lf acquainted with his intentions and will
submit to them. But if he be willing to accept my offers, will you
oppose them?"

"You well know, Edmond, that I am no longer a reasoning creature; I
have no will, unless it be the will never to decide. I have been so
overwhelmed by the many storms that have broken over my head, that I
am become passive in the hands of the Almighty, like a sparrow in the
talons of an eagle. I live, because it is not ordained for me to die. If
succor be sent to me, I will accept it."

"Ah, madame," said Monte Cristo, "you should not talk thus! It is not so
we should evince our resignation to the will of heaven; on the contrary,
we are all free agents."

"Alas!" exclaimed Mercedes, "if it were so, if I possessed free-will,
but without the power to render that will efficacious, it would drive me
to despair." Monte Cristo dropped his head and shrank from the vehemence
of her grief. "Will you not even say you will see me again?" he asked.

"On the contrary, we shall meet again," said Mercedes, pointing to
heaven with solemnity. "I tell you so to prove to you that I still
hope." And after pressing her own trembling hand upon that of the count,
Mercedes rushed up the stairs and disappeared. Monte Cristo slowly left
the house and turned towards the quay. But Mercedes did not witness
his departure, although she was seated at the little window of the room
which had been occupied by old Dantes. Her eyes were straining to see
the ship which was carrying her son over the vast sea; but still her
voice involuntarily murmured softly, "Edmond, Edmond, Edmond!"

Chapter 113. The Past.

The count departed with a sad heart from the house in which he had left
Mercedes, probably never to behold her again. Since the death of little
Edward a great change had taken place in Monte Cristo. Having reached
the summit of his vengeance by a long and tortuous path, he saw an abyss
of doubt yawning before him. More than this, the conversation which
had just taken place between Mercedes and himself had awakened so many
recollections in his heart that he felt it necessary to combat with
them. A man of the count's temperament could not long indulge in that
melancholy which can exist in common minds, but which destroys superior
ones. He thought he must have made an error in his calculations if he
now found cause to blame himself.

"I cannot have deceived myself," he said; "I must look upon the past in
a false light. Wh