The Count of Monte Cristo
entered that house which was apparently destined to destruction by some
exterminating angel, as an object of God’s anger.”
“Ah, indeed?” said Monte Cristo, looking earnestly at the young man,
and by an imperceptible movement turning his chair, so that he remained
in the shade while the light fell full on Maximilian’s face.
“Yes,” continued Morrel, “death had entered that house twice within one
month.”
“And what did the doctor answer?” asked Monte Cristo.
“He replied—he replied, that the death was not a natural one, and must
be attributed”—
“To what?”
“To poison.”
“Indeed!” said Monte Cristo with a slight cough which in moments of
extreme emotion helped him to disguise a blush, or his pallor, or the
intense interest with which he listened; “indeed, Maximilian, did you
hear that?”
“Yes, my dear count, I heard it; and the doctor added that if another
death occurred in a similar way he must appeal to justice.”
Monte Cristo listened, or appeared to do so, with the greatest
calmness.
“Well,” said Maximilian, “death came a third time, and neither the
master of the house nor the doctor said a word. Death is now, perhaps,
striking a fourth blow. Count, what am I bound to do, being in
possession of this secret?”
“My dear friend,” said Monte Cristo, “you appear to be relating an
adventure which we all know by heart. I know the house where you heard
it, or one very similar to it; a house with a garden, a master, a
physician, and where there have been three unexpected and sudden
deaths. Well, I have not intercepted your confidence, and yet I know
all that as well as you, and I have no conscientious scruples. No, it
does not concern me. You say an exterminating angel appears to have
devoted that house to God’s anger—well, who says your supposition is
not reality? Do not notice things which those whose interest it is to
see them pass over. If it is God’s justice, instead of his anger, which
is walking through that house, Maximilian, turn away your face and let
his justice accomplish its purpose.”
Morrel shuddered. There was something mournful, solemn, and terrible in
the count’s manner.
“Besides,” continued he, in so changed a tone that no one would have
supposed it was the same person speaking—“besides, who says that it
will begin again?”
“It has returned, count,” exclaimed Morrel; “that is why I hastened to
you.”
“Well, what do you wish me to do? Do you wish me, for instance, to give
information to the procureur?” Monte Cristo uttered the last words with
so much meaning that Morrel, starting up, cried out:
“You know of whom I speak, count, do you not?”
“Perfectly well, my good friend; and I will prove it to you by putting
the dots to the _i_, or rather by naming the persons. You were walking
one evening in M. de Villefort’s garden; from what you relate, I
suppose it to have been the evening of Madame de Saint-Méran’s death.
You heard M. de Villefort talking to M. d’Avrigny about the death of M.
de Saint-Méran, and that no less surprising, of the countess. M.
d’Avrigny said he believed they both proceeded from poison; and you,
honest man, have ever since been asking your heart and sounding your
conscience to know if you ought to expose or conceal this secret. We
are no longer in the Middle Ages; there is no longer a Vehmgericht, or
Free Tribunals; what do you want to ask these people? ‘Conscience, what
hast thou to do with me?’ as Sterne said. My dear fellow, let them
sleep on, if they are asleep; let them grow pale in their drowsiness,
if they are disposed to do so, and pray do you remain in peace, who
have no remorse to disturb you.”
Deep grief was depicted on Morrel’s features; he seized Monte Cristo’s
hand. “But it is beginning again, I say!”
“Well,” said the Count, astonished at his perseverance, which he could
not understand, and looking still more earnestly at Maximilian, “let it
begin again,—it is like the house of the Atreidae;19 God has condemned
them, and they must submit to their punishment. They will all
disappear, like the fabrics children build with cards, and which fall,
one by one, under the breath of their builder, even if there are two
hundred of them. Three months since it was M. de Saint-Méran; Madame de
Saint-Méran two months since; the other day it was Barrois; today, the
old Noirtier, or young Valentine.”
“You knew it?” cried Morrel, in such a paroxysm of terror that Monte
Cristo started,—he whom the falling heavens would have found unmoved;
“you knew it, and said nothing?”
“And what is it to me?” replied Monte Cristo, shrugging his shoulders;
“do I know those people? and must I lose the one to save the other?
Faith, no, for between the culprit and the victim I have no choice.”
“But I,” cried Morrel, groaning with sorrow, “I love her!”
“You love?—whom?” cried Monte Cristo, starting to his feet, and seizing
the two hands which Morrel was raising towards heaven.
“I love most fondly—I love madly—I love as a man who would give his
life-blood to spare her a tear—I love Valentine de Villefort, who is
being murdered at this moment! Do you understand me? I love her; and I
ask God and you how I can save her?”
Monte Cristo uttered a cry which those only can conceive who have heard
the roar of a wounded lion. “Unhappy man,” cried he, wringing his hands
in his turn; “you love Valentine,—that daughter of an accursed race!”
Never had Morrel witnessed such an expression—never had so terrible an
eye flashed before his face—never had the genius of terror he had so
often seen, either on the battle-field or in the murderous nights of
Algeria, shaken around him more dreadful fire. He drew back terrified.
As for Monte Cristo, after this ebullition he closed his eyes as if
dazzled by internal light. In a moment he restrained himself so
powerfully that the tempestuous heaving of his breast subsided, as
turbulent and foaming waves yield to the sun’s genial influence when
the cloud has passed. This silence, self-control, and struggle lasted
about twenty seconds, then the count raised his pallid face.
