Meet us on:
Entire Site
    Try our fun game

    Dueling book covers…may the best design win!

    Random Quote
    "Man's best possession is a sympathetic wife."

    Subscribe to Our Newsletter

    Follow us on Twitter

    Never miss a good book again! Follow Read Print on Twitter

    Chapter 117

    • Rate it:
    • Average Rating: 4.8 out of 5 based on 28 ratings
    • 49 Favorites on Read Print
    Launch Reading Mode
    Chapter 117
    Previous Chapter
    CHAPTER 117
    The Fifth of October.

    It was about six o'clock in the evening; an opal-colored
    light, through which an autumnal sun shed its golden rays,
    descended on the blue ocean. The heat of the day had
    gradually decreased, and a light breeze arose, seeming like
    the respiration of nature on awakening from the burning
    siesta of the south. A delicious zephyr played along the
    coasts of the Mediterranean, and wafted from shore to shore
    the sweet perfume of plants, mingled with the fresh smell of
    the sea.

    A light yacht, chaste and elegant in its form, was gliding
    amidst the first dews of night over the immense lake,
    extending from Gibraltar to the Dardanelles, and from Tunis
    to Venice. The vessel resembled a swan with its wings opened
    towards the wind, gliding on the water. It advanced swiftly
    and gracefully, leaving behind it a glittering stretch of
    foam. By degrees the sun disappeared behind the western
    horizon; but as though to prove the truth of the fanciful
    ideas in heathen mythology, its indiscreet rays reappeared
    on the summit of every wave, as if the god of fire had just
    sunk upon the bosom of Amphitrite, who in vain endeavored to
    hide her lover beneath her azure mantle. The yacht moved
    rapidly on, though there did not appear to be sufficient
    wind to ruffle the curls on the head of a young girl.
    Standing on the prow was a tall man, of a dark complexion,
    who saw with dilating eyes that they were approaching a dark
    mass of land in the shape of a cone, which rose from the
    midst of the waves like the hat of a Catalan. "Is that Monte
    Cristo?" asked the traveller, to whose orders the yacht was
    for the time submitted, in a melancholy voice.

    "Yes, your excellency," said the captain, "we have reached

    "We have reached it!" repeated the traveller in an accent of
    indescribable sadness. Then he added, in a low tone, "Yes;
    that is the haven." And then he again plunged into a train
    of thought, the character of which was better revealed by a
    sad smile, than it would have been by tears. A few minutes
    afterwards a flash of light, which was extinguished
    instantly, was seen on the land, and the sound of firearms
    reached the yacht.

    "Your excellency," said the captain, "that was the land
    signal, will you answer yourself?"

    "What signal?" The captain pointed towards the island, up
    the side of which ascended a volume of smoke, increasing as
    it rose. "Ah, yes," he said, as if awaking from a dream.
    "Give it to me."

    The captain gave him a loaded carbine; the traveller slowly
    raised it, and fired in the air. Ten minutes afterwards, the
    sails were furled, and they cast anchor about a hundred
    fathoms from the little harbor. The gig was already lowered,
    and in it were four oarsmen and a coxswain. The traveller
    descended, and instead of sitting down at the stern of the
    boat, which had been decorated with a blue carpet for his
    accommodation, stood up with his arms crossed. The rowers
    waited, their oars half lifted out of the water, like birds
    drying their wings.

    "Give way," said the traveller. The eight oars fell into the
    sea simultaneously without splashing a drop of water, and
    the boat, yielding to the impulsion, glided forward. In an
    instant they found themselves in a little harbor, formed in
    a natural creek; the boat grounded on the fine sand.

    "Will your excellency be so good as to mount the shoulders
    of two of our men, they will carry you ashore?" The young
    man answered this invitation with a gesture of indifference,
    and stepped out of the boat; the sea immediately rose to his
    waist. "Ah, your excellency," murmured the pilot, "you
    should not have done so; our master will scold us for it."
    The young man continued to advance, following the sailors,
    who chose a firm footing. Thirty strides brought them to dry
    land; the young man stamped on the ground to shake off the
    wet, and looked around for some one to show him his road,
    for it was quite dark. Just as he turned, a hand rested on
    his shoulder, and a voice which made him shudder exclaimed,
    -- "Good-evening, Maximilian; you are punctual, thank you!"

