The Count of Monte Cristo
Valentine, as that of the most upright and honorable merchant of the
city; I say our country, because you were born not far from
Marseilles.”
“Don’t speak of Marseilles, I beg of you, Maximilian; that one word
brings back my mother to my recollection—my angel mother, who died too
soon for myself and all who knew her; but who, after watching over her
child during the brief period allotted to her in this world, now, I
fondly hope, watches from her home in heaven. Oh, if my mother were
still living, there would be nothing to fear, Maximilian, for I would
tell her that I loved you, and she would protect us.”
“I fear, Valentine,” replied the lover, “that were she living I should
never have had the happiness of knowing you; you would then have been
too happy to have stooped from your grandeur to bestow a thought on
me.”
“Now it is you who are unjust, Maximilian,” cried Valentine; “but there
is one thing I wish to know.”
“And what is that?” inquired the young man, perceiving that Valentine
hesitated.
“Tell me truly, Maximilian, whether in former days, when our fathers
dwelt at Marseilles, there was ever any misunderstanding between them?”
“Not that I am aware of,” replied the young man, “unless, indeed, any
ill-feeling might have arisen from their being of opposite parties—your
father was, as you know, a zealous partisan of the Bourbons, while mine
was wholly devoted to the emperor; there could not possibly be any
other difference between them. But why do you ask?”
“I will tell you,” replied the young girl, “for it is but right you
should know. Well, on the day when your appointment as an officer of
the Legion of Honor was announced in the papers, we were all sitting
with my grandfather, M. Noirtier; M. Danglars was there also—you
recollect M. Danglars, do you not, Maximilian, the banker, whose horses
ran away with my stepmother and little brother, and very nearly killed
them? While the rest of the company were discussing the approaching
marriage of Mademoiselle Danglars, I was reading the paper to my
grandfather; but when I came to the paragraph about you, although I had
done nothing else but read it over to myself all the morning (you know
you had told me all about it the previous evening), I felt so happy,
and yet so nervous, at the idea of speaking your name aloud, and before
so many people, that I really think I should have passed it over, but
for the fear that my doing so might create suspicions as to the cause
of my silence; so I summoned up all my courage, and read it as firmly
and as steadily as I could.”
30059m
“Dear Valentine!”
“Well, would you believe it? directly my father caught the sound of
your name he turned round quite hastily, and, like a poor silly thing,
I was so persuaded that everyone must be as much affected as myself by
the utterance of your name, that I was not surprised to see my father
start, and almost tremble; but I even thought (though that surely must
have been a mistake) that M. Danglars trembled too.”
“‘Morrel, Morrel,’ cried my father, ‘stop a bit;’ then knitting his
brows into a deep frown, he added, ‘surely this cannot be one of the
Morrel family who lived at Marseilles, and gave us so much trouble from
their violent Bonapartism—I mean about the year 1815.’
“‘Yes,’ replied M. Danglars, ‘I believe he is the son of the old
shipowner.’”
“Indeed,” answered Maximilian; “and what did your father say then,
Valentine?”
“Oh, such a dreadful thing, that I don’t dare to tell you.”
“Always tell me everything,” said Maximilian with a smile.
“‘Ah,’ continued my father, still frowning, ‘their idolized emperor
treated these madmen as they deserved; he called them ‘food for
cannon,’ which was precisely all they were good for; and I am delighted
to see that the present government have adopted this salutary principle
with all its pristine vigor; if Algiers were good for nothing but to
furnish the means of carrying so admirable an idea into practice, it
would be an acquisition well worthy of struggling to obtain. Though it
certainly does cost France somewhat dear to assert her rights in that
uncivilized country.’”
“Brutal politics, I must confess.” said Maximilian; “but don’t attach
any serious importance, dear, to what your father said. My father was
not a bit behind yours in that sort of talk. ‘Why,’ said he, ‘does not
the emperor, who has devised so many clever and efficient modes of
improving the art of war, organize a regiment of lawyers, judges and
legal practitioners, sending them in the hottest fire the enemy could
maintain, and using them to save better men?’ You see, my dear, that
for picturesque expression and generosity of spirit there is not much
to choose between the language of either party. But what did M.
Danglars say to this outburst on the part of the procureur?”
“Oh, he laughed, and in that singular manner so peculiar to
himself—half-malicious, half-ferocious; he almost immediately got up
and took his leave; then, for the first time, I observed the agitation
of my grandfather, and I must tell you, Maximilian, that I am the only
person capable of discerning emotion in his paralyzed frame. And I
suspected that the conversation that had been carried on in his
presence (for they always say and do what they like before the dear old
man, without the smallest regard for his feelings) had made a strong
impression on his mind; for, naturally enough, it must have pained him
to hear the emperor he so devotedly loved and served spoken of in that
depreciating manner.”
“The name of M. Noirtier,” interposed Maximilian, “is celebrated
throughout Europe; he was a statesman of high standing, and you may or
may not know, Valentine, that he took a leading part in every
Bonapartist conspiracy set on foot during the restoration of the
Bourbons.”
“Oh, I have often heard whispers of things that seem to me most
strange—the father a Bonapartist, the son a Royalist; what can have
been the reason of so singular a difference in parties and politics?