“See,” said he, “my dear friend, how God punishes the most thoughtless
and unfeeling men for their indifference, by presenting dreadful scenes
to their view. I, who was looking on, an eager and curious
spectator,—I, who was watching the working of this mournful tragedy,—I,
who like a wicked angel was laughing at the evil men committed
protected by secrecy (a secret is easily kept by the rich and
powerful), I am in my turn bitten by the serpent whose tortuous course
I was watching, and bitten to the heart!”
Morrel groaned.
“Come, come,” continued the count, “complaints are unavailing, be a
man, be strong, be full of hope, for I am here and will watch over
you.”
Morrel shook his head sorrowfully.
“I tell you to hope. Do you understand me?” cried Monte Cristo.
“Remember that I never uttered a falsehood and am never deceived. It is
twelve o’clock, Maximilian; thank heaven that you came at noon rather
than in the evening, or tomorrow morning. Listen, Morrel—it is noon; if
Valentine is not now dead, she will not die.”
“How so?” cried Morrel, “when I left her dying?”
Monte Cristo pressed his hands to his forehead. What was passing in
that brain, so loaded with dreadful secrets? What does the angel of
light or the angel of darkness say to that mind, at once implacable and
generous? God only knows.
Monte Cristo raised his head once more, and this time he was calm as a
child awaking from its sleep.
“Maximilian,” said he, “return home. I command you not to stir—attempt
nothing, not to let your countenance betray a thought, and I will send
you tidings. Go.”
“Oh, count, you overwhelm me with that coolness. Have you, then, power
against death? Are you superhuman? Are you an angel?” And the young
man, who had never shrunk from danger, shrank before Monte Cristo with
indescribable terror. But Monte Cristo looked at him with so melancholy
and sweet a smile, that Maximilian felt the tears filling his eyes.
“I can do much for you, my friend,” replied the count. “Go; I must be
alone.”
Morrel, subdued by the extraordinary ascendancy Monte Cristo exercised
over everything around him, did not endeavor to resist it. He pressed
the count’s hand and left. He stopped one moment at the door for
Baptistin, whom he saw in the Rue Matignon, and who was running.
Meanwhile, Villefort and d’Avrigny had made all possible haste,
Valentine had not revived from her fainting fit on their arrival, and
the doctor examined the invalid with all the care the circumstances
demanded, and with an interest which the knowledge of the secret
intensified twofold. Villefort, closely watching his countenance and
his lips, awaited the result of the examination. Noirtier, paler than
even the young girl, more eager than Villefort for the decision, was
watching also intently and affectionately.
At last d’Avrigny slowly uttered these words: “She is still alive!”
“Still?” cried Villefort; “oh, doctor, what a dreadful word is that.”
“Yes,” said the physician, “I repeat it; she is still alive, and I am
astonished at it.”
“But is she safe?” asked the father.
“Yes, since she lives.”
At that moment d’Avrigny’s glance met Noirtier’s eye. It glistened with
such extraordinary joy, so rich and full of thought, that the physician
was struck. He placed the young girl again on the chair,—her lips were
scarcely discernible, they were so pale and white, as well as her whole
face,—and remained motionless, looking at Noirtier, who appeared to
anticipate and commend all he did.
“Sir,” said d’Avrigny to Villefort, “call Mademoiselle Valentine’s
maid, if you please.”
Villefort went himself to find her; and d’Avrigny approached Noirtier.
“Have you something to tell me?” asked he. The old man winked his eyes
expressively, which we may remember was his only way of expressing his
approval.
“Privately?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I will remain with you.” At this moment Villefort returned,
followed by the lady’s maid; and after her came Madame de Villefort.
“What is the matter, then, with this dear child? she has just left me,
and she complained of being indisposed, but I did not think seriously
of it.”
The young woman with tears in her eyes and every mark of affection of a
true mother, approached Valentine and took her hand. D’Avrigny
continued to look at Noirtier; he saw the eyes of the old man dilate
and become round, his cheeks turn pale and tremble; the perspiration
stood in drops upon his forehead.
“Ah,” said he, involuntarily following Noirtier’s eyes, which were
fixed on Madame de Villefort, who repeated:
“This poor child would be better in bed. Come, Fanny, we will put her
to bed.”
M. d’Avrigny, who saw that would be a means of his remaining alone with
Noirtier, expressed his opinion that it was the best thing that could
be done; but he forbade that anything should be given to her except
what he ordered.
They carried Valentine away; she had revived, but could scarcely move
or speak, so shaken was her frame by the attack. She had, however, just
power to give one parting look to her grandfather, who in losing her
seemed to be resigning his very soul. D’Avrigny followed the invalid,
wrote a prescription, ordered Villefort to take a cabriolet, go in
person to a chemist’s to get the prescribed medicine, bring it himself,
and wait for him in his daughter’s room. Then, having renewed his
injunction not to give Valentine anything, he went down again to
Noirtier, shut the doors carefully, and after convincing himself that
no one was listening:
“Do you,” said he, “know anything of this young lady’s illness?”
“Yes,” said the old man.
“We have no time to lose; I will question, and do you answer me.”
Noirtier made a sign that he was ready to answer. “Did you anticipate