y father had died of
hunger!"

"Can it be?" cried Mercedes, shuddering.

"That is what I heard on leaving my prison fourteen years after I had
entered it; and that is why, on account of the living Mercedes and my
deceased father, I have sworn to revenge myself on Fernand, and--I have
revenged myself."

"And you are sure the unhappy Fernand did that?"

"I am satisfied, madame, that he did what I have told you; besides, that
is not much more odious than that a Frenchman by adoption should pass
over to the English; that a Spaniard by birth should have fought against
the Spaniards; that a stipendiary of Ali should have betrayed and
murdered Ali. Compared with such things, what is the letter you have
just read?--a lover's deception, which the woman who has married that
man ought certainly to forgive; but not so the lover who was to have
married her. Well, the French did not avenge themselves on the traitor,
the Spaniards did not shoot the traitor, Ali in his tomb left the
traitor unpunished; but I, betrayed, sacrificed, buried, have risen from
my tomb, by the grace of God, to punish that man. He sends me for that
purpose, and here I am." The poor woman's head and arms fell; her legs
bent under her, and she fell on her knees. "Forgive, Edmond, forgive for
my sake, who love you still!"

The dignity of the wife checked the fervor of the lover and the mother.
Her forehead almost touched the carpet, when the count sprang forward
and raised her. Then seated on a chair, she looked at the manly
countenance of Monte Cristo, on which grief and hatred still impressed
a threatening expression. "Not crush that accursed race?" murmured he;
"abandon my purpose at the moment of its accomplishment? Impossible,
madame, impossible!"

"Edmond," said the poor mother, who tried every means, "when I call you
Edmond, why do you not call me Mercedes?"

"Mercedes!" repeated Monte Cristo; "Mercedes! Well yes, you are right;
that name has still its charms, and this is the first time for a long
period that I have pronounced it so distinctly. Oh, Mercedes, I have
uttered your name with the sigh of melancholy, with the groan of sorrow,
with the last effort of despair; I have uttered it when frozen with
cold, crouched on the straw in my dungeon; I have uttered it, consumed
with heat, rolling on the stone floor of my prison. Mercedes, I must
revenge myself, for I suffered fourteen years,--fourteen years I wept, I
cursed; now I tell you, Mercedes, I