The journey was performed with that marvellous rapidity which the unlimited power of the count ever commanded.Towns fled from them like shadows on their path, and trees shaken by the first winds of autumn seemed like giants madly rushing on to meet them, and retreating as rapidly when once reached.The following morning they arrived at Chalons, where the count's steamboat waited for them.Without the loss of an instant, the carriage was placed on board and the two travellers embarked without delay.The boat was built for speed; her two paddle-wheels were like two wings with which she skimmed the water like a bird.Morrel was not insensible to that sensation of delight which is generally experienced in passing rapidly through the air, and the wind which occasionally raised the hair from his forehead seemed on the point of dispelling momentarily the clouds collected there.
As the distance increased between the travellers and Paris, almost superhuman serenity appeared to surround the count;he might have been taken for an exile about to revisit his native land.Ere long Marseilles presented herself to view, -- Marseilles, white, fervid, full of life and energy, --Marseilles, the younger sister of Tyre and Carthage, the successor to them in the empire of the Mediterranean, --Marseilles, old, yet always young.Powerful memories were stirred within them by the sight of the round tower, Fort Saint-Nicolas, the City Hall designed by Puget,* the port with its brick quays, where they had both played in childhood, and it was with one accord that they stopped on the Cannebiere.A vessel was setting sail for Algiers, on board of which the bustle usually attending departure prevailed.The passengers and their relations crowded on the deck, friends taking a tender but sorrowful leave of each other, some weeping, others noisy in their grief, the whole forming a spectacle that might be exciting even to those who witnessed similar sights daily, but which had no power to disturb the current of thought that had taken possession of the mind of Maximilian from the moment he had set foot on the broad pavement of the quay.
* Pierre Puget, the sculptor-architect, was born at Marseilles in 1622.
"Here," said he, leaning heavily on the arm of Monte Cristo, -- "here is the spot where my father stopped, when the Pharaon entered the port; it was here that the good old man, whom you saved from death and dishonor, threw himself into my arms.I yet feel his warm tears on my face, and his were not the only tears shed, for many who witnessed our meeting wept also." Monte Cristo gently smiled and said, -- "I was there;" at the same time pointing to the corner of a street.
As he spoke, and in the very direction he indicated, a groan, expressive of bitter grief, was heard, and a woman was seen waving her hand to a passenger on board the vessel about to sail.Monte Cristo looked at her with an emotion that must have been remarked by Morrel had not his eyes been fixed on the vessel.
"Oh, heavens!" exclaimed Morrel, "I do not deceive myself --that young man who is waving his hat, that youth in the uniform of a lieutenant, is Albert de Morcerf!""Yes," said Monte Cristo, "I recognized him.""How so? -- you were looking the other way." the count smiled, as he was in the habit of doing when he did not want to make any reply, and he again turned towards the veiled woman, who soon disappeared at the corner of the street.
Turning to his friend, -- "Dear Maximilian," said the count, "have you nothing to do in this land?""I have to weep over the grave of my father," replied Morrel in a broken voice.
"Well, then, go, -- wait for me there, and I will soon join you.""You leave me, then?"
"Yes; I also have a pious visit to pay."
Morrel allowed his hand to fall into that which the count extended to him; then with an inexpressibly sorrowful inclination of the head he quitted the count and bent his steps to the east of the city.Monte Cristo remained on the same spot until Maximilian was out of sight; he then walked slowly towards the Allees de Meillan to seek out a small house with which our readers were made familiar at the beginning of this story.It yet stood, under the shade of the fine avenue of lime-trees, which forms one of the most frequent walks of the idlers of Marseilles, covered by an immense vine, which spreads its aged and blackened branches over the stone front, burnt yellow by the ardent sun of the south.Two stone steps worn away by the friction of many feet led to the door, which was made of three planks; the door had never been painted or varnished, so great cracks yawned in it during the dry season to close again when the rains came on.The house, with all its crumbling antiquity and apparent misery, was yet cheerful and picturesque, and was the same that old Dantes formerly inhabited -- the only difference being that the old man occupied merely the garret, while the whole house was now placed at the command of Mercedes by the count.