The morning following the events detailed in the last chapter, as EspÉrance was in his dressing-room preparing to take a short stroll through Paris, Ali knocked at the door and signified that M. DantÈs wished to see him at once in the library. As such a summons was something unusual, the young man immediately concluded that Zuleika had been in consultation with her father and that he would now have to submit to a close and rigid examination; he had expected such an examination, but, nevertheless, the summons filled him with dismay and he grew pale as wax, his limbs trembling beneath him and his hands working nervously; however, he braced up as well as he could, and with as firm a step as it was possible for him to assume walked toward the library. On the threshold he paused, and his courage so utterly forsook him that he was tempted to take refuge in flight, but the thought flashed through his mind that this would be cowardly, and, making a supreme effort to control himself, he entered his father's presence.

M. DantÈs, who was seated at his writing-table examining a curious manuscript written in Arabic characters, looked up as he came in and fixed his eyes searchingly upon his son's countenance, noting its extreme pallor and remarking with manifest uneasiness the difficulty EspÉrance experienced in maintaining a firm demeanor. Motioning the young man to a seat, he said:

"My son, I have sent for you on a matter of the utmost importance, and I sincerely hope you will see fit to tell me in all frankness whatever you may know in regard to it."

EspÉrance partially closed his eyes as if suffering intensely, bringing his teeth firmly together and compressing his lips. As he did not speak, M. DantÈs continued:

"I have every reason to believe that the revelation I am about to ask of you will be exceedingly painful for you to make, but you must consider that your sister's happiness is deeply concerned and that, for that reason, no matter what may be your motives, you have not the right to maintain silence."

"I know what you mean, father," replied EspÉrance in an unsteady voice, "but, notwithstanding the pain it gives me to do so, I must ask you, nay, entreat you not to question me, for I cannot answer you!"

M. DantÈs cast upon his son a glance that seemed to pierce him through and through; the young man quailed beneath it and again partially closed his eyes, while a faint blue shade was mixed with the waxen pallor of his visage. The Deputy, though he had made a profound and exhaustive study of men and their varied motives, though he was a skilled anatomist of the human heart and a ready reader of the human countenance, acknowledged to himself that this time he was completely baffled. Was it fear or guilt that EspÉrance exhibited? He could not tell; but it was abundantly evident that the young man was not acting a part, that he keenly felt the suspicions to which he was exposing himself by his inexplicable conduct. At length M. DantÈs said, in a mild but determined tone:

"EspÉrance, my son, you can, at least, enlighten me upon a few points, and I request, nay, I command you to do so. Are you bound by oath to preserve silence concerning this matter?"

"I am bound by a most solemn oath!" answered the young man with a shudder.

"And is Giovanni Massetti likewise so bound?"

"He is!"

"I will not ask you who administered that oath to you or under what circumstances it was taken, although as your father I have a right to do so and to compel you to answer; neither will I interrogate you further in regard to the main question at issue, the complication in which you and the Viscount seem to be so hopelessly involved; but I insist that you inform me whether any guilt or stain of dishonor rests upon you!"

"Father," said EspÉrance, rising and lifting his right hand toward heaven, "I solemnly swear to you that whatever wrong may have been done, whatever crime may have been committed, I am entirely guiltless and that there is not the slightest stain of dishonor upon me!"

"I believe you, my son," said M. DantÈs, in a tone of conviction, "and this unequivocal assurance from your own lips removes the weight of a mountain from me. Now, tell me, is the Viscount Massetti as blameless in this affair as you are?"

"The so-called Viscount Massetti is a black-hearted villain!" cried EspÉrance, excitedly. "He is guilty of a foul and revolting crime, a crime that should condemn him to a life of penal servitude!"

"But may you not be mistaken, may you not be the victim of some delusion?" asked M. DantÈs, anxiously.

"I am neither mistaken, father, nor the victim of a delusion," replied EspÉrance, positively. "The charges that I make against that miserable apology for a man I can fully substantiate should the proper opportunity ever be offered me!"

"Zuleika informed me that, while you were speaking with her upon this mysterious subject, the name of Luigi Vampa escaped your lips. Does that notorious brigand posses a knowledge of this unfortunate matter?"

EspÉrance became violently agitated and instantly answered:

"That is a question my oath forbids me to reply to!"

"So be it," said M. DantÈs; "but I have written him and he will reply for you!"

"You have written to Vampa!" exclaimed the young man, with a terror-stricken look. "Then all is lost!"

M. DantÈs smiled, and, rising, placed his hand on his son's shoulder.

"EspÉrance," said he, calmly, "if neither crime nor dishonor attaches to you in this affair, as you have sworn, you have nothing whatever to fear, and, besides, Vampa's disclosures may relieve you of some portion of your heavy burden."

"Oh! God!" groaned the young man, "if Vampa speaks how shall I be able to prove my innocence!"

"My son," said M. DantÈs, impressively, "God, whose name you have invoked, will not desert you in your hour of need!"

Bowing his head in his hands and trembling like an aspen leaf, EspÉrance quitted the library with a convulsive sob, as if the last ray of hope had been withdrawn from his life and all was darkness and despair.

M. DantÈs threw himself in his chair and for an instant was plunged in absorbing thought; then he arose and putting on his hat and cloak left the library; a few moments later he had quitted the mansion by a private door.

