ed to France, he, after the manner of mediocre minds,
termed the coincidence, "a decree of Providence." But when Napoleon
returned to Paris, Danglars' heart failed him, and he lived in constant
fear of Dantes' return on a mission of vengeance. He therefore informed
M. Morrel of his wish to quit the sea, and obtained a recommendation
from him to a Spanish merchant, into whose service he entered at the end
of March, that is, ten or twelve days after Napoleon's return. He then
left for Madrid, and was no more heard of.

Fernand understood nothing except that Dantes was absent. What had
become of him he cared not to inquire. Only, during the respite the
absence of his rival afforded him, he reflected, partly on the means of
deceiving Mercedes as to the cause of his absence, partly on plans of
emigration and abduction, as from time to time he sat sad and motionless
on the summit of Cape Pharo, at the spot from whence Marseilles and
the Catalans are visible, watching for the apparition of a young and
handsome man, who was for him also the messenger of vengeance. Fernand's
mind was made up; he would shoot Dantes, and then kill himself. But
Fernand was mistaken; a man of his disposition never kills himself, for
he constantly hopes.

During this time the empire made its last conscription, and every man
in France capable of bearing arms rushed to obey the summons of the
emperor. Fernand departed with the rest, bearing with him the terrible
thought that while he was away, his rival would perhaps return and marry
Mercedes. Had Fernand really meant to kill himself, he would have done
so when he parted from Mercedes. His devotion, and the compassion he
showed for her misfortunes, produced the effect they always produce on
noble minds--Mercedes had always had a sincere regard for Fernand, and
this was now strengthened by gratitude.

"My brother," said she as she placed his knapsack on his shoulders,
"be careful of yourself, for if you are killed, I shall be alone in the
world." These words carried a ray of hope into Fernand's heart. Should
Dantes not return, Mercedes might one day be his.

Mercedes was left alone face to face with the vast plain that had never
seemed so barren, and the sea that had never seemed so vast. Bathed in
tears she wandered about the Catalan village. Sometimes she stood mute
and motionless as a statue, looking towards Marseilles, at other times
gazing on the sea, and debating as to whether it were not bette