But to resume my story; I turned towards my grandfather, as though to
question him as to the cause of his emotion; he looked expressively at
the newspaper I had been reading. ‘What is the matter, dear
grandfather?’ said I, ‘are you pleased?’ He gave me a sign in the
affirmative. ‘With what my father said just now?’ He returned a sign in
the negative. ‘Perhaps you liked what M. Danglars said?’ Another sign
in the negative. ‘Oh, then, you were glad to hear that M. Morrel (I
didn’t dare to say Maximilian) had been made an officer of the Legion
of Honor?’ He signified assent; only think of the poor old man’s being
so pleased to think that you, who were a perfect stranger to him, had
been made an officer of the Legion of Honor! Perhaps it was a mere whim
on his part, for he is falling, they say, into second childhood, but I
love him for showing so much interest in you.”
“How singular,” murmured Maximilian; “your father hates me, while your
grandfather, on the contrary—What strange feelings are aroused by
politics.”
“Hush,” cried Valentine, suddenly; “someone is coming!” Maximilian
leaped at one bound into his crop of lucern, which he began to pull up
in the most ruthless way, under the pretext of being occupied in
weeding it.
“Mademoiselle, mademoiselle!” exclaimed a voice from behind the trees.
“Madame is searching for you everywhere; there is a visitor in the
drawing-room.”
“A visitor?” inquired Valentine, much agitated; “who is it?”
“Some grand personage—a prince I believe they said—the Count of Monte
Cristo.”
“I will come directly,” cried Valentine aloud.
The name of Monte Cristo sent an electric shock through the young man
on the other side of the iron gate, to whom Valentine’s _“I am coming”_
was the customary signal of farewell.
“Now, then,” said Maximilian, leaning on the handle of his spade, “I
would give a good deal to know how it comes about that the Count of
Monte Cristo is acquainted with M. de Villefort.”
Chapter 52. Toxicology
It was really the Count of Monte Cristo who had just arrived at Madame
de Villefort’s for the purpose of returning the procureur’s visit, and
at his name, as may be easily imagined, the whole house was in
confusion.
Madame de Villefort, who was alone in her drawing-room when the count
was announced, desired that her son might be brought thither instantly
to renew his thanks to the count; and Edward, who heard this great
personage talked of for two whole days, made all possible haste to come
to him, not from obedience to his mother, or out of any feeling of
gratitude to the count, but from sheer curiosity, and that some chance
remark might give him the opportunity for making one of the impertinent
speeches which made his mother say:
“Oh, that naughty child! But I can’t be severe with him, he is really
_so_ bright.”
After the usual civilities, the count inquired after M. de Villefort.
“My husband dines with the chancellor,” replied the young lady; “he has
just gone, and I am sure he’ll be exceedingly sorry not to have had the
pleasure of seeing you before he went.”
Two visitors who were there when the count arrived, having gazed at him
with all their eyes, retired after that reasonable delay which
politeness admits and curiosity requires.
“What is your sister Valentine doing?” inquired Madame de Villefort of
Edward; “tell someone to bid her come here, that I may have the honor
of introducing her to the count.”
“You have a daughter, then, madame?” inquired the count; “very young, I
presume?”
“The daughter of M. de Villefort by his first marriage,” replied the
young wife, “a fine well-grown girl.”
“But melancholy,” interrupted Master Edward, snatching the feathers out
of the tail of a splendid paroquet that was screaming on its gilded
perch, in order to make a plume for his hat.
Madame de Villefort merely cried, “Be still, Edward!” She then added,
“This young madcap is, however, very nearly right, and merely re-echoes
what he has heard me say with pain a hundred times; for Mademoiselle de
Villefort is, in spite of all we can do to rouse her, of a melancholy
disposition and taciturn habit, which frequently injure the effect of
her beauty. But what detains her? Go, Edward, and see.”
“Because they are looking for her where she is not to be found.”
“And where are they looking for her?”
“With grandpapa Noirtier.”
“And do you think she is not there?”
“No, no, no, no, no, she is not there,” replied Edward, singing his
words.
“And where is she, then? If you know, why don’t you tell?”
“She is under the big chestnut-tree,” replied the spoiled brat, as he
gave, in spite of his mother’s commands, live flies to the parrot,
which seemed keenly to relish such fare.
Madame de Villefort stretched out her hand to ring, intending to direct
her waiting-maid to the spot where she would find Valentine, when the
young lady herself entered the apartment. She appeared much dejected;
and any person who considered her attentively might have observed the
traces of recent tears in her eyes.
Valentine, whom we have in the rapid march of our narrative presented
to our readers without formally introducing her, was a tall and
graceful girl of nineteen, with bright chestnut hair, deep blue eyes,
and that reposeful air of quiet distinction which characterized her
mother. Her white and slender fingers, her pearly neck, her cheeks
tinted with varying hues reminded one of the lovely Englishwomen who
have been so poetically compared in their manner to the gracefulness of
a swan.
She entered the apartment, and seeing near her stepmother the stranger
of whom she had already heard so much, saluted him without any girlish
awkwardness, or even lowering her eyes, and with an elegance that
redoubled the count’s attention.