is impossible that she can carry to such a point maternal
love, or rather delirium. There are virtues which become
crimes by exaggeration. No, she must have conceived some
pathetic scene; she will come and throw herself between us;
and what would be sublime here will there appear
ridiculous." The blush of pride mounted to the count's
forehead as this thought passed through his mind.
"Ridiculous?" repeated he; "and the ridicule will fall on
me. I ridiculous? No, I would rather die."

By thus exaggerating to his own mind the anticipated
ill-fortune of the next day, to which he had condemned
himself by promising Mercedes to spare her son, the count at
last exclaimed, "Folly, folly, folly! -- to carry generosity
so far as to put myself up as a mark for that young man to
aim at. He will never believe that my death was suicide; and
yet it is important for the honor of my memory, -- and this
surely is not vanity, but a justifiable pride, -- it is
important the world should know that I have consented, by my
free will, to stop my arm, already raised to strike, and
that with the arm which has been so powerful against others
I have struck myself. It must be; it shall be."

Seizing a pen, he drew a paper from a secret drawer in his
desk, and wrote at the bottom of the document (which was no
other than his will, made since his arrival in Paris) a sort
of codicil, clearly explaining the nature of his death. "I
do this, O my God," said he, with his eyes raised to heaven,
"as much for thy honor as for mine. I have during ten years
considered myself the agent of thy vengeance, and other
wretches, like Morcerf, Danglars, Villefort, even Morcerf
himself, must not imagine that chance has freed them from
their enemy. Let them know, on the contrary, that their
punishment, which had been decreed by providence, is only
delayed by my present determination, and although they
escape it in this world, it awaits them in another, and that
they are only exchanging time for eternity."

While he was thus agitated by gloomy uncertainties, --
wretched waking dreams of grief, -- the first rays of
morning pierced his windows, and shone upon the pale blue
paper on which he had just inscribed his justification of
providence. It was just five o'clock in the morning when a
slight noise like a stifled sigh reached his ear. He turned
his head, looked around him, and saw no one; but the sound
was repeated distinctly enough to convince him of its
reality.

He arose, and quietly opening the door of the drawing-room,
saw Haidee, who had fallen on a chair, with her arms hanging
down and her beautiful head thrown back. She had been
standing at the door, to prevent his going out without
seeing her, until sleep, which the young cannot resist, had
overpowered her frame, wearied as she was with watching. The
noise of the door did not awaken her, and Monte Cristo gazed
at her with affectionate regret. "She remembered that she
had a son," said he; "and I forgot I had a daughter." Then,
shaking his head sorrowfully, "Poor Haidee," said he; "she
wished to see me, to speak to me; she has feared or guessed
something. Oh, I cannot go without taking leave of her; I
cannot die without confiding her to some one." He quietly
regained his seat, and wrote under the other lines: --

"I bequeath to Maximilian Morrel, captain of Spahis, -- and
son of my former patron, Pierre Morrel, shipowner at
Marseilles, -- the sum of twenty millions, a part of which
may be offered to his sister Julia and brother-in-law
Emmanuel, if he does not fear this increase of fortune may
mar their happiness. These twenty millions are concealed in
my grotto at Monte Cristo, of which Bertuccio knows the
secret. If his heart is free, and he will marry Haidee, the
daughter of Ali Pasha of Yanina, whom I have brought up with
the love of a father, and who has shown the love and
tenderness of a daughter for me, he will thus accomplish my
last wish. This will has already constituted Haidee heiress
of the rest of my fortune, consisting of lands, funds in
England, Austria, and Holland, furniture in my different
palaces and houses, and which without the twenty millions
and the legacies to my servants, may still amount to sixty
millions."

He was finishing the last line when a cry behind him made
him start, and the pen fell from his hand. "Haidee," said
he, "did you read it?"

"Oh, my lord," said she, "why are you writing thus at such
an hour? Why are you bequeathing all your fortune to me? Are
you going to leave me?"

"I am going on a journey, dear child," said Monte Cristo,
with an expression of infinite tenderness and melancholy;
"and if any misfortune should happen to me"

The count stopped. "Well?" asked the young girl, with an
authoritative tone the count had never observed before, and
which startled him. "Well, if any misfortune happen to me,"
replied Monte Cristo, "I wish my daughter to be happy."
Haidee smiled sorrowfully, and shook her head. "Do you think
of dying, my lord?" said she.



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