Edmond Dantès | Page 2

clinging
lovingly about his neck, her head pillowed upon his shoulder, stood on
the deck of his superb yacht, the Alcyon, gazing at the fast-vanishing
isle where he had left Maximilian Morrel and Valentine de Villefort.
It was just daybreak, but by the faint glimmering light he could plainly
distinguish the figures of a man and a woman upon the distant beach.
They were walking arm in arm. Presently another figure, a man's,
approached them and seemed to deliver something.
"Look," said the Count to Haydée, "Jacopo has given Maximilian my
letter; he reads it to Valentine, and now they know all. Jacopo points
toward the yacht; they see us and are waving their handkerchiefs in
token of adieu."
Haydée raised her head and glanced in the direction of the Isle of
Monte-Cristo.
"I see them, my lord," she replied, in a joyous tone; "they are happy."
"Yes," said the Count, "they are happy, but they deserve their happiness,
and all is well."
"They owe their happiness to you, my lord," resumed Haydée, meekly.
"They owe it to God," answered Monte-Cristo, solemnly; "I was but
His humble instrument, and He has allowed me in this to make some
slight atonement for the wrong I committed in taking vengeance into
my own mortal hands."
Haydée was silent. She knew the sad history of Edmond Dantès, and
was aware of how remorselessly the Count of Monte-Cristo had
avenged the wrongs of the humble sailor of Marseilles. This she had
learned from her lord's own lips within the past few days. The strict
seclusion in which she had lived in Paris had necessarily excluded her
from all personal knowledge of the Count's subtle war upon his

enemies; true, she had emerged from her retirement to testify against
Morcerf at his trial before the House of Peers, but at that time she was
ignorant of the fact that by causing the foe of her family to be convicted
of felony, treason and outrage she had simply promoted Monte-Cristo's
vengeance on Fernand, the Catalan. But, though silent, the beautiful
Greek girl, with her thoroughly oriental ideas, could not realize that the
man who stood beside her, the being she almost worshiped, had been
guilty of the least wrong in avenging himself. Besides, she would never
have admitted, even in the most secret recesses of her own heart, that
Monte-Cristo, who to her mind symbolized all that was good, pure and
heroic in human nature, could have been wrong in anything he did.
Meanwhile the Count also had been silent, and a shade of the deepest
sadness had settled upon his pallid but intellectual visage. He gazed at
the Isle of Monte-Cristo until it became a mere dot in the distance; then,
putting his arm tenderly about his lovely companion's waist, he drew
her gently toward the cabin.
As they vanished down the companion-way, Bertuccio and the captain
of the Alcyon, followed by Ali, the Nubian, advanced to the prow of
the yacht.
"Captain," said Bertuccio, "can you tell me whither we are bound? I
feel an irresistible desire to know."
"Yes," answered the captain, "I can tell you. The Count ordered me to
make with all possible speed for the Island of Crete."
Bertuccio gave a sigh of relief.
"I feared we were bound for Italy," he said. "But," he added, after an
instant's thought, "why should we go to Rome? Luigi Vampa is amply
able to care for all the Count's interests there, if, indeed, any remain
now that the Baron Danglars has been attended to."
The captain, who was an old Italian smuggler, placed his finger
warningly upon his lips and glanced warily around when Luigi
Vampa's name was mentioned, but said nothing. Bertuccio took the hint

and the conversation was dropped.
Pressing onward under full sail, the magnificent yacht shot over the
blue waters of the Mediterranean with the speed of an eagle on the
wing. It sped past Corsica and Sardinia, and soon the arid, uninviting
shores of Tunis were visible; then it passed between Sicily and Malta,
steering directly toward the Island of Crete.
Up to this time the weather had been of the most delightful description.
Not a cloud had obscured the sky, and during the entire voyage the
unruffled surface of the Mediterranean had resembled that of some
peaceful lake. It was now the tenth of October, and just cool enough to
be pleasant; the spice-laden breezes from the coast of Africa reached
the yacht tempered by the moist atmosphere of the sea, furnishing an
additional element of enjoyment.
The Count of Monte-Cristo and Haydée, who seemed inseparable,
came on deck every morning at dawn, and each evening walked back
and forth, admiring the gorgeous sunset and watching the shades of
night as they gradually settled down upon the wide