When the Viscount Massetti quitted the insane asylum, Monte-Cristo provided quarters for him at the HÔtel de France where he could be near both himself and his daughter. During the period of the young Italian's convalescence the Count had refrained from communicating to him the details of the foul conspiracy disclosed by Peppino, but no sooner was Zuleika's betrothed installed in the hÔtel than he gave him all the startling particulars. Massetti was not astonished, for he had long suspected a portion at least of the truth, but his indignation against old Pasquale Solara knew no bounds, and inwardly he swore to take speedy and complete vengeance upon him though the Count warned him to be exceedingly prudent and not to imperil the success of his operations in his behalf by any rash proceeding. Monte-Cristo did not inform the young Italian of his plans, distrusting his natural hot-headedness and impetuosity, but urged him to be content to leave the prosecution of the scheme of rehabilitation entirely in his hands. The Count had also instructed the Viscount that in consequence of Peppino's revelations he had no further objections to his union with Zuleika and that the marriage should take place immediately upon the full and open establishment of his innocence in the eyes of the world. At this the ardent young man was delighted to his heart's core; the certainty of his approaching happiness and the tenderness the girl exhibited for him compensated in a large degree for all his trials and tortures, but at the same time he was impatient of the necessary delay in restoring him to the possession of an unstained name and reputation, thinking that Monte-Cristo was much too careful and slow.

He was now permitted to see Zuleika almost constantly and their love tÊte-À-tÊtes were of the most delicious and impassioned description. They passed hours together upon the vast upper balcony of the hÔtel in the soft Italian dusk and moonlight evenings, discoursing those sweet and tender nothings so precious to lovers and so insipid to matter-of-fact people whose days of romantic attachment are over. Sometimes, however, their conversation was of a more practical character; they spoke of their projects for the future—where they should go on their bridal tour and what they should do before settling down to the calm, peaceful existence of placid matrimonial joy. They had decided to take up their permanent residence in Paris; thus they would always be near Monte-Cristo, EspÉrance and MercÉdÈs, near Albert de Morcerf and his wife, near those friends of friends Maximilian and Valentine Morrel; besides in the gay French capital, the city of cities, while enjoying themselves to the utmost they could escape all allusions to Giovanni's past which they could not possibly hope for did they settle in Rome, where every time the youthful couple appeared in public the old scandal, the old charge against the Viscount would undoubtedly be freshly and perhaps venomously commented upon.

Occasionally, when Zuleika was with her father or in company with Mme. Morrel, young Massetti would take long walks into the country for the purpose of breathing the free air and increasing his strength by means of healthful exercise. During these strolls he shunned every person he met, it being Monte-Cristo's desire that he should studiously avoid observation.

The news of Massetti's sudden and marvellous cure had spread throughout Rome, but people shook their heads when they talked of it and agreed with the opinion expressed by the director of the insane asylum that Dr. Absalom had made use of some trick, the influence of which could not be permanent, but would soon be dissipated, when the poor, deluded Viscount would instantly fall into a worse mental condition than before.

Undoubtedly the Count Massetti heard of his son's restoration to sanity and bodily health, but he paid no attention whatever to it, continuing proudly and haughtily to ignore the fact of Giovanni's existence. Monte-Cristo had not called upon the aged and inflexible nobleman for two reasons—he feared that his indignation would get the better of him in an interview and, besides, he knew it would be entirely useless to approach the Count without being armed with young Massetti's complete vindication.

During one of those strolls already alluded to the Viscount went much further than usual. It was a bright, balmy and cheerful morning, and the sun's gladdening radiance, the brilliant green of the trees, the fragrant odors from flowers and grass, the chirping of insect life and the wild, intoxicating songs of the birds all contributed to draw him on and to make him forget Monte-Cristo's injunctions as to keeping out of the sight of the passers-by.

