The Count of Monte Cristo
general depended much on it; he even came to force M. Danglars. We have
had a narrow escape.”
“But,” said Valentine, timidly, “does all the father’s shame revert
upon the son? Monsieur Albert appears to me quite innocent of the
treason charged against the general.”
“Excuse me,” said the implacable young girl, “Monsieur Albert claims
and well deserves his share. It appears that after having challenged M.
de Monte Cristo at the Opera yesterday, he apologized on the ground
today.”
“Impossible,” said Madame de Villefort.
“Ah, my dear friend,” said Madame Danglars, with the same simplicity we
before noticed, “it is a fact. I heard it from M. Debray, who was
present at the explanation.”
Valentine also knew the truth, but she did not answer. A single word
had reminded her that Morrel was expecting her in M. Noirtier’s room.
Deeply engaged with a sort of inward contemplation, Valentine had
ceased for a moment to join in the conversation. She would, indeed,
have found it impossible to repeat what had been said the last few
minutes, when suddenly Madame Danglars’ hand, pressed on her arm,
aroused her from her lethargy.
“What is it?” said she, starting at Madame Danglars’ touch as she would
have done from an electric shock.
“It is, my dear Valentine,” said the baroness, “that you are,
doubtless, suffering.”
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“I?” said the young girl, passing her hand across her burning forehead.
“Yes, look at yourself in that glass; you have turned pale and then red
successively, three or four times in one minute.”
“Indeed,” cried Eugénie, “you are very pale!”
“Oh, do not be alarmed; I have been so for many days.” Artless as she
was, the young girl knew that this was an opportunity to leave, and
besides, Madame de Villefort came to her assistance.
“Retire, Valentine,” said she; “you are really suffering, and these
ladies will excuse you; drink a glass of pure water, it will restore
you.”
Valentine kissed Eugénie, bowed to Madame Danglars, who had already
risen to take her leave, and went out.
“That poor child,” said Madame de Villefort when Valentine was gone,
“she makes me very uneasy, and I should not be astonished if she had
some serious illness.”
Meanwhile, Valentine, in a sort of excitement which she could not quite
understand, had crossed Edward’s room without noticing some trick of
the child, and through her own had reached the little staircase.
She was within three steps of the bottom; she already heard Morrel’s
voice, when suddenly a cloud passed over her eyes, her stiffened foot
missed the step, her hands had no power to hold the baluster, and
falling against the wall she lost her balance wholly and toppled to the
floor. Morrel bounded to the door, opened it, and found Valentine
stretched out at the bottom of the stairs. Quick as a flash, he raised
her in his arms and placed her in a chair. Valentine opened her eyes.
“Oh, what a clumsy thing I am,” said she with feverish volubility; “I
don’t know my way. I forgot there were three more steps before the
landing.”
“You have hurt yourself, perhaps,” said Morrel. “What can I do for you,
Valentine?”
Valentine looked around her; she saw the deepest terror depicted in
Noirtier’s eyes.
“Don’t worry, dear grandpapa,” said she, endeavoring to smile; “it is
nothing—it is nothing; I was giddy, that is all.”
“Another attack of giddiness,” said Morrel, clasping his hands. “Oh,
attend to it, Valentine, I entreat you.”
“But no,” said Valentine,—“no, I tell you it is all past, and it was
nothing. Now, let me tell you some news; Eugénie is to be married in a
week, and in three days there is to be a grand feast, a betrothal
festival. We are all invited, my father, Madame de Villefort, and I—at
least, I understood it so.”
“When will it be our turn to think of these things? Oh, Valentine, you
who have so much influence over your grandpapa, try to make him
answer—Soon.”
“And do you,” said Valentine, “depend on me to stimulate the tardiness
and arouse the memory of grandpapa?”
“Yes,” cried Morrel, “make haste. So long as you are not mine,
Valentine, I shall always think I may lose you.”
“Oh,” replied Valentine with a convulsive movement, “oh, indeed,
Maximilian, you are too timid for an officer, for a soldier who, they
say, never knows fear. Ha, ha, ha!”
She burst into a forced and melancholy laugh, her arms stiffened and
twisted, her head fell back on her chair, and she remained motionless.
The cry of terror which was stopped on Noirtier’s lips, seemed to start
from his eyes. Morrel understood it; he knew he must call assistance.
The young man rang the bell violently; the housemaid who had been in
Mademoiselle Valentine’s room, and the servant who had replaced
Barrois, ran in at the same moment. Valentine was so pale, so cold, so
inanimate that without listening to what was said to them they were
seized with the fear which pervaded that house, and they flew into the
passage crying for help. Madame Danglars and Eugénie were going out at
that moment; they heard the cause of the disturbance.
“I told you so!” exclaimed Madame de Villefort. “Poor child!”
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Chapter 94. Maximilian’s Avowal
At the same moment M. de Villefort’s voice was heard calling from his
study, “What is the matter?”
Morrel looked at Noirtier who had recovered his self-command, and with
a glance indicated the closet where once before under somewhat similar
circumstances, he had taken refuge. He had only time to get his hat and
throw himself breathless into the closet when the procureur’s footstep
was heard in the passage.
Villefort sprang into the room, ran to Valentine, and took her in his
arms.
“A physician, a physician,—M. d’Avrigny!” cried Villefort; “or rather I
will go for him myself.”
