The Count of Monte Cristo
“Everybody pities you, sir; and, above all, Mademoiselle Danglars!”
“Poor Eugénie!” said Danglars; “do you know she is going to embrace a
religious life?”
“No.”
“Alas, it is unhappily but too true. The day after the event, she
decided on leaving Paris with a nun of her acquaintance; they are gone
to seek a very strict convent in Italy or Spain.”
“Oh, it is terrible!” and M. de Boville retired with this exclamation,
after expressing acute sympathy with the father. But he had scarcely
left before Danglars, with an energy of action those can alone
understand who have seen Robert Macaire represented by Frédérick,24
exclaimed:
“Fool!”
Then enclosing Monte Cristo’s receipt in a little pocket-book, he
added:—“Yes, come at twelve o’clock; I shall then be far away.”
Then he double-locked his door, emptied all his drawers, collected
about fifty thousand francs in bank-notes, burned several papers, left
others exposed to view, and then commenced writing a letter which he
addressed:
“To Madame la Baronne Danglars.”
“I will place it on her table myself tonight,” he murmured. Then taking
a passport from his drawer he said,—“Good, it is available for two
months longer.”
Chapter 105. The Cemetery of Père-Lachaise
M. de Boville had indeed met the funeral procession which was taking
Valentine to her last home on earth. The weather was dull and stormy, a
cold wind shook the few remaining yellow leaves from the boughs of the
trees, and scattered them among the crowd which filled the boulevards.
M. de Villefort, a true Parisian, considered the cemetery of
Père-Lachaise alone worthy of receiving the mortal remains of a
Parisian family; there alone the corpses belonging to him would be
surrounded by worthy associates. He had therefore purchased a vault,
which was quickly occupied by members of his family. On the front of
the monument was inscribed: “The families of Saint-Méran and
Villefort,” for such had been the last wish expressed by poor Renée,
Valentine’s mother. The pompous procession therefore wended its way
towards Père-Lachaise from the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. Having crossed
Paris, it passed through the Faubourg du Temple, then leaving the
exterior boulevards, it reached the cemetery. More than fifty private
carriages followed the twenty mourning-coaches, and behind them more
than five hundred persons joined in the procession on foot.
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These last consisted of all the young people whom Valentine’s death had
struck like a thunderbolt, and who, notwithstanding the raw chilliness
of the season, could not refrain from paying a last tribute to the
memory of the beautiful, chaste, and adorable girl, thus cut off in the
flower of her youth.
As they left Paris, an equipage with four horses, at full speed, was
seen to draw up suddenly; it contained Monte Cristo. The count left the
carriage and mingled in the crowd who followed on foot. Château-Renaud
perceived him and immediately alighting from his _coupé_, joined him;
Beauchamp did the same.
The count looked attentively through every opening in the crowd; he was
evidently watching for someone, but his search ended in disappointment.
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“Where is Morrel?” he asked; “do either of these gentlemen know where
he is?”
“We have already asked that question,” said Château-Renaud, “for none
of us has seen him.”
The count was silent, but continued to gaze around him. At length they
arrived at the cemetery. The piercing eye of Monte Cristo glanced
through clusters of bushes and trees, and was soon relieved from all
anxiety, for seeing a shadow glide between the yew-trees, Monte Cristo
recognized him whom he sought.
One funeral is generally very much like another in this magnificent
metropolis. Black figures are seen scattered over the long white
avenues; the silence of earth and heaven is alone broken by the noise
made by the crackling branches of hedges planted around the monuments;
then follows the melancholy chant of the priests, mingled now and then
with a sob of anguish, escaping from some woman concealed behind a mass
of flowers.
The shadow Monte Cristo had noticed passed rapidly behind the tomb of
Abélard and Héloïse, placed itself close to the heads of the horses
belonging to the hearse, and following the undertaker’s men, arrived
with them at the spot appointed for the burial. Each person’s attention
was occupied. Monte Cristo saw nothing but the shadow, which no one
else observed. Twice the count left the ranks to see whether the object
of his interest had any concealed weapon beneath his clothes. When the
procession stopped, this shadow was recognized as Morrel, who, with his
coat buttoned up to his throat, his face livid, and convulsively
crushing his hat between his fingers, leaned against a tree, situated
on an elevation commanding the mausoleum, so that none of the funeral
details could escape his observation.
Everything was conducted in the usual manner. A few men, the least
impressed of all by the scene, pronounced a discourse, some deploring
this premature death, others expatiating on the grief of the father,
and one very ingenious person quoting the fact that Valentine had
solicited pardon of her father for criminals on whom the arm of justice
was ready to fall—until at length they exhausted their stores of
metaphor and mournful speeches, elaborate variations on the stanzas of
Malherbe to Du Périer.
Monte Cristo heard and saw nothing, or rather he only saw Morrel, whose
calmness had a frightful effect on those who knew what was passing in
his heart.
“See,” said Beauchamp, pointing out Morrel to Debray. “What is he doing
up there?” And they called Château-Renaud’s attention to him.
“How pale he is!” said Château-Renaud, shuddering.
“He is cold,” said Debray.
“Not at all,” said Château-Renaud, slowly; “I think he is violently
agitated. He is very susceptible.”
“Bah,” said Debray; “he scarcely knew Mademoiselle de Villefort; you
said so yourself.”
“True. Still I remember he danced three times with her at Madame de
Morcerf’s. Do you recollect that ball, count, where you produced such
an effect?”
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“No, I do not,” replied Monte Cristo, without even knowing of what or
to whom he was speaking, so much was he occupied in watching Morrel,
who was holding his breath with emotion.
“The discourse is over; farewell, gentlemen,” said the count,
unceremoniously.
And he disappeared without anyone seeing whither he went.
The funeral being over, the guests returned to Paris. Château-Renaud
looked for a moment for Morrel; but while they were watching the
departure of the count, Morrel had quitted his post, and
Château-Renaud, failing in his search, joined Debray and Beauchamp.
Monte Cristo concealed himself behind a large tomb and awaited the
arrival of Morrel, who by degrees approached the tomb now abandoned by
spectators and workmen. Morrel threw a glance around, but before it
reached the spot occupied by Monte Cristo the latter had advanced yet
nearer, still unperceived. The young man knelt down. The count, with
outstretched neck and glaring eyes, stood in an attitude ready to
pounce upon Morrel upon the first occasion. Morrel bent his head till
it touched the stone, then clutching the grating with both hands, he
murmured:
“Oh, Valentine!”
The count’s heart was pierced by the utterance of these two words; he
stepped forward, and touching the young man’s shoulder, said:
“I was looking for you, my friend.” Monte Cristo expected a burst of
passion, but he was deceived, for Morrel turning round, said calmly,—
“You see I was praying.” The scrutinizing glance of the count searched
the young man from head to foot. He then seemed more easy.
“Shall I drive you back to Paris?” he asked.
“No, thank you.”
“Do you wish anything?”
“Leave me to pray.”
The count withdrew without opposition, but it was only to place himself
in a situation where he could watch every movement of Morrel, who at
length arose, brushed the dust from his knees, and turned towards
Paris, without once looking back. He walked slowly down the Rue de la
Roquette. The count, dismissing his carriage, followed him about a
hundred paces behind. Maximilian crossed the canal and entered the Rue
Meslay by the boulevards.
Five minutes after the door had been closed on Morrel’s entrance, it
was again opened for the count. