Page:The Count of Monte-Cristo (1887 Volume 5).djvu/270

250 Monte-Cristo looked upon Morrel with indescribable tenderness.

"Yes," he said, "yes, doubtless it is painful, if you violently break this outer covering which obstinately begs for life. If you make your flesh quiver under the imperceptible teeth of your dagger, if you send a ball which has no sense and is always ready to lose its way into your brain, which the least shock disorders; certainly, then, you will suffer pain, you will repent quitting life, and in the midst of your despairing agonies you will find it better than a repose bought so dear."

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

"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 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, count?"

"Yes."

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 to-morrow 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 luster, 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 he was yielding, and this belief revived the horrible doubt that had overwhelmed him at the Château-d'If.