are wealthy. You have, therefore,
no reason to fear that any obstacles will be thrown in your path. You
have no enemies--I have scattered them from your path. Think only of
making friends for yourself. I have had proteges rather than friends.

"I know you to be sincere and generous. Believe and give. It is good
sometimes for a man to make mistakes. True experience is made up of
errors. Do not be afraid of their consequences. But, nevertheless, be
cautious. Avoid the irreparable. To kiss is a crime, the only one,
possibly, because it is the only one that cannot be repaired. If,
however, you commit great faults, do not hesitate to acknowledge them.

"Make your own way through life, my son. I have left you that you may do
so. You have near you devoted hearts. Coucon will never forsake you. I
have taken my old Bertuccio with me. I did not wish you to think that I
had left any one to watch you and report to me. In case of danger,
summon Fanfar.

"Up to this time I feel that you have had no secrets from me. Your heart
is free, let it be your guide. Remember that love, often great
happiness, is more often great sorrow.

"I love you, my son, though I leave you. I know not where I am going. I
long to do good, and hope to find happiness.

"Dear, dear child! Oh! how I love you!

"MONTE-CRISTO."

CHAPTER XLIV.

ESPERANCE.

The youthful son of Monte-Cristo was twenty-two years of age, and
wonderfully handsome. His dark curls shaded a fair, white brow, and his
eyes were haughty like his father's. His slender white hands were
womanly in their delicacy. But we will examine his surroundings.

Whenever Monte-Cristo established himself in a new home, the house
became transformed as if a magician of the Arabian Nights had touched it
with his wand. There was not a dark or gloomy corner to be seen. Lights
blazed everywhere. The rarest pictures and choicest furniture were to be
seen. Everything was magnificent and harmonious. The tall stature of the
Count, his excessive pallor and the exaggerated attention he paid to his
dress, added to this effect, as did the dark face of Ali, who,
invariably draped in soft, white folds, stood like a bronze statue near
the many colored portieres. With the Vicomte, however, all colors were
softer than with his father. The cabinet, for example, where we find
him, was hung with gray and black velvet, and the rugs were fur, of the
same soft gray.

The Vicomte's dress was in no ways peculia