opened to receive them. Sanselme
leaned over. He could see nothing, and heard not another sound.

In the morning a corpse was found leaning over the gunwale, with eyes
open. One sailor said to another:

"A drunken man the less in the world!"

That was the only funeral sermon preached over Sanselme.

CHAPTER LXVIII.

MONTE-CRISTO, THE MARTYR.

In the Hotel de Monte-Cristo all is sad and silent. The very walls and
the furniture had a funereal air. In the large chamber lie the bodies of
Jane and Esperance, the son of Monte-Cristo. How much beauty, youth and
tenderness were to be swallowed up in Mother Earth! Jane, vailed in
lace, had a tender smile upon her lips. Esperance, in his serene repose,
was the image of Monte-Cristo in his early days.

Near the bed were two men watching--Fanfar, the faithful friend of the
Count, who had saved him and his son at Ouargla; Goutran, the companion
of Esperance, who knew the greatness of that young soul. The two sat in
silence, and hardly dared look at each other. They were both oppressed
with remorse.

Monte-Cristo had gone away, obeying a sentiment of delicacy, wishing to
leave his son in entire liberty to develop in such direction as his
nature demanded. But when he went he said to these men, "I confide to
you the one treasure that I have in the world--watch over him."

And they had made answer that they would protect him from harm with
their lives. They were living and Esperance was dead. They heard in
their ears like the tolling of a funeral bell, the words, "Too late!
Too late!" If they had arrived in time they would certainly have
prevented the catastrophe, but this was the result--this motionless form
with hands crossed on his breast.

Coucon and Madame Caraman, down stairs, were weeping and watching.

Fanfar and Goutran were silent, as we have said, for the same question
was upon the lips of both men, and both knew that there was no answer.
Had not the Count said, "If any peril demands my presence summon me, and
within three days I will be with you." And it would be precisely three
days at midnight since Fanfar sent the summons.

Would he come? The clock struck half-past eleven, and no Monte-Cristo.
Must they then lay in the grave the mortal remains of the son of
Monte-Cristo without a farewell kiss on the pale brow from his father?
They felt as if it were another wrong of which they would be guilty
toward this unhappy father.

Fanfar was buried in thoug