    "Ah, is it you, count?" said the young man, in an almost
    joyful accent, pressing Monte Cristo's hand with both his

    "Yes; you see I am as exact as you are. But you are
    dripping, my dear fellow; you must change your clothes, as
    Calypso said to Telemachus. Come, I have a habitation
    prepared for you in which you will soon forget fatigue and
    cold." Monte Cristo perceived that the young man had turned
    around; indeed, Morrel saw with surprise that the men who
    had brought him had left without being paid, or uttering a
    word. Already the sound of their oars might be heard as they
    returned to the yacht.

    "Oh, yes," said the count, "you are looking for the

    "Yes, I paid them nothing, and yet they are gone."

    "Never mind that, Maximilian," said Monte Cristo, smiling.
    "I have made an agreement with the navy, that the access to
    my island shall be free of all charge. I have made a
    bargain." Morrel looked at the count with surprise. "Count,"
    he said, "you are not the same here as in Paris."

    "How so?"

    "Here you laugh." The count's brow became clouded. "You are
    right to recall me to myself, Maximilian," he said; "I was
    delighted to see you again, and forgot for the moment that
    all happiness is fleeting."

    "Oh, no, no, count," cried Maximilian, seizing the count's
    hands, "pray laugh; be happy, and prove to me, by your
    indifference, that life is endurable to sufferers. Oh, how
    charitable, kind, and good you are; you affect this gayety
    to inspire me with courage."

    "You are wrong, Morrel; I was really happy."

    "Then you forget me, so much the better."

    "How so?"

    "Yes; for as the gladiator said to the emperor, when he
    entered the arena, 'He who is about to die salutes you.'"

    "Then you are not consoled?" asked the count, surprised.

    "Oh," exclaimed Morrel, with a glance full of bitter
    reproach, "do you think it possible that I could be?"

    "Listen," said the count. "Do you understand the meaning of
    my words? You cannot take me for a commonplace man, a mere
    rattle, emitting a vague and senseless noise. When I ask you
    if you are consoled, I speak to you as a man for whom the
    human heart has no secrets. Well, Morrel, let us both
    examine the depths of your heart. Do you still feel the same
    feverish impatience of grief which made you start like a
    wounded lion? Have you still that devouring thirst which can
    only be appeased in the grave? Are you still actuated by the
    regret which drags the living to the pursuit of death; or
    are you only suffering from the prostration of fatigue and
    the weariness of hope deferred? Has the loss of memory
    rendered it impossible for you to weep? Oh, my dear friend,
    if this be the case, -- if you can no longer weep, if your
    frozen heart be dead, if you put all your trust in God,
    then, Maximilian, you are consoled -- do not complain."

    "Count," said Morrel, in a firm and at the same time soft
    voice, "listen to me, as to a man whose thoughts are raised
    to heaven, though he remains on earth; I come to die in the
    arms of a friend. Certainly, there are people whom I love. I
    love my sister Julie, -- I love her husband Emmanuel; but I
    require a strong mind to smile on my last moments. My sister
    would be bathed in tears and fainting; I could not bear to
    see her suffer. Emmanuel would tear the weapon from my hand,
    and alarm the house with his cries. You, count, who are more
    than mortal, will, I am sure, lead me to death by a pleasant
    path, will you not?"

    "My friend," said the count, "I have still one doubt, -- are
    you weak enough to pride yourself upon your sufferings?"

    "No, indeed, -- I am calm," said Morrel, giving his hand to
    the count; "my pulse does not beat slower or faster than
    usual. No, I feel that I have reached the goal, and I will
    go no farther. You told me to wait and hope; do you know
    what you did, unfortunate adviser? I waited a month, or
    rather I suffered for a month! I did hope (man is a poor
    wretched creature), I did hope. What I cannot tell, --
    something wonderful, an absurdity, a miracle, -- of what
    nature he alone can tell who has mingled with our reason
    that folly we call hope. Yes, I did wait -- yes, I did hope,
    count, and during this quarter of an hour we have been
    talking together, you have unconsciously wounded, tortured
    my heart, for every word you have uttered proved that there
    was no hope for me. Oh, count, I shall sleep calmly,
    deliciously in the arms of death." Morrel uttered these
    words with an energy which made the count shudder. "My
    friend," continued Morrel, "you named the fifth of October
    as the end of the period of waiting, -- to-day is the fifth
    of October," he took out his watch, "it is now nine o'clock,
    -- I have yet three hours to live."

