formed this resolution, he emerged from the shadow of the abutment. At that instant a man came upon the bridge and passed him. He passed so closely that they almost touched, uttering a suppressed oath at finding an intruder in his path. His pace was rapid, so rapid that he was soon far away. He had not even looked at Espérance, and it seemed to the latter that he had endeavored to conceal his face. The man was of Giovanni's size and had Giovanni's bearing, but there the resemblance ended. He was certainly a peasant; his attire betokened it; besides, his countenance, of which Espérance had caught a glimpse, was rough and tanned. The son of Monte-Cristo felt a pang of keen disappointment; then he glanced at his own garments, thought of his own stained visage, and a revelation came to him like a flash of lightning—the man was Giovanni—Giovanni in disguise! He hurriedly looked after his retiring figure; it was now but a mere speck in the distance, scarcely discernible in the fading twilight. He started swiftly in pursuit, almost running across the bridge. After a hot and weary chase, he at length gained so much on the object of his solicitude that he was as near as he deemed it prudent to approach. He was now sure that the man ahead of him was the Viscount Massetti.

Espérance paused a second to recover his breath; then he went on at a slower pace. The pursued had not discovered the pursuit; he trudged along steadily and sturdily, never once looking back. Thus the two men crossed the Trastavere, and each in turn, emerging from a gate in the wall of the Leonine City, passed out into the marshy country beyond. They had not gone very far, when Espérance saw Giovanni suddenly give a start; at the same time he heard a loud, harsh voice cry out:

"In the name of Luigi Vampa, halt!"

Straining his eyes, Espérance finally succeeded in piercing the semi-darkness of the surroundings, and perceived a gigantic ruffian, who wore a black mask, standing in the centre of the road and presenting a pistol at the head of the man he had every reason to believe was Giovanni Massetti.

CHAPTER VI.

THE POWER OF A NAME.

The young Viscount, for it was, indeed, he whom the gigantic masked brigand had halted, was staggered for an instant by this unlooked for interruption of his journey in pursuit of the beautiful flower-girl. He gazed at the huge ruffian in front of him first in bewilderment and then in anger. The robber calmly continued to cover him with his pistol; as Giovanni made a movement with his hand towards a stiletto he wore at the belt of his peasant's dress, the man's quick eye detected his intention and he exclaimed, in a rough tone of command:

"Touch that stiletto and I will blow your brains out!"

The Viscount dropped his hand; he was as brave as a lion, but the bandit had the advantage of him and, courageous as he was, he instantly recognized the folly of disregarding his warning. His rage and indignation, however, were too great for him to control. He cried to his stalwart adversary:

"Why do you stop a poor peasant from whom you can obtain nothing?"

"You are not a poor peasant, signor!"

"I am not, eh? Well, search me and see!"

"You are neither a poor peasant, signor, nor any peasant at all! I have seen you too often in Rome to be deceived by the flimsy disguise you wear so unnaturally! I know you! You are the Viscount Giovanni Massetti!"

"Well, what if I am?" retorted the young man, sharply. "The fact will not benefit you or any member of your accursed and cowardly band!"

"Have a care how you talk, signor!" exclaimed the bandit, threateningly. "Insolence to your captors may cost you more than you would be willing to pay!"

"Indeed?"

"Yes; I mean exactly what I say. It may cost you your life!"

Giovanni glared at the brigand with unflinching eyes. He returned threat for threat.

"Take my life, if you will," he said. "It would be the worst piece of work you have ever done!"

"May I ask why, signor?"

"It would raise my family against you and the result could not fail to be your extermination!"

The man laughed loudly, and caustically replied:

"You are joking! What can your family do against Luigi Vampa and his comrades, who have long been countenanced by the highest authority!"

This was the climax of insult, and Giovanni, driven to the highest pitch of fury, unable longer to control himself, tore his stiletto from its sheath and, raising it aloft, made a frantic dash at the gigantic brigand. Instantly the latter fired. Giovanni dropped his weapon; his right arm fell useless at his side.

Espérance meanwhile had not been idle. His excitement was intense, and with it was mingled terrible fear for the safety of his friend. Nevertheless, he eventually succeeded in sufficiently calming and collecting himself to form a plan of action and put it in execution. He had provided himself with a pistol, which he had freshly charged prior to his departure from the Palazzo Costi. He drew this weapon from its place of concealment at the first intimation of danger, noiselessly cocking it. The road was skirted with tall thick bushes from which projected a fringe of heavy shadows. Along this dark fringe Espérance stole with cautious tread towards the huge bandit, as soon as he perceived him standing in the centre of the highway and noted his threatening attitude. As he stealthily advanced, the moon suddenly rose, flooding the scene with its silvery light. Its rays, however, did not disturb the line of skirting shadows, and Espérance passed on unseen. When the brigand fired he was very near him. Seeing Giovanni's arm fall and realizing that he was wounded, the son of Monte-Cristo promptly raised his weapon and, covering the gigantic ruffian, discharged it directly at his heart. Blood gushed from the man's breast. He sank to the ground, where he lay quivering convulsively; in another instant he expired without even uttering a groan.

Giovanni, whose arm was badly shattered and who was suffering frightful pain, stood speechless with amazement at this sudden, unexpected intervention in his favor. Espérance instantly sprang to his side. The young Italian stared at him as if he had been an apparition from the other world. He failed to recognize him in his peasant's dress, with his stained visage.

"Who are you?" he gasped, as soon as he was able to find words.

"Do you not know me?" asked Espérance, astonished. In his excitement he had forgotten his disguise.

"You are a stranger to me," replied the Viscount, "but my gratitude is none the less on that account. You have rescued me from captivity, perhaps saved my life!"

"I am no stranger, Giovanni. I am your friend, Espérance."

"What! Espérance in that dress, with that sunburnt countenance! I thought your voice had a strangely familiar sound, but your disguise proved too complete for me to penetrate it!"

These words recalled to the mind of the son of Monte-Cristo the changes he had made in his appearance. No wonder that Viscount had failed to recognize him!

"Why did you disguise yourself, and how came you here at this critical juncture?" demanded Giovanni, after a pause.

"I disguised myself that I might follow you without fear of detection. You would not listen to reason, and I determined to protect you during your rash adventure so far as might lie in my power."

"From the bottom of my heart I thank you, Espérance. You are a brave as well as a devoted friend, fully worthy of your illustrious father! But how did you know me? I too, am disguised."

"The fact of my own disguise enabled me to penetrate yours. I recognized you almost immediately after you passed me on the Ponte St. Angelo."

"What! Were you the peasant I nearly ran down as I crossed the bridge?"

"I was. But let us lose no more time; we have lost enough already. Besides, more of Luigi Vampa's band are probably prowling in the vicinity, and I imagine we both have had sufficient of the banditti for one night! Prudence dictates that we should return at once to Rome. With your shattered arm, you surely do not count upon continuing your search for the fair Annunziata at present?"

"No; that is impossible, I regret to say. I will return with you to Rome."

As the Viscount spoke a sudden tremor seized upon him, and he leaned on his friend's shoulder for support.

"You are faint from loss of blood!" exclaimed Espérance, much alarmed. "How thoughtless in me not to bind up your wound!"

Taking his handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped the blood from his friend's arm, carefully, tenderly bandaging the hurt; then he made a sling of Giovanni's handkerchief, placing the wounded member in it. The Viscount felt easier thus, though still somewhat faint.

"You are quite a physician, Espérance," said he.

"Not at all," replied the son of Monte-Cristo; "but my father taught me how to manage hurts; he said the knowledge would at some time be useful to me, and his words have proved true."

"Your father is a wonderful man; he seems to think of everything, to provide for all contingencies. Thanks to the skill he imparted to you, I am now in a condition to start on the homeward journey."

The young men turned their faces towards Rome, but scarcely had they taken a dozen steps when the road in front of them literally swarmed with rough-looking armed men, who effectually barred their progress. In an instant they were surrounded. Resistance was impossible; the two friends glanced at each other and about them in dismay. The new comers were evidently bandits, members of Luigi Vampa's desperate band.

One of the miscreants, who appeared to be the leader and was very picturesquely attired, confronted Giovanni and Espérance. He had a pistol in his belt, but did not draw it.

"You are my prisoners!" said he, in a tone of authority.

"Who are you, and by what right do you detain us?" demanded Espérance, haughtily.

"Who I am," replied the brigand, in a stern voice, "does not concern you. The right by which I detain you is the right of the strongest!"

"We cannot oppose your will, however unreasonable and unjust," returned Espérance; "my friend is wounded and my pistol is discharged. We can only throw ourselves upon your mercy; but we are gentlemen in spite of our dress, and demand to be treated as such!"

"How came your friend to be wounded and your pistol discharged?" asked the bandit, suspiciously.

"My friend was attacked and I went to his assistance," answered Espérance.

"You were in a fight, then," resumed the leader. Turning suddenly to his men, he asked: "Where is Ludovico?"

"He went up the road half an hour since, and has not yet returned," answered a short, thick-set young fellow, who seemed to be the leader's lieutenant.

"Just like him," said the leader. "Always rash, always seeking adventures alone. I heard a pistol-shot some time back," he continued, looking menacingly at Espérance. "Perhaps Ludovico has been assassinated! If so, it shall go hard with his murderers! Let him be searched for."

The short, thick-set lieutenant, accompanied by several of the band, immediately departed to obey the order.

Espérance glanced anxiously at Giovanni. A new danger threatened them. The gigantic brigand who had been slain was, without doubt, this Ludovico. His body would be found and summary vengeance taken upon them. Giovanni also realized the additional peril; but neither of the young men gave the slightest evidence of fear; inwardly they resolved to face death stoically, to meet it without the quiver of a muscle.

In a brief space the lieutenant and his companions returned; two of the men bore the corpse of the huge robber; they placed it on the grass by the roadside where the full moonlight streamed upon it, showing the wound in the breast and the garments saturated with blood. A frown contracted the leader's visage; he glanced at Espérance and the Viscount with a look of hate and rage; then, turning to the lieutenant, he said:

"Well?"

"We found Ludovico lying in the road a little distance from here," replied the short, thick-set man, with a trace of emotion in his rough voice. "He was shot in the heart and had been dead for some time."

The brigands had gathered about the prostrate form of their comrade; they seemed to be much affected by his fate; Ludovico was evidently a favorite.

As soon as the leader had received his subordinate's report, he turned to the prisoners, asking, sternly:

"Which of you murdered this man?"

"No murder was committed," returned Espérance, indignantly. "The huge ruffian shot my friend, shattering his arm, as you see; he was killed as a measure of defence."

"Your pistol is discharged," continued the leader, harshly; "that you have admitted; you killed Ludovico!"

"I defended my friend, whom he had basely attacked," said Espérance, sullenly.

"You killed this man? Yes or no!"

"I killed him!"

"Enough!" cried the leader, grinding his teeth. "You shall pay the penalty of your crime! Both of you shall die!"

He motioned to his lieutenant and in an instant Espérance and Giovanni were securely bound. The young men read desperate resolution and fierce vengeance upon all the rough countenances around them. There was not the faintest glimmer of hope; death would be dealt out to them at once and in the most summary fashion. Indeed, nooses were already dangling from a couple of trees by the roadside, waiting to do their fell work. The sight of these dread preparations roused Giovanni. With flashing eyes, he faced the leader of the band.

"Beware!" he cried. "If you murder us, you will have all Rome to deal with! We have told you we are gentlemen and not peasants. I am the Viscount Giovanni Massetti and my companion is the son of the famous Count of Monte-Cristo!"

As the young Italian uttered these words, a new comer suddenly appeared upon the scene for whom all the rest made way. He was an intellectual looking man, unostentatiously attired in a peasant's garb.

"Who spoke the name of the Count of Monte-Cristo?" demanded he.

The leader silently pointed to Massetti, who instantly replied:

"I spoke the name of the Count of Monte-Cristo, and he will surely take bitter vengeance upon you all for the murder of his son!"

"His son?"

"Yes, his son, who stands here at my side, ignobly bound and menaced with a shameful death!"

The stranger turned to Espérance and examined him closely.

"Are you the son of Monte-Cristo?" he asked, visibly agitated.

"I am," answered Espérance, coldly.

"Give me some token."

"'Wait and hope!'"

"His maxim!"

"Ah! you recognize it. Do you also recognize this?"

As he spoke the young man held up his left hand, and a magnificent diamond ring he wore flashed in the moonlight. The new comer took his hand and glanced at the jewel, one that the Count of Monte-Cristo had worn for years and which he had but a few days before presented to his son.

"I am convinced," said the stranger. Then, turning to the leader, he said, in a tone of command: "Release these men!"

"But they have slain Ludovico!"

"Release them!" thundered the stranger. "Ludovico should have known better then to have interfered with my friends!"

He was instantly obeyed, and the two young men, greatly astonished, stood relieved of their bonds.

"You are at liberty," continued the stranger, "and can resume your route. Say to the Count of Monte-Cristo that Luigi Vampa remembers his compact and is faithful to it!"

As he spoke the notorious bandit chief gathered his men together, and the whole band vanished among the trees like so many spirits of the night.

CHAPTER VII.

IN THE PEASANT'S HUT.

For a moment the two young men stood silent and astounded. So sudden had been the change from imminent peril to safety that they could hardly comprehend it. Luigi Vampa had come and gone like a flash, and both bandits and danger had been dispelled by the wonderful magic of Monte-Cristo's name. The brigand chief had styled Giovanni and Espérance his friends, and as such they knew the entire country in the vicinity of Rome was free to them; they could travel it by day or by night without fear of molestation. Espérance cared little for this, but Giovanni was elated by it, for it would enable him to seek out Annunziata Solara without risk of interruption or impediment. But what was the Count of Monte-Cristo's mysterious power? That was a question difficult, indeed, to answer. At any rate, even the fierce Luigi Vampa bowed to it, and it was as undisputed as it was strange.

The Viscount Massetti was the first to realize the necessity of a rapid push for Rome. He was faint from loss of blood and excitement; besides, his shattered arm throbbed violently and gave him twinges of excruciating pain. He felt himself sinking and urged his friend to hasten. Espérance acquiesced, and, supporting the young Italian as best he could, they resumed the homeward journey. Scarcely a mile had been traversed, however, when Giovanni threw himself upon the sward at the foot of a great tree, declaring that it was altogether impossible for him to advance another step. The throbbing in his arm had become unbearable, taking his breath away and filling him with a sickening sensation.

They were yet far from Rome, and not a sign of a habitation could be discerned in any direction. Waiting for daylight to come was not to be thought of; it would be some hours before dawn, and even when the sun had arisen it was by no means certain that assistance would be procurable. Meanwhile Giovanni would suffer torments, to say nothing of the danger of being exposed in his condition to the influence of the malaria from the surrounding marshes.

Espérance, though unwilling to leave his friend's side for an instant, decided at last that it was imperative for him to go in search of succor. Meanwhile a raging fever had set in and Giovanni was rapidly growing worse. As the son of Monte-Cristo was about to start on his tour of investigation, he heard a man's voice singing at some distance away, but gradually coming nearer. The sound was cheery and reassuring, for certainly the man who could sing so sweetly and joyously must have a good, kind heart. As the man approached Espérance recognized his song—it was that beautiful and expressive serenade, "Cara Nina," a melody dear to all youthful Italian lovers whether humble or of high degree.

The man at length came in sight; he was walking leisurely, but with a long, swinging gait. His voice was a clear, full tenor robusto, and the notes of his delicious love song trilled from his throat with wonderful effect in the still, balmy air of the tranquil, glorious night. He was not over twenty, was a stalwart peasant, and the moonlight showed that he possessed a manly, open countenance. So engrossed was he by his serenade that he failed to notice Giovanni lying at the foot of the huge tree and Espérance standing beside him. He was passing on when the latter hailed him. He paused, somewhat alarmed, and his hand instinctively grasped a weapon concealed in his bosom. Espérance hastened to reassure him.

"Have no fear," he said. "We are merely travelers, and one of us is grievously wounded. In Heaven's name, render what assistance you can!"

The young peasant turned and came cautiously towards them.

"This is a dangerous neighborhood," said he; "it is infested by bandits of the most reckless and daring description."

"We have abundant reason to know it," answered Espérance, "for we have just had a very narrow escape from a horrible death at the hands of some of Luigi Vampa's men."

"Luigi Vampa's men!" echoed the peasant, in astonishment.

"Yes."

"And they released you of their own accord? I never heard of such a thing! It is not their custom to free their prey, at least without a heavy ransom. Did they rob you, or did you pay them for your liberty?"

"Neither," replied Espérance.

The peasant's amazement was redoubled. He glanced inquiringly at the prostrate Viscount.

"How came your comrade to be wounded?" he asked.

"His arm was shattered by the pistol of a gigantic bandit."

"Ludovico?" demanded the peasant, glancing around him, as if he expected to see the huge assailant.

"I believe that was his name," returned Espérance. "But he will do no more injury!"

"You do not mean to say that you killed him?"

"I do."

"And yet you were allowed to go free! I cannot understand it!"