He scarcely noticed in what direction he walked or what road he took, indulging in a careless, delicious daydream full of dolce far niente delights. He had fixed his eyes upon the ground and was sauntering leisurely along when, all at once, he became conscious that some one was approaching. He hastily looked up. The pedestrian was yet some distance away, but his heavy shoes clattered upon the gravel of the highway with a ringing sound. He was evidently an old man and a peasant. In his right hand he held a staff and his large, broad-brimmed hat was drawn down slightly over his visage as if to protect it from the heat of the sun. Giovanni was about to step aside into a little grove of chestnut trees beside the road there to wait until the new comer had passed, but on taking a second glance at him something familiar in his aspect suddenly arrested him, and by one of those inexplicable impulses which sometimes take possession of a man he paused and waited.

The peasant had also noticed Giovanni and his action, but he did not relax his pace, did not seem inclined to pay even the slightest attention to him. He came tramping on, reached the Viscount and passed him without as much as a nod of the head in salutation. But Massetti with a start recognized him. With a flush of rage on his face and all his blood boiling in his veins, he turned, sprang after the old man and laid his hand upon his shoulder. The peasant abruptly halted, also turned, and a fierce imprecation escaped his lips. He surveyed the irate young Italian from head to foot, sneeringly, scowlingly.

"Why, do you stop me?" he said, roughly. "I do not know you."

"But, Pasquale Solara, I know you!" exclaimed the Viscount. "We have met in good time and in a fit place! The opportunity for which I have long and impatiently waited has at length arrived! You shall feel the crushing weight of my vengeance! You shall answer to me for your despicable, your unnatural crimes! Pasquale Solara, base wretch who sold your own daughter to a fate worse than death, ignoble scoundrel who did not respect the dictates of hospitality, I am Giovanni Massetti!"

As he spoke he leaped in front of the morose shepherd, barring his passage with his body.

"Well, what if you are Giovanni Massetti!" replied old Pasquale, coldly and defiantly. "I care not for you! Stand out of my path and let me pass before I strike you to the earth as I would a mongrel, yelping cur!"

With these words he raised his staff menacingly over the young Italian. The latter with the quickness and agility of a deer sprang at the staff, grasped it and sent it whirling into the chestnut grove. Then he caught old Solara by the throat and a terrible struggle at once began. The two men closed with each other as if in a death-clutch, wrestling like a couple of athletes. Massetti had not yet regained his full vigor, but his rage lent him strength. On his side, Pasquale, though old, had muscles of steel and a grasp like iron. He whirled his adversary round and round, at times almost overturning him, but the Viscount struggled manfully, occasionally wrenching the shepherd from his feet and lifting him bodily in the air. The breath of both came forth in hot, quick, labored gasps, while their faces were red with exertion. For a long while the result was doubtful, the strife continuing fiercely without any decided advantage on either side. Often the Viscount was borne nearly to the ground but he invariably recovered, straightened himself up and vigorously renewed the conflict. Not a word was uttered now. The concentrated energies of the contestants were bent upon the strife, depriving them of the power of speech. Finally by a rapid movement Giovanni succeeded in tripping Solara, who fell with a crash, the young Italian coming down upon his prostrate body with great force and for an instant almost checking his respiration. Both were partially stunned by the fall and lay motionless. Massetti was the first to regain possession of his faculties. He half arose, placed his knees on old Pasquale's breast and, drawing a pistol, cocked it.

"What are you going to do?" gasped the under man, his terror giving him the power to speak.

"I am going to kill you, Pasquale Solara!" hissed the Viscount, between his set teeth.

"Murderer!" shrieked the shepherd, desperately, making a frantic struggle to rise, but not succeeding.

This ominous word, with all the terrible weight of meaning it conveyed, struck upon the young Italian's ear like a sound of-doom. A murderer? Yes, he would be a murderer, if he slew old Solara then and there, and branded with an assassin's dark crime he must forever resign all hope of possessing his beloved Zuleika, must abandon her to die of a broken heart! Perhaps, too, he would be seized, tried, condemned and meet a felon's fate upon the ignominious scaffold! True, Roman justice might be silenced with money, but he was a disowned and disinherited son, a penniless outcast! These thoughts brought him to a realization of the black depths of the yawning gulf into which he was about to plunge and made him hesitate. But a quick idea came to his relief—if he were to fight a duel with old Solara and kill him thus the Roman law would not pursue him, he would not be stamped with a murderer's crime! He would do it, he would fight him! Springing to his feet, he drew a second pistol, and, casting it upon the ground beside his astonished foe, said to him, speaking slowly and impressively:

"Pasquale Solara, I will give you a chance for your life! Rise, take that pistol and face me! We will fight!"

