“You fear to acknowledge that your correspondent has deceived you? Oh, no self-love, Beauchamp. Acknowledge it, Beauchamp; your courage cannot be doubted.”
“Not so,” murmured the journalist; “on the contrary——”
Albert turned frightfully pale; he endeavored to speak, but the words died on his lips.
“My friend,” said Beauchamp, in the most affectionate tone, “I should gladly make an apology; but, alas!——”
“But what?”
“The paragraph was correct, my friend.”
“What? That French officer——”
“Yes.”
“Fernand?”
“Yes.”
“The traitor who surrendered the castle of the man in whose service he was——”
“Pardon me, my friend, that man was your father!”
Albert advanced furiously towards Beauchamp, but the latter restrained him more by a mild look than by his extended hand.
“My friend,” said he, “here is a proof of it.”
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Albert opened the paper, it was an attestation of four notable inhabitants of Yanina, proving that Colonel Fernand Mondego, in the service of Ali Tepelini, had surrendered the castle for two million crowns. The signatures were perfectly legal. Albert tottered and fell overpowered in a chair. It could no longer be doubted; the family name was fully given. After a moment’s mournful silence, his heart overflowed, and he gave way to a flood of tears. Beauchamp, who had watched with sincere pity the young man’s paroxysm of grief, approached him.
“Now, Albert,” said he, “you understand me—do you not? I wished to see all, and to judge of everything for myself, hoping the explanation would be in your father’s favor, and that I might do him justice. But, on the contrary, the particulars which are given prove that Fernand Mondego, raised by Ali Pasha to the rank of governor-general, is no other than Count Fernand of Morcerf; then, recollecting the honor you had done me, in admitting me to your friendship, I hastened to you.”
Albert, still extended on the chair, covered his face with both hands, as if to prevent the light from reaching him.
“I hastened to you,” continued Beauchamp, “to tell you, Albert, that in this changing age, the faults of a father cannot revert upon his children. Few have passed through this revolutionary period, in the midst of which we were born, without some stain of infamy or blood to soil the uniform of the soldier, or the gown of the magistrate. Now I have these proofs, Albert, and I am in your confidence, no human power can force me to a duel which your own conscience would reproach you with as criminal, but I come to offer you what you can no longer demand of me. Do you wish these proofs, these attestations, which I alone possess, to be destroyed? Do you wish this frightful secret to remain with us? Confided to me, it shall never escape my lips; say, Albert, my friend, do you wish it?”
Albert threw himself on Beauchamp’s neck.
“Ah, noble fellow!” cried he.
“Take these,” said Beauchamp, presenting the papers to Albert.
Albert seized them with a convulsive hand, tore them in pieces, and trembling lest the least vestige should escape and one day appear to confront him, he approached the wax-light, always kept burning for cigars, and burned every fragment.
“Dear, excellent friend,” murmured Albert, still burning the papers.
“Let all be forgotten as a sorrowful dream,” said Beauchamp; “let it vanish as the last sparks from the blackened paper, and disappear as the smoke from those silent ashes.”
“Yes, yes,” said Albert, “and may there remain only the eternal friendship which I promised to my deliverer, which shall be transmitted to our children’s children, and shall always remind me that I owe my life and the honor of my name to you,—for had this been known, oh, Beauchamp, I should have destroyed myself; or,—no, my poor mother! I could not have killed her by the same blow,—I should have fled from my country.”
“Dear Albert,” said Beauchamp. But this sudden and factitious joy soon forsook the young man, and was succeeded by a still greater grief.
“Well,” said Beauchamp, “what still oppresses you, my friend?”
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“I am broken-hearted,” said Albert. “Listen, Beauchamp! I cannot thus, in a moment relinquish the respect, the confidence, and pride with which a father’s untarnished name inspires a son. Oh, Beauchamp, Beauchamp, how shall I now approach mine? Shall I draw back my forehead from his embrace, or withhold my hand from his? I am the most wretched of men. Ah, my mother, my poor mother!” said Albert, gazing through his tears at his mother’s portrait; “if you know this, how much must you suffer!”
“Come,” said Beauchamp, taking both his hands, “take courage, my friend.”
“But how came that first note to be inserted in your journal? Some unknown enemy—an invisible foe—has done this.”
“The more must you fortify yourself, Albert. Let no trace of emotion be visible on your countenance, bear your grief as the cloud bears within it ruin and death—a fatal secret, known only when the storm bursts. Go, my friend, reserve your strength for the moment when the crash shall come.”
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“You think, then, all is not over yet?” said Albert, horror-stricken.
“I think nothing, my friend; but all things are possible. By the way——”
“What?” said Albert, seeing that Beauchamp hesitated.
“Are you going to marry Mademoiselle Danglars?”
“Why do you ask me now?”
“Because the rupture or fulfilment of this engagement is connected with the person of whom we were speaking.”