"Perhaps not, but you can understand that my friend is badly hurt and needs immediate aid and shelter. Is there not some hospitable cabin in the vicinity to which he can be conveyed, where he can be attended to until assistance arrives from Rome?"

The peasant hesitated for an instant; then he said:

"My father lives at a short distance from here; he could shelter you if he would, but he is in such terror of the bandits that, under the circumstances, he would probably close his door against you."

"He need have no fear of the brigands in this case, for Luigi Vampa has just given us a signal proof of his protection. Besides, he assured us that he was our friend."

"This is singular, indeed," said the peasant, again hesitating. "Luigi Vampa is a friend to but very few, and they are those with whom he is in league. You certainly are not in league with him, or you would not have killed Ludovico!"

"This is no time for parley," replied Espérance. "My friend is suffering, and humanity alone should cause your father to receive him. I will engage to appease Luigi Vampa's anger, should it be aroused; at the worst, I pledge myself to surrender with my friend at the first summons to do so, and to assure the brigand chief that your father is altogether blameless. Come, can I not prevail upon you to be generous and humane?"

"Well," said the peasant, partially satisfied, "I will trust you, though I am taking a great risk. Should Vampa be offended, he will burn our hut over our heads and murder us all without pity. However, both your wounded friend and yourself shall have such poor shelter as our humble roof affords."

Giovanni was aided to arise, and, taking him between them, Espérance and the peasant began their walk. Fortunately they did not have far to go, otherwise the young Viscount's failing strength would have been unequal to the task. They quitted the highway, plunging into a narrow footpath closely wooded on either side; so thickly, in fact, did the tree branches interlace overhead that the moonbeams were effectually excluded and almost impenetrable darkness reigned. For an instant Espérance was apprehensive of treachery, but this fear was dispelled when he thought of the manly bearing of the youthful peasant and the dread of the brigands he had expressed. The three could scarcely walk abreast in the narrow pathway, and every now and then Giovanni stumbled against some protruding root or other obstacle invisible in the obscurity; but the peasant knew the road perfectly, and with no uncertain step hurried his companions on as rapidly as possible.

Soon the path widened somewhat, the light commenced to sift through the dense foliage, and the gurgling of a noisy brook was heard at no great distance. Suddenly they made an abrupt turn, coming in sight of a small, neat-looking cabin, covered with clustering vines and embowered in verdure. The brook dashed along within a few yards of it, the fresh odor of the water mingling gratefully with the perfume of honeysuckles and the aromatic scent of the surrounding forest. It was, indeed, a beautiful and highly romantic spot, a cosy, sequestered nook, such as that in which King Henry hid away his love, the Fair Rosamond, from the prying glances of the inquisitive world. Espérance gazed at it with rapture, and even Giovanni, wounded and exhausted as he was, could not refrain from uttering an exclamation of astonishment and admiration. The cabin was closed and not a sign of life was visible.

"We have arrived," said the peasant, in a low voice. Quitting his companions, he went to a window, against which he gave three distinct raps.

The signal was almost immediately answered by three similar raps from within; then the window was thrown open and a woman's head appeared. The moonlight fell full upon her face, and both Espérance and Giovanni suddenly started as they recognized Annunziata Solara, the bewitching flower-girl of the Piazza del Popolo.

"It is she—it is Annunziata!" whispered the young Viscount in his comrade's ear.

"Hush!" returned the latter, in a guarded undertone. "Do not betray yourself! She will never recognize us, disguised as we are! Besides, our guide's suspicions must not be aroused! He might yet refuse us shelter!"

"You are right, as you always are," answered Massetti. "We must maintain our incognito, at least until we are sure of our ground."

Meanwhile the peasant was speaking hastily with Annunziata.

"Sister," he said, "I am not alone; two travelers, peasants like ourselves, are with me. They were attacked by Luigi Vampa's men, and one of them is sorely wounded."

"Holy Virgin!" exclaimed the girl, evidently filled with terror.

"They claim our hospitality for the night and our assistance until aid can be procured from Rome. In my father's name I have accorded them shelter. Open the door and admit us."

The girl disappeared from the window and in another instant had flung the door open. As she stood there in the silverly light, the state of her garments and hair indicating that she had hurriedly risen from her couch, her bright, picturesque beauty was vastly heightened. The young men thought they had never beheld a more entrancing vision of female loveliness.

"Where is father?" asked the peasant, anxiously.

"He has not yet returned," replied the girl.

The guide uttered a sigh of relief.

"I am glad," said he, "for Pasquale Solara does not like strangers. Were he here he might refuse to exercise hospitality towards this wounded man and his companion, even though they are, as they assert, friends of Luigi Vampa."

"Friends of Luigi Vampa!" echoed the girl, becoming greatly alarmed. "The Blessed Virgin protect us!"

"They are not brigands, at any rate," said the peasant, "and I believe them honest men. If, however, they are deceiving me, I shall know how to act!"

There was an ominous flash in his eye as he spoke, and his hand again sought the weapon concealed within his bosom. Espérance, who had been intently listening to this conversation and had marked every motion of the young peasant, felt his suspicions revive; but there was no time for hesitation; shelter and aid for his friend were of the first necessity; they must be obtained at once and at any cost. He had refrained from offering the peasant money, not wishing to betray that he and his companion were other personages than they seemed, and now that Annunziata had appeared upon the scene he congratulated himself on the wisdom of his course. He, nevertheless, feared Giovanni's impulsiveness in the presence of the girl he so much admired, and determined to watch him as closely as possible, in order to promptly check all damaging disclosures. If Giovanni remained in this attractive nook long enough to open and carry on a flirtation with the beautiful flower-girl, he must do so solely as a peasant and under the cover of his clever disguise. It was hardly likely that Annunziata would recognize in Massetti and himself the two youthful gallants she had encountered but for a moment amid the gay throng and crush of the brilliant Piazza del Popolo.

While these thoughts went flashing through his mind, the young Viscount, leaning heavily upon his arm, had not taken his eyes from the handsome, tempting girl before him. Suffering as he was, he longed to be at her side, to clasp her lovely shape, to feel her warm, voluptuous breath stream over his face and imprint kiss after kiss on her ripe red lips. He had not forgotten Zuleika. Oh! no! But Annunziata Solara was an altogether different being, a girl to delight him, intoxicate him, for a moment as the other for life. For Monte-Cristo's daughter his feeling was love, for the fascinating flower-girl of the Piazza del Popolo it was a passion to be sated.

After a few more words to his sister, the peasant returned to the young men, aiding Espérance to transport Giovanni into the cabin. The interior of this humble abode was as neat and picturesque as the exterior. The room they entered was small and cheaply furnished, but feminine taste was everywhere displayed. A single candle was the only light, but the scanty illumination sufficed to show the refining touches of a woman's hand. In one corner stood a bed, the covers of which were turned down, and upon which was impressed the shape of its late occupant. At the head of the bed a brass crucifix was suspended from the wall, while over the back of a chair hung articles of a woman's apparel. Giovanni could not doubt that he was in Annunziata's chamber, and that the imprint on the bed was hers. He felt a thrill of joy at the idea that he was to occupy the bewitching flower-girl's couch, to occupy, perhaps, the very place where she had lain but a short time before.

Annunziata, who had thrown a cloak over her shoulders and night clothes, but whose feet were still bare, had accompanied her brother and his companions to the apartment. She eyed the strangers timidly, but curiously, though it was quite plain she failed to penetrate their disguise. With deft hands she rearranged the bed and removed her garments from the chair. Then she retired to another room, and the wounded Viscount was aided to undress and assisted into the couch by the peasant and Espérance, where he eventually fell asleep in a delirium of bliss, after his hurt had been properly cared for.

Espérance was duly bestowed for the night, and soon unbroken silence brooded over the solitary cabin in the forest.

Thus was enacted the initial scene of a drama that was destined to be fruitful in disastrous results, results that clouded more than one happy life.

CHAPTER VIII.

A SYLVAN IDYL.

In the morning the Viscount Massetti's arm was found to be so much swollen and his wound so painful that it was deemed advisable to send for a physician, who resided in a neighboring hamlet not more than a mile distant from the cabin of the Solaras. The man of medicine was soon at Giovanni's bedside. After examining and dressing his hurt, he declared that the patient ought not to be moved for at least a week, a piece of intelligence at which the young man inwardly rejoiced, notwithstanding all the torture he suffered, for his sojourn involved nursing at the hands of the beautiful Annunziata, who had already shown him that she possessed tenderness and a kind heart, as well as good looks.

Espérance held a conference with his friend after the physician's departure to decide upon what should be done. He proposed to go at once to Rome and acquaint the Viscount's family with what had happened and Giovanni's condition, but the young man firmly opposed this plan, declaring that he would be well in a few days at most and protesting that informing his relatives of his situation would involve explanations he had no desire to give. Giovanni also begged Espérance to remain with him and give no sign as to their place of retreat; so earnestly did he solicit these favors that the son of Monte-Cristo, much against his will and with many forebodings, finally consented to grant them.

Pasquale Solara returned home late on the day following the arrival of the strangers at his hut. He was an old, but sturdy shepherd, whose rough, sunburned visage spoke of exposure to the weather and hard toil. He frequently was absent for days and nights in succession, absences that he never explained and about which his son and daughter did not dare to question him, for Pasquale was a harsh man, who grew angry at the slightest pretext and was inclined to be severe with all who sought to pry into his affairs. He expressed great fear of the bandits who infested the vicinity of Rome and especially of Luigi Vampa's band, but those who knew him best shook their heads doubtingly, and, though they did not say so, it was plainly to be seen that they deemed this fear merely assumed for purposes of his own. At any rate, it was a significant fact that Pasquale was never disturbed in his wanderings, while the brigands always left his dwelling and its inmates unmolested.

The old shepherd frowned darkly when informed by his children that they had given shelter to a couple of travelers, one of whom had been wounded in a fight with a brigand, but he said nothing and appeared disposed to accept the situation without even a grumble. He did not, however, enter the chamber in which Giovanni lay and avoided coming in contact with Espérance, who caught but a passing glimpse of him ere he departed again on another expedition, which he did after a stay of only half an hour at his cabin.

The young peasant and Espérance soon became quite friendly, indulging in many a ramble in the forest and beside the gurgling brook. The peasant's name was Lorenzo, and he appeared to lead a free life, totally unencumbered with avocation of any kind, save occasionally looking after a few sheep that never strayed far from the banks of the little stream.

Annunziata for the time abandoned her visits to Rome, installing herself as Giovanni's nurse. She was almost constantly beside him, and her presence and care were more potent medicines than any the physician administered. Her smile seemed to exercise a bewitching effect upon the young Viscount, while her voice sounded in his ravished ear like the sweetest music. The handsome girl was the very picture of perfect health, and her well-developed form had all the charm of early maturity, added to youthful freshness and grace. She wore short skirts, and her shapely limbs were never encumbered with stockings, while her feet were invariably bare. A low, loose body with short sleeves displayed her robust neck and shoulders, and plump, dimpled arms that would have been the envy of a duchess. Her hands as well as her feet were not small and the sun had given them a liberal coat of brown, but they were neatly turned and attractive, while her short, taper fingers were tipped with pink, carefully trimmed nails. Altogether she looked like the spirit of the place, a delicious wood nymph as enchanting as any a poet's fancy ever created and yet a substantial, mortal reality well calculated to fire a man's blood and set his brain in a whirl. If she had appeared beautiful in Rome, amid the aristocratic fashion queens of the Piazza del Popolo, she seemed a thousand-fold more delightful and fascinating in her humble forest home, where she shook off all restraint and showed herself as she really was, a bright, innocent child of nature, as pure as the breath of heaven and as free from guile as the honey-fed butterfly of the summer sunshine.

The more Giovanni saw of her the more he came under the dominion of her irresistible charms, the empire of her physical attractiveness. Gradually he mended, and as his wound healed his strength returned. At length, towards the close of the week, he was able to quit his bed and sit in a large chair by the window of his room. It had been agreed upon between him and Espérance that, during their sojourn at the Solara cabin, they should be known respectively as Antonio Valpi and Guiseppe Sagasta, and already Annunziata had bestowed upon her patient the friendly and familiar diminutive of Tonio, a name to which he answered with wildly beating heart and eyes that spoke volumes.

By means of shrewdly managed questions the young Viscount had ascertained that the flower-girl had no lover, that her breast had never owned the tender passion, and this intelligence added fuel to the flame that was consuming him. It is not to be supposed that Annunziata was ignorant of the strong impression she had made upon her youthful and handsome patient. She was perfectly aware of it and secretly rejoiced at the manifest exhibition of the power of her charms. Perhaps she did not as yet love Giovanni, perhaps it was merely the general physical attraction of a woman towards a man, or it might have been that innate spice of coquetry common to every female, but the fact remained that she tacitly encouraged the young Viscount in his ardent attentions to her. She, moreover, lured and inflamed him in such a careless, innocent way that she acquired additional piquancy thereby. Had Annunziata been a designing woman of the world intent upon trapping a wealthy lover, instead of a pure and artless country maid totally unconscious of the harm she was working, she could not have played her game with more effect. Giovanni had become altogether her slave. He hung upon her smiles, drank her words and could hardly restrain himself in her presence. No shipwrecked mariner ever more greedily devoured with his dazzled eyes the fateful loreley of a rocky, deserted coast than he did her. Had she been his social equal, had her intelligence and education matched her personal beauty, he would have forgotten Zuleika, thrown himself impetuously at her feet and solicited her hand. As it was, while Monte-Cristo's daughter possessed his entire heart, Annunziata Solara enslaved his senses.

She received his approaches as a matter-of-course, without diffidence, without a blush. His gallant speeches pleased her, she did not know why. So thoroughly unsuspicious was she, that she failed to notice his language was not that of the untutored peasant he claimed to be, that his bearing as well as his words indicated a degree of culture and refinement far above his assumed station. She was dazzled, charmed by him as the bird is by the glittering serpent with its wicked, fascinating eyes. She thought of nothing but the present and its novel joys. She had never heeded the future—she did not heed it now.

One morning as she sat at his side by the open window, through which stole the balmy air of the forest laden with the intoxicating perfume of a thousand wild, intensely sweet flowers, Giovanni suddenly took her brown hand, covering it with passionate kisses. The girl did not resist, did not withdraw her hand from his; she did not even tremble, though a slight glow came into her cheeks, making her look like a very Circe.

"Annunziata," said Giovanni, in a low voice scarcely above a whisper, "do you care for me?"

"Care for you, Tonio?" replied the girl, gazing sweetly into his glowing and agitated countenance. "Oh! yes! I care a great deal for you!"

He threw his arm about her neck, and, as his hand lay upon her shapely shoulder, a magnetic thrill shot through him like a sudden shock from a powerful electric battery. Annunziata did not seek to withdraw herself from his warm embrace, and he drew her to him with tightening clasp until her full, palpitating bosom rested against his breast. Her tempting red lips, slightly parted, were upturned; he placed his upon them in a long, lingering, delirious kiss. Then the color deepened in her cheeks, and she gently disengaged herself. She did not, however, avert her eyes, but gazed into his with a look of mute inquiry. All this was new to her, and the more delicious because of its entire novelty.

"Neither my father, nor my brother, nor my dead mother ever kissed me like that!" she said, artlessly.

Giovanni was enraptured; the girl's innocence was absolutely marvelous; he had never dreamed that such innocence existed upon earth. Was she really what she appeared?

"Annunziata," he said, abruptly, his heart beating furiously and his breath coming thick and fast, "you have never experienced love, or you would know the meaning of that kiss!"

"Love?" answered the girl, opening her large, lustrous eyes widely. "Oh! yes, I have felt love. I love my father and Lorenzo, I love—everybody!"

"But not as you would love a young man, who would throw himself at your pretty feet and pour out the treasures of his heart to you!"

"No young man has ever done that," said Annunziata, smiling and nestling closer to him.

"But some one will before long, perhaps before many minutes! How would you like me to be that one!" cried the Viscount, in his headlong fashion.

"I cannot tell," answered the girl, "I do not know!"

"Then let me try the experiment!" said Giovanni, rising from his chair and sinking on his knees in front of her. "Annunziata, I love you!"

The girl stroked his hair and then passed her taper fingers through his flowing locks. She was silent and seemed to be thinking. Her bosom heaved just a little more than usual, and the glow on her cheeks became a trifle more intense. Giovanni, yet kneeling, seized her hand, holding it in a crushing clasp.

"Do you hear me?" he cried, impatiently. "Do you understand me? I love you!"

"You love me, Tonio?" replied the girl, slowly. "Well, it is only natural! Every young man must love some young girl some time or other, and I think—I think—I love you a little!"

"Think!" said Giovanni, amazed. "Do you not know it?"

"Perhaps!" answered Annunziata, still fondling his hair.

Giovanni threw his arms about her waist, an ample, healthful waist, free from the restraints of corsets and the cramping devices of fashion. As he did so the sound of footsteps was heard without, and he had scarcely time to leap to his feet when Espérance entered the room.