The shepherd arose with some difficulty; he was considerably bruised and had, besides, seriously strained one of his legs. Taking up the weapon, he cocked it and without a word, but with a look of demoniac ferocity and triumph upon his evil countenance, assumed a position about twenty paces distant from his opponent. Instantly both raised their pistols and fired. When the light smoke cleared away it became evident that neither of them had been hit. Old Solara cast his empty weapon from him with a curse and, producing a pair of long, keen-bladed knives, threw one of them towards the Viscount.

"You challenged me and I accepted!" he said, in a harsh tone. "Now I challenge you! Take that knife and fight me!"

Massetti hesitated, with a look of horror upon his countenance. A duel with knives! It was barbarous! It was worthy of the red savages of the American wilds!

"Take the knife, I say!" thundered old Solara. "Take it and face me, or by the canopy of heaven I will show you less mercy than you have been weak enough to show me! I will stab you to the heart where you stand!"

He advanced with his murderous weapon in his outstretched hand, having previously rolled up his sleeve and bared his brown, sinewy arm.

Massetti stooped and took up the knife from where it lay. He also bared his arm, nervously grasping the hilt of the weapon.

Pasquale Solara's eyes gleamed like those of a tiger seen through the darkness of a Hindoostan jungle. They had a terrible, a bloodthirsty gleam. The shepherd now felt sure of his ground. With a pistol he was nothing, with a knife he was a power! Giovanni could not cope with him; he would fall an easy victim to his skill and cunning!

The Viscount watched the old scoundrel with feverish anxiety, fully realizing what was passing through his mind. That Pasquale would vanquish him, kill him, he could not doubt, for he knew no more about fighting with a knife than an infant in its cradle. However, his courage did not desert him, and he resolved to sell his life as dearly as possible.

Seeing Giovanni take the knife and prepare for the combat, Solara bent partially forward and rushed upon him. The long, keen blades met with a flash of fire. The young Italian confined himself to acting upon the defensive, the utmost activity and watchfulness being required on his part to parry and ward off his opponent's skilful and incessant thrusts. The shepherd fought with the bewildering rapidity of the lightning's flash and seemed to be in a thousand different places at once so swiftly did he advance, retreat and spring aside. His excitement made him forget his hurts.

At length Massetti's arm became so strained and fatigued that it was impossible for him to hold out much longer. His hand was tightly clutched about the haft of his knife, but it was so benumbed that he could not feel the weapon. Still with the energy and resolution of despair he continued the unequal conflict, hoping against hope that some unexpected turn of affairs might give him the advantage.

Meanwhile old Solara, fiendishly confident, was steadily and surely closing upon him, narrowing the limit of his retreat after each blow. Finally he retreated no more, but began pressing his adversary backwards towards the chestnut grove, the while delivering blow after blow. Then he suddenly gave his wrist a dextrous twirl and Giovanni's knife was torn from his grasp, falling about ten feet away. Instantly the young man was forced to the ground and old Pasquale stood over him with his legs wide apart, firmly planted to give the death-dealing thrust. As Massetti lay his eye caught the glimmer of his own knife beyond the shepherd and slipping like a serpent between Solara's legs he seized it, sprang to his feet and, before Pasquale could recover from his surprise at this unlooked-for manoeuvre, buried the glittering blade in his breast. Solara reeled and fell upon the grass, where he lay bathed in blood.

"You have escaped me, Viscount Massetti!" he groaned.

Young Massetti could scarcely realize what had happened, what he had done, so miraculous did the result of this strange duel appear to his bewildered mind.

As he stood like one in a dream he heard a sound as of many feet. Hastily dashing into the chestnut grove, he looked back and saw old Solara surrounded by a group of Luigi Vampa's men.