    "Be it so," said the count, "come." Morrel mechanically
    followed the count, and they had entered the grotto before
    he perceived it. He felt a carpet under his feet, a door
    opened, perfumes surrounded him, and a brilliant light
    dazzled his eyes. Morrel hesitated to advance; he dreaded
    the enervating effect of all that he saw. Monte Cristo drew
    him in gently. "Why should we not spend the last three hours
    remaining to us of life, like those ancient Romans, who when
    condemned by Nero, their emperor and heir, sat down at a
    table covered with flowers, and gently glided into death,
    amid the perfume of heliotropes and roses?" Morrel smiled.
    "As you please," he said; "death is always death, -- that is
    forgetfulness, repose, exclusion from life, and therefore
    from grief." He sat down, and Monte Cristo placed himself
    opposite to him. They were in the marvellous dining-room
    before described, where the statues had baskets on their
    heads always filled with fruits and flowers. Morrel had
    looked carelessly around, and had probably noticed nothing.

    "Let us talk like men," he said, looking at the count.

    "Go on!"

    "Count," said Morrel, "you are the epitome of all human
    knowledge, and you seem like a being descended from a wiser
    and more advanced world than ours."

    "There is something true in what you say," said the count,
    with that smile which made him so handsome; "I have
    descended from a planet called grief."

    "I believe all you tell me without questioning its meaning;
    for instance, you told me to live, and I did live; you told
    me to hope, and I almost did so. I am almost inclined to ask
    you, as though you had experienced death, 'is it painful to

    Monte Cristo looked upon Morrel with indescribable
    tenderness. "Yes," he said, "yes, doubtless it is painful,
    if you violently break the outer covering which obstinately
    begs for life. If you plunge a dagger into your flesh, if
    you insinuate a bullet into your brain, which the least
    shock disorders, -- then certainly, you will suffer pain,
    and you will repent quitting a life for a repose you have
    bought at so dear a price."

    "Yes; I know that there is a secret of luxury and pain in
    death, as well as in life; the only thing is to understand

    "You have spoken truly, Maximilian; according to the care we
    bestow upon it, death is either a friend who rocks us gently
    as a nurse, or an enemy who violently drags the soul from
    the body. Some day, when the world is much older, and when
    mankind will be masters of all the destructive powers in
    nature, to serve for the general good of humanity; when
    mankind, as you were just saying, have discovered the
    secrets of death, then that death will become as sweet and
    voluptuous as a slumber in the arms of your beloved."

    "And if you wished to die, you would choose this death,


    Morrel extended his hand. "Now I understand," he said, "why
    you had me brought here to this desolate spot, in the midst
    of the ocean, to this subterranean palace; it was because
    you loved me, was it not, count? It was because you loved me
    well enough to give me one of those sweet means of death of
    which we were speaking; a death without agony, a death which
    allows me to fade away while pronouncing Valentine's name
    and pressing your hand."

    "Yes, you have guessed rightly, Morrel," said the count,
    "that is what I intended."

    "Thanks; the idea that tomorrow I shall no longer suffer, is
    sweet to my heart."

    "Do you then regret nothing?"

    "No," replied Morrel.

    "Not even me?" asked the count with deep emotion. Morrel's
    clear eye was for the moment clouded, then it shone with
    unusual lustre, and a large tear rolled down his cheek.

    "What," said the count, "do you still regret anything in the
    world, and yet die?"

    "Oh, I entreat you," exclaimed Morrel in a low voice, "do
    not speak another word, count; do not prolong my
    punishment." The count fancied that he was yielding, and
    this belief revived the horrible doubt that had overwhelmed
    him at the Chateau d'If. "I am endeavoring," he thought, "to
    make this man happy; I look upon this restitution as a
    weight thrown into the scale to balance the evil I have
    wrought. Now, supposing I am deceived, supposing this man
    has not been unhappy enough to merit happiness. Alas, what
    would become of me who can only atone for evil by doing
    good?" Then he said aloud: "Listen, Morrel, I see your grief
    is great, but still you do not like to risk your soul."
    Morrel smiled sadly. "Count," he said, "I swear to you my
    soul is no longer my own."

    "Maximilian, you know I have no relation in the world. I
    have accustomed myself to regard you as my son: well, then,
    to save my son, I will sacrifice my life, nay, even my

    "What do you mean?"

    "I mean, that you wish to quit life because you do not
    understand all the enjoyments which are the fruits of a
    large fortune. Morrel, I possess nearly a hundred millions
    and I give them to you; with such a fortune you can attain
    every wish. Are you ambitions? Every career is open to you.
    Overturn the world, change its character, yield to mad
    ideas, be even criminal -- but live."