Massetti was confused and his friend noticed the fact. He also remarked that Annunziata was slightly flushed and seemed to have experienced some agreeable agitation. Espérance instantly leaped to a conclusion. Giovanni's flirtation with the fair flower-girl had gone a trifle too far, had assumed a serious aspect. He would interfere, he would remonstrate with him. It might not yet be too late after all. Annunziata was a pure and innocent creature, unused to the ways of the world and incapable of suspecting the wickedness of men. She was on the point of falling into a deadly snare, on the point of being wrecked upon the most dangerous shoal life presented. Her very purity and innocence would make her an easy victim. Giovanni was not wicked; he was merely young, the prey of the irresistible passion of youth. Annunziata's surpassing loveliness had fired his blood, had driven him to the verge of a reckless action, a crime against this beautiful girl that money could not repair. This crime should not be committed, if he could help it, and he would risk the Viscount's friendship to save him from himself. Giovanni could not marry the humble peasant girl; he should not mar her future.

When Espérance came into the chamber, his presence recalled Annunziata to herself and also dampened Massetti's ardor. The girl arose and, smiling at Espérance, tripped blushingly away. Giovanni was flushed and somewhat angry at the intrusion at the critical moment of his love making. Espérance's face was grave; he felt all the weight of the responsibility he was about to assume.

"Giovanni," said he, in a measured tone, "I do not blame you for being fascinated by a pretty, amiable girl like Annunziata Solara, far from it. She is certainly a paragon of beauty, a model of rustic grace, a very tempting morsel of rural virtue and innocence. She is well fitted to turn the head of almost any young man—I freely acknowledge that. It is pardonable to wish to enjoy her society—nay, a harmless flirtation with her is, perhaps, not censurable; but that is the utmost length to which a man of honor can go! Remember she has a reputation to lose, a heart to break!"

"What do you mean by that long sermon?" demanded the Viscount, setting his teeth and frowning savagely.

"I mean that you have been making love to this poor girl, that you have been seeking to requite her care of you in a manner but little to your credit!"

"I owe you my life, Espérance," replied Massetti, "but even my gratitude will not shield you from my fury, if you step between me and Annunziata Solara!"

"You mean to pursue her then, to soil her name, to blast her future, for surely you are not courting her with marriage as your object?"

Giovanni flushed scarlet at this open accusation.

"I mean to pursue her—yes! What my object in the matter is concerns only myself; you have nothing whatever to do with it!" he exclaimed, hotly.

"But I have a great deal to do with it!" replied Espérance, firmly. "You shall not pursue Annunziata Solara to her destruction! Between her good name and your reckless intentions I will oppose a barrier you cannot surmount—myself!"

"Do you mean to champion her to the extent of challenging me?" demanded Massetti, fairly foaming with ire.

"If you persist in your nefarious designs, yes!" answered the son of Monte-Cristo, with equal warmth. "You are my friend, my friend of friends, Giovanni Massetti, but the instant you menace that innocent girl's honor my friendship for you crumbles to dust and you become my deadly foe! Take your choice. Either leave this hospitable cabin with me as soon as the state of your wound will permit you to do so, meanwhile respecting Annunziata Solara as you would your own sister, or meet me pistol in hand on the field of honor! Take your choice, I say! What is your decision?"

"I will not give up Annunziata!"

"Then you must fight!"

"I shall not hesitate!"

"So be it! My life against yours! I will defend this poor girl's honor to the last drop of my blood!"

"When shall we fight?"

"To-morrow at dawn."

"Where?"

"In the clearing beyond the chestnut copse on the further side of the brook. There is no need of witnesses; this matter is between us and us alone!"

"So much the better, for it will be a duel to the death! I cannot as yet hold my right arm aloft long enough to fight with it, but I will make my left hand serve!" Then, as a sudden thought struck him, Massetti added: "Do you propose to betray me, to carry your story to Annunziata and her brother?"

Espérance surveyed his companion with intense scorn flashing from his eyes.

"I am no traitor!" he said, coldly, and, turning, quitted the apartment.

CHAPTER IX.

THE ABDUCTION.

The remainder of that day Espérance and Giovanni did not meet again; they purposely avoided each other, the former because he did not wish to have a further quarrel with the Viscount, and the latter because he dreaded a repetition of the accusations of dishonorable conduct, which had stung him deeper than he would own even to himself.

Espérance disdained to play the spy upon Massetti, but, nevertheless, he determined not to quit the immediate vicinity of the cabin and to be as watchful as circumstances would permit. Nothing, however, occurred to arouse his suspicions as long as daylight lasted. Once or twice Giovanni quitted his chamber and walked back and forth excitedly on the sward in front of the hut, but his promenades were of very short duration, seeming to have no other object then to calm his seething brain. Annunziata did not go near him, though whether coquetry or fear caused her to pursue this course Espérance was unable to determine, but her action gratified him because it gave Giovanni no opportunity to follow up whatever advantage he might have gained with the flower-girl.

Lorenzo appeared to have no suspicion whatever that anything was amiss either with the young men or his sister. He was as light-hearted and cheerful as ever, going about his usual trifling occupations with gayety that was absolutely contagious, and displaying even more than his accustomed amiability. Espérance had grown to esteem this youthful peasant highly; he had found him manliness and generosity personified and had resolved, on his return to Rome, to interest the Count of Monte-Cristo in his welfare and advancement. With regard to Annunziata, Espérance was as yet altogether undecided; she was a problem he could not solve. Her innocence and virtue were apparent, but her childlike simplicity and utter lack of worldly experience, while so charming and delightful to behold, added to her wonderful beauty, exposed her to risks that were frightful to contemplate. Had she only possessed a lover in her own rank of life, all would have been well with her; but she possessed no lover, was absolutely alone; if she escaped Giovanni, and Espérance was determined she should escape him if he could effect it, the chances were that she would eventually fall into the clutches of some other admirer still more reckless and unscrupulous. The son of Monte-Cristo could not think of the lovely girl and her future without a pang that made his very heart ache. He, too, admired her beauty, her grace and her artlessness, but his admiration was confined within the proper bounds, and could he have seen her suitably and happily wedded, he would have rejoiced to the depths of his soul.

Late in the afternoon Pasquale Solara reappeared suddenly and without the least warning. The old man was covered with dust, as if he had been journeying far on foot. He plainly showed that he was greatly fatigued, also that something had occurred to irritate him. He entered the cabin unobserved, and was there for some moments before his presence was discovered. Annunziata was the first to see him, sitting upon a rude wooden bench with his stout oaken staff in his hand on which he leaned heavily. She threw her arms about his neck with a cry of joy, endeavoring to snatch a kiss from his tightly-closed lips, but he sternly and silently repulsed her. Lorenzo, in his turn, met with no warmer reception at his father's hands. But his children were used to Pasquale's moods and were, therefore, altogether unaffected by his present morose deportment; they speedily left him to himself, giving themselves no further trouble concerning him. Once when Espérance came into the room the old man stared at him inquiringly, as if he had utterly forgotten the fact that strangers were enjoying the shelter of his roof; then he appeared to recollect and scowled so savagely that the young man beat a hasty retreat, going to seek Lorenzo, whose cheery voice was heard singing beyond the brook.

As Espérance came in sight of the little stream, he nearly stumbled over a peasant, lying at full length beneath the spreading branches of an aged willow. The stranger was reading a book, and Espérance was amazed to notice that it was "Cæsar's Commentaries." He uttered an apology for his awkwardness, but the peasant only smiled and, in a gentle voice, begged pardon for being in the way. That voice! Espérance was certain he had heard it before, but where or when he could not recall, though it thrilled him to the very marrow of his bones, filling him with vague apprehensions. The man's face, too, was familiar, as also was his attire; but there was great similarity between the Italian peasants in the vicinity of Rome in general looks and dress; it was quite likely that he had not seen this man before, but some other resembling him; still, the voice and face troubled Espérance, and he decided to question the peasant; the rarity of strangers' visits to this sequestered locality would be a sufficient pretext for his curiosity.

"My friend," said he, addressing the recumbent reader, who had resumed his book, "are you a relative or acquaintance of the Solaras?"

"I am neither," replied the man, carelessly, glancing up from his volume and allowing his penetrating eyes to rest on his questioner, "I strolled here by chance, and this cosy nook was so inviting that I took possession of it without a thought as to the intrusion I was committing."

The peasant's language was refined; Espérance noted this fact and was not a little surprised thereby; in addition, he could not understand why the stranger should be reading "Cæsar's Commentaries," a work far beyond the range of the usual peasant intellect.

"You are committing no intrusion," said he. "Lorenzo and Annunziata, I am sure, would be glad to welcome you. Old Pasquale is somewhat of a savage, it is true, but luckily he does not bother himself much about anything or anybody."

"Pasquale has arrived then?" said the man, dropping his book and evincing a sudden interest.

"Yes; he is in the cabin now," answered Espérance, his astonishment increasing. "Do you want to speak with him?"

"No," said the peasant, lightly springing to his feet. He hastily closed his book, thrust it into his belt, and, bowing to Espérance, disappeared in the forest.

The young man looked after him for an instant; then he joined Lorenzo and informed him of the meeting. At his first words Annunziata's brother ceased singing; a cloud overspread his brow, and he asked, in an eager tone, for a description of the curiously behaved stranger. Espérance gave it to him, remarking as he did so that his companion turned slightly pale and seemed frightened.

"Who is this man?" he asked, as he concluded. "Do you know him? He appeared strangely familiar to me."

"Do I know him?" repeated Lorenzo, with a shudder. "Yes—that is no!"

Espérance stared at his comrade in surprise and uneasiness; the youthful peasant evidently had more knowledge of the singular intruder than he was willing to admit. There was surely some mystery here. What was it? Did the presence of this stranger menace the peace, the tranquillity, the safety of the Solara family? Was he in some dark way associated with the movements and actions of old Pasquale? Espérance attempted to question Lorenzo further, but he only shook his head and declined to make any disclosures. He, however, stipulated that his sister should not be informed of what had occurred, urging that there was no necessity of uselessly alarming her. Alarming her? What could he mean? Espérance grew more and more perplexed, and his conviction that he had met the stranger previously, increasing in strength, added to his anxiety and discomfort.

For some hours Giovanni had kept his room and given no sign. What was he meditating? Was it possible that he was concocting some cunning plan by which to circumvent intervention and gain undisturbed possession of the girl who had so powerfully influenced his passions? Could it be that he was in some mysterious way associated with the strange peasant, whose sudden advent seemed of such ill omen? Espérance thought of all these things and was infinitely tortured by them, but, one by one, he succeeded in dismissing them from his mind. Giovanni was certainly under a potent spell that might lead him to the commission of any indiscretion, but he was at bottom a man of honor, and there was some chance that his better feelings might obtain the mastery of his mere physical inclinations. At any rate, Espérance felt that he could trust him for one night more at least. Perhaps in the morning he would awaken to a true sense of his position and acknowledge his error; he might even implore his friend's pardon, admit that he was right and consent to return to Rome, leaving the bewitching Annunziata in all her innocence and purity. Upon reflection Espérance decided that the stranger could be in nowise the associate or accomplice of the Viscount, for the latter had communicated with no one, had not even gone a dozen steps from the Solara cabin during his entire period of convalescence. The idea of collusion was untenable. Espérance resolved to watch and wait. There was no telling what a few hours might bring forth; but at the worst he would fight; if he fell he would not regret it, and, if Giovanni perished at his hands, his death would be due to his own headlong impulses and his blood, under the circumstances, could not be a disgraceful, dishonorable stain.

Towards nightfall old Pasquale Solara began to display unwonted activity, showing, at the same time, signs of considerable agitation. He was yet uncommunicative and morose, spoke only at rare intervals; often he did not reply at all to the questions addressed to him, and when he did answer it was only in gruff, snappish monosyllables. He went from place to place uneasily, frequently leaving the cabin and gazing peeringly and stealthily into the forest as if he expected some one or was looking for some secret signal known only to himself. He glanced at Lorenzo and Espérance suspiciously, seeking, as it were, to penetrate their very thoughts. When he encountered Annunziata, he examined her from head to foot with a strange mixture of satisfaction, anxiety and tremulousness. At such times there was a greedy, wolfish expression in his glittering eyes, and his hands worked nervously.

When twilight had given place to darkness, he suddenly left the hut and did not return. His unusual conduct had occasioned somewhat of a commotion in the little household, but quiet reigned after his departure and his singular behavior was speedily forgotten by his children. Not so, however, with Espérance. The young man, agitated as he was with the turmoil of his own feelings, could not get old Pasquale and his behavior out of his mind. It filled him with sinister forebodings and made him look forward to the night with an indefinable dread, not unmingled with absolute fear. It seemed to him that the old shepherd was meditating some dark and desperate deed that would be put into execution with disastrous results ere dawn.

The evening, nevertheless, passed without incident, and in due course sleep brooded over the Solara cabin, wrapping all its inmates in silence and repose. All its inmates? All save the son of Monte-Cristo, who tossed restlessly upon his couch and could not close his eyes. At length, however, he managed to calm himself somewhat and was just sinking into a sort of half slumber when he was suddenly roused by a wild, far echoing cry that caused him to leap instantly from his bed. The cry was a woman's, and he thought he recognized the voice, of Annunziata Solara. A second's thought seemed to satisfy him on this point, for the flower-girl was the only female in the vicinity and the voice was certainly hers; but it sounded from a distance, without the cabin, and this fact bewildered him. Promptly old Solara's conduct returned to his mind, and instinctively he connected the morose shepherd with the cry and whatever was happening. The young man had not removed his garments; it was, therefore, only the work of an instant for him to grasp his pistol, which he kept loaded beneath his pillow, and rush from the hut in the direction of the cry, which had been repeated, but was growing fainter and fainter.

As he emerged from the cabin, he heard a shot echo through the forest, and almost immediately a man rushed into his arms, bleeding profusely from a gaping wound in the temple. The night was moonless and dark, but in the feeble and uncertain light Espérance recognized Lorenzo.

"My sister—my sister—poor Annunziata!" the young peasant gasped, painfully. "Your friend—abducted—gone! Oh! my God!" and he sank to the ground an unconscious mass, quivering in the final agonies of dissolution.

Espérance was horror-stricken. Annunziata abducted by Giovanni! He could draw no other conclusion from the young peasant's broken exclamations! Lorenzo slain, too, and doubtlessly also by the impetuous Viscount's hand! Oh! it was horrible!—it was almost beyond belief! He bent over Lorenzo's prostrate form, straightened it out and felt in the region of the heart; there was no beat; it was as he had divined—Annunziata's manly and generous brother was dead—the victim of a cowardly, treacherous assassin—and that assassin!—oh! he could not think of it and retain his faith in men!

Espérance left Lorenzo's corpse lying upon the sward, and, pistol in hand, started forward to go to Annunziata's aid, to rescue her from her dastardly abductor, if it lay within his power to do so. He reached the forest and plunged into its sombre depths. Scarcely had he gone twenty feet when a man carrying a flaming torch rushed wildly by him, in his shirt sleeves, hatless, his short, thick gray hair standing almost erect upon his head. In the sudden flash of light his haggard eyes blazed like those of a maniac. In his left hand he held a long, keen-bladed knife. He glanced neither to the right nor the left, but kept straight on, as if he were a ferocious bloodhound in pursuit of human prey. Espérance came to an abrupt pause, and stared with wide-open eyes at the startling apparition. It was old Pasquale Solara! The son of Monte-Cristo shuddered as he thought that the father, with all his Italian ferocity thoroughly aroused, was in pursuit of the man who had abducted his daughter and murdered his son. In that event the Viscount's death was sure, for he could not escape the vengeance of the distracted and remorseless shepherd! Should he raise his voice and warn him? No, a thousand times no! Giovanni deserved death, and did the furious old man inflict it, he would be only advancing the just punishment of the outraged law!

Quickly resolving to follow in the footsteps of Pasquale Solara, Espérance dashed on, utterly regardless of the bushes and briars that impeded his progress and tore great rents in his garments. Soon excited voices reached him, then the noise of a violent struggle. He pushed rapidly forward, intent upon reaching the scene of conflict, where he did not doubt the hapless Annunziata would be found. Soon he indistinctly saw two men engaged in a hand to hand strife. One was evidently Pasquale Solara, for a torch was smouldering on the ground half-extinguished by the damp moss, and the young man caught an occasional flash of a knife such as the shepherd had carried when he passed him, but beyond these circumstances all was supposition, for the identity of the contending men could not be made out in the obscurity.

Grasping his pistol tightly, Espérance was about declaring his presence when the figure of a man sprang up before him with the suddenness of a flash of lightning, seeming to emerge from the very ground at his feet. At that instant the torch gave a brilliant gleam and went out, but in that gleam Espérance recognized the man who opposed his progress as the strange peasant he had seen reading "Cæsar's Commentaries" the previous afternoon by the brook in the vicinity of the Solara cabin. Was he, too, mixed up in the abduction, and how? Again the suspicion returned to Espérance that he was the confederate, the accomplice of the Viscount Massetti.

"Remain where you are!" commanded the intruder, sternly. "If you advance another step, the consequences be upon your own head!"