Closely muffling his face in the folds of his cloak, that he might not be recognized, the Deputy from Marseilles passed hurriedly from street to street until he stood before a massive building in the Rue Vivienne. He rang the bell, and, when the concierge appeared, said to her:

"Is the Viscount Massetti at home?"

The woman, a large, fat, lumbering creature, cast a sleepy glance, that was half-curious, half-suspicious, at him and answered:

"Yes, Monsieur; but he bade me deny him to everybody."

"He will see me, however, my good woman," said M. DantÈs. "Take my card to him."

The fat concierge took the card and glanced at it; when she read "Edmond DantÈs, Deputy from Marseilles," she stared at the famous Republican leader like one possessed; then, filled with awe, she hastened away and climbed the stairs as fast as her cumbersome legs would let her. She returned, panting and puffing, followed by the Viscount's valet, who, with much ceremony and obsequiousness, conducted the distinguished visitor to his master's apartments.

The salon into which M. DantÈs was ushered was large and sumptuously furnished; evidences of wealth and luxury were visible on every side, while everything displayed the utmost taste and elegance.

"To what am I indebted for the honor of this unexpected visit, my dear Count?" said Massetti, rising from a handsomely carved, red velvet upholstered arm-chair, in which he had been indolently reclining, and coming forward to greet his guest.

"To a matter that concerns both of us deeply," replied the Deputy, in a meaning tone.

A shadow crossed the Viscount's handsome visage, but it was gone in an instant, and he said, with the utmost politeness:

"Pray be seated, my dear Count, and before proceeding to business refresh yourself with a glass of rare old Burgundy. Here, Stephano, wine and glasses."

M. DantÈs sat down in an arm-chair precisely resembling that from which the Viscount had arisen; Massetti resumed his seat and the valet brought the old Burgundy and glasses, placing the decanter and drinking vessels on a small table of glistening ebony between his master and the Deputy. After they had duly drunk each other's health, M. DantÈs said:

"I regret, my dear Viscount, that I am compelled to disturb you, but my business was too urgent for delay."

"You don't disturb me in the least. Pray proceed."

"You remember your conversation with my daughter just before you and she parted, do you not?"

"I remember it," replied the Viscount, coloring slightly and evidently growing ill at ease.

"In that case, neither preface nor explanation is necessary. I called to ask you a few plain questions."

The Italian was now a prey to singular excitement; he grew pale and flushed by turns, finally rising and pacing the salon in great agitation.

"Count," said he, abruptly, when he could command his voice, "you are a man of the world and a cosmopolitan, and, of course, you know that one often commits folly, especially when the ardent and uncontrollable blood of youth is rushing through his veins. With this explanation, imperfect though it be, I must ask you to rest satisfied, for it is utterly out of my power to give you any other, or to enter into the details of the unfortunate affair which has brought you here. I assure you, however, that I am altogether blameless in the matter; investigation will abundantly establish the truth of what I say."

"I will make that investigation."

"I regret that I can neither empower you to do so nor aid you in it!"

"What am I to understand by that?"

"Simply what I say."

"You are, doubtless, aware that my son makes grave accusations against you, that he accuses you, in fact, of a dastardly crime."

"EspÉrance is mistaken, my dear Count; I swear to you that he is mistaken and that I am as innocent as he is!"

"But Luigi Vampa may have a different tale to tell!"

"Luigi Vampa!" cried the Viscount, coming instantly to a dead halt, and a sudden pallor overspreading his entire visage.

"Yes, Luigi Vampa; I have written to him and in two weeks will have his answer!"

"For EspÉrance's sake, for my sake, for your daughter's sake, destroy that answer as soon as received and without reading it!" exclaimed the young Italian, wildly, his pallor increasing to such a degree that his face resembled that of a corpse.

"Should I be mad enough to do so," said M. DantÈs, calmly, "with it all hope of your marriage with Zuleika would perish!"

"Oh! do not say that, do not say that!" groaned Massetti. "What would life be worth to me without Zuleika's love!"

"Then deserve that love by clearing yourself, by proving that your record will bear the light of day!"

"I have sworn to you that I am innocent! Is not that enough?"

"No," replied M. DantÈs, coldly. "I must have proof to support your oath."

"Then you believe me guilty in spite of all! This is the worst blow yet!"

"It is in your power to completely justify yourself; at least, so you give me to understand, and yet your refusal will forever separate you from the woman you love!"

"You fill me with despair!" said Massetti, in a smothered voice, sinking upon a sofa. "I fain would reveal everything to you, but an awful oath of silence stands between me and the revelation."

"Then I must wait for Vampa's answer, and shape my course by that!" said M. DantÈs, firmly.

"That answer will destroy both EspÉrance and myself!" replied the Viscount, in a hoarse whisper.

"We shall see," returned the Deputy, rising and resuming his cloak; as he stood at the door of the salon with his hat in his hand, he added: "I thought you all a man should be, Viscount, and that you would make Zuleika happy, but my convictions have been sadly shaken. I came here thinking that love for woman was all powerful in the heart of man, that it would induce you to speak, even in the face of an oath, perhaps violently and iniquitously administered; I was wrong; farewell!"

M. DantÈs turned slowly and took his departure, leaving Giovanni Massetti on the sofa plunged in grief and dismay.