Jane in danger and he lying there idle! No, no, that could not be! He rose from the bed, and supporting himself by the wall, got out of the house. Where was he going? He knew not. He endeavored to collect his thoughts, and suddenly a name stood out clear in his brain.

Monte-Cristo, yes it was to the hotel of Monte-Cristo that he must go.

There, at all events, he should find Fanfar, and together they would look for Jane. At first Sanselme could hardly walk, but his tread became gradually firmer. Just as he reached the Hotel de Monte-Cristo, he saw the carriage drive out of the court-yard.

A strange phenomenon now took place. Sanselme drew a long breath and began to run after the carriage--he felt no more la.s.situde nor weakness.

His entire vital strength was concentrated in his superhuman effort. And this man who just now could not hold himself erect, ran on swiftly without hesitation. With his eyes on the carriage lamps he followed them unerringly. Somnambulists and madmen alone do such things. And Sanselme ran as if he were in a dream. He saw the carriage stop at last, and he heard violent blows upon a door. And then he entered as well as the others, and appeared on the scene just as Benedetto leaped from the window.

Sanselme beheld Jane, and in that moment of agony his broken, bleeding heart loosed its grasp upon his secret, for he cried out:

"Jane! my daughter! My beloved daughter!"

Fanfar instantly understood the truth and laid his hand compa.s.sionately on his shoulder.

"Courage!" he said, gently.

But Sanselme shook off the hand, and before any one knew what he meant to do, he climbed upon the window, crying:

"Benedetto! You shall not escape!"

And he, too, leaped into the water. Benedetto was scarce a minute in advance.

Benedetto had made a mistake. He knew of a secret egress from this house, but he forgot it, so great was his fear.

Fear? Yes. For the first time in his life he had made an attack on Monte-Cristo, and in spite of his audacity, knew perfectly well that the mere presence of the Count would cause him to tremble with fear. He did not wish to die, and therefore fled by the first path that presented itself. And after all, to swim the Seine was a trifle to the former _forcat_. He was strong and a good swimmer, but the height from which he sprang was so great that at first he was almost stunned. The water was icy cold. He first thought of climbing again to the same sh.o.r.e, but his adversaries might be watching and he might fall into their hands; while on the other bank the forest of Neuilly offered him a sure refuge. He therefore swam across. The current was strong, but he and Sanselme had known a worse and heavier sea when they escaped from Toulon. It was strange, the persistency with which this name returned to him. At this same moment he heard a dull noise behind him as if some one leaped into the water. Could it be that one of his enemies had started in pursuit?

He found that he was making little progress and that his strength was going. He allowed himself to float for a few minutes, and in the silence felt convinced that some one was pursuing him. But what nonsense it was in such darkness to make such an attempt. Benedetto now allowed himself to be carried on by the current, crossing the river obliquely, and managed to make no noise whatever as he swam. And yet as he listened he heard the same sound behind him at about the same distance. And now Benedetto beheld the sh.o.r.e. In a few minutes he would be safe, and when on firm ground he could look out for himself. He sneered to himself.

What nonsense all this talk was of punishment for crime. He had managed to escape so far! Finally he stood on the sh.o.r.e. He heard a cry from the water. He understood it. It came from his pursuer, who was now near enough to see that his prey had escaped him. He was right.

Sanselme had not lost sight of Benedetto, and had felt sure of catching him; but he had been struck on the shoulder by a piece of floating wood.

The pain was excessive, and he lost his power of swimming. In this moment Benedetto escaped him. He could dimly see his form on the sh.o.r.e, and then the man's shadow was lost in the shadow of the woods. Sanselme uttered a groan. This man had killed Jane, and would now go unpunished.

Up to this moment the former convict had been sustained by unnatural strength, but now this strength was gone. He could do no more and believed himself to be dying. Suddenly he felt something within reach of the hands with which he was beating the water like a drowning dog. It was a rope. A schooner had been wrecked here and a rope was hanging from its broken hull. Sanselme clung to it with the energy of despair, and by it raised himself on board the schooner and fell on the deck utterly exhausted, morally and physically.