"Stand aside and let me pass!" thundered the young man, presenting his pistol at his opponent's head. The other gave a low laugh, made a quick movement and Espérance's weapon went whirling swiftly through the air. Meanwhile the sounds of strife had ceased, and the almost impenetrable darkness of the forest effectually prevented the young man from distinguishing anything a yard distant. As his pistol was hurled from his grasp he closed his fists tightly, set his teeth firmly together and made a frantic dash at the peasant. The latter leaped aside with surprising agility, vanishing instantaneously among the clustering trees. So sudden was his leap that Espérance, carried on by the strong impetus he had given himself, plunged wildly into a clump of bushes and fell headlong upon a thick growth of moss, the softness of which prevented him from sustaining even the slightest bruise. As he came in contact with the moss, his hand touched something cold that sent an icy shiver through him from head to foot. Instinctively he recognized the object as a human face, and passing his hand along he felt the body and limbs. Great heavens! who was this? Had another murder been done? Would there ever be an end to the horrors and mysteries of this dreadful night? The body was that of a man. Espérance arose to his knees and drawing a match-safe from his pocket struck a light. As the flame flashed upon the countenance of the unconscious man, the features of Giovanni Massetti appeared! Espérance was stunned. How was this? The Viscount there, beneath his hand, cold and motionless! Who then could have been the individual with whom old Pasquale Solara had been struggling but a moment since? Truly the mysteries of this night were becoming too complicated for solution! And where was the unfortunate Annunziata? Had she escaped from her captor or captors, had she been rescued, had she perished like her ill-fated brother, or had the abduction been successfully accomplished? None of these questions could Espérance answer. One thing, however, was plain—there was no trace of her now; no clue that he could follow; therefore, further pursuit for the present was useless. Sadly he determined to wait for day and then resolve upon some plan to put into immediate execution to retrieve, as far as possible the great wrong that had been done.

But Giovanni must be attended to. Guilty or innocent, dead or alive, he could not be abandoned where he was. Humanity demanded that some effort be made in his behalf. Perhaps, too, if he were in a condition to speak, some key to the strange, bewildering and terrible transactions of the night might be obtained. Espérance raised him in his arms and carried him to the brook near the Solara cabin. By this time the moon had arisen and in its silvery rays he examined him thoroughly. There was no trace of blood, no wound; only a large bruise on his forehead, as if he had been struck with some heavy object and knocked down unconscious. He was alive, for his heart was beating, and once or twice he had moved on the sward where Espérance had placed him. The young man made a cup of his hands, and, dipping some cool water from the stream, dashed it in the Viscount's face. Instantly he opened his eyes, gazing about him in bewilderment. He sat up and stared wildly at Espérance.

"What is the matter? How came I here?" he asked, in astonishment. Then suddenly putting his hand to the bruise on his forehead, as if it pained him, he continued: "Ah! yes! I remember it all now! Luigi Vampa struck me!"

"Luigi Vampa struck you?" cried Espérance, more amazed than ever.

"Yes, after he had forced me to take a fearful oath to remain silent!"

"Silent about what? The abduction of Annunziata Solara?"

"Hush! hush! Do not mention that girl's name! Vampa or some of his men may be lurking in the vicinity and hear!"

"What has become of her? At least tell me that! You know!"

"As God is my judge, I do not!"

"Were you not with her to-night? Did you not forcibly take her from the cabin?"

"No! no!"

"Who did then?"

"Alas! my oath compels silence on that point!"

"Your oath! That is a very convenient excuse! Giovanni, Luigi Vampa was not here to-night."

"He was. He lurked around the cabin all day, that when darkness came he might commit the blackest deed that ever sullied the record of mankind!"

Instantly Espérance recollected the peasant he had met that afternoon beside the brook, the man who, but a short while before, had opposed his passage and disarmed him in the forest. His vague familiarity with his voice, face and dress was now accounted for. The man was Luigi Vampa. There could be no doubt of it. But why had he abducted Annunziata Solara, as Giovanni's words would seem to infer? Why, save as the confederate and accomplice of the Viscount Massetti? But then how had Giovanni communicated with him, and in what manner had they contrived to arrange the details of their dishonorable plot? Was it possible that old Pasquale had been the medium of correspondence between the two men. Had he been base enough to sell his child? In that case, with whom had he fought so fiercely and desperately in the forest? Why also had the brigand chief sworn Giovanni to silence? Vain questions, admitting of no satisfactory replies. The Viscount's story was incredible; it was, without doubt, a mere fabrication intended to cover and conceal his own guilt in the premises. Still Espérance could not reconcile this theory with the fact of finding Giovanni senseless in the forest.

The young Italian had by this time fully recovered from the effects of the shock he had received. He arose to his feet, and, approaching Espérance, said, earnestly:

"My friend, let the past be forgotten. I was wrong and you were right. I ask your pardon. As to the abduction of this unfortunate girl, I assure you that I am entirely innocent of it!"

"But who fired the shot that killed Lorenzo?" asked Espérance, sternly.

"Killed Lorenzo!" cried Giovanni, with unmistakable horror. "Was Lorenzo killed?"

"He was shot to-night and died in my arms!"

"Oh! this is terrible!" exclaimed the Viscount, beads of cold perspiration breaking out upon his forehead. "I assure you, Espérance, I had no hand in this foul murder—I knew nothing of it! I did hear the report of a pistol, but who discharged the weapon or at whom it was fired I could not tell. Everything seemed like a disordered dream!"

As Espérance said not a word in reply, the Viscount continued:

"Again I assert my innocence of the dark crimes that have been committed to-night! Do you not believe my protestation?"

"I know not what to believe," answered the young man. "But I will not consider you guilty until you are proved so."

"Then," cried Giovanni, joyously, "I have a proposition to make to you. Swear that you will be silent about everything that has occurred since we met Annunziata Solara in the Piazza del Popolo, including the terrible events of to-night, and I will start with you for Rome this very instant!"

"And you will renounce your pursuit of the flower-girl?"

"I will renounce it!"

"Do you swear to do so?"

"I swear it!"

"Then, on my side, I here take the oath of silence you require!"

"You forgive me for having quarreled with you?"

"I forgive you!"

"Then let us leave this accursed spot without another moment's delay!"

"So be it!"

They hastily quitted the bank of the little stream and went to the cabin to prepare for their immediate departure. As they passed the spot where Lorenzo's body had lain, Espérance noticed with a start that it was no longer there. They entered the cabin. It was dark and deserted. Espérance lighted a candle and, as he did so, perceived a scrap of paper upon the floor. He stooped mechanically and picked it up. It was rumpled as if it had been crushed in the hand and cast away. The young man straightened it out. It was a brief letter. He held it to the candle and, with a sickening sensation at his heart, read as follows:

Dearest Annunziata: All is prepared. We will fly to-night. Be ready.

Tonio.

The note was in Massetti's handwriting. Espérance silently passed it to him. The Viscount read it with eyes bulging from their sockets, his fingers trembling so he could scarcely hold the paper.

"The evidence is conclusive!" said Espérance, icily, as Massetti finished reading. "It is a confession! You abducted Annunziata Solara!"

"What can I say to justify myself?" cried Giovanni, bitterly. "Oh! that accursed oath!"

"And you have sworn me to silence, also, wretched man!" said Espérance. "Why was I so weak!"

He looked scornfully at the Viscount, who stood with bowed head. Then he added:

"I understand you now! You did not wish me to betray you, to set the hounds of Justice on your track, to cause you to be punished, branded and disgraced! You were shrewd and imposed upon me. But my oath is sacred—I will keep it! Let us return to Rome at once as we originally proposed. There I will challenge you in due form for an alleged insult, and we will settle this matter at the pistol's mouth!"

In a few moments more they were on their road to the Eternal City, leaving behind them the cabin into which they had brought ruin and death!

CHAPTER X.

THE COUNTESS OF MONTE-CRISTO.

Rome was agitated by a vague scandal, so vague, in fact, that nobody seemed to know the precise details. It had arisen from a newspaper account, given in the indefinite, unsatisfactory way characteristic of Roman journalism. One of the city journals had published the statement that a young and very handsome peasant girl, living with her father in the country beyond the Trastavere, had recently been abducted, report said, by a youthful member of the Roman aristocracy; that the reckless scion of nobility had courted and won her in the guise of a peasant, had carried her off to a bandit fastness and there had eventually deserted her. No names were given. Inquiry at the office of the journal elicited the fact that the proprietors had undoubted authority for the publication of the statement, but no further information could be gained from them. A few days later, however, the same newspaper gave the further particulars that the nobleman had been assisted in effecting the abduction by a young foreigner residing in Rome, and that the brother of the unfortunate girl had been killed in attempting to rescue her. That completed all the intelligence ever vouchsafed to the public in regard to the mysterious affair, and thereafter the journal maintained an unbroken silence respecting the matter. The rumor ran that its proprietors had been bribed by interested parties to say nothing further, but this rumor could not be traced to any reliable source and was, therefore, by many considered a fabrication. No steps were taken by the authorities in the premises, and it was evident that the affair was to be allowed to die out. Still Roman society was considerably excited, conjectures as to the identity of the guilty party and his accomplice being rife in all the fashionable and aristocratic quarters of the city. These conjectures, however, did not grow to positive statements, though insidious hints were thrown out that those who guessed the Viscount Giovanni Massetti to be the culprit were not far out of the way. Massetti, it was known, had been absent from Rome for several days about the period the abduction was supposed to have taken place, but he did not deign to notice the hints current in regard to himself and no one was hardy enough to question him. Nevertheless some color was given to the rumors concerning him by the fact that, immediately on his return to the city, after the absence above referred to, he became involved in a violent quarrel with a young Frenchman, generally supposed to be Espérance, the son of Monte-Cristo, who at once challenged him to a duel, but the duel was not fought for some reason not made public, the difference between the two fiery youths having been arranged through the mediation of mutual friends. It was observed, however, and widely commented upon that, although the twain had previously been almost inseparable companions, Espérance after this quarrel studiously avoided the Viscount Massetti, refraining from even mentioning his name.

Meanwhile at Civita Vecchia another act in the drama of Annunziata Solara's clouded life had been played. In that city was located a famous asylum for unfortunate women, founded and managed by a French lady of enormous wealth and corresponding benevolence, Madame Helena de Rancogne, the Countess of Monte-Cristo.[6] This lady was untiring in her efforts to reclaim and rehabilitate the fallen of her sex. She was the Superior of the Order of Sisters of Refuge, the members of which were scattered throughout Europe, but made their headquarters at the asylum in Civita Vecchia, where a sufficient number of them constantly aided Madame de Rancogne in carrying out her good and philanthropic work.

The Refuge, as the asylum was called, was a vast edifice of gray stone with a sombre and cloister-like look. Over the huge entrance door on a tablet of polished metal this sentence was incrusted in conspicuous letters of black: "Be Not Led to Consider Any Unworthy!" It was an utterance of the Countess of Monte-Cristo in the past and had been adopted as the guiding rule and maxim of the Order of Sisters of Refuge. The interior of the building in no way corresponded with its gloomy, forbidding outside. Tall, wide windows freely admitted the ardent rays of the glowing Italian sun, flooding the corridors and apartments with cheerful light and warmth. Crimson hangings and magnificently wrought tapestry of fabulous price adorned the walls, while costly and beautiful statues and paintings, the work of old masters and contemporaneous artists, added to the attractiveness of the numerous salons and drawing-rooms. The great refectory and the dormitories possessed charms of their own, bright colors everywhere greeting the eye and nothing being allowed that could inspire or promote melancholy moods or painful thoughts. There was an immense library, to which all the inmates of the Refuge had free access. It was sumptuously furnished, and the floor was covered with a gorgeous Turkey carpet, so thick and soft that footsteps made no sound upon it, while the brilliant figures of tropical flowers profusely studding it gave the impression of eternal summer. Desks abundantly supplied with writing materials, tables loaded with the latest newspapers and periodicals in all the languages of Europe, luxurious sofas and inviting fauteuils allured those succored by the Countess of Monte-Cristo and her vigilant aids. On every side the library was surrounded with book-cases, containing absorbing romances, volumes of travel, the productions of the celebrated poets, histories and essays, with a liberal sprinkling of religious works, mostly non-sectarian and invariably of a consolatory character. In addition elegantly and thoroughly equipped work-rooms were provided, in which those who were so inclined could practice embroidery, sew or manufacture the thousand and one little fancy knick-knacks at which female fingers are so skilful. Nothing, however, was compulsory, the main object being to afford the inmates of the Refuge agreeable occupation, to elevate them and to prevent them from looking back regretfully to the agitated lives they had led and the vices that had held empire over them in the past. Truly a more generous, unselfish lover of her sex than the noble Countess of Monte-Cristo did not exist.

The protégées of the Sisters of the Order of Refuge embraced women of all ages, all nationalities and all conditions in life. They included Parisian grisettes and lorettes, recruited by Nini Moustache in her coquettish apartment of the Chaussée d' Antin, for Nini had proved a most effective missionary; young girls, who had fallen a prey to designing roués and been abandoned to the whirl of that gulf of destruction, the streets of Paris; Spanish senoritas, who had listened too credulously to the false vows of faithless lovers; Italian peasant girls, whose pretty faces and charms of person had been their ruin; unfortunate German, English, Dutch and Scandinavian maidens; and even brands snatched from the burning in Russia, Turkey and Greece. This somewhat diverse community dwelt together in perfect sisterly accord, chastened by their individual misfortunes, encouraged and upheld in the path of reform by the Countess of Monte-Cristo, who was to all the unfortunates as a tender, thoughtful and considerate mother.

One quiet night, just as darkness had settled down over the streets of Civita Vecchia, a timid knock at the entrance door of the Refuge aroused the portress on duty there. Such knocks were often heard and well understood. The portress arose from her bench, partly opened the door and admitted a trembling young girl, whose crouching and shrunken form was clad in a mass of tattered rags. A thin red cloak was thrown over her shoulders, and her pale, emaciated face spoke plainly of poverty, hardship and suffering. Even Giovanni Massetti would have with difficulty recognized in this wretched outcast the once shapely and beautiful flower-girl of the Piazza del Popolo, for the applicant at the Refuge door was no other than the ill-fated Annunziata Solara. Her beauty had faded away like a summer dream, vanished as the perfume from a withered hyacinth. She stood before the portress silently, with clasped hands, the incarnation of misery, distress and desertion.

"What do you require, my poor child?" asked the portress, tenderly and sympathetically.

"Shelter, only shelter!" replied the girl, beseechingly, in a hollow, broken voice, the ghost of her former full and joyous tones.

"The Superior must decide upon your case," said the portress. "You shall go to her at once."

The woman touched a bell, directing the Sister of the Order of Refuge who answered it to conduct the applicant to the apartment of Madame de Rancogne. The trembling Annunziata was led through a long corridor and ushered into a small, but cosy office in which sat an elderly lady of commanding and aristocratic presence, whose head was covered with curls of silver hair, and whose still handsome countenance wore an expressive look in which compassion and benevolence predominated. This lady was the celebrated Madame Helena de Rancogne, whose adventures and exploits as the Countess of Monte-Cristo had in the past electrified every European nation. She arose as Annunziata entered, welcoming her with a cordial, comforting smile.

"Sit down, my child," she said, in a rich, melodious voice. "You are fatigued. Are you also hungry?"

Annunziata sank into the chair offered her, covering her face with her thin hands.

"Alas! signora," she replied, faintly, "I have walked many weary miles and have not tasted a morsel of food since dawn!"

"Take the poor child to the refectory," said the Countess to the Sister, who had remained standing near the door. "After her hunger has been appeased, I will see her again and question her."

Half an hour later, Annunziata, refreshed and strengthened by her meal, once more sat in the office with the Countess of Monte-Cristo.

"My child," said the latter, "what is your name?"

"Annunziata Solara."

"You have applied for shelter here the portress informs me. Do you know that this is an asylum for the fallen of your sex?"

"I know it, signora; that is the reason I came."

"Have you repented of your sin and do you desire to lead a better life?"

"I have repented bitterly," answered the girl, bursting into a flood of tears, "oh! how bitterly God alone knows! I wish to hide myself from the world; I wish to atone for my shame by whatever good action my hands can find to do."

"It is well," said the Countess, her eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. "The field is wide, and the Order of Sisters of Refuge, although large, is always open for new additions. Much good has already been done, but more remains to be accomplished, infinitely more. You shall be received and given an opportunity to share in the great work."

"From the depths of my soul I thank you!" sobbed the girl. "I will try earnestly to be worthy of your benevolence!"

"Tell me your story now," said the Superior. "I cannot believe that the guilt was altogether yours."

"I am grateful, signora, for those words. I was thoughtless and indiscreet, but not criminal. Happy and contented in my humble peasant home, I was pure and innocent. I knew nothing of the wickedness of men, of the snares set to entrap unwary young girls. I lived with my father and brother in the vicinity of Rome, selling flowers in that city from time to time. I had never had a suitor, never had a lover. My heart was free, filled with the joyousness of youth. I had been told that I possessed a fair share of beauty, but that neither made me vain nor inclined me to coquetry. Oh! signora, I shall never be so happy again!"