    "Count, I have your word," said Morrel coldly; then taking
    out his watch, he added, "It is half-past eleven."

    "Morrel, can you intend it in my house, under my very eyes?"

    "Then let me go," said Maximilian, "or I shall think you did
    not love me for my own sake, but for yours; "and he arose.

    "It is well," said Monte Cristo whose countenance brightened
    at these words; "you wish -- you are inflexible. Yes, as you
    said, you are indeed wretched and a miracle alone can cure
    you. Sit down, Morrel, and wait."

    Morrel obeyed; the count arose, and unlocking a closet with
    a key suspended from his gold chain, took from it a little
    silver casket, beautifully carved and chased, the corners of
    which represented four bending figures, similar to the
    Caryatides, the forms of women, symbols of the angels
    aspiring to heaven. He placed the casket on the table; then
    opening it took out a little golden box, the top of which
    flew open when touched by a secret spring. This box
    contained an unctuous substance partly solid, of which it
    was impossible to discover the color, owing to the
    reflection of the polished gold, sapphires, rubies,
    emeralds, which ornamented the box. It was a mixed mass of
    blue, red, and gold. The count took out a small quantity of
    this with a gilt spoon, and offered it to Morrel, fixing a
    long steadfast glance upon him. It was then observable that
    the substance was greenish.

    "This is what you asked for," he said, "and what I promised
    to give you."

    "I thank you from the depths of my heart," said the young
    man, taking the spoon from the hands of Monte Cristo. The
    count took another spoon, and again dipped it into the
    golden box. "What are you going to do, my friend?" asked
    Morrel, arresting his hand.

    "Well, the fact is, Morrel, I was thinking that I too am
    weary of life, and since an opportunity presents itself" --

    "Stay!" said the young man. "You who love, and are beloved;
    you, who have faith and hope, -- oh, do not follow my
    example. In your case it would be a crime. Adieu, my noble
    and generous friend, adieu; I will go and tell Valentine
    what you have done for me." And slowly, though without any
    hesitation, only waiting to press the count's hand
    fervently, he swallowed the mysterious substance offered by
    Monte Cristo. Then they were both silent. Ali, mute and
    attentive, brought the pipes and coffee, and disappeared. By
    degrees, the light of the lamps gradually faded in the hands
    of the marble statues which held them, and the perfumes
    appeared less powerful to Morrel. Seated opposite to him,
    Monte Cristo watched him in the shadow, and Morrel saw
    nothing but the bright eyes of the count. An overpowering
    sadness took possession of the young man, his hands relaxed
    their hold, the objects in the room gradually lost their
    form and color, and his disturbed vision seemed to perceive
    doors and curtains open in the walls.

    "Friend," he cried, "I feel that I am dying; thanks!" He
    made a last effort to extend his hand, but it fell powerless
    beside him. Then it appeared to him that Monte Cristo
    smiled, not with the strange and fearful expression which
    had sometimes revealed to him the secrets of his heart, but
    with the benevolent kindness of a father for a child. At the
    same time the count appeared to increase in stature, his
    form, nearly double its usual height, stood out in relief
    against the red tapestry, his black hair was thrown back,
    and he stood in the attitude of an avenging angel. Morrel,
    overpowered, turned around in the arm-chair; a delicious
    torpor permeated every vein. A change of ideas presented
    themselves to his brain, like a new design on the
    kaleidoscope. Enervated, prostrate, and breathless, he
    became unconscious of outward objects; he seemed to be
    entering that vague delirium preceding death. He wished once
    again to press the count's hand, but his own was immovable.
    He wished to articulate a last farewell, but his tongue lay
    motionless and heavy in his throat, like a stone at the
    mouth of a sepulchre. Involuntarily his languid eyes closed,
    and still through his eyelashes a well-known form seemed to
    move amid the obscurity with which he thought himself

    The count had just opened a door. Immediately a brilliant
    light from the next room, or rather from the palace
    adjoining, shone upon the room in which he was gently
    gliding into his last sleep. Then he saw a woman of
    marvellous beauty appear on the threshold of the door
    separating the two rooms. Pale, and sweetly smiling, she
    looked like an angel of mercy conjuring the angel of
    vengeance. "Is it heaven that opens before me?" thought the
    dying man; "that angel resembles the one I have lost." Monte
    Cristo pointed out Morrel to the young woman, who advanced
    towards him with clasped hands and a smile upon her lips.

