Respawned as The Count of Glow-Up-Chapter 271: The Final Promise: I

The sun was setting around six in the evening, painting the sky in soft opal hues. Golden rays pierced through the fading light, casting their glow across the endless blue ocean. The scorching heat of the day had finally begun to ease, replaced by a gentle breeze that felt like nature itself taking a deep breath after an exhausting southern afternoon. The refreshing wind carried the sweet scent of coastal plants mixed with the salty smell of the sea.

A sleek yacht glided through the water like a swan with outstretched wings, moving gracefully across the vast expanse that stretched from one end of the Mediterranean to the other. Despite the calmness of the evening, the vessel moved swiftly, leaving behind a trail of sparkling white foam. The sun continued its descent below the western horizon, but its stubborn rays kept reflecting off every wave, as if some ancient god of fire had just plunged into the ocean’s embrace.

Standing at the front of the yacht was a tall, dark-complexioned man. His eyes widened as he spotted a cone-shaped mass of land rising from the waves ahead.

"Is that Monte Cristo?" the traveler asked in a melancholy voice. He was clearly the one in charge of the yacht.

"Yes, Your Excellency," the captain replied. "We’ve arrived."

"We’ve arrived..." the traveler repeated, his voice heavy with indescribable sadness. Then, barely audible, he added, "Yes, this is my haven."

He fell silent again, lost in dark thoughts. The bitter smile on his face revealed far more than tears ever could. A few minutes later, a flash of light appeared on the island, followed by the distant sound of gunfire.

"Your Excellency," the captain said, "that’s the signal from the island. Will you respond?"

"What signal?"

The captain pointed toward the island, where a column of smoke was rising and expanding into the sky.

"Ah, yes," the traveler said, as if waking from a dream. "Give it to me."

The captain handed him a loaded rifle. The traveler slowly raised it and fired into the air. Ten minutes later, the yacht’s sails were lowered, and they dropped anchor about a hundred meters from a small harbor. A rowboat had already been lowered into the water, manned by four oarsmen and a helmsman. The traveler climbed down, but instead of sitting on the blue carpet that had been laid out for him at the back of the boat, he stood with his arms crossed.

The rowers waited, their oars half-raised above the water like birds drying their wings.

"Row," the traveler commanded.

The eight oars plunged into the sea simultaneously without a single splash, and the boat glided forward smoothly. Within moments, they reached a small natural harbor. The boat ran aground on the fine sand.

"Your Excellency, would you allow two of our men to carry you ashore on their shoulders?" one of the sailors offered. 𝙛𝒓𝒆𝙚𝒘𝒆𝓫𝙣𝓸𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝒄𝒐𝓶

The young man responded with an indifferent gesture and simply stepped out of the boat. The sea immediately rose to his waist.

"Ah, Your Excellency!" the pilot murmured. "You shouldn’t have done that. Our master will scold us."

The young man kept walking, following the sailors who knew where to find solid footing. Thirty paces brought them to dry land. He stamped his feet to shake off the water and looked around for someone to show him the way, it had grown quite dark. Just as he turned, a hand rested on his shoulder, and a voice that made him shudder spoke, "Good evening, Maximilian. You’re right on time. Thank you."

"Ah, is it you, Count?" the young man said, his voice taking on an almost joyful tone as he grasped Monte Cristo’s hand with both of his own.

"Yes. You see, I’m as punctual as you are. But you’re soaking wet, my dear friend. You need to change your clothes. Come, I have a place prepared for you where you’ll soon forget your exhaustion and the cold."

Monte Cristo noticed the young man turn around with surprise. Morrel had realized that the men who brought him had left without being paid or saying a word. He could already hear the sound of their oars as they returned to the yacht.

"Oh yes," the Count said, "you’re looking for the sailors."

"Yes, I didn’t pay them, but they’ve already left."

"Don’t worry about that, Maximilian," Monte Cristo said with a smile. "I’ve made an arrangement regarding my island, access is completely free of charge. It’s all been taken care of."

Morrel looked at the Count with surprise. "Count," he said, "you’re different here than you are in Paris."