Suddenly he uttered a wild cry. He had been looking intently at the spot where he had seen Benedetto disappear. He saw the man's shadow again, but it was not alone. With it was something white, that looked like a spectre. And the spectre was gliding over the ground in the direction of the wreck on which Sanselme was crouching.

What was it? One form was certainly Benedetto's; but the spectre--was it anything more than the fog that rises at dawn along the riverside? Not so--it was a phantom; the terrible resurrection of the Past.

Benedetto had run toward the wood, believing that there he would be safe. Suddenly his heart stood still, for before him rose a tall form draped in white, like a winding-sheet. This man was a coward at heart, and had been all his life afraid of ghosts. But he encouraged himself now, saying that it was mist from the river, which a breath of wind would dissipate. Summoning all his courage, he stopped and went toward this strange form. It was a form and not mist; but its height looked unnatural as it stood leaning against a tree. Why did not Benedetto turn aside, either to the right or the left? He could not; something stronger than his will drew him toward the nameless Thing. Finally Benedetto laid his hand on the shoulder of the Thing. It turned and lifted its head.

Then an appalling shriek, which was like nothing human, came from Benedetto's lips. This spectre was that of his mother, whom he had stabbed in the breast at Beausset so many years before. And the ghost stood gazing at him with her large eyes, while her gray tresses floated in the wind.

Benedetto did not seek to understand. He believed that the dead had risen from the tomb. She looked at him for a full minute. Then she said:

"Come, Benedetto; come, my son."

And the long, skeleton-like hand was laid on the parricide's wrist with such an icy pressure that Benedetto felt as if a steel ring were being riveted on his arm.

"Come, my son," said the mad woman; "you will never leave me again, will you?"

She drew him gently along as he walked. He did not attempt to disengage himself; he obeyed the summons as if it were from Death.

The phantom--that is to say, Madame Danglars, the poor, insane creature--had escaped from Fanfar's house by the door which Sanselme left open, and having found her son thus strangely, lavished on him tender words, which in the ear of the dastard were like curses. Thus they reached the sh.o.r.e, and it was not until Benedetto saw the Seine once more before him that he realized what he was doing. He shook off the hand on his wrist and began to run. He saw the wreck a foot or two from the sh.o.r.e, and with one leap he reached it, having little idea of the danger that awaited him there. The mad woman followed him and tried to put her arms around him. "You shall never leave me again, Benedetto!"

she murmured.

Sanselme saw and heard it all. It seemed to him that it was some frightful nightmare. She advancing and Benedetto retreating, the two reached the other end of the wreck; their feet slipped, there was a dull sound as they fell, and the water opened to receive them. Sanselme leaned over. He could see nothing, and heard not another sound.

In the morning a corpse was found leaning over the gunwale, with eyes open. One sailor said to another:

"A drunken man the less in the world!"

That was the only funeral sermon preached over Sanselme.

CHAPTER LXVIII.

MONTE-CRISTO, THE MARTYR.

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

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

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

And they had made answer that they would protect him from harm with their lives. They were living and Esperance was dead. They heard in their ears like the tolling of a funeral bell, the words, "Too late!

Too late!" If they had arrived in time they would certainly have prevented the catastrophe, but this was the result--this motionless form with hands crossed on his breast.

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

Fanfar and Goutran were silent, as we have said, for the same question was upon the lips of both men, and both knew that there was no answer.

Had not the Count said, "If any peril demands my presence summon me, and within three days I will be with you." And it would be precisely three days at midnight since Fanfar sent the summons.

Would he come? The clock struck half-past eleven, and no Monte-Cristo.

Must they then lay in the grave the mortal remains of the son of Monte-Cristo without a farewell kiss on the pale brow from his father?

They felt as if it were another wrong of which they would be guilty toward this unhappy father.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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