    "Valentine, Valentine!" he mentally ejaculated; but his lips
    uttered no sound, and as though all his strength were
    centred in that internal emotion, he sighed and closed his
    eyes. Valentine rushed towards him; his lips again moved.

    "He is calling you," said the count; "he to whom you have
    confided your destiny -- he from whom death would have
    separated you, calls you to him. Happily, I vanquished
    death. Henceforth, Valentine, you will never again be
    separated on earth, since he has rushed into death to find
    you. Without me, you would both have died. May God accept my
    atonement in the preservation of these two existences!"

    Valentine seized the count's hand, and in her irresistible
    impulse of joy carried it to her lips.

    "Oh, thank me again!" said the count; "tell me till you are
    weary, that I have restored you to happiness; you do not
    know how much I require this assurance."

    "Oh, yes, yes, I thank you with all my heart," said
    Valentine; "and if you doubt the sincerity of my gratitude,
    oh, then, ask Haidee! ask my beloved sister Haidee, who ever
    since our departure from France, has caused me to wait
    patiently for this happy day, while talking to me of you."

    "You then love Haidee?" asked Monte Cristo with an emotion
    he in vain endeavored to dissimulate.

    "Oh, yes, with all my soul."

    "Well, then, listen, Valentine," said the count; "I have a
    favor to ask of you."

    "Of me? Oh, am I happy enough for that?"

    "Yes; you have called Haidee your sister, -- let her become
    so indeed, Valentine; render her all the gratitude you fancy
    that you owe to me; protect her, for" (the count's voice was
    thick with emotion) "henceforth she will be alone in the

    "Alone in the world!" repeated a voice behind the count,
    "and why?"

    Monte Cristo turned around; Haidee was standing pale,
    motionless, looking at the count with an expression of
    fearful amazement.

    "Because to-morrow, Haidee, you will be free; you will then
    assume your proper position in society, for I will not allow
    my destiny to overshadow yours. Daughter of a prince, I
    restore to you the riches and name of your father."

    Haidee became pale, and lifting her transparent hands to
    heaven, exclaimed in a voice stifled with tears, "Then you
    leave me, my lord?"

    "Haidee, Haidee, you are young and beautiful; forget even my
    name, and be happy."

    "It is well," said Haidee; "your order shall be executed, my
    lord; I will forget even your name, and be happy." And she
    stepped back to retire.

    "Oh, heavens," exclaimed Valentine, who was supporting the
    head of Morrel on her shoulder, "do you not see how pale she
    is? Do you not see how she suffers?"

    Haidee answered with a heartrending expression, "Why should
    he understand this, my sister? He is my master, and I am his
    slave; he has the right to notice nothing."

    The count shuddered at the tones of a voice which penetrated
    the inmost recesses of his heart; his eyes met those of the
    young girl and he could not bear their brilliancy. "Oh,
    heavens," exclaimed Monte Cristo, "can my suspicions be
    correct? Haidee, would it please you not to leave me?"

    "I am young," gently replied Haidee; "I love the life you
    have made so sweet to me, and I should be sorry to die."

    "You mean, then, that if I leave you, Haidee" --

    "I should die; yes, my lord."

    "Do you then love me?"

    "Oh, Valentine, he asks if I love him. Valentine, tell him
    if you love Maximilian." The count felt his heart dilate and
    throb; he opened his arms, and Haidee, uttering a cry,
    sprang into them. "Oh, yes," she cried, "I do love you! I
    love you as one loves a father, brother, husband! I love you
    as my life, for you are the best, the noblest of created

    "Let it be, then, as you wish, sweet angel; God has
    sustained me in my struggle with my enemies, and has given
    me this reward; he will not let me end my triumph in
    suffering; I wished to punish myself, but he has pardoned
    me. Love me then, Haidee! Who knows? perhaps your love will
    make me forget all that I do not wish to remember."

    "What do you mean, my lord?"

    "I mean that one word from you has enlightened me more than
    twenty years of slow experience; I have but you in the
    world, Haidee; through you I again take hold on life,
    through you I shall suffer, through you rejoice."

    "Do you hear him, Valentine?" exclaimed Haidee; "he says
    that through me he will suffer -- through me, who would
    yield my life for his." The count withdrew for a moment.
    "Have I discovered the truth?" he said; "but whether it be
    for recompense or punishment, I accept my fate. Come,
    Haidee, come!" and throwing his arm around the young girl's
    waist, he pressed the hand of Valentine, and disappeared.

