The Count of Monte Cristo
which, being carpeted, prevented his approach being heard, and he had
regained that degree of confidence that the presence of M. de Villefort
even would not have alarmed him. He was quite prepared for any such
encounter. He would at once approach Valentine’s father and acknowledge
all, begging Villefort to pardon and sanction the love which united two
fond and loving hearts. Morrel was mad.
Happily he did not meet anyone. Now, especially, did he find the
description Valentine had given of the interior of the house useful to
him; he arrived safely at the top of the staircase, and while he was
feeling his way, a sob indicated the direction he was to take. He
turned back, a door partly open enabled him to see his road, and to
hear the voice of one in sorrow. He pushed the door open and entered.
At the other end of the room, under a white sheet which covered it, lay
the corpse, still more alarming to Morrel since the account he had so
unexpectedly overheard. By its side, on her knees, and with her head
buried in the cushion of an easy-chair, was Valentine, trembling and
sobbing, her hands extended above her head, clasped and stiff. She had
turned from the window, which remained open, and was praying in accents
that would have affected the most unfeeling; her words were rapid,
incoherent, unintelligible, for the burning weight of grief almost
stopped her utterance.
The moon shining through the open blinds made the lamp appear to burn
paler, and cast a sepulchral hue over the whole scene. Morrel could not
resist this; he was not exemplary for piety, he was not easily
impressed, but Valentine suffering, weeping, wringing her hands before
him, was more than he could bear in silence. He sighed, and whispered a
name, and the head bathed in tears and pressed on the velvet cushion of
the chair—a head like that of a Magdalen by Correggio—was raised and
turned towards him. Valentine perceived him without betraying the least
surprise. A heart overwhelmed with one great grief is insensible to
minor emotions. Morrel held out his hand to her. Valentine, as her only
apology for not having met him, pointed to the corpse under the sheet,
and began to sob again.
Neither dared for some time to speak in that room. They hesitated to
break the silence which death seemed to impose; at length Valentine
ventured.
“My friend,” said she, “how came you here? Alas, I would say you are
welcome, had not death opened the way for you into this house.”
“Valentine,” said Morrel with a trembling voice, “I had waited since
half-past eight, and did not see you come; I became uneasy, leaped the
wall, found my way through the garden, when voices conversing about the
fatal event——”
“What voices?” asked Valentine. Morrel shuddered as he thought of the
conversation of the doctor and M. de Villefort, and he thought he could
see through the sheet the extended hands, the stiff neck, and the
purple lips.
“Your servants,” said he, “who were repeating the whole of the
sorrowful story; from them I learned it all.”
“But it was risking the failure of our plan to come up here, love.”
“Forgive me,” replied Morrel; “I will go away.”
“No,” said Valentine, “you might meet someone; stay.”
“But if anyone should come here——”
The young girl shook her head. “No one will come,” said she; “do not
fear, there is our safeguard,” pointing to the bed.
“But what has become of M. d’Épinay?” replied Morrel.
30349m
“M. Franz arrived to sign the contract just as my dear grandmother was
dying.”
“Alas,” said Morrel with a feeling of selfish joy; for he thought this
death would cause the wedding to be postponed indefinitely.
“But what redoubles my sorrow,” continued the young girl, as if this
feeling was to receive its immediate punishment, “is that the poor old
lady, on her death-bed, requested that the marriage might take place as
soon as possible; she also, thinking to protect me, was acting against
me.”
“Hark!” said Morrel. They both listened; steps were distinctly heard in
the corridor and on the stairs.
“It is my father, who has just left his study.”
“To accompany the doctor to the door,” added Morrel.
“How do you know it is the doctor?” asked Valentine, astonished.
“I imagined it must be,” said Morrel.
Valentine looked at the young man; they heard the street door close,
then M. de Villefort locked the garden door, and returned upstairs. He
stopped a moment in the anteroom, as if hesitating whether to turn to
his own apartment or into Madame de Saint-Méran’s; Morrel concealed
himself behind a door; Valentine remained motionless, grief seeming to
deprive her of all fear. M. de Villefort passed on to his own room.
“Now,” said Valentine, “you can neither go out by the front door nor by
the garden.”
Morrel looked at her with astonishment.
“There is but one way left you that is safe,” said she; “it is through
my grandfather’s room.” She rose. “Come,” she added.
“Where?” asked Maximilian.
“To my grandfather’s room.”
“I in M. Noirtier’s apartment?”
“Yes.”
“Can you mean it, Valentine?”
“I have long wished it; he is my only remaining friend and we both need
his help,—come.”
“Be careful, Valentine,” said Morrel, hesitating to comply with the
young girl’s wishes; “I now see my error—I acted like a madman in
coming in here. Are you sure you are more reasonable?”
“Yes,” said Valentine; “and I have but one scruple,—that of leaving my
dear grandmother’s remains, which I had undertaken to watch.”
“Valentine,” said Morrel, “death is in itself sacred.”
“Yes,” said Valentine; “besides, it will not be for long.”
She then crossed the corridor, and led the way down a narrow staircase
to M. Noirtier’s room; Morrel followed her on tiptoe; at the door they
found the old servant.
“Barrois,” said Valentine, “shut the door, and let no one come in.”
She passed first.
