must revenge myself."

The count, fearing to yield to the entreaties of her he had so ardently
loved, called his sufferings to the assistance of his hatred. "Revenge
yourself, then, Edmond," cried the poor mother; "but let your vengeance
fall on the culprits,--on him, on me, but not on my son!"

"It is written in the good book," said Monte Cristo, "that the sins
of the fathers shall fall upon their children to the third and fourth
generation. Since God himself dictated those words to his prophet, why
should I seek to make myself better than God?"

"Edmond," continued Mercedes, with her arms extended towards the count,
"since I first knew you, I have adored your name, have respected your
memory. Edmond, my friend, do not compel me to tarnish that noble and
pure image reflected incessantly on the mirror of my heart. Edmond, if
you knew all the prayers I have addressed to God for you while I thought
you were living and since I have thought you must be dead! Yes, dead,
alas! I imagined your dead body buried at the foot of some gloomy tower,
or cast to the bottom of a pit by hateful jailers, and I wept! What
could I do for you, Edmond, besides pray and weep? Listen; for ten
years I dreamed each night the same dream. I had been told that you had
endeavored to escape; that you had taken the place of another prisoner;
that you had slipped into the winding sheet of a dead body; that you had
been thrown alive from the top of the Chateau d'If, and that the cry you
uttered as you dashed upon the rocks first revealed to your jailers that
they were your murderers. Well, Edmond, I swear to you, by the head
of that son for whom I entreat your pity,--Edmond, for ten years I saw
every night every detail of that frightful tragedy, and for ten years
I heard every night the cry which awoke me, shuddering and cold. And
I, too, Edmond--oh! believe me--guilty as I was--oh, yes, I, too, have
suffered much!"

"Have you known what it is to have your father starve to death in your
absence?" cried Monte Cristo, thrusting his hands into his hair; "have
you seen the woman you loved giving her hand to your rival, while you
were perishing at the bottom of a dungeon?"

"No," interrupted Mercedes, "but I have seen him whom I loved on the
point of murdering my son." Mercedes uttered these words with such deep
anguish, with an accent of such intense despair, that Monte Cristo could
not restrain a sob. The lion was daunted; the avenger was conquered.