Emotion overcame her and her tears started afresh. The Countess soothed her and she continued:

"One fatal night, my brother brought two strange young men to our cabin. They appeared to be peasants like ourselves, and one of them had been wounded in a fight with a brigand. They remained with us for some days. I nursed the wounded man, who, when he grew convalescent, made love to me. I listened to his ardent declarations, submitted to his endearments. I grew to love him in my turn, and, oh! signora, I believed in him, trusted him. At that period I had nothing to reproach myself with, and Tonio, that was my admirer's name, seemed sincerity itself. One day he asked me to fly with him, but our conversation was interrupted and I gave him no answer. I was confused, I did not know what to do. That evening I received a letter from him—I found it on the table in the room I occupied, concealed beneath my work-box—telling me that everything was prepared for our flight that night, and asking me to be in readiness. I was terrified. I could not understand why he wished me to fly with him if everything was as it should be, as my father and brother would not have objected to any proper suitor for my hand on whom I had bestowed my heart. For the first time I was suspicious of Tonio, and I resolved to pay no attention to his letter. On the morrow I would see him and tell him to speak to my father and brother. Alas! that opportunity was not given me. Oh! that horrible, horrible night!"

She covered her face with her hands and shuddered. When she looked up she was ghastly pale, and her voice quivered as she resumed:

"That dreadful night, as I lay upon my bed, wrapped in slumber, I was suddenly aroused by hearing some one in my chamber. It was very dark and I could not see the intruder. I started up in terror, but a hand was placed firmly over my mouth. I was torn from my bed and borne in a man's arms from the cabin. I struggled to release myself, but in vain. My abductor appeared to possess the strength of a giant. There was no moon, but in the dim starlight I could see that the man was masked. He hastened with me into the neighboring forest. There he accidentally struck his right arm against the trunk of a tree and his hand dropped from my mouth. Instantly I uttered a loud, piercing cry, but the hand went back to its place again almost immediately, and I was unable to give vent to another sound. My cry, however, had been heard by my brother, who hastened to my assistance. He overtook my abductor in the forest, and, though unarmed, at once attacked him. The man dropped me and turned upon my brother. A fierce struggle ensued, during which the mask was struck from my abductor's face and, to my horror, I thought I recognized Tonio. Suddenly there was a report of a pistol. I had watched the conflict, unable to move. I saw my brother stagger; blood was gushing from him. I could endure no more; I fell to the ground in a swoon.

"When I recovered my senses, I was in a strange hut. Savage looking men, whom I took to be bandits, were guarding me. How long I remained in the hut I do not know, but it must have been several days. At times a masked man came to me, telling me that he was Tonio and pressing his suit upon me. I refused to listen to him, upbraiding him for tearing me from my home and wounding my brother. I told him his conduct was not that of a lover, but of a villain. I implored him, if he possessed a spark of manhood, to set me free, to send me to my father. He informed me that I was his captive and should so remain until I yielded to his wishes. I repulsed him with scorn, with the energy of desperation. Ultimately he overpowered me by sheer force, and compelled me to yield. Then I saw him no more. I wandered about the hut like one demented. My cup of sorrow was full to overflowing. I was in despair. Shame and degradation were henceforth my portion.

"After my abductor's departure, a new comer appeared among the brigands. He seemed to be their chief. He expressed pity for me, and told me that my abductor was not a peasant, but a young Roman nobleman, the Viscount Giovanni Massetti. I cared nothing for this revelation. I had no thought of vengeance; my sole desire was to hide myself from the gaze of the world, to avoid the pitiless finger of scorn. Eventually the bandit chief took me back to my home. There I found my father, learning from his lips that my brother was dead. This intelligence made my sorrow utterly unbearable. My father was moody and morose. For days at a time he did not speak to me. He appeared to have lost all paternal affection. Finally I left the cabin. I had heard of the Refuge and determined to seek its shelter. I walked to Civita Vecchia, and to-night found myself at your door. Such, signora, is my sad history. I have told you the whole truth. You see I am not altogether to blame."

As Annunziata concluded, the Countess of Monte-Cristo drew her upon her bosom.

"My poor girl," said she, in tender, pitying tones, "you have, indeed, tasted the bitterness of life and have been more sinned against than sinning. But you are my daughter now. The Sisterhood of the Order of Refuge has covered you with its protecting shield."

FOOTNOTE:

[6] For a full account of the life and career of "The Countess of Monte-Cristo," see that powerful, romantic and absorbing novel, "The Countess of Monte-Cristo," published by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia.

CHAPTER XI.

THE BEGGAR AND HIS MATES.

A year had elapsed since the events already recorded. Zuleika, having finished her studies at the convent school of the Sisterhood of the Sacred Heart, the Count of Monte-Cristo had quitted Rome and, with his family, was established in Paris in the palatial mansion, No. 27 Rue du Helder, formerly occupied by the Count de Morcerf. He was a member of the Chamber of Deputies, representing Marseilles, and was wedded to his first love, Mercédès, who had mysteriously reappeared and nursed him through a severe illness, which was immediately followed by their marriage. The revolution of 1848, which had placed M. Lamartine at the head of the Provisional Government, had put power and office within his grasp, but he had declined both, preferring to work in the wider field of universal human freedom. His eminent services during the revolution had rendered him immensely popular with the masses, and the fame of his matchless eloquence added to the vast influence he so modestly wielded. His colossal wealth, which he lavishly used to promote the great cause he championed, also tended to make him a conspicuous figure in the political and high social circles of the capital, though he strove to court retirement.

Zuleika and Espérance fairly adored their mild, kindly stepmother, who, on her side, was as devotedly attached to them as if they had been her own children. The Count noted this mutual attachment, which time only served to strengthen, and it filled his heart with joy and gratification. The family was, indeed, a happy one, and even the servants shared the general felicity.

Mlle. d' Armilly's influence over Captain Joliette great as it undoubtedly was, had been insufficient to induce that gallant and honorable young soldier to seek a rupture with the wonderful man to whom he was so vastly indebted and whom he so highly revered. This had at first caused a coldness between the revengeful prima donna and her admirer, but a reconciliation had ultimately taken place between them and they were now man and wife. Prior to their marriage Mlle. d' Armilly had acknowledged herself to be Eugénie Danglars, and thus the motive of her bitter hostility to the Count of Monte-Cristo was revealed. She had retired from the operatic stage, and had received a large sum of money, stated to be a legacy from her father, but generally believed to be a gift from the Count, intended by him in some degree to make amends to her for the sufferings she had endured by reason of his vengeance on the banker Danglars. The prima donna's brother Léon had turned out to be a woman masquerading in male attire, no other than Mlle. d' Armilly herself, Eugénie's former music-teacher, who had loaned her name to her friend when the latter started on her operatic career. These transformations had been immediately followed by another, Captain Joliette discarding his pseudonym and appearing as Albert de Morcerf. Paris had talked over and wondered at all this for a week, and then had completely forgotten it, turning its fickle attention to newer and more engrossing sensations. Albert's marriage and the legacy healed the breach between Eugénie and the Count of Monte-Cristo, and the young couple, together with the real Mlle. d' Armilly, had been added to the happy family in the mansion of the Rue du Helder.

The Viscount Giovanni Massetti had appeared in Paris. Immediately after his reckless visit to Zuleika in the convent garden and his wild interview with her there, he had gone to the Count of Monte-Cristo, avowed his love for Haydée's child and solicited her hand in marriage. He had been told to wait a year, a period he had passed he scarcely knew how, but it had been an eternity to him, an eternity fraught with restless anxiety, with alternations between ardent hope and the depths of despair. The expiration of his probation found him in the mansion of the Rue du Helder, renewing his earnest suit with the Count, who had granted him permission to win his daughter if he could. The young Italian had at once sought Zuleika, who had welcomed him as her lover and betrothed. Then a clash had suddenly arisen; Espérance had expressed his abhorrence of his sister's suitor, had given mysterious hints that had recalled the half-forgotten Roman scandal, and a separation between Giovanni and Zuleika had ensued, the former refusing to speak out and clear himself, pleading his terrible oath of silence. In the course of his vague, unsatisfactory disclosures, Espérance had unguardedly mentioned the name of Luigi Vampa, and the Count of Monte-Cristo had written to the brigand chief, requesting such information as he possessed in regard to the impenetrable mystery. Vampa's reply had been a fearful arraignment of the youthful Viscount, but Zuleika could not believe her lover the depraved and guilty wretch the brigand chief represented him to be, asserting that there was something yet unexplained, something that would effectually exculpate him could it be reached. The Count of Monte-Cristo had at first inclined to the belief that Massetti was merely the victim of circumstances, of some remarkable coincidence, but Vampa's letter scattered this belief to the winds and he demanded that the Viscount should conclusively prove his innocence. Zuleika had meanwhile banished her lover from her presence, but her heart yearned for him and defended him in spite of everything. She therefore sent him Vampa's letter, assuring him of her belief in his innocence and commanding him to prove it to her and to the world. Thereupon Giovanni had instantly quitted Paris. His sudden disappearance seemed like a flight; it caused scandal's thousand tongues to wag remorselessly; but, although he left no word for her, Zuleika knew her command had sent him to Italy to clear his name and record in her eyes; she was firmly convinced that she would see him again, that he would return to Paris rehabilitated.

Such was the general condition of affairs, as affecting the Monte-Cristo family, at the time the thread of this narrative is resumed.

It was the month of July. The heat in Paris was intense, absolutely stifling; a white glow seemed to fall from the breezeless, yellow atmosphere, scorching the very pavements; for weeks there had been no rain, not the slightest sign of a cloud in the pitiless heavens. The streets were almost deserted; even that favored thoroughfare of fashion, the Rue de la Paix, boasted of but few promenaders; the only spot in request was the Bois de Boulogne, with its magnificent trees and deliciously shaded avenues; the Champs-Elysées, throughout its entire extent, from the Place de la Concorde to the Arc de l' Étoile, was like a sun-swept desert, and its picturesque marchands de coco, with their shining mugs, snow-white aprons and tinkling bells, found only a limited demand for their liquorice water and lemon juice, while even the Théâtres de Guignol failed to arrest the rare passers.

In the vast garden of the Monte-Cristo mansion, notwithstanding its power elsewhere, the sun seemed to have been successfully defied; there the trees, shrubs and plants were not parched, but preserved all their freshness and beauty, suggesting the coolness of early spring rather than the sweltering heat of midsummer, while the parterres were brilliant with gorgeous bloom and penetrating perfumes loaded the air. Near a little gate opening upon the Rue du Helder, early one morning, Zuleika and Mlle. d' Armilly were sitting on a rustic bench beneath an ample honeysuckle-covered arbor. They had come to the garden from the breakfast-room to rest and chat after their meal. The former music-teacher was telling her companion of her stage experience and of the many adventures she had met with during her operatic career. In the midst of a most interesting recital, she suddenly paused, fixing her eyes upon the little gate, with a cry of surprise and terror. Zuleika followed the direction of her glance and gave a start as she saw, leaning against the bars of the gate, a sinister-looking man, clad in dusty, tattered garments, who was peering at her companion and herself with eyes that glittered like those of some venomous serpent. When he noticed that he was observed, the man pulled a greasy, weather-stained cap from his head, disclosing a profusion of matted, whitened locks, and, stretching a grimy hand, with hooked fingers that resembled the claws of an enormous bird, through the bars, said, in the hoarse tones peculiar to the outcasts of the streets:

"Charity, for the love of God!"

The man seemed more like a thief than a beggar. Nevertheless, Mlle. d' Armilly, who was the first to recover her self-possession, drew a few sous from her pocket and advanced to place them in his palm. As she came closer to him, the mendicant acted very strangely. Instead of taking the money, he suddenly withdrew his hand, staring at Mlle. d' Armilly with an expression of mingled terror and amazement upon his evil countenance. Then he quickly turned from the gate, thrust on his cap and started off at a rapid pace. Mlle. d' Armilly also was singularly affected; she dropped the sous, became ashy pale and would have fallen to the ground had not Zuleika sprung to her side and caught her in her arms.

"What is the matter, Louise?" cried the girl, astonished at the beggar's behavior and still more so at the effect he had produced upon her companion.

"I have seen a ghost!" replied Mlle. d' Armilly, in a startling whisper.

"A ghost?"

"Yes! Oh! let us quit the garden at once!"

"The ghost of whom?"

"I dare not say! Come, come, I cannot remain here another second! How fortunate that young Madame de Morcerf was not with us! She would have been driven mad!"

"Albert's wife? You talk wildly, Louise. What interest could she feel in that wretched outcast?"

"What interest? Do not ask me. I cannot, I must not tell you! Oh! it is terrible!"

"Will you tell Albert's wife of what you have seen?"

"No! a thousand times no! She must not even suspect that man's return from the grave! I entreat you to say nothing to her or any one else!"

"I shall be silent upon the subject; but that beggar was not a ghost; he was a most substantial reality. Something frightened him away, something, doubtless, that he saw in the street, perhaps a sergent de ville. Your recognition of him was fancied."

"It was not fancied. But we must not stay here; I would not see that face, those eyes again for worlds!"

Zuleika took her friend's arm and walked with her towards the mansion, endeavoring as they went along to reassure her, to reason her out of her fright. Her efforts, however, proved altogether futile. Mlle. d' Armilly was utterly unnerved and at once retired to her room.

Notwithstanding her willingness to believe that Mlle. d' Armilly had been deceived with regard to the identity of the beggar and, in her confusion, had confounded him with some one else, Zuleika could not altogether shake off a feeling of vague apprehension, of ill-defined terror when she thought over the singular conduct and wild agitation of the former music-teacher in the quiet and solitude of her own chamber. Why had Mlle. d' Armilly been so stricken at the sight of the mendicant? Why had she so earnestly entreated her to say nothing of what had occurred to any one, and, especially, to avoid all mention of the matter to Albert de Morcerf's wife? Mlle. d' Armilly had seen too much of the world to be frightened by a mere trifle. Was it possible that the ragged outcast had been in some way identified with young Madame de Morcerf's operatic career, that he had been her lover? The latter supposition would furnish a plausible cause for the former music-teacher's terror, as the reappearance of a lover might lead to disclosures well-calculated to seriously disturb the happiness and tranquillity of the newly-made husband and wife. Zuleika had heard that Eugénie had been much courted during the period she was on the stage, that she had numbered her ardent admirers by scores, but this man seemed too old, too forlorn, to have recently been in a position to scatter wealth at the feet of a prima donna. Besides, Mlle. d' Armilly had spoken of him as a ghost and had appeared to refer him to a period more remote. Zuleika had also heard of Mlle. Danglars' broken marriage-contract away back in the past. Could this beggar be the scoundrel who had masqueraded under the assumed title of Prince Cavalcanti and had so nearly become her husband? Perhaps; but even if he were that unscrupulous wretch, what harm could his reappearance do at this late day, now that the old story had been thoroughly sifted and almost forgotten? Albert was well aware of all the details of the Cavalcanti episode, and it was hardly likely that anything further could be exposed that would disturb either him or his wife. No, the grimy, white-haired, sinister-looking stranger could not be the quondam Prince; he was some one else, some one more to be feared. But who was he, if not the miserable son of Villefort? Zuleika was more perplexed and disturbed than she was willing to admit, even to herself. If she could only speak with the Count of Monte-Cristo, tell him all, some explanation of the mystery might, doubtless, be obtained, an explanation that would, at least, calm her vague fears; but that was impossible; her promise to Mlle. d' Armilly to be silent sealed her lips as effectually with her father as with young Madame de Morcerf. Whatever might be her fears, she would have to bear them alone, or, at the best, share them with Mlle. d' Armilly, who, evidently, would give her no further satisfaction.

Meanwhile the man who had caused all this trouble after having almost run quite a distance along the Rue du Helder, utterly oblivious of the attention he drew to himself from the rare passers, turned into the Rue Taitbout, thence reached the Rue de Provence and finally found himself in the Cité d' Antin. There he made his way into a small drinking-shop or caboulot, patronized by some of the worst prowlers about that section of Paris. The room he entered was unoccupied save by a slatternly young woman, who sat behind the counter reading a greasy copy of the Gazette des Tribunaux. The man went to the counter and, throwing down the price, demanded a glass of brandy, which he swallowed at a gulp. Then he addressed the slatternly young woman, who, with her paper still in one hand, was half-smiling, half-scowling at him.

"Is Waldmann here?" he asked, with the air of a man who feels himself thoroughly at home.

"Yes," answered the young woman, resuming her seat and her reading; "he is in the back room, playing piquet with Peppino, Beppo and Siebecker."

"Good!" said the man. "I am in luck. I scarcely expected to find them all in at this hour."

With this he opened a glazed door, and, stepping into the back room, closed it behind him. The players, who were seated at a table, with mugs of beer beside them, glanced up quickly from their game as he came in, and one of them, a heavy-framed, beetle-browed German, called out to him, speaking French:

"How now, Bouche-de-Miel, what is the matter? You are out of breath and as pale as if you had been shadowed by an Agent de la Sureté!"

"I have not been shadowed, Waldmann," answered the beggar or Bouche-de-Miel, "but I have made a startling discovery."

