Chapter 89

CHAPTER 89
A Nocturnal Interview.

Monte Cristo waited, according to his usual custom, until
Duprez had sung his famous "Suivez-moi;" then he rose and
went out. Morrel took leave of him at the door, renewing his
promise to be with him the next morning at seven o'clock,
and to bring Emmanuel. Then he stepped into his coupe, calm
and smiling, and was at home in five minutes. No one who
knew the count could mistake his expression when, on
entering, he said, "Ali, bring me my pistols with the ivory
cross."

Ali brought the box to his master, who examined the weapons
with a solicitude very natural to a man who is about to
intrust his life to a little powder and shot. These were
pistols of an especial pattern, which Monte Cristo had had
made for target practice in his own room. A cap was
sufficient to drive out the bullet, and from the adjoining
room no one would have suspected that the count was, as
sportsmen would say, keeping his hand in. He was just taking
one up and looking for the point to aim at on a little iron
plate which served him as a target, when his study door
opened, and Baptistin entered. Before he had spoken a word,
the count saw in the next room a veiled woman, who had
followed closely after Baptistin, and now, seeing the count
with a pistol in his hand and swords on the table, rushed
in. Baptistin looked at his master, who made a sign to him,
and he went out, closing the door after him. "Who are you,
madame?" said the count to the veiled woman.

The stranger cast one look around her, to be certain that
they were quite alone; then bending as if she would have
knelt, and joining her hands, she said with an accent of
despair, "Edmond, you will not kill my son?" The count
retreated a step, uttered a slight exclamation, and let fall
the pistol he held. "What name did you pronounce then,
Madame de Morcerf?" said he. "Yours!" cried she, throwing
back her veil, -- "yours, which I alone, perhaps, have not
forgotten. Edmond, it is not Madame de Morcerf who is come
to you, it is Mercedes."

"Mercedes is dead, madame," said Monte Cristo; "I know no
one now of that name."

"Mercedes lives, sir, and she remembers, for she alone
recognized you when she saw you, and even before she saw
you, by your voice, Edmond, -- by the simple sound of your
voice; and from that moment she has followed your steps,
watched you, feared you, and she needs not to inquire what
hand has dealt the blow which now strikes M. de Morcerf."

"Fernand, do you mean?" replied Monte Cristo, with bitter
irony; "since we are recalling names, let us remember them
all." Monte Cristo had pronounced the name of Fernand with
such an expression of hatred that Mercedes felt a