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Updated: May 15, 2025
For a full account of the life and remarkable career of "The Count of Monte-Cristo," Alexander Dumas' masterpiece, one of the greatest romances ever written, see the illustrated and unabridged edition of it, published by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia. Zuleika, Monte-Cristo's daughter, had been for some months in the convent school conducted by the Sisterhood of the Sacred Heart.
Like lightning the Ice Bird for such was the name of the yacht flew over the hot waves, which were bathed in the first rays of the morning sun, and soon the rude rocks of the island of Monte-Cristo were in view of the travellers. Haydee stood leaning against her husband's shoulder, and watched the play of the glistening waves, while before Monte-Cristo's eyes the past rose like a vision.
"Oh! such a dreadful thing has happened to Monte-Cristo's son!" "To the Vicomte!" cried Fanfar, leaping from his chair. He seized Bobichel's arm rather roughly, and shaking it, cried, "Will you speak?" "Yes, master, but I don't know how to tell you that the Vicomte has gone away." "Gone away, and what of that?" "But he has disappeared!" "Who says so?" "Old Madame Caraman and Coucon."
It was a bright, balmy and cheerful morning, and the sun's gladdening radiance, the brilliant green of the trees, the fragrant odors from flowers and grass, the chirping of insect life and the wild, intoxicating songs of the birds all contributed to draw him on and to make him forget Monte-Cristo's injunctions as to keeping out of the sight of the passers-by.
The colonist, at the urgent solicitation of those with whom he had so strangely been brought in contact, was about to relate the story of his life, when suddenly Monte-Cristo's quick ear caught a sound. "What was that?" he said in a startled whisper, instantly springing to his feet. "I heard nothing," said Fanfar. "It was, perhaps, the cry of some wild beast," suggested Captain Joliette.
The way he observed the young Count Cavalcanti was very strange, though very few noticed it, as the Count of Monte-Cristo was relating a robbery which had been committed in his house, in which one of the thieves had been murdered, most probably by his own comrade. No one noticed the pallor of Count Cavalcanti, as they were too much interested in Monte-Cristo's story.
They were roughly attired in blue blouses, wearing felt hats that were pulled down and obscured their countenances. One of the men in custody caught hold of a spoke of a wheel of Monte-Cristo's vehicle, grasping it with such iron firmness that all the efforts of the policeman in charge of him failed to shake off his clutch.
"I would swear," said one of them, "that this is our old comrade, Peppino, who ran away from us so unceremoniously, taking with him all he could lay his hands on!" "It is Peppino," put in another. "I know him in spite of his stained face and livery! By the Holy Virgin!" he added, "I know the livery, too! It's Monte-Cristo's!"
Exactly how long he slept he knew not, but meanwhile an event as unexpected as it was portentous occurred almost within earshot of where he lay, an event brought about by his rash and inconsiderate action of that morning. Monte-Cristo's salon was opposite to Massetti's chamber, a wide corridor separating the two apartments.
He had drugged her after he had abducted her from Monte-Cristo's house, and the poor girl was unable to give utterance to a cry. She saw everything that went on about her, but was unable to say a word. And Spero had to gaze at these terrible scenes; he could not keep his eyes away. He tried in vain to find a means of entering the hall.
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