Noirtier, seated in his chair, and listening to every sound, was
watching the door; he saw Valentine, and his eye brightened. There was
something grave and solemn in the approach of the young girl which
struck the old man, and immediately his bright eye began to
interrogate.
“Dear grandfather.” said she hurriedly, “you know poor grandmamma died
an hour since, and now I have no friend in the world but you.”
His expressive eyes evinced the greatest tenderness.
“To you alone, then, may I confide my sorrows and my hopes?”
The paralytic motioned “Yes.”
Valentine took Maximilian’s hand.
“Look attentively, then, at this gentleman.”
The old man fixed his scrutinizing gaze with slight astonishment on
Morrel.
“It is M. Maximilian Morrel,” said she; “the son of that good merchant
of Marseilles, whom you doubtless recollect.”
“Yes,” said the old man.
“He brings an irreproachable name, which Maximilian is likely to render
glorious, since at thirty years of age he is a captain, an officer of
the Legion of Honor.”
The old man signified that he recollected him.
“Well, grandpapa,” said Valentine, kneeling before him, and pointing to
Maximilian, “I love him, and will be only his; were I compelled to
marry another, I would destroy myself.”
The eyes of the paralytic expressed a multitude of tumultuous thoughts.
“You like M. Maximilian Morrel, do you not, grandpapa?” asked
Valentine.
“Yes.”
“And you will protect us, who are your children, against the will of my
father?”
Noirtier cast an intelligent glance at Morrel, as if to say, “perhaps I
may.”
Maximilian understood him.
“Mademoiselle,” said he, “you have a sacred duty to fulfil in your
deceased grandmother’s room, will you allow me the honor of a few
minutes’ conversation with M. Noirtier?”
“That is it,” said the old man’s eye. Then he looked anxiously at
Valentine.
“Do you fear he will not understand?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, we have so often spoken of you, that he knows exactly how I talk
to you.” Then turning to Maximilian, with an adorable smile; although
shaded by sorrow,—“He knows everything I know,” said she.
Valentine arose, placed a chair for Morrel, requested Barrois not to
admit anyone, and having tenderly embraced her grandfather, and
sorrowfully taken leave of Morrel, she went away. To prove to Noirtier
that he was in Valentine’s confidence and knew all their secrets,
Morrel took the dictionary, a pen, and some paper, and placed them all
on a table where there was a light.
“But first,” said Morrel, “allow me, sir, to tell you who I am, how
much I love Mademoiselle Valentine, and what are my designs respecting
her.”
Noirtier made a sign that he would listen.
It was an imposing sight to witness this old man, apparently a mere
useless burden, becoming the sole protector, support, and adviser of
the lovers who were both young, beautiful, and strong. His remarkably
noble and austere expression struck Morrel, who began his story with
trembling. He related the manner in which he had become acquainted with
Valentine, and how he had loved her, and that Valentine, in her
solitude and her misfortune, had accepted the offer of his devotion. He
told him his birth, his position, his fortune, and more than once, when
he consulted the look of the paralytic, that look answered, “That is
good, proceed.”
“And now,” said Morrel, when he had finished the first part of his
recital, “now I have told you of my love and my hopes, may I inform you
of my intentions?”
“Yes,” signified the old man.
“This was our resolution; a cabriolet was in waiting at the gate, in
which I intended to carry off Valentine to my sister’s house, to marry
her, and to wait respectfully M. de Villefort’s pardon.”
“No,” said Noirtier.
“We must not do so?”
“No.”
“You do not sanction our project?”
“No.”
“There is another way,” said Morrel. The old man’s interrogative eye
said, “Which?”
“I will go,” continued Maximilian, “I will seek M. Franz d’Épinay—I am
happy to be able to mention this in Mademoiselle de Villefort’s
absence—and will conduct myself toward him so as to compel him to
challenge me.” Noirtier’s look continued to interrogate.
“You wish to know what I will do?”
“Yes.”
“I will find him, as I told you. I will tell him the ties which bind me
to Mademoiselle Valentine; if he be a sensible man, he will prove it by
renouncing of his own accord the hand of his betrothed, and will secure
my friendship, and love until death; if he refuse, either through
interest or ridiculous pride, after I have proved to him that he would
be forcing my wife from me, that Valentine loves me, and will have no
other, I will fight with him, give him every advantage, and I shall
kill him, or he will kill me; if I am victorious, he will not marry
Valentine, and if I die, I am very sure Valentine will not marry him.”
Noirtier watched, with indescribable pleasure, this noble and sincere
countenance, on which every sentiment his tongue uttered was depicted,
adding by the expression of his fine features all that coloring adds to
a sound and faithful drawing.
Still, when Morrel had finished, he shut his eyes several times, which
was his manner of saying “No.”
“No?” said Morrel; “you disapprove of this second project, as you did
of the first?”
“I do,” signified the old man.
“But what then must be done?” asked Morrel. “Madame de Saint-Méran’s
last request was, that the marriage might not be delayed; must I let
things take their course?” Noirtier did not move. “I understand,” said
Morrel; “I am to wait.”
“Yes.”
“But delay may ruin our plan, sir,” replied the young man. “Alone,
Valentine has no power; she will be compelled to submit. I am here
almost miraculously, and can scarcely hope for so good an opportunity
to occur again. Believe me, there are only the two plans I have
proposed to you; forgive my vanity, and tell me which you prefer. Do