"How so?"

"Here, you laugh."

The Count’s expression darkened. "You’re right to remind me of who I am, Maximilian. I was delighted to see you again and forgot for a moment that all happiness is temporary."

"Oh no, no, Count," Maximilian cried, grabbing the Count’s hands. "Please laugh. Be happy. Show me through your cheerfulness that life is bearable even for those who suffer. You’re being so kind and charitable, you’re putting on this happy face to give me courage, aren’t you?"

"You’re wrong, Morrel. I was genuinely happy."

"Then you’ve forgotten about me. That’s even better."

"What do you mean?"

"As the gladiator said to the emperor when entering the arena: ’He who is about to die salutes you.’"

"So you haven’t found peace?" the Count asked, surprised.

"Oh!" Morrel exclaimed, his glance full of bitter reproach. "Do you really think that’s possible?"

"Listen," the Count said. "Do you understand what I’m really asking? You can’t possibly see me as just some ordinary person spouting meaningless words. When I ask if you’ve found peace, I’m speaking as someone who understands the human heart completely. Tell me, Morrel, let’s examine your heart together. Do you still feel that desperate, feverish grief that makes you react like a wounded lion? Do you still have that consuming thirst that can only be satisfied by death? Are you still driven by regret so powerful it makes the living pursue death? Or are you simply exhausted and tired of waiting? Has your inability to remember made it impossible for you to cry? My dear friend, if that’s the case, if you can no longer weep, if your heart has grown cold and numb, if you’ve placed all your trust in God, then, Maximilian, you’ve found peace. Don’t complain."

"Count," Morrel said in a voice that was both firm and gentle, "listen to me as you would to a man whose thoughts have turned to heaven, even though he remains on earth. I’ve come here to die in the arms of a friend. Of course, there are people I love. I love my sister Julie and her husband Emmanuel. But I need someone with a strong mind to smile at me in my final moments. My sister would be drowning in tears and fainting, I couldn’t bear to see her suffer like that. Emmanuel would tear any weapon from my hands and raise an alarm with his cries. But you, Count, who are more than human, you’ll guide me to death along a peaceful path, won’t you?"

"My friend," the Count said, "I still have one doubt. Are you weak enough to take pride in your suffering?"

"No, not at all. I’m calm," Morrel said, offering his hand to the Count. "My pulse isn’t beating any faster or slower than usual. I’ve reached my destination, and I won’t go any further. You told me to wait and hope. Do you know what you did, you unfortunate advisor? I waited for a month, or rather, I suffered for a month. I did hope, Count. Man is such a pitiful, wretched creature, I actually hoped. For what, I couldn’t even say. Something wonderful, something absurd, a miracle. Only someone who has mixed hope into our rational minds like some kind of madness could understand. Yes, I waited. Yes, I hoped. And during these fifteen minutes we’ve been talking, you’ve unconsciously wounded and tortured my heart with every word, because everything you’ve said has proven there’s no hope for me. Count, I’ll sleep calmly and peacefully in the arms of death."

Morrel spoke these words with such intensity that the Count shuddered.

"My friend," Morrel continued, "you designated October fifth as the end of my waiting period. Today is October fifth." He pulled out his watch. "It’s now nine o’clock. I have three more hours to live."

"Very well," the Count said. "Come with me."

Morrel mechanically followed the Count, and they had entered a grotto before he even realized it. He felt carpet beneath his feet. A door opened, perfumes surrounded him, and brilliant light dazzled his eyes. Morrel hesitated, dreading the weakening effect of everything he was seeing. Monte Cristo gently pulled him inside.

"Why shouldn’t we spend the last three hours of life like those ancient Romans? When they were condemned by the emperor Nero, they sat at tables covered with flowers and gently slipped into death surrounded by the sweet scent of roses and heliotropes."

Morrel smiled. "As you wish," he said. "Death is always death, it means forgetting, resting, being excluded from life and therefore from grief."

