The Son of Monte-Cristo The Son Of Monte Cristo Part 69

Benedetto shrugged his shoulders, and continued:

"You know I heard two persons come up the stairs. I hid behind the door with my knife, and when the door opened, I struck at the first person I saw--"

"And it was your mother!"

"Ah! I see your memory is returning. Yes, it was my mother; but how did you know it?"

"I had seen her in the gorge, and she had told me her story and implored me to save her son."

"And did she tell you her name?" asked Benedetto, with some uneasiness.

"She told me all, but I swore never to reveal it to any one."

"And she believed in the oath of a convict?"

"I have kept it, at all events."

"You are a hero! But you can, at least, tell me the name."

"No," answered Sanselme, with energy. "You are planning some new villainy. I shall not tell you!"

Benedetto laughed.

"You must think me very simple. I merely wished to test your memory. The name of this woman was Danglars."

Sanselme uttered an exclamation. He had hoped that his refusal would frustrate some nefarious design.

"Now go," he said, sadly. "You can have nothing more to say to me."

"You are mistaken! One would think that you did not care to see me."

"The truth is, Benedetto, that anything connected with the past is hideously painful to me. I wish to forget."

"You wish to forget, too, that you once tried to kill me."

"Let us say no more about that. Tell me frankly what you want me to do, and if possible I will do it."

"You are becoming more reasonable, Sanselme. But what is that new life of which you speak so glibly and with a certain tenderness in your voice? Perhaps I can guess. She is pretty, that is a fact!"

Sanselme started and took hold of Benedetto's arm.

"Not another word like that, Benedetto! Not if you wish to live!"

"Indeed! What would you do?"

"My fate is in your hands," answered Sanselme. "You can at any moment denounce me as an escaped convict. Do what you please, but you shall not say one word of her who is in this house."

"Upon my word, Sanselme, it seems to me that you carry matters with rather a high hand. Suppose I do not obey you?"

"Then I will denounce you, with the certainty that my arrest will follow yours. You may laugh when I say that in spite of my shameful past I am to-day an honest man, devoting my whole life to a creature who has no one but myself in the world. If she knew who I was she would despise me."

Benedetto listened with his maddening smile. Suddenly he said:

"Have you pen, ink and paper?"

"Yes, I have them. Why?"

"Produce them. I will give my reasons later."

Sanselme produced what was required.

"Very good," said Benedetto. "And now take this pen and oblige me by writing a few lines."

"What shall I write?"

"I will dictate to you, that will be easier.

"On the 24th of February, 1839, Benedetto, an escaped convict from Toulon, a.s.sa.s.sinated Madame Danglars, his mother."

"But this is horrible! No, I will not write that!"

"You had better do it without further objections. You can sign any name you please."

Sanselme still hesitated.

"No," he said, finally, "I refuse. I of course do not know what use you intend to make of this paper, but I know you. Some infamous machination is on foot which I will not aid."

Benedetto smiled.

"You are far from rich," he said, "for I was at the window some little time before I knocked. I must tell you that Comte Velleni's hotel is next this, and I had not the smallest difficulty in coming here."

Sanselme glanced at the trunk that contained his scanty means.

"Precisely," said Benedetto, "a few louis and two or three bits of paper."

"I ask nothing from you."

"But I offer these." And Benedetto took from an elegant portfolio ten bank notes of one thousand francs each, and spread them out on the bed.

"Write what I bid you and this money is yours."

Sanselme turned very pale. It seemed as if Benedetto was his evil genius--his tempter. He instantly realized what this sum would do for her whose welfare was his perpetual anxiety.

"Will you write?"

Sanselme dipped his pen into the ink and began. Some instinct warned him that he was doing wrong. He acted without volition of his own, and simply in obedience to another, it is true, and it seemed to him that he himself risked nothing, for he simply told the truth, and yet he was troubled. Had Sanselme been alone in the world with no one but himself to care for he might not have been so strict, for he had run many risks in his life. But he felt that this was something wrong, and that evil consequences would alight on not only himself, but her. The money fascinated him, however. He wrote a few words, and then, das.h.i.+ng down the pen, started up.

"No, I will not write. Take away your money, Benedetto, it will bring me misfortune."