“No,” replied Morrel.
“Not even me?” asked the count with deep emotion. Morrel’s clear eye was for the moment clouded, then it shone with unusual lustre, and a large tear rolled down his cheek.
“What,” said the count, “do you still regret anything in the world, and yet die?”
“Oh, I entreat you,” exclaimed Morrel in a low voice, “do not speak another word, count; do not prolong my punishment.”
The count fancied that he was yielding, and this belief revived the horrible doubt that had overwhelmed him at the Château d’If.
“I am endeavoring,” he thought, “to make this man happy; I look upon this restitution as a weight thrown into the scale to balance the evil I have wrought. Now, supposing I am deceived, supposing this man has not been unhappy enough to merit happiness. Alas, what would become of me who can only atone for evil by doing good?”
Then he said aloud: “Listen, Morrel, I see your grief is great, but still you do not like to risk your soul.” Morrel smiled sadly.
“Count,” he said, “I swear to you my soul is no longer my own.”
“Maximilian, you know I have no relation in the world. I have accustomed myself to regard you as my son: well, then, to save my son, I will sacrifice my life, nay, even my fortune.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, that you wish to quit life because you do not understand all the enjoyments which are the fruits of a large fortune. Morrel, I possess nearly a hundred millions and I give them to you; with such a fortune you can attain every wish. Are you ambitious? Every career is open to you. Overturn the world, change its character, yield to mad ideas, be even criminal—but live.”