He flew from the apartment, and Morrel at the same moment darted out at
the other door. He had been struck to the heart by a frightful
recollection—the conversation he had heard between the doctor and
Villefort the night of Madame de Saint-Méran’s death, recurred to him;
these symptoms, to a less alarming extent, were the same which had
preceded the death of Barrois. At the same time Monte Cristo’s voice
seemed to resound in his ear with the words he had heard only two hours
before, “Whatever you want, Morrel, come to me; I have great power.”
More rapidly than thought, he darted down the Rue Matignon, and thence
to the Avenue des Champs-Élysées.
Meanwhile M. de Villefort arrived in a hired cabriolet at M.
d’Avrigny’s door. He rang so violently that the porter was alarmed.
Villefort ran upstairs without saying a word. The porter knew him, and
let him pass, only calling to him:
“In his study, Monsieur Procureur—in his study!” Villefort pushed, or
rather forced, the door open.
“Ah,” said the doctor, “is it you?”
“Yes,” said Villefort, closing the door after him, “it is I, who am
come in my turn to ask you if we are quite alone. Doctor, my house is
accursed!”
“What?” said the latter with apparent coolness, but with deep emotion,
“have you another invalid?”
“Yes, doctor,” cried Villefort, clutching his hair, “yes!”
D’Avrigny’s look implied, “I told you it would be so.” Then he slowly
uttered these words, “Who is now dying in your house? What new victim
is going to accuse you of weakness before God?”
A mournful sob burst from Villefort’s heart; he approached the doctor,
and seizing his arm,—“Valentine,” said he, “it is Valentine’s turn!”
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“Your daughter!” cried d’Avrigny with grief and surprise.
“You see you were deceived,” murmured the magistrate; “come and see
her, and on her bed of agony entreat her pardon for having suspected
her.”
“Each time you have applied to me,” said the doctor, “it has been too
late; still I will go. But let us make haste, sir; with the enemies you
have to do with there is no time to be lost.”
“Oh, this time, doctor, you shall not have to reproach me with
weakness. This time I will know the assassin, and will pursue him.”
“Let us try first to save the victim before we think of revenging her,”
said d’Avrigny. “Come.”
The same cabriolet which had brought Villefort took them back at full
speed, and at this moment Morrel rapped at Monte Cristo’s door.
The count was in his study and was reading with an angry look something
which Bertuccio had brought in haste. Hearing the name of Morrel, who
had left him only two hours before, the count raised his head, arose,
and sprang to meet him.
“What is the matter, Maximilian?” asked he; “you are pale, and the
perspiration rolls from your forehead.” Morrel fell into a chair.
“Yes,” said he, “I came quickly; I wanted to speak to you.”
“Are all your family well?” asked the count, with an affectionate
benevolence, whose sincerity no one could for a moment doubt.
“Thank you, count—thank you,” said the young man, evidently embarrassed
how to begin the conversation; “yes, everyone in my family is well.”
“So much the better; yet you have something to tell me?” replied the
count with increased anxiety.
“Yes,” said Morrel, “it is true; I have but now left a house where
death has just entered, to run to you.”
“Are you then come from M. de Morcerf’s?” asked Monte Cristo.
“No,” said Morrel; “is someone dead in his house?”
“The general has just blown his brains out,” replied Monte Cristo with
great coolness.
“Oh, what a dreadful event!” cried Maximilian.
“Not for the countess, or for Albert,” said Monte Cristo; “a dead
father or husband is better than a dishonored one,—blood washes out
shame.”
“Poor countess,” said Maximilian, “I pity her very much; she is so
noble a woman!”
“Pity Albert also, Maximilian; for believe me he is the worthy son of
the countess. But let us return to yourself. You have hastened to
me—can I have the happiness of being useful to you?”
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“Yes, I need your help: that is I thought like a madman that you could
lend me your assistance in a case where God alone can succor me.”
“Tell me what it is,” replied Monte Cristo.
“Oh,” said Morrel, “I know not, indeed, if I may reveal this secret to
mortal ears, but fatality impels me, necessity constrains me, count——”
Morrel hesitated.
“Do you think I love you?” said Monte Cristo, taking the young man’s
hand affectionately in his.
“Oh, you encourage me, and something tells me there,” placing his hand
on his heart, “that I ought to have no secret from you.”
“You are right, Morrel; God is speaking to your heart, and your heart
speaks to you. Tell me what it says.”
“Count, will you allow me to send Baptistin to inquire after someone
you know?”
“I am at your service, and still more my servants.”
“Oh, I cannot live if she is not better.”
“Shall I ring for Baptistin?”
“No, I will go and speak to him myself.” Morrel went out, called
Baptistin, and whispered a few words to him. The valet ran directly.
“Well, have you sent?” asked Monte Cristo, seeing Morrel return.
“Yes, and now I shall be more calm.”
“You know I am waiting,” said Monte Cristo, smiling.
“Yes, and I will tell you. One evening I was in a garden; a clump of
trees concealed me; no one suspected I was there. Two persons passed
near me—allow me to conceal their names for the present; they were
speaking in an undertone, and yet I was so interested in what they said
that I did not lose a single word.”
“This is a gloomy introduction, if I may judge from your pallor and
shuddering, Morrel.”
“Oh, yes, very gloomy, my friend. Someone had just died in the house to
which that garden belonged. One of the persons whose conversation I
overheard was the master of the house; the other, the physician. The
former was confiding to the latter his grief and fear, for it was the
second time within a month that death had suddenly and unexpectedly