The players at once put down their cards and leaned forward to hear. They were a rough, desperate-looking set; on their ill-omened and sunburnt visages thief could be read as plainly as if it were written there, and perhaps, also, the still more significant word, assassin! Two of the men were Italians, evidently the Peppino and Beppo referred to by the slatternly young woman at the counter in the outer room. Besides Waldmann there was another German. This was Siebecker. Tall, slim, with yellow hair and moustache, he had some claim to good looks; his attire was quite respectable compared to that of the rest; had he not possessed a pair of restless, demoniac eyes, he might have passed for a person of tolerably fair repute, but those glaring, tiger-like orbs betrayed his true character and stamped him as a very dangerous member of the criminal fraternity. Waldmann appeared to be the leader of the coterie. The Italians wore blue blouses, but the distinctive garment of the Parisian workman could not conceal a certain brigandish air that was second nature to them.

"Let's hear about your startling discovery, Bouche-de-Miel," said Waldmann. "Take a seat and tell us."

The beggar dropped upon a wooden chest, saying, in a tone of deep dejection, as he did so:

"Much as I long to take a hand in to-night's little job, I'm afraid you'll have to let me off!"

"Stuff!" cried Waldmann. "You are afraid of meeting that terrible fellow, the Count of Monte-Cristo! But the startling discovery—out with it, man!"

"Yes; the discovery, the discovery!" demanded the others, impatiently.

"Well," said Bouche-de-Miel, "I went to the Rue du Helder this morning, as agreed upon, and made a survey of Monte-Cristo's mansion. Nothing easier than to get in, as no watch is kept at night, and the Count is not in the least suspicious although he has millions of francs in his safe, to say not a word of jewels and other valuables. As I was about leaving the premises, I stopped at a little gate giving access to the garden from the street, having noticed that the key had been carelessly left in the lock on the outside. I was leaning against the gate, taking a wax impression of this key, which would assure us entrance without trouble, when, happening to glance through the grating into the garden, I saw two women; they had noticed me and seemed greatly frightened. Instantly I thrust my hand through the bars and asked for charity. One of the women summoned up sufficient courage to arise and approach me; she was about to give me some money, when suddenly she recognized me in spite of all the changes in my appearance. I also recognized her and hastened away as rapidly as I could."

"Well, what of all this?" said Waldmann, calmly. "It amounts to nothing whatever."

"It amounts to so much that I cannot go with you to Monte-Cristo's house and run the risk of meeting that woman!"

Waldmann gave vent to a loud laugh; the others smiled.

"I never before heard of a Frenchman who was afraid to meet a woman!" said Siebecker, much amused.

"I tell you I cannot go; you must let me off," said Bouche-de-Miel, obstinately.

"What!" cried Peppino. "Do you allow a woman to stand between you and your vengeance against the Count of Monte-Cristo? Remember Luigi Vampa's bill of fare!"

Bouche-de-Miel glared at the Italian savagely.

"There is no need for me to remember it," returned he, bitterly. "I have never forgotten it. Neither have I forgotten your share in that infamous business!" he added, between his teeth.

"It was my duty to do as I was bidden!" retorted Peppino.

"I will have my revenge on you yet!" muttered Bouche-de-Miel, menacingly.

"We shall see!" answered the Italian, defiantly.

Waldmann interposed and said, sternly:

"No quarreling! We are brothers and are united for mutual gain. Bouche-de-Miel, you must go with us to-night. I order you to go and will take no excuse! Besides, if, as Peppino says, you have vengeance to gratify against the Count of Monte-Cristo, the opportunity is too precious for you to neglect it! At any rate, go you shall! Where is the wax impression of the key?"

Bouche-de-Miel handed the German a small package which, he took from his pocket. Waldmann gave it to Siebecker, directing him to fashion a key in accordance with it. In the meantime the beggar had been thinking. His face showed that a fierce struggle was taking place in his mind, a struggle between fear and a burning desire for revenge. The latter ultimately triumphed, and the beggar, rising from the chest, went to the table, bringing his fist down upon it with a resounding blow.

"I will accompany you, mates!" he said, with wildly flashing eyes and in an excited voice. "Monte-Cristo robbed me, ruined me and drove me into the world a penniless vagrant! I will have my revenge!"

"Spoken like a hero!" said Waldmann, enthusiastically. "We will meet at the little gate on the Rue du Helder at midnight. Siebecker will give you the key, Bouche-de-Miel, and you will open the gate. You need not fear recognition, even if you should meet the woman you have spoken of face to face, for you will be masked like the rest of us. If you are anxious about her safety, I will tell you now that we only want Monte-Cristo's millions; we do not mean murder."

"But what if murder should be necessary, if it cannot be avoided?"

Waldmann shrugged his shoulders.

"Then we must protect ourselves," he answered, phlegmatically.

Thereupon the coterie of miscreants separated, to pass away the hours as best they might, until the time for the brilliant stroke they meditated arrived.

CHAPTER XII.

FATHER AND DAUGHTER.

The Count of Monte-Cristo was in his study, pacing to and fro; he was plunged in thought, and an expression indicative of deep concern was upon his pale, but resolute countenance. Ever and anon he would pause in front of a small table on which was a telegraphic outfit for the sending and receiving of messages, listening with close attention to the sounds given forth, for, although sound reading was not much practiced by the telegraphers of that period, Monte-Cristo, who seemed to have all the accomplishments of his own age and those of ages to come, was a proficient at it, as well as a remarkably rapid and correct operator.

It was nearly midnight. The entire family in the mansion of the Rue du Helder had retired to rest, with the exception of its head, who had remained up in response to a summons from Berlin to be ready to receive the details of a secret meeting of a vast society of Prussian patriots, which would be sent to him in cipher by one of his most enthusiastic and active agents for the promotion of the cause of universal human liberty. The intense heat that had prevailed all day had been but slightly moderated by the advent of a close, sultry night; there was not the faintest breeze in the heavy, oppressive air, and the blue sky, full of stars and flooded with brilliant moonlight, was without a cloud. The silvery brightness poured in through the open windows of the study, so illuminating the apartment that the Count had extinguished his lamp. Fantastic shadows were projected on the floor by the book-cases and various articles of furniture, looking like gigantic and dwarfed shapes of demons and elfs and lending the scene a weird, supernatural aspect. Monte-Cristo walked amid these distorted shadows like some master magician communing with the dark, mysterious spirits that received his commands in silence and then vanished to execute them without question or debate.

The Count's thoughts were of a sombre nature; he was pondering over the problem of French freedom, wondering how long the volatile, changeful nation with which he had cast his lot would retain the liberty acquired by the revolution that had overturned Louis Philippe's throne and given the people power. He distrusted the events of the near future. Already the Bonapartists were active and Louis Napoleon was looming up as a formidable figure. The nephew of the great conqueror of Europe professed republican sentiments, but Monte-Cristo doubted his sincerity as well as his ability to govern the restless population of Paris. He foresaw imitation of the famous Emperor; his prophetic eye pierced through Louis Napoleon's presidential aspirations and saw beyond them a second Empire not less brilliant but not more substantial than the first. The policy of the Bonapartes was to dazzle the masses, the men of the barricades, by a show of grandeur and amuse rather than force them into submission. The Count had held aloof from Louis Napoleon, had even opposed him to the full extent of his mighty influence; he had done so not from any personal considerations, but for the good of the entire French people, for the preservation intact of the fabric of freedom, the fruit of the revolution of 1848.

Meanwhile, as these thoughts coursed through Monte-Cristo's active brain, the telegraphic instrument went ticking steadily on, but the information he expected was not conveyed. News flashed to him from every centre of political agitation save Berlin; there an obstinate, ominous silence prevailed. Several times he sought to open communication with his confederate in the Prussian capital, but his signals were unanswered. At last he paused wearily in his walk, throwing himself in a huge arm-chair; fatigue weighed upon his eyelids and he speedily sank into an uneasy, broken sleep, from which he started at intervals, disturbed by some vague, disquieting dream. Ever and anon, as he dozed, that smile that made him so handsome would steal over his manly countenance, bringing out into bold relief all his wonderful nobility and benevolence of expression.

As midnight struck in every clock-tower in Paris, the usual solitude of the Rue du Helder at that dead hour was broken by the appearance of a sinister figure at the little gate of Monte-Cristo's garden. This figure was almost instantly followed by another hardly less forbidding. Both wore masks and moved as stealthily as cats. The second figure addressed the first, speaking in a cautious whisper:

"Bouche-de-Miel, is that you?"

"Yes. Siebecker, have you the key?" muttered the other, scarcely above his breath.

"Here it is, old man. Now to work. The others will be on hand in a moment. Open the gate and let us get in."

Bouche-de-Miel took the key, which was covered with oil to prevent grating, and inserted it in the lock. It fitted to a charm and turned noiselessly. Bouche-de-Miel gave the gate a gentle push; it yielded, swinging open without a sound. The two men passed inside, partially closing it after them. The moonlight fell upon the seat that Zuleika and Mlle. d' Armilly had occupied beneath the honey-suckle-covered arbor that morning; Bouche-de-Miel gave a sudden start as he glanced at it, half-repenting of having yielded to Waldmann's command under the impulse of his hatred for Monte-Cristo and his desire for revenge; he trembled violently in spite of all his efforts to maintain composure and his face became one mass of sweat beneath his protecting mask. Siebecker noticed his agitation and gave vent to a smothered curse.

"Sacré nom d' un chien!" he muttered, between his teeth, "if you go on like that, old man, it would have been better had Waldmann let you off. You can't do this job with an unsteady hand. Brace up, brace up, Bouche-de-Miel! What's that?"

There was a slight noise at the gate. Grasping his tremulous companion by the arm, Siebecker hurriedly drew him behind a clump of small chestnut trees. No sooner were they hidden than three masked men cautiously opened the gate and came on tip-toe into the garden. Waldmann, Peppino and Beppo had arrived and were ready to do their share of the nefarious work. Siebecker and Bouche-de-Miel silently emerged from their hiding-place and joined them.

Waldmann glanced about him, evidently satisfied.

"So far so good," said he, in an undertone. "We are all here on time. Do not let us waste an instant. Have you steadied your nerves with plenty of brandy, Bouche-de-Miel?"

"I'm all right," replied the latter, doggedly, though there was a perceptible quiver in his voice as he spoke.

"He has just had another fit of fear," said Siebecker, disdainfully. "I think we would do well to leave him with Peppino and Beppo to keep watch in the garden! It won't be safe to take him with us into the house, Waldmann!"

The leader went up to Bouche-de-Miel and gave him a rough shake.

"You are a coward!" said he, savagely. "That woman story you told us was all bosh. You are afraid of meeting Monte-Cristo, as I saw very plainly this morning!"

This taunt stung Bouche-de-Miel to the quick and restored to him all his courage. He faced Waldmann unflinchingly and retorted:

"I am no coward and I am not afraid of Monte-Cristo!"

"Then what is the matter with, you?"

"That is my business, but it shan't damage this night's work. I will go with you to the house and do my part as well as you or Siebecker. You said not to waste an instant. What are you waiting for? Go on!"

"Do you swear to stand by us to the last whatever happens?"

"I swear it!"

"I will trust you."

"And you will have no reason to repent of your trust. If I meet Monte-Cristo I will kill him as I would a mongrel cur! Does that satisfy you?"

"How about your mysterious woman?"

Bouche-de-Miel could not repress a start, but he clenched his fists firmly and replied, with an effort:

"Never mind her! She must take care of herself!"

"Who is she?"

"Never mind her, I say! If harm comes to her it will be her own fault!"

Waldmann appeared reassured; nevertheless he whispered in Bouche-de-Miel's ear with a terrible earnestness that plainly showed he meant what he said:

"I told you I would trust you, and I will. But if you weaken, if you seek to act the traitor to save that woman, I will blow your brains out where you stand!"

Bouche-de-Miel shrugged his shoulders.

"If I weaken, if I seek to betray you, shoot me on the spot! I give you leave! But if you use your pistol, it will be on other game than me! Let us to work!"

Leaving the two Italians on guard at the gate, Waldmann and Siebecker, with Bouche-de-Miel between them, went stealthily towards the house, walking on the grass that the sound of their footsteps might be muffled. They kept well in the shadows of the trees, reaching the rear of the mansion unobserved and without incident. Waldmann removed his shoes and the others followed his example.

"Everything is silent," he whispered. "No doubt all the members of the household, including the redoubtable Count himself, are fast asleep. We shall have an easy thing of it."

He went upon the back porch and tried the door of the servants' quarters. It had been carelessly left unlocked. He opened it and peered within. Only darkness and silence there. He beckoned to his comrades; they also came on the porch. Waldmann produced a dark lantern from under his coat; the three robbers entered Monte-Cristo's house.

"The Count's study where he keeps his money is on the second floor," whispered Bouche-de-Miel. "We can reach it by going up the servants' stairway over there."

He pointed across the small corridor in which they stood. Waldmann cautiously opened his lantern and the narrow thread of light that came from it revealed the stairway. The miscreants mounted it and, guided by Bouche-de-Miel, who seemed to be thoroughly familiar with the topography of the mansion, were soon in front of Monte-Cristo's study. The door was ajar. Bouche-de-Miel glanced in, but instantly withdrew his head, motioning Waldmann and Siebecker to look. They did so, and saw a man asleep in an arm-chair; simultaneously a sharp click in the room alarmed them; they clenched their teeth, set their lips firmly together and drew their pistols. The sharp click was repeated, followed in rapid succession by several others. It was the telegraphic instrument—the news from Berlin had come!

Instantly the Count was wide awake. He leaped from his chair and ran to the instrument, to the clicking of which he eagerly and intently listened. The vast society of Prussian patriots had met. The delegates had been long in arriving, for, although the utmost secrecy had been used, the royal police had got wind of their presence in the capital and of the proposed assemblage. Still, it was hoped that the meeting would not be disturbed, as the rendezvous was in a secluded locality, of which, it was thought, the authorities were not suspicious. Scarcely, however, had the president taken his seat when the police poured in through every door and window. All the patriots were arrested, save Monte-Cristo's confederate, who by a lucky chance succeeded in deceiving the myrmidons of the law.

The Count's brow clouded as he heard this startling intelligence ticked off by the telegraphic instrument. He put his hand to his forehead at the conclusion of the ominous message and staggered like a drunken man back to his arm-chair, into which he sank. As he did so, Waldmann, Siebecker and Bouche-de-Miel, who immediately rushed forward, seized him and held him there with the strength of iron. Waldmann slipped a gag into his mouth and Siebecker bound him firmly to the chair with a stout cord he took from his pocket. The binding accomplished, the robbers quitted their hold of the Count and turned in search of the plunder they had come for—the millions of Monte-Cristo!

Suddenly there was a loud cry. It came from Bouche-de-Miel. The others turned and looked at him, their pistols in their hands. He was staring at a white-robed woman, who stood like a ghost in the open doorway of the study. At that juncture another door opened and Ali, the faithful Nubian, followed by all the valets of the household, sprang into the room, falling upon the bewildered scoundrels ere they had recovered from their surprise. There was a brief struggle, but the servants were unarmed, and the robbers, disengaging themselves from the clutches of their adversaries, kept them at bay with their pistols and slowly backed from the apartment. In the conflict, however, Bouche-de-Miel's mask was torn from his face, and his countenance was no sooner visible than the white-robed woman ran towards him with outstretched arms, breathlessly exclaiming:

"My father! my father!"

Bouche-de-Miel motioned her from him; then he moved as if to approach her, urged on by a feeling he was altogether unable to master; but Waldmann, still keeping his pistol pointed at Ali and his companions, seized him by the arm with a grip of iron and drew him away. The foiled robbers succeeded in making their escape from the house, and the garden.

The Count of Monte-Cristo had been unbound and ungagged by Ali when the robbers had left the study. Alarmed by the unwonted noise and commotion, Captain de Morcerf, Zuleika and Mlle. d' Armilly had appeared upon the scene, but too late to witness the conflict with the miscreants. In a few words the Count explained to them what had happened. Zuleika glanced at Mlle. d' Armilly as if she suspected that the strange beggar of that morning had something to do with this midnight invasion of their home; Louise looked uneasy and agitated, but preserved a stony silence.

The white-robed woman still stood as if stupefied. Mlle. d' Armilly went to her and asked, solicitously:

"Eugénie, what is the matter?"

This question aroused young Madame de Morcerf, for it was she, from her stupor. She threw herself into a chair and covered her face with her hands, moaning piteously:

"Oh! Louise! Louise! I have seen my father! He was one of the robbers! It is terrible, terrible!"

Captain de Morcerf, who had gone to his wife's side and tenderly taken her hand, gazed inquiringly at the Count.

"I saw the man she speaks of perfectly," said Monte-Cristo, in reply to his look, "and he was certainly the Baron Danglars!"

CHAPTER XIII.

MORCERF'S ADVENTURE.

