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Table of Contents
                            The Count of Monte Cristo
                        
Document Text Contents
Page 1

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30

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Page 2

Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82

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"Alas, yes," returned the Italian.

"I knew that," said Monte Cristo; "she has been dead these ten years."

"And I am still mourning her loss," exclaimed the major, drawing from his pocket a checked handkerchief,
and alternately wiping first the left and then the right eye.

"What would you have?" said Monte Cristo; "we are all mortal. Now, you understand, my dear Monsieur
Cavalcanti, that it is useless for you to tell people in France that you have been separated from your son for
fifteen years. Stories of gypsies, who steal children, are not at all in vogue in this part of the world, and would
not be believed. You sent him for his education to a college in one of the provinces, and now you wish him to
complete his education in the Parisian world. That is the reason which has induced you to leave Via Reggio,
where you have lived since the death of your wife. That will be sufficient."

"You think so?"

"Certainly."

"Very well, then."

"If they should hear of the separation" --

"Ah, yes; what could I say?"

"That an unfaithful tutor, bought over by the enemies of your family" --

"By the Corsinari?"

"Precisely. Had stolen away this child, in order that your name might become extinct."

"That is reasonable, since he is an only son."

"Well, now that all is arranged, do not let these newly awakened remembrances be forgotten. You have,
doubtless, already guessed that I was preparing a surprise for you?"

"An agreeable one?" asked the Italian.

"Ah, I see the eye of a father is no more to be deceived than his heart."

"Hum!" said the major.

"Some one has told you the secret; or, perhaps, you guessed that he was here."

"That who was here?"

"Your child -- your son -- your Andrea!"

"I did guess it," replied the major with the greatest possible coolness. "Then he is here?"

"He is," said Monte Cristo; "when the valet de chambre came in just now, he told me of his arrival."

"Ah, very well, very well," said the major, clutching the buttons of his coat at each exclamation.

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"My dear sir," said Monte Cristo, "I understand your emotion; you must have time to recover yourself. I will,
in the meantime, go and prepare the young man for this much-desired interview, for I presume that he is not
less impatient for it than yourself."

"I should quite imagine that to be the case," said Cavalcanti.

"Well, in a quarter of an hour he shall be with you."

"You will bring him, then? You carry your goodness so far as even to present him to me yourself?"

"No; I do not wish to come between a father and son. Your interview will be private. But do not be uneasy;
even if the powerful voice of nature should be silent, you cannot well mistake him; he will enter by this door.
He is a fine young man, of fair complexion -- a little too fair, perhaps -- pleasing in manners; but you will see
and judge for yourself."

"By the way," said the major, "you know I have only the 2,000 francs which the Abbe Busoni sent me; this
sum I have expended upon travelling expenses, and" --

"And you want money; that is a matter of course, my dear M. Cavalcanti. Well, here are 8,000 francs on
account."

The major's eyes sparkled brilliantly.

"It is 40,000 francs which I now owe you," said Monte Cristo.

"Does your excellency wish for a receipt?" said the major, at the same time slipping the money into the inner
pocket of his coat.

"For what?" said the count.

"I thought you might want it to show the Abbe Busoni."

"Well, when you receive the remaining 40,000, you shall give me a receipt in full. Between honest men such
excessive precaution is, I think, quite unnecessary."

"Yes, so it is, between perfectly upright people."

"One word more," said Monte Cristo.

"Say on."

"You will permit me to make one remark?"

"Certainly; pray do so."

"Then I should advise you to leave off wearing that style of dress."

"Indeed," said the major, regarding himself with an air of complete satisfaction.

"Yes. It may be worn at Via Reggio; but that costume, however elegant in itself, has long been out of fashion
in Paris."

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and gone forth; on the azure dome of heaven still glittered a few remaining stars. Morrel soon perceived a man
standing among the rocks, apparently awaiting a sign from them to advance, and pointed him out to Valentine.
"Ah, it is Jacopo," she said, "the captain of the yacht;" and she beckoned him towards them.

"Do you wish to speak to us?" asked Morrel.

"I have a letter to give you from the count."

"From the count!" murmured the two young people.

"Yes; read it." Morrel opened the letter, and read: --

"My Dear Maximilian, --

"There is a felucca for you at anchor. Jacopo will carry you to Leghorn, where Monsieur Noirtier awaits his
granddaughter, whom he wishes to bless before you lead her to the altar. All that is in this grotto, my friend,
my house in the Champs Elysees, and my chateau at Treport, are the marriage gifts bestowed by Edmond
Dantes upon the son of his old master, Morrel. Mademoiselle de Villefort will share them with you; for I
entreat her to give to the poor the immense fortune reverting to her from her father, now a madman, and her
brother who died last September with his mother. Tell the angel who will watch over your future destiny,
Morrel, to pray sometimes for a man, who like Satan thought himself for an instant equal to God, but who
now acknowledges with Christian humility that God alone possesses supreme power and infinite wisdom.
Perhaps those prayers may soften the remorse he feels in his heart. As for you, Morrel, this is the secret of my
conduct towards you. There is neither happiness nor misery in the world; there is only the comparison of one
state with another, nothing more. He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience supreme
happiness. We must have felt what it is to die, Morrel, that we may appreciate the enjoyments of living.

"Live, then, and be happy, beloved children of my heart, and never forget that until the day when God shall
deign to reveal the future to man, all human wisdom is summed up in these two words, -- `Wait and hope.'
Your friend,

"Edmond Dantes, Count of Monte Cristo."

During the perusal of this letter, which informed Valentine for the first time of the madness of her father and
the death of her brother, she became pale, a heavy sigh escaped from her bosom, and tears, not the less painful
because they were silent, ran down her cheeks; her happiness cost her very dear. Morrel looked around
uneasily. "But," he said, "the count's generosity is too overwhelming; Valentine will be satisfied with my
humble fortune. Where is the count, friend? Lead me to him." Jacopo pointed towards the horizon. "What do
you mean?" asked Valentine. "Where is the count? -- where is Haidee?"

"Look!" said Jacopo.

The eyes of both were fixed upon the spot indicated by the sailor, and on the blue line separating the sky from
the Mediterranean Sea, they perceived a large white sail. "Gone," said Morrel; "gone! -- adieu, my friend --
adieu, my father!"

"Gone," murmured Valentine; "adieu, my sweet Haidee -- adieu, my sister!"

"Who can say whether we shall ever see them again?" said Morrel with tearful eyes.

"Darling," replied Valentine, "has not the count just told us that all human wisdom is summed up in two
words? -- `Wait and hope.'"

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