The Son of Monte-Cristo The Son Of Monte Cristo Part 92

He drew his revolvers from his pocket, and pointed one at Benedetto.

"Move!" he cried, "or I will kill you as I would a dog!"

"You would commit murder then, would you?"

"No--it would be simple self-protection. I am not your prisoner, and this woman ought to be sacred to you."

"This woman," said Benedetto, "tells you she comes here not of her own free will. Do you believe her?"

"Jane! answer him, my beloved! Tell him he lies!"

Benedetto started back.

"Jane Zeld," he said, "tell the absolute truth. Tell the Vicomte if you consider yourself worthy of him." Jane turned her weary eyes upon the Vicomte. "Tell him if the daughter of the Lyons outcast has any right to lean on the arm of the Vicomte de Monte-Cristo. Jane Zeld, think of the past. Tell this gentleman who your mother was. Tell him where she died."

"No, no!" cried Jane. "Enough! enough!"

"No, it is not enough. Lead the Vicomte to your mother's tomb and there place your hand in his, if you dare!"

"Be silent!" cried Esperance, who felt himself growing mad.

"But this is not all," continued Benedetto. "Jane Zeld, shall I tell the Vicomte the name of your father?"

"I know it not!"

"Have you forgotten the man who took you from a wretched house at the time of your mother's death? This man was Sanselme, the former priest--Sanselme, the former convict, and your father! And now, Vicomte, will you kill me? Do so, if you dare!"

Jane fell back, fainting.

"She is dead!" cried Esperance. "Ah! coward and a.s.sa.s.sin, I will have your life for this. Have you arms? I wish you to have some chance."

Benedetto threw aside the mantle he wore and showed two swords, one of which he threw at the feet of Esperance.

Yes, he had long craved this duel, and, sure of his ability, felt that he had to do with a mere boy.

Esperance seized the sword, and went up to Benedetto.

"You have insulted me," he said, gravely, "in insulting this woman who is dearer to me than life itself; it matters little who you are, prepare to die."

This room was a singular duelling ground, but Esperance cared little for that. His pulse beat no more quickly than usual. He had greatly changed in the last few hours. He felt himself elevated to the dignity of chastis.e.m.e.nt.

The two antagonists stood on guard. There was a moment of profound silence. In a mural painting on the walls of a German cathedral, two men stand like this, and a little distance off, half hidden behind a tree, is the figure of Death.

Esperance was perfectly cool, but Benedetto saw after two or three pa.s.ses that he had no boy antagonist. Calling together all his resources he made a lunge. His antagonist returned it, and grazed Benedetto's breast.

At this moment Jane revived. "Courage, Esperance, courage!" she murmured.

The young man heard her voice, and the contest was renewed. Ten times did the sword of Esperance menace the heart of Benedetto, ten times did the scoundrel escape death. But he began to feel afraid. The sword of the son of Monte-Cristo flashed and gleamed before his eyes like the fiery sword of the Bible. Esperance was gaining the advantage, and a cry of rage escaped the panting breast of Benedetto. Was it possible that after all, his vengeance was about to slip through his fingers? And was he to die instead of Monte-Cristo's son! He recoiled further and further, feeling that the sword of his opponent would pin him to the wall.

Monte-Cristo's son said to him, "Scoundrel! your life is in my power.

Repent of the evil you have done, and I will show you mercy."

"Mercy!" sneered Benedetto. "You talk of mercy. Take care, I hate you! I hate your father. Hasten to take my life or I swear that I will take yours!"

"Die then!" cried Esperance.

And with a rapid movement of his sword he disarmed his adversary; his blade was about to enter Benedetto's breast when the report of a pistol was heard, and Esperance, shot through the heart, fell by Jane's side.

She threw herself on his body with cries of despair. Benedetto, with an infernal smile, turned away with a pistol in his hand.

It will be remembered that Esperance in his righteous anger had aimed his pistols at Benedetto, but the thought of a murder in this upright soul was but a pa.s.sing one, and when he drew his sword he laid down his pistols upon a chair near him.

At the moment when Benedetto felt that all was lost his eyes fell an the arms, and an infernal thought struck him. He gradually approached the chair, and finally, with a sudden movement, s.n.a.t.c.hed one of the revolvers. The scoundrel had murdered his adversary. Esperance fell and Jane encircled him with her arms.

Benedetto frowningly looked on. He had at last achieved his object.

Unable to injure the man he hated, he had wounded him through his son, his only child!

"Farewell," sighed Esperance, "I love thee, Jane, but I am dying!"

"And I die with you!" answered Jane, with paling lips.

And as if the angel of death touched them both at the same time, they slept in eternal night.

Benedetto did not move. Suddenly he started. Loud noises were heard at the door of the deserted house.

"We are here, Esperance! We bring you aid!" voices called in cheering tones.

Benedetto looked about like a wild boar at bay. Every issue was cut off.

He knew that he had no pity to expect, for when these men beheld him here with his two victims they would take his life without the smallest hesitation. He rushed to the window and opened it; the Seine ran dark at his feet.

Benedetto waited until Fanfar and his friends entered the room, and then crying out to them, "You are too late! I have killed the son of Monte-Cristo!" leaped into the river.

Goutran rushed to Esperance, and lifting him in his arms, said despairingly: "Dead! murdered!"

And in the presence of these two young creatures so beautiful in death, the men uncovered their bowed heads and Carmen knelt in pa.s.sionate weeping.

CHAPTER XLVII.

THE SPECTRE.

Just as Benedetto leaped into the Seine, another man entered the room where the victims lay. This man was Sanselme.

It will be remembered that the former convict had been present at the conversation in which Fanfar and his companions resolved to rescue Esperance. The sick man, unable to move, still down with fever, saw them go.

The mad woman also remained in the room, saying over and over again: "Benedetto is my son, my son, and he killed me!" While Sanselme repeated Jane's name without cessation. By degrees his strength returned to him, his nerves were all in a quiver.