The Count of Monte-Cristo took no steps to have the miscreants who had invaded the sanctity of his home tracked and apprehended; he did not even instruct the Commissary of Police of the quarter in regard to what had happened. He was entirely satisfied that the sole aim of the wretches had been robbery, and, as that aim had been defeated, he did not desire to court further publicity by putting the matter in the hands of the authorities. One thing, however, gave the Count considerable uneasiness, namely, the fact that Danglars had been one of the robbers. He did not doubt that the former banker, whom he had financially wrecked and forced to fly ignominiously from Paris in the past in pursuit of his scheme of wholesale vengeance against the enemies of his youth, had planned the robbery in order to gratify his burning thirst for revenge; he also felt equally certain that Danglars meant further mischief, if he could accomplish it, and that his presence in the city would be a constant menace to his tranquillity and prosperity, nay, even to his domestic happiness; but his feelings had undergone a radical change since the old days of restless, inexorable retribution, and he now pitied the man he had so ruthlessly overthrown as much as he had formerly hated him. Danglars had fallen very low, indeed, to be the companion and accomplice of midnight marauders, and the Count's very soul ached as he thought to what depths of poverty and ignominy he had been the means of reducing him. He would have sought him out amid the dangerous criminal population of Paris, traced him to his den of depravity and wretchedness, and offered him money and the means of social rehabilitation had there been the slightest reason to hope that he could thereby rescue the miserable man from the slough of iniquity into which he was plunged, but he knew too well Danglars' implacable character and deep-seated hatred against himself to attempt anything of the kind. Should he penetrate into his haunts and meet him the result could only be disastrous, for Danglars would take a fiendish delight in betraying him to his desperate associates, who would not hesitate even to murder him at his bidding, and the former banker was fully capable of compassing his assassination in the most horrible fashion as a crowning stroke of diabolical revenge. There was a time when Monte-Cristo valued life very little, when he would gladly have accepted death as a welcome avenue to endless rest and peace, but that time had passed; since then he had contracted ties that bound him to existence with insurmountable strength; he had now a family, was surrounded by beings he tenderly loved and cherished, beings for whom he must live and over whose destinies he must closely watch. He was wedded to Mercédès, who lavished upon him in her maturity all the wealth of overwhelming affection she had showered upon him before the fateful conspiracy that had consigned him as the sailor Dantès to the dark, noisome dungeon of the Château d' If and given her to the arms of Fernand, the Catalan. Haydée had fluttered over the page of his stormy, agitated history, leaving him Espérance and Zuleika as reminders of a happy, but all too brief dream, an elfin vision of enchantment that had vanished as swiftly as it had come. But his son and daughter had twined themselves about the fibres of his heart as the clinging ivy twines about the shattered fragments of some grand and imposing ruin, and each day, each moment, as it sped by, only served the more to reveal to him the longings and the devotion of a father's soul. Besides, Albert de Morcerf and his young wife Eugénie were now thoroughly endeared to him, and he felt that by doing everything in his power to augment their happiness he was gradually paying off the heavy debt he owed to Danglars' so long abandoned child. Yes, the Count of Monte-Cristo wished to live, first for his family, then for the great cause of human liberty with which he had become so thoroughly identified. If Danglars came in his way he would endeavor to reclaim and propitiate him, but he could not seek him out.

Mercédès at the period of the attempted robbery was absent on a visit to some friends in Marseilles, and by common consent it was resolved not to inform her of Danglars' reappearance, as the intelligence could not fail to be a prostrating shock to her.

Ever since that memorable midnight scene in Monte-Cristo's study young Madame de Morcerf had acted like one overwhelmed. She said nothing, even to her husband or Louise d' Armilly, concerning her wretched father, but it was plain that intense grief and shame were preying upon her. This greatly distressed Albert and, seeing his beloved wife droop day by day, he, without saying a word to any one, formed a startling and perilous resolution. He determined to find Danglars' abode, to see his father-in-law and endeavor to persuade him to relinquish his career of crime. In this he was actuated by two powerful motives—the desire to relieve Eugénie's distress and suspense and the wish to avoid the scandal that would be sure to come should the former banker be caught red-handed in the commission of some fearful crime and a legal investigation reveal his identity.

Zuleika studiously avoided referring to the attempted robbery and the recognition of Danglars by her father and Eugénie. She was aware of the part Monte-Cristo had played in his enemy's fall and disgrace, and did not deem it prudent to awaken the bitter recollections of the lurid and dreadful past.

Mlle. d' Armilly also said nothing in reference to the reappearance of Danglars, but it was very clear to the observant Zuleika that she expected and dreaded further harm from Monte-Cristo's revengeful enemy. At night she locked herself in her chamber, and, notwithstanding the almost unbearable heat of the weather, securely closed and fastened all her windows.

The Count himself was as reserved as ever, never once mentioning either the midnight invasion of his mansion or the unexpected advent of his most deadly foe. To everybody in the household he seemed either to have forgotten or to have succeeded in dismissing from his mind those events so fraught with excitement and possibilities of future disaster. But Monte-Cristo, though he preserved an impassible exterior, had neither forgotten nor dismissed them. He had simply applied to himself his own famous maxim, "Wait and Hope." He was waiting and hoping for the best, for God in His inscrutable wisdom to bring mysterious good out of apparent evil.

Meanwhile Captain de Morcerf had been busily engaged in making thorough but cautious investigations. He had formed the acquaintance of a former Agent de la Sureté, who had been of great use to him in describing the various outlaws and prowlers of Paris, and in pointing out to him their secret dens and the secluded places of rendezvous where they met, drank vile liquors, and, under the maddening influence of absinthe and alcohol, plotted their crimes and atrocities of every description. This man, another Quasimodo in point of hideous aspect, had been dismissed from the detective service because of his inability to keep sober, but he had not forgotten the resources of his profession, and money lavishly bestowed upon him made him Captain de Morcerf's most obedient and faithful slave. Cash in hand rendered him indefatigable and the prospect of obtaining more kept him discreet. He had taught his employer the art of effectually disguising himself, of passing for a veritable zigue, and, as he was well-known to the desperadoes he had formerly shadowed and was welcomed by them as a sterling good fellow, he was enabled to take the Captain with impunity among scoundrels who would not have hesitated to cut his throat had they known who he was.

As Albert did not know what name Danglars had assumed and was unwilling to give the ex-detective his true cognomen, the latter had nothing to guide him in this respect. Neither was the Captain cognizant of the changes that time and his mode of life had wrought in the former banker's personal appearance, so he could only describe him as he had looked in the years gone by. This afforded Mange, such was the name of the dismissed policeman, no indication whatever by which he could profit. He, nevertheless, was not disconcerted by the paucity of information. He knew that young Morcerf was searching for a man who had been one of the party engaged in the attempt to rob the Monte-Cristo mansion on the Rue du Helder, and that knowledge was sufficient for him. He very soon discovered that Waldmann, Siebecker, Bouche-de-Miel and two Italians had formed that party, and Bouche-de-Miel being the only Frenchman in the coterie he had no difficulty whatever in fixing upon him as the individual wanted. He imparted his discovery and conclusion to his employer, together with the intelligence that the men were in the habit of congregating in the little caboulot of the Cité d' Antin. Albert rewarded Mange liberally for his zeal and promised him a very much larger sum should Bouche-de-Miel turn out to be his man. It was immediately arranged that Mange should conduct the Captain to the caboulot that very night and, if possible, bring him face to face with the Frenchman supposed to be Danglars.

In accordance with this agreement, as soon as night had fallen, Mange was waiting for his employer at the corner of the Rue Taitbout and the Rue de Provence. He was not kept long at his post, for Albert speedily made his appearance, dressed in a blouse like a workman; his rough trousers were tucked in the tops of his dusty boots and on his head he wore a battered slouch hat that looked as if it might have seen service behind the revolutionary barricades. Mange surveyed him with a long glance of admiration; then taking him to a neighboring street lamp, he critically examined his face, which was stained to represent the bronzing effect of the sun and smeared with dirt.

"Capital!" exclaimed the ex-detective, as he finished his scrutiny. "You are a zigue out and out! Not a trace of the boulevardier to be seen! The most keen-scented vache in the caboulot would be completely deceived!"

Albert smiled at his companion's enthusiasm.

"Well, as I pass examination," he said, "let us go on at once. Do you think our man will be at the caboulot?"

"Do I think water will run down hill!" cried Mange, with a laugh that resembled nothing so much as the discordant croak of a crow. "He never misses a night, and this is the hour when the brandy begins to flow!"

Albert shuddered at this remark, suggesting as it did the certainty that he would find Eugénie's father a sot as well as a thief. He, however, took Mange's arm and together they strolled leisurely into the Cité d' Antin, making their way to the caboulot without meeting a single suspicious prowler.

They entered the front room where Bouche-de-Miel had found the slatternly young woman reading her greasy copy of the Gazette des Tribunaux on the morning preceding the attempted robbery. She was at her accustomed place behind the counter, but was not reading; eight or ten stalwart ruffians monopolized her attention and, as she furnished her thirsty customers with the various fiery beverages they demanded, she showered her most captivating glances right and left among them. She was as slatternly as ever, but her hair was shining with bear's grease and a strong odor of musk pervaded her garments; a paste diamond of enormous size but of doubtful brilliancy ornamented her breastpin and on her stumpy, grimy fingers were numerous brass rings containing dull imitations of rubies, amethysts and topazes.

As the new comers came in, Waldmann, standing in front of the counter with a bottle in one hand and a glass in the other, was chaffing her.

"See here, Beurre-Sans-Sel," he said, with a well-counterfeited air of intense admiration, "you are looking like a real beauty to-night. I will wager anything you expect a lover. I never saw you put on such style before. I declare you far outshine the demoiselles of the public balls!"

"Oh! Monsieur Waldmann, how you talk!" returned the girl, with an affected simper and an unsuccessful attempt to blush.

Just then the German looked around and caught sight of Mange, who was looking his ugliest. The spirit of mischief was strong upon him and he instantly cried out:

"I knew it; I knew you were expecting a lover and here he is promptly on time! Come now own up, my little Beurre-Sans-Sel, did you not put on all your pretty fixings for Mange?"

"For that ugly old gorilla!" exclaimed the girl, unceremoniously and disdainfully. "I can get better-looking lovers than either a monkey or a Swab, I'd have you to know, Monsieur Waldmann!"

There was a general laugh at this sally, and none laughed louder than Mange, who had a taste for coarse jokes and sharp retorts.

"So!" said Waldmann, after the merriment had subsided. Then he perceived Mange's companion for the first time. He examined him closely and suspiciously. Albert did not shrink from his scrutiny, but the ex-detective deemed it prudent to set matters right at the start by a formal introduction of his employer; he, therefore, motioned to Albert to follow him and walked up to the German, offering him his hand, which the latter shook cordially.

The Captain now stood beside Waldmann in front of the counter and Mange presented him without delay.

"Monsieur Waldmann," said he, "permit me to make you acquainted with my friend Fouquier, from Dijon, a bon zigue."

"Monsieur Fouquier," said the German, taking Albert's outstretched hand, "I am glad to know you, especially as you come so well recommended."

Mange bowed in acknowledgment of this little tribute to himself.

Morcerf replied that the pleasure was mutual.

Waldmann's suspicions seemed to be allayed.

"Take something," he said. "Here, Siebecker and Bouche-de-Miel, join us in drinking the health of Monsieur Fouquier from Dijon!"

Albert was instantly on the alert and Mange watched him attentively as the two individuals named emerged from a corner of the room and lounged up to the counter. There was another presentation, a double one this time, Waldmann doing the honors. Mange required no introduction. Everybody appeared to know him. Beurre-Sans-Sel put forth brandy and glasses, and the health of Monsieur Fouquier was drunk enthusiastically. When this ceremony ended Morcerf called for cigarettes and distributed them among the coterie; then he had leisure to examine Bouche-de-Miel; the latter had turned his back to the counter and leaned his elbows upon it; in this position, with his cigarette between his teeth, he looked the perfect picture of vagabondish idleness. Mange was still watching Morcerf, but saw no sign that he had recognized in Bouche-de-Miel the man for whom he was seeking. This made him uneasy, for it was an indication that the reward his employer had promised him would not be earned.

Presently Waldmann and Siebecker were called to another part of the room. Bouche-de-Miel remained, continuing to smoke his cigarette, with his elbows on the counter where he had placed them after the health-drinking. The Captain's thoughts were of a conflicting nature. Everything pointed to the fact that the man before him was his father-in-law, but, unlike Mlle. d' Armilly, he saw nothing in him suggestive of the Baron Danglars of other days. Could this vagabond, this wretch, be Danglars? If so, how was it to be proved to his satisfaction? How, above all, in this place, in this den of thieves and cutthroats? The man was certainly the party Eugénie had recognized on the night of the attempted burglary as her father, the party Monte-Cristo himself had so positively pronounced to be the former banker. But was it not probable that his wife and the Count had been mistaken? Was it not probable that they had been deceived by some fancied resemblance when excitement had possessed them to such a degree that it had deprived them of the full use of their mental faculties? At any rate he had come to the caboulot to experiment with Bouche-de-Miel and he would not shrink from cautiously applying the test.

Their cigarettes were now consumed. Albert, in pursuance of his scheme, invited Bouche-de-Miel and Mange to take seats at a table and have some more brandy. They accepted the invitation with alacrity, and the three were soon drinking and chatting. Repeated potations finally opened Bouche-de-Miel's lips; he began to be confidential.

"You may not believe me, messieurs," said he, "but I was not always as you see me now!"

Mange winked triumphantly at his employer. Revelations which might be important were coming. Perhaps he would yet earn the promised reward. Morcerf was listening attentively.

"No, sacré nom d' un chien, I was not always a zigue! Once I had immense wealth, I counted my money by millions! I had position, too, and I may say without egotism that I was honored by the best people of Paris!"

He paused and drained another glass of brandy.

"What were you?" asked Mange.

Albert waited breathlessly for the answer to this question.

"What was I?" repeated Bouche-de-Miel. "You may laugh, but I was a banker!"

Morcerf could not avoid giving a start. The vagabond, half-drunk as he was, noticed it and asked:

"What is the matter with you, Fouquier? Do you think the lie so tremendous that you can't keep still?"

The young man was glad to accept this interpretation of his behavior; he touched his glass to his lips and said, with a forced smile:

"Well, I do think you are going it rather strong!"

"Not half strong enough, mon Dieu!" cried Bouche-de-Miel, bringing his fist down on the table with such force that the glasses were nearly knocked off. "Not half strong enough, I tell you, messieurs, for I was a Baron as well as a banker!"

Albert groaned. Mange looked at him with sparkling eyes; he was now sure that the promised money was within his reach, that his clutch would soon close on it. His enforced sobriety since he had been in the Captain's employ made him anxious for a prolonged, reckless spree, frightfully anxious, and his guarded potations since he entered the caboulot had whetted his devouring appetite for alcohol to such an extent that he could scarcely keep it in subjection with the plentiful supply of brandy on the table, almost at his very lips.

Bouche-de-Miel did not hear Morcerf's groan; his misty eyes were fixed upon space, seemed to be peering into the depths and recesses of the distant past. The Captain judged that the time had come to draw the final, the crowning admission from his lips. He touched him lightly on the arm. The man turned and glanced at him inquiringly. Morcerf's heart beat wildly; it was with great difficulty that he kept his agitation under control. He hurriedly scanned the other occupants of the room—some were very drunk and stupid, others noisy and demonstrative, but all were too busy with their own concerns and pleasures to pay even the slightest attention to the little party at the table; Waldmann and Siebecker were asleep on opposite ends of a bench in a corner. Bouche-de-Miel had meanwhile relapsed into his misty reverie. Albert touched his arm again.

"Don't bother me!" said the man, impatiently, without removing his eyes from space. "Can't you let a fellow dream!"

"Baron Danglars!" whispered Morcerf in his ear.

"Eh? What?" cried Bouche-de-Miel, coming back to reality with a start, half-sobered by hearing this name.

"Baron Danglars," repeated the Captain, in a guarded undertone, "I know you!"

The man got upon his feet lumberingly and unsteadily; he clutched Albert's shoulder convulsively.

"You are an Agent de la Sureté!" he hissed. "You have come here to arrest me!"

The attention of some of the less intoxicated ruffians was being excited by Bouche-de-Miel's behavior, but their ears had failed to seize his words amid the prevailing din. Mange, with his usual keenness and quickness, saw that something must instantly be done to quiet Albert's companion or all the miscreants who could stir would be aroused and come thronging about them to throttle the supposed Agent de la Sureté. He, therefore, gave a loud laugh and said to Bouche-de-Miel:

"Don't be a fool, old man! Monsieur Fouquier belong to la rousse! That's a good joke! ha! ha! Why he is as much in danger of the violon as you are! ha! ha!"

He arose, still laughing, and, playfully taking Bouche-de-Miel by the collar, gently forced him back into his chair. As he did so, he glanced at Beurre-Sans-Sel. The slatternly young woman had her hand on the screw of the huge lamp suspended above the counter, by which alone the room was lighted, ready to turn it out and leave the whole place in darkness at the first alarm. She was evidently accustomed to police descents and knew how to act in such cases. Mange's words and merriment, however, reassured her and she withdrew her fingers from the screw.

But Bouche-de-Miel was not altogether satisfied. He sat uneasily in his chair, facing Morcerf and anxiously scanning his countenance.

"What did you mean by calling me Baron Danglars and saying that you knew me?" he asked, in a low, somewhat tremulous voice.

