"My Dear Child:

"Twelve years have elapsed since that terrible day when, with the assistance of our dear friends in Algeria, I was enabled to save you from a most awful death. Since then many events have swept over my head, which is to-day becoming very gray.

"I am over sixty, and yet I hope to do a little more good in the world. But I must hasten.

"I have borne up against many misfortunes and great catastrophes, and one, even alone, prostrated me and deprived me of courage, and that was the death of your beloved mother. I realized then that I was only a man. I said to myself: 'Monte-Cristo, the color has fled from your cheek, the fire from your eye. You are in possession of old Faria's secrets and science, but you are powerless against Death. You have triumphed over Villefort, Morcerf, Danglars, Benedetto and Maldar, but you cannot triumph over Death! Remember that you are only a man!'

"You were just sixteen, Esperance, when your mother was taken from us, and your tears fell with mine, but you said to yourself: 'My father remains!' But, my beloved son, something in that father died at that time, or rather, I should say that something was born—his self-confidence vanished forever, and doubt took its place. For many long years, my son, your father deemed himself master of his own destiny, and with a certain simplicity at which I smile to-day, he fancied that he could make all wills bend to his. From that moment wrinkles came to my brow and my hair grew white, and I cannot smooth away those wrinkles, nor can my will, strong though it be, bring back the color to my lips nor fire to my eyes. I have punished the evil-doers, but when I sought to repair the evil I had committed, I have not always succeeded.

"I released the son of MercÉdÈs from the fanatics of Ouargla, but two years later, in December, 1851, he fell, on the day of that 'attentat,' which is not yet avenged.

"Where is Maximilian Morel, where is the daughter of Villefort, the gentle Valentine, whose happiness was dear to me? Did not they all perish in the frightful revolt of the Sepoys in India in 1859? It is clear to me that my love was powerless to protect.

"If I write this to you, my son, it is not with a wish to sadden you. But you are not only my son but my confessor, as well as my one joy and my hope. From your mother you inherit generous instincts and a spirit of devotion. From me you have received vigor and energy, but I trust that you inherit none of my pride.

"When this letter reaches you I shall be far away. Yes, and I wish you to know why. There is a suggestion of weakness in your nature which I wish to eradicate. When you are with me you do not do justice to yourself—you are content to walk in my shadow and see life through my eyes. But I desire to remind you that you have arrived at man's estate, and that you must live your own life and think your own thoughts. You are free, you are twenty-two, and you are wealthy. You have, therefore, no reason to fear that any obstacles will be thrown in your path. You have no enemies—I have scattered them from your path. Think only of making friends for yourself. I have had protÉgÉs rather than friends.

"I know you to be sincere and generous. Believe and give. It is good sometimes for a man to make mistakes. True experience is made up of errors. Do not be afraid of their consequences. But, nevertheless, be cautious. Avoid the irreparable. To kiss is a crime, the only one, possibly, because it is the only one that cannot be repaired. If, however, you commit great faults, do not hesitate to acknowledge them.

"Make your own way through life, my son. I have left you that you may do so. You have near you devoted hearts. Coucon will never forsake you. I have taken my old Bertuccio with me. I did not wish you to think that I had left any one to watch you and report to me. In case of danger, summon Fanfar.

"Up to this time I feel that you have had no secrets from me. Your heart is free, let it be your guide. Remember that love, often great happiness, is more often great sorrow.

"I love you, my son, though I leave you. I know not where I am going. I long to do good, and hope to find happiness.

"Dear, dear child! Oh! how I love you!

"Monte-Cristo."