    An hour had nearly passed, during which Valentine,
    breathless and motionless, watched steadfastly over Morrel.
    At length she felt his heart beat, a faint breath played
    upon his lips, a slight shudder, announcing the return of
    life, passed through the young man's frame. At length his
    eyes opened, but they were at first fixed and
    expressionless; then sight returned, and with it feeling and
    grief. "Oh," he cried, in an accent of despair, "the count
    has deceived me; I am yet living; "and extending his hand
    towards the table, he seized a knife.

    "Dearest," exclaimed Valentine, with her adorable smile,
    "awake, and look at me!" Morrel uttered a loud exclamation,
    and frantic, doubtful, dazzled, as though by a celestial
    vision, he fell upon his knees.

    The next morning at daybreak, Valentine and Morrel were
    walking arm-in-arm on the sea-shore, Valentine relating how
    Monte Cristo had appeared in her room, explained everything,
    revealed the crime, and, finally, how he had saved her life
    by enabling her to simulate death. They had found the door
    of the grotto opened, and gone forth; on the azure dome of
    heaven still glittered a few remaining stars. Morrel soon
    perceived a man standing among the rocks, apparently
    awaiting a sign from them to advance, and pointed him out to
    Valentine. "Ah, it is Jacopo," she said, "the captain of the
    yacht; "and she beckoned him towards them.

    "Do you wish to speak to us?" asked Morrel.

    "I have a letter to give you from the count."

    "From the count!" murmured the two young people.

    "Yes; read it." Morrel opened the letter, and read: --

    "My Dear Maximilian, --

    "There is a felucca for you at anchor. Jacopo will carry you
    to Leghorn, where Monsieur Noirtier awaits his
    granddaughter, whom he wishes to bless before you lead her
    to the altar. All that is in this grotto, my friend, my
    house in the Champs Elysees, and my chateau at Treport, are
    the marriage gifts bestowed by Edmond Dantes upon the son of
    his old master, Morrel. Mademoiselle de Villefort will share
    them with you; for I entreat her to give to the poor the
    immense fortune reverting to her from her father, now a
    madman, and her brother who died last September with his
    mother. Tell the angel who will watch over your future
    destiny, Morrel, to pray sometimes for a man, who like Satan
    thought himself for an instant equal to God, but who now
    acknowledges with Christian humility that God alone
    possesses supreme power and infinite wisdom. Perhaps those
    prayers may soften the remorse he feels in his heart. As for
    you, Morrel, this is the secret of my conduct towards you.
    There is neither happiness nor misery in the world; there is
    only the comparison of one state with another, nothing more.
    He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience
    supreme happiness. We must have felt what it is to die,
    Morrel, that we may appreciate the enjoyments of living.

    "Live, then, and be happy, beloved children of my heart, and
    never forget that until the day when God shall deign to
    reveal the future to man, all human wisdom is summed up in
    these two words, -- 'Wait and hope.' Your friend,

    "Edmond Dantes, Count of Monte Cristo."

    During the perusal of this letter, which informed Valentine
    for the first time of the madness of her father and the
    death of her brother, she became pale, a heavy sigh escaped
    from her bosom, and tears, not the less painful because they
    were silent, ran down her cheeks; her happiness cost her
    very dear. Morrel looked around uneasily. "But," he said,
    "the count's generosity is too overwhelming; Valentine will
    be satisfied with my humble fortune. Where is the count,
    friend? Lead me to him." Jacopo pointed towards the horizon.
    "What do you mean?" asked Valentine. "Where is the count? --
    where is Haidee?"

    "Look!" said Jacopo.

    The eyes of both were fixed upon the spot indicated by the
    sailor, and on the blue line separating the sky from the
    Mediterranean Sea, they perceived a large white sail.
    "Gone," said Morrel; "gone! -- adieu, my friend -- adieu, my

    "Gone," murmured Valentine; "adieu, my sweet Haidee --
    adieu, my sister!"

    "Who can say whether we shall ever see them again?" said
    Morrel with tearful eyes.

    "Darling," replied Valentine, "has not the count just told
    us that all human wisdom is summed up in two words? -- 'Wait
    and hope.'"
    Chapter 117
    Previous Chapter
    If you're writing a Alexandre Dumas pere essay and need some advice, post your Alexandre Dumas pere essay question on our Facebook page where fellow bookworms are always glad to help!

    Top 5 Authors

    Top 5 Books

    Book Status
    Want to read

    Are you sure you want to leave this group?