Instead of replying directly to this question, the young man said, slowly and in a half-whisper:

"I am Albert de Morcerf, the husband of your daughter Eugénie!"

"What!" exclaimed Bouche-de-Miel. "Eugénie married—and to you!"

"Yes," said the Captain, "Fate has again brought us together after a long and painful separation."

"I saw Eugénie in the house of the Count of Monte-Cristo, no matter how, no matter when. What was she doing there?"

"Monte-Cristo is married to my mother, Mercédès, and we are living with him."

"Living with him—Eugénie, my daughter, living beneath the roof of the man who ruined her father and made him what he is!"

Bouche-de-Miel grew absolutely livid with rage; he was entirely sobered now and all his evil instincts had full possession of him.

"I will never forgive her—or you!" he hissed.

"Listen to me," said Albert, with comparative calmness. "I have come here to-night at the risk of my life to offer you money, the means of rehabilitation. Be advised. Leave these miscreants with whom you are associated and become a man again!"

"I reject both your offer and advice!" said Bouche-de-Miel, excitedly. "They are insults, coming as they do from the stepson of Monte-Cristo, my relentless enemy! But I will have vengeance upon you for them and through you on Edmond Dantès! Ho, Waldmann Siebecker!"

The two Germans awoke, sprang from their bench and advanced towards the table.

Mange uttered a groan of despair. He could do nothing now to avert the impending danger.

Bouche-de-Miel had leaped to his feet and grappled with Albert de Morcerf. Waldmann and Siebecker, realizing that something was wrong and at once connecting the alleged Monsieur Fouquier with it, drew long, keen-bladed knives as they rushed forward.

All the thieves and marauders who were sober enough to stand were now on their feet, ready to hurl themselves upon the suspected man. Weapons flashed in every direction—daggers, knives and pistols. Loud oaths and abusive epithets were heard on all sides; it was a perfect pandemonium, a babel of evil sounds.

Amid all the confusion and danger Mange's self-possession did not desert him. Seeing that it was useless to attempt to pacify the surging pack of desperadoes, he determined upon a bold measure, one that would enable him to save Captain de Morcerf and, at the same time, keep up his reputation with the criminal frequenters of the caboulot, with whom he desired for reasons of his own to be on good terms. He ran to the counter, where Beurre-Sans-Sel already had her hand on the screw of the hanging lamp, waiting for events to decide what action she should take. He leaned over the counter and whispered to the girl:

"Beurre-Sans-Sel, I was deceived in Monsieur Fouquier. He imposed upon me. He told me he was from Dijon. He turns out to be a Parisian and an Agent de la Sureté. He has betrayed himself. More Agents are coming! They will be here in a moment! Put off the light!"

The girl did not hesitate a second; she gave the screw a quick twist and the caboulot was instantly as dark as a tomb.

Having executed this manœuvre, Mange sprang to Albert de Morcerf's side, striking Bouche-de-Miel a crushing blow in the face that caused him to lose his grip of the young man. Then, seizing his employer in his brawny arms, he lifted him as if he had been a child and ran with him to the front door; this he opened, leaping into the street with his burden.

"Now run for your life!" he exclaimed, depositing the young man on the sidewalk.

With this he started off at a tearing pace, closely followed by Morcerf. They did not pause until they had reached the Rue de Provence, where, in the blaze of the lights, amid the throngs of honest citizens, they were safe.

CHAPTER XIV.

ZULEIKA AND MME. MORREL.

Quite a long time had elapsed since the sudden departure of the Viscount Massetti from Paris, but Zuleika was still in complete ignorance as to his whereabouts and actions. He was in Rome, of that she had not the slightest doubt. She was equally convinced that his errand there was to establish his innocence of the terrible crime imputed to him by Luigi Vampa, to obtain proofs that would clear him in the eves of her father and herself, if not of all the world. Why, therefore, did he not write, why did he not give her some sign that she would understand? His silence discouraged the young girl, filled her with uneasiness. It seemed to indicate that he had not succeeded, had not been able to wipe the stain from his record. If so she would never see him again, for Giovanni was too proud to reappear in her presence with a dishonored name, a sullied reputation. This thought was torture, and Monte-Cristo's daughter felt that should her lover desert her she could not live.

As the days rolled by without a word of intelligence from the Viscount, Zuleika's fears assumed greater consistency and weight. She grew sad, inexpressibly sad; her look lost its brightness, her voice its cheery tone and her step its elasticity. The bloom faded from her youthful cheeks, giving place to an ashen pallor. She was no longer interested in her accustomed occupations and amusements, and would sit for hours together with her hands crossed in her lap, dominated by sorrowful and dismal forebodings.

Mercédès noticed her condition, and, ascribing it to its proper cause, strove in a motherly way to rouse and console her, but without effect. She spoke to the Count about it, begging him to use his influence to cheer his child, but Monte-Cristo only shook his head, saying that they must trust to the soothing power of time which could not fail ultimately to do its work. Espérance pitied his sister sincerely, but refrained from interfering, well knowing that nothing he could say would be productive of good. Albert de Morcerf, his wife and Mlle. d' Armilly, who had learned of Zuleika's love affair and the dark shadow that had fallen upon it, felt a delicacy about alluding to the matter and, therefore, held aloof; besides, they were too much depressed by the circumstances under which Danglars had reappeared to be able to exert a cheering influence.

When Mercédès returned from Marseilles she was accompanied by Maximilian and Valentine Morrel, who immediately went to the mansion on the Rue du Helder and paid their respects to the Count of Monte-Cristo, their benefactor. It was their intention to make only a brief call, taking up their residence during their sojourn in Paris at that famous stopping-place for strangers, the Grand Hôtel du Louvre on the Rue de Rivoli adjoining the Palais Royal, but Monte-Cristo would not hear of such a thing, insisting that the young soldier and his wife should be his guests and partake of his hospitality. They were not reluctant to consent to this agreeable arrangement, as it would enable them to enjoy uninterruptedly the society of their dearest friends.

Mme. Morrel at once took a deep interest in Zuleika. She saw that some sorrow was heavily weighing on the young girl, and, rightly divining that the tender passion had much to do with it, immediately endeavored to inspire her with a degree of confidence sufficient to bring about revelations. In this Mme. Morrel was not actuated by curiosity. Her motive was altogether laudable; she desired to serve the Count of Monte-Cristo, to do something to show her gratitude for the overwhelming benefits he had in the past showered upon her husband and herself, and could conceive no better or more effectual way than by striving to relieve Zuleika. She, therefore, promptly set about her praiseworthy but difficult task, resolved to bring back the roses to the young girl's cheeks and restore hope to her sad and dejected heart.

She began by using every womanly art to induce Zuleika to love her and look upon her as a friend of friends. In this initial step she succeeded even beyond her most ardent anticipations. From the first Monte-Cristo's daughter was attracted towards her, and it required very little effort on Mme. Morrel's part to win her completely. Valentine's disposition was so sweet and her sympathy so sincere that Zuleika could not help loving her; besides, the romantic story of her love for Maximilian and the terrible trials she had undergone before being united to him through Monte-Cristo's potent influence, with which she was thoroughly acquainted, predisposed Giovanni's betrothed to regard her as a woman to whom she could open her heart and from whom she might derive supreme solace, if not consolation. Valentine's quick and penetrating eyes read the young girl like the pages of an open book, and she was not slow in utilizing the advantages she acquired.

Things had been going on in this way for several days, when one evening Mme. Morrel proposed a promenade in the garden to Zuleika with a view of bringing matters to a crisis. She gladly acquiesced in the proposition and soon they were strolling in the moonlight amid the fragrant flowers and centenarian trees. It was a sultry night, but there was a pleasant breeze that agreeably fanned the cheeks of Valentine and her youthful companion. Mme. Morrel had matured her plan, but Zuleika herself unexpectedly came to her aid, assisting her to put it into immediate and practical execution.

After walking for a short space, they seated themselves in a magnificent pavilion or summer-house situated at the extremity of the garden. It was built of white stone, the walls being perforated by several tall archways that supplied the place of both windows and doors. Ivy and other clustering vines clambered about the exterior, creeping through the archways and furnishing the ceiling with a verdant canopy exceedingly inviting and refreshing to the eye weary of contemplating the dust and dryness of the streets parched by the summer sun. Without were several great silver maple trees and numerous ornamental shrubs. Mme. Morrel drew close to Zuleika on the rustic bench they occupied and, taking the young girl's hand, said to her, in a soft voice:

"This is a delicious spot, my child."

"Yes," replied Monte-Cristo's daughter, "it is, indeed, delicious. When here, I always feel as if I could pour out my whole heart into the bosom of some faithful friend."

"Do so in this instance, my dear," said Mme. Morrel, persuasively. "I trust I am a faithful friend, as well as a discreet one."

"I believe you," rejoined Zuleika. "Ever since you have been in our house I have felt so and longed to make you my confidante, but I have hesitated to take such a step, fearing to burden you with troubles that might distress you."

"Have no further fears on that score then, but speak freely and with the certainty that in your sorrows, whatever they may be, you will find me a sincere sympathizer and comforter."

Zuleika took Valentine's hand, and, gazing into her face with tearful eyes, said:

"You have noticed that I had sorrows, Mme. Morrel?"

"Yes; how could I help it? But I have done more; I have divined their cause!"

Zuleika gave a slight start.

"Divined their cause, Mme. Morrel?"

"Yes," answered Valentine. "You are in love!"

The young girl blushed, but appeared relieved. Mme. Morrel had divined her love, had divined that her sorrows arose from it, but she had not divined the nature of the shadow that clouded her budding life and filled her with grief and apprehension.

"Zuleika," continued Valentine, with the utmost tenderness and consideration, "I, too, have loved, deeply and desperately; I, too, have felt all the bitter pangs that arise from separation; but I have realized my dream at last, and the shadows that surrounded me have been swept away by the blessed sunshine of union and happiness. Confide in me, my child. If I cannot drive your shadows from you, I can at least give you true sympathy and the consolation that it affords."

"They will be welcome to me, unspeakably welcome, madame," replied Zuleika, tremulously.

"Then tell me all."

"I cannot, madame; I have no right to; but I can tell you enough to wring your heart, to show you how unfortunate I am."

"My poor girl, I understand and appreciate your scruples. You do not wish to compromise your lover, and you are right. Your decision does you honor. Is the man you love in Paris?"

"Alas! no. I believe he is in Rome."

"Then you do not know his whereabouts with certainty?"

"No, madame."

"Does your father disapprove of his suit?"

"He did not at the outset, but very painful circumstances have since arisen, causing him to alter his determination, or, at least, hold his consent in abeyance. Still, I think, he believes Giovanni can and will refute the dreadful charge that has been made against him."

"Giovanni? Your lover is then an Italian?"

"Yes, the Viscount Giovanni Massetti."

"You became acquainted with him here in Paris?"

"No, madame; in Rome."

"And you think he has gone thither to clear himself of the charge you mention?"

"Yes, madame. He came to Paris to solicit my hand, but suddenly disappeared after the terrible charge was made. I have not heard from him since and his silence weighs upon me like lead."

"I do not wonder at it; but, perhaps, after all, he is only waiting for a complete vindication and does not wish to write until he has everything satisfactorily arranged. I do not ask you the nature of the charge, Zuleika, and would not allow you to state it to me even if you were so disposed. But answer me one question. You have entire faith in Giovanni's innocence, have you not?"

"I have, madame."

"You are sure he loves you, that he has not trifled with your affections?"

"I am sure, madame."

"He is young, is he not?"

"Yes, madame, he is young."

"Doubtlessly his fault, whatever it may have been, was simply an indiscretion due to his years that has been magnified and made to assume unwarranted proportions by the tongues of envy and scandal. If so, he will repair it and return to you. If he is altogether innocent, as you feel convinced, he will move heaven and earth to justify himself in your father's eyes and yours. Love is potent, Zuleika, and will accomplish miracles. Trust Giovanni and trust Heaven! All will yet be made right between your lover and yourself!"

"Would that I could feel so, madame, but I cannot!"

"And why, pray?"

"Because Giovanni evidently has powerful enemies in Rome and its vicinity who, no doubt, are at this moment operating against him and using all their efforts to prevent him from succeeding in his mission."

"What makes you think he has such remorseless enemies?"

"A letter my father received from Rome in response to inquiries he made and the illusion—it must be an illusion—under which my brother Espérance labors in regard to Giovanni."

"Your brother Espérance! Then he believes in young Massetti's guilt?"

"Alas! yes; he firmly believes in it and stigmatizes the Viscount as the worst of scoundrels."

"Has he given you the reasons for his belief, has he stated them to your father?"

"He has dealt only in vague, mysterious allusions; an oath of silence, it appears, prevents him from speaking out."

"An oath of silence?"

"Yes, and Giovanni is also likewise bound."

"Indeed! What is your lover's reputation in Rome?"

"Of the very best; he is there regarded as the soul of honor."

"Save by his enemies. So far so good. Do you know the standing of his family?"

"It is one of the oldest, most respected, most aristocratic and wealthiest in the Eternal City."

"Another strong point in the young man's favor. Zuleika, I am satisfied that the mystery surrounding your lover can be cleared away; but I am also satisfied that he needs assistance, the assistance of persons deeply interested in you, who have your welfare at heart and cherish your happiness as their own."

"But such persons cannot be found, madame. Of course my father and brother are deeply interested in me, have my welfare at heart and desire to see me happy. They, however, are not disposed to aid Giovanni, my brother for reasons of his own and my father because he thinks that the Viscount should work his own rehabilitation. No, madame, such persons as you mention cannot be found."

"They can be found, Zuleika, and you will not have far to look for them either!"

Mme. Morrel gazed at Monte-Cristo's daughter with enthusiasm in her fine eyes. The girl was at a loss to understand her.

"Surely you do not mean Albert de Morcerf and Eugénie?" she said.

"No," replied Valentine. "They love you, undoubtedly, but the needful assistance is not to be obtained from them."

"Certainly you cannot allude to Mlle. d' Armilly or Ali, my father's devoted Nubian servant?"

"No, I do not allude to them!"

"Whom then do you mean?"

"Cannot you guess, Zuleika?"

A sudden thought came to Zuleika, filling her with intense amazement.

"You cannot mean yourself and your husband, Mme. Morrel?" she gasped.

"And why not, my child?" answered Valentine, sweetly. "All the assistance we can render you will be but a weak, inadequate return for what your father has done for us. He saved me from death, withdrew the suicidal pistol from Maximilian's hand, comforted us in our time of darkest despair, and finally brought us together after a separation that even M. Morrel deemed eternal, simultaneously placing in our hands wealth sufficient to make us altogether independent of the accidents and disasters of this world. Besides, before that he was the benefactor of M. Morrel's father, saving him also from suicide, suicide that he had determined upon as the only means of avoiding terrible disgrace. You see, Zuleika, that we have abundant motives for aiding you."

"Oh! madame—Valentine—you utterly overwhelm me! How can I show my gratitude to you?"

"By accepting my offer!"

These words were accompanied by a look of ineffable tenderness and sincerity. They instantly brought hope to Zuleika's heart. She burst into a flood of tears, but they were tears of joy. Still, she hesitated. What would her father say if she accepted Mme. Morrel's generous proposition?

"Do you accept, Zuleika?" pursued Mme. Morrel.

"I thank you from the depths of my soul, madame; but I cannot accept the sacrifice you and your kind, manly husband would make for me! My father would censure me, would never forgive me for adopting such a selfish course!"

"Trust your father to me, my child."

"Oh! madame! Accept your offer without consulting him?"

"There is no need to consult him, there is no need for him to know anything whatever about the matter, for the present at least. It will be time enough to tell him what we have done when success has crowned our efforts. Should we unhappily fail, a thought that I cannot for an instant entertain, there will be no occasion to tell him anything at all."

At that moment a man's voice was heard calling at a distance:

"Valentine, Valentine, where are you?"

"It is Maximilian," said Mme. Morrel to Zuleika. "He comes very opportunely!" Then raising her voice she answered him: "Here, Maximilian, here, in the summer pavilion at the extremity of the garden!"

The husband hastened to the spot, and Valentine, making him seat himself beside her and Monte-Cristo's daughter, told him all she had just learned. She also communicated to him the offer she had made to Zuleika, adding:

"You will consent to it, I know, Maximilian!"

"Gladly," answered the young soldier. "Had you not made the proposal, I should have made it myself!"

"Then we have but to induce Zuleika to authorize us to act. The poor child, however, hesitates, fearing the Count's displeasure."

"She need not authorize us," said Maximilian quickly. "We will assume the entire responsibility on the step! But it will be necessary for her to confide in us more fully, to give us the data upon which to build our plans. I will get letters of introduction to the Viscount Massetti and, once acquainted with him, the rest will be easy."

Later that night Zuleika told Mme. Morrel everything without reserve, even giving her a little note to Giovanni which stated that Valentine and Maximilian were her dearest friends and had come to Rome expressly to aid him in his troubles.

A week after the momentous interview in the pavilion M. and Mme. Morrel set out for Italy, informing their friends in the mansion on the Rue du Helder that they intended being absent some time, but refraining from giving even the slightest hint of the object of their journey.