Chapter XXVII: Benedetto's Revenge

_A Letter of the Count of Monte-Cristo to his son, Vicomte Spero_

"MY DEARLY BELOVED SON--To-day is the anniversary of your rescue
from the hands of that terrible Maldar, and although twelve years
have passed since then, I still feel the effects of the fright I
sustained. Thanks to faithful friends, you were saved to us; God
bless them for it, and give you and me an opportunity to repay them
for what they have done for us.

"In regard to myself this opportunity must come soon, for I have
passed my sixtieth year, and my strength is failing.

"Yes, my dear Spero, your father, who was to you the incarnation of
energy, is now only a broken-down man; since my poor wife died, all
is over with the Count of Monte-Cristo. Five years, five long
years, have passed since your dear mother breathed her last in my
arms, and I, who never wept before, have cried like a child. How
insignificant, how feeble I thought myself when I saw the cheeks of
my dear wife become paler day by day and her beautiful eyes lose
their sparkle. What good was all the art and science I had learned
from the Abbé Faria to me if I could not rescue her? Like avenging
spirits, the shades of all those upon whom I had taken revenge
rose up before me: Villefort, Danglars, Morcerf, Benedetto,
Maldar, had all been overcome by me, but death was stronger than I
am--it took her from me!

"My blood, my life, I would have given for that of your mother, but
it was all of no use, death would not give up its prey. At that
time, my dear son, you were sixteen years old. Your tears mingled
with mine and you cried out in deep grief: 'Ah, mother, if I could
only die for you!'

"Spero, do you know what it is to feel that a person has deceived
himself? I spent my life to carry out what I thought to be right,
the punishment of wrong-doers and the rewarding of those who do
good. I was all-powerful as long as it was a question of punishing
the guilty, but as weak and feeble as a child when I attempted to
make good the wrong I did in an excess of zeal, and all my tears
and entreaties were of no avail.

"What good did it do that I rescued Albert, the son of the Countess
Mercedes, from the murderous flames of Uargla? Two years later he
was shot in the _coup d'état_ of December, and his mother died of a
broken heart.

"Maximilian Morrel and Valentine de Villefort met an early and a
fearful death--they fell victims to the insurrection of the Sepoys
in India, in the year 1859.

"You inherited from your mother everything that is good, noble, and
sublime; from me a thirst for knowledge, energy, and activity.
Would to God I could say that you did not also inherit my
arrogance, my venomous arrogance. Spero, by the time you receive
this letter, I shall be far away; yes, I am going away, and
voluntarily place upon myself the heaviest burden, but it must be.

"Will you be able to understand me and my motives? Ah, Spero, I
cannot help domineering over those about me, and that is why I am
going.

"So long as you are at my side, you are not yourself. You look at
life with my eyes, you judge according to my ideas, and my opinion
is decisive for you in everything you do and think.

"You do not regard me as a man, but as a supernatural being. Far
from me you will learn the meaning of responsibility for one's
acts, and if not now, later on, you will be grateful to me for this
temporary separation.

"Spero, I have furnished you with the best weapons for the struggle
of life, and it is about time that you take up your arms and begin
your first battle with life.

"You are now twenty-one years of age. You are brave and courageous,
and will not shrink from any obstacle. You are rich, you have
knowledge--now it must be seen whether you possess the will which
guarantees success.

"Your path is smooth--no enemy threatens you, and a crowd of
friends stand at your side. I have never had a real friend. Those
who acted as such were either servants or poor people, and only
those who are situated similarly and think alike can understand the
blessings of friendship.

"My son! give generously, believe in humanity, and do not distrust
any one; real experience is gained only by mistakes.

"Murder is the worst crime, for it can never be made good again. Of
the old servants, I shall leave only Coucou with you. He is devoted
to you and loves you enthusiastically. The brave Zouave will yearn
for me, but console him by telling him I have gone for your good
and tell yourself the same thing, should you feel likewise. With
best love,
YOUR FATHER."