The Son of Monte-Cristo is a Webnovel created by Jules Lermina.
This lightnovel is currently completed.
“Listen,” said Anselmo, “you do not know me. Yes, I was a wretch, a perjurer, worse than any highwayman. But I have suffered, suffered terribly for my sins, and since years it has been my only ambition to lead a blameless life as repentance for my crimes. I have taken care of a poor helpless being, and to defend her I will sacrifice my life. I bear everything to shield her from grief and misery; in fact, if it were necessary, I would accept her contempt, for if she ever found out who I am, she would despise me.”
“Have you pen, ink and paper?” asked Benedetto, after Anselmo had concluded.
“Yes. What do you want to do with them?”
“You shall soon find out.”
Anselmo silently pointed to a table upon which writing materials lay.
Benedetto dipped the pen in the ink, and, grinning, said:
“My friend, have the kindness to take this pen and write what I dictate.”
“I?”
“Yes, you. I only want you to write a few lines.”
“What shall I write?”
“The truth.”
“I do not understand you.”
“It is very simple; you will write down what you have just said.”
“Explain yourself more clearly.”
“With pleasure; better still, write what I dictate.”
Anselmo looked uneasily at the wretch; Benedetto quietly walked behind the ex-priest’s chair, and began:
“On the 24th of February, 1839, Benedetto, an escaped convict from the galleys of Toulon, murdered Madame Danglars, his mother.”
“That is horrible!” cried Anselmo, throwing the pen down; “I shall not write that.”
“You will write; you know I can force you; therefore–“
Anselmo sighed, and took up the pen again.
“So, I am done now,” he said, after a pause; “must it be signed, too?”
“Certainly; though the name has nothing to do with it. You can put any one you please under it.”
It sounded very simple, and yet Anselmo hesitated.
“No,” he firmly said, “I will not do it. I know you are up to some trick, and I do not intend to a.s.sist you.”
Benedetto laughed in a peculiar way.
“I know you are not rich,” said the pretended secretary, “and–“
Anselmo made a threatening gesture, but Benedetto continued:
“I was at this window for some time. Count Vellini’s house is next door to this, and I had no difficulty in getting here. I saw you counting your secret treasure, and consequently–“
Unconsciously Anselmo glanced at the portfolio which lay on the table.
Benedetto noticed it and laughed maliciously.
“Yes, there lies your fortune,” he said contemptuously. “The lean bank-notes you counted a little while ago will not keep you long above board.”
“But I have not asked for anything,” murmured Anselmo.
“I offer you a price.”
Benedetto drew an elegant portfolio from his pocket, and took ten thousand-franc notes out of it which he laid upon the table. “Finish and sign the paper I dictated,” he coldly said, “and the money is yours.”
Anselmo grew pale. Did Benedetto know of his troubles? Had he read his thoughts?
“I will not do it,” he said, rising up. “Keep your money, Benedetto; it would bring me misfortune.”
Benedetto uttered a cry of rage, and, grasping the pen, he seated himself at the table and wrote a few words.
“So,” he said, with a satanic gleam in his eyes as he held the paper under Anselmo’s nose, “either you do what I say or else these lines which I have just written will be sent to the papers to-morrow.”
Anselmo read, and the blood rushed to his head. He felt his brain whirl, and, beating his face with his hands, he groaned aloud. What had Benedetto written? Only a few words: “The lady who is known as Jane Zild is–“
“You will not send these lines off,” cried Anselmo, springing up suddenly and clutching Benedetto by the throat. The latter, however, was too strong for him; in a minute he had thrown the ex-priest upon the bed.
“No nonsense,” he sternly said, “either you write or I will send the notice to the papers to-morrow.”
The ex-priest took the pen and with a trembling hand wrote what Benedetto had asked of him.
“Here,” he said, in a choking voice, “swear to me–but no–you do not believe in anything–I–“
“My dear friend,” interrupted Benedetto, “do not take the thing so seriously. I have no intention of disturbing your peace.”
Anselmo sank upon a chair, and his eyes filled with hot tears.
Benedetto hastily ran over the paper and his lips curled contemptuously when he saw the signature.
“The fool wrote his own name,” he murmured as he rubbed his hands, “may it do him good.”
The next minute the secretary of Count Vellini disappeared, and Anselmo breathed more freely.
Suddenly an idea flew through his brain as his gaze fell upon the bank-notes.
“We will fly,” he muttered to himself, “now, this very hour! This demon knows everything; we are not safe from him, and if an accident happens to Jane–“
In desperation he walked up and down the room and disconnected words came from his lips.