He sat down, and Monte Cristo took a seat across from him. They were in the magnificent dining room the Count had described before, where marble statues held baskets perpetually filled with fruits and flowers. Morrel had glanced around carelessly, probably not noticing anything in particular.

"Let’s talk honestly," he said, looking at the Count.

"Go ahead."

"Count," Morrel said, "you embody all human knowledge. You seem like a being descended from a world wiser and more advanced than ours."

"There’s some truth in what you say," the Count replied with that smile that made him so handsome. "I’ve descended from a planet called Grief."

"I believe everything you tell me without questioning it. For instance, you told me to live, and I lived. You told me to hope, and I almost did. I’m almost tempted to ask you, as if you’d experienced death yourself, is it painful to die?"

Monte Cristo looked at Morrel with indescribable tenderness. "Yes," he said. "Yes, without a doubt it’s painful if you violently break through the outer shell that stubbornly clings to life. If you plunge a dagger into your flesh, if you force a bullet into your brain, which the slightest shock can damage, then certainly you’ll suffer pain, and you’ll regret leaving life for a rest you’ve bought at such a terrible price."

"Yes, I understand. There’s a secret to both luxury and pain in death, just as there is in life. The only thing that matters is understanding it."

"You’ve spoken truly, Maximilian. Depending on the care we take with it, death can be either a friend who rocks us gently like a nurse, or an enemy who violently tears the soul from the body. Someday, when the world is much older and humanity has mastered all the destructive powers in nature for the greater good, when mankind has discovered the secrets of death, that death will become as sweet and pleasurable as sleeping in the arms of your beloved."

"And if you wanted to die, you would choose this kind of death, Count?"

"Yes."

Morrel extended his hand. "Now I understand," he said. "That’s why you brought me here to this isolated place in the middle of the ocean, to this underground palace. It’s because you love me, isn’t it, Count? You love me enough to give me one of those gentle deaths we were discussing, a death without agony, a death that allows me to fade away while saying Valentine’s name and holding your hand."

"Yes, you’ve guessed correctly, Morrel," the Count said. "That’s exactly what I intended."

"Thank you. The thought that tomorrow I won’t suffer anymore brings sweetness to my heart."

"Do you regret nothing, then?"

"No," Morrel replied.

"Not even me?" the Count asked with deep emotion.

Morrel’s clear eyes clouded for a moment, then shone with unusual brightness as a large tear rolled down his cheek.

"What?" the Count said. "You still regret something in this world, and yet you want to die?"

"Oh, I beg you," Morrel exclaimed in a low voice, "don’t say another word, Count. Don’t prolong my suffering."

The Count thought Morrel was giving in, and this belief revived the horrible doubt that had overwhelmed him long ago at the Château d’If.

I’m trying to make this man happy, he thought. I see this act of kindness as weight on a scale, balancing out the evil I’ve done. But what if I’m wrong? What if this man hasn’t been unhappy enough to deserve happiness? What would become of me, who can only atone for evil by doing good?

Then he said aloud, "Listen, Morrel. I see that your grief is immense, but you still don’t want to risk your soul."

Morrel smiled sadly. "Count," he said, "I swear to you, my soul no longer belongs to me."

"Maximilian, you know I have no family in this world. I’ve grown accustomed to thinking of you as my son. Well then, to save my son, I’ll sacrifice my life, even my fortune."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that you want to leave life because you don’t understand all the pleasures that come with great wealth. Morrel, I possess nearly a hundred million in wealth, and I’m giving it all to you. With such a fortune, you can achieve any wish. Are you ambitious? Every path is open to you. Overturn the world, change its nature, pursue mad ideas, even become a criminal if you want, but live."

"Count, you gave me your word," Morrel said coldly. Then, checking his watch, he added, "It’s half past eleven."

"Morrel, do you really intend to do this in my house, right before my eyes?"

"Then let me leave," Maximilian said, "or I’ll think you didn’t love me for my own sake, but for yours." He stood up.

"Fine," Monte Cristo said, his face brightening at these words. "You’re determined. You’re inflexible. Yes, as you said, you’re truly wretched, and only a miracle can cure you. Sit down, Morrel, and wait."