Esperance was alone; his brow was thoughtful. He sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands. Suddenly he started up, and drawing aside the heavy portiÈre over a door, entered a small, dark room that seemed to be an oratory.

Stained glass windows admitted an uncertain light. Esperance threw open the sash and the daylight streamed in, and with it the delicious breeze of spring. Esperance turned to the wall, on which hung a fine picture of Monte-Cristo. Next this portrait hung one of his mother.

The young man spoke aloud. "Father!" he said, "mother! listen to me, judge me and counsel me. Who and what am I? What is my future to be? Am I guilty or am I—mad?"

Esperance shivered. Then throwing his head back proudly, he said, "No, I am not mad, and yet I cannot understand myself. Oh! father, why did I not have courage to speak to you frankly? You would have understood me and encouraged me. I am afraid of life, I am afraid of myself—afraid of the very name I bear, and of your greatness, the shadow of which falls on me."

In the letter written by Monte-Cristo to his son, he had spoken the truth. He had not thought sufficiently of developing the especial characteristics of his son, and had made of him a philosopher.

Esperance had been compelled to reason calmly on all subjects, and the inconsequence of youth had been frowned upon by his father.

Edmond DantÈs had been young, vivacious and full of illusions and hopes. Monte-Cristo forgot this, and forgot that Esperance was but twenty. He had been kind and loving to Esperance; he had, as he believed, armed him for the battle of life, but he had extinguished his boyishness and engrafted the seeds of distrust.

Esperance never accused his father, but the result of this education was that he was afraid of himself and others. Monte-Cristo saw his son silent and sad at times, but he did not realize that it was because he had quenched the youth in him and made him prematurely old. He moreover suddenly became convinced that it was best for Esperance to leave him, and therefore departed silently and mysteriously.

Esperance was armed against the tragedies of life, but not against its daily annoyances.

Esperance had enormous muscular strength, and yet he was weak to resist sorrow. He could have held his hand on a brazier of burning coals, but he would have started at a pin-prick. And now that Monte-Cristo had gone, Esperance felt like a child deprived of its mother.

A bell rang, announcing a visitor.

He passed his hand over his brow. Then addressing the dear portraits once more, "Beloved mother!" he murmured, "give me your enthusiasm and your delicacy, and, my father, give me strength and courage. God grant that I may be worthy of you both!"

He went to the window, and gazed up at the blue sky with an expression that was almost mystical. Then he closed the room, and returned to his chamber.

Coucon appeared bearing two cards on a silver tray.

Esperance looked at the cards, and uttered an exclamation of joy.

"Lay two more covers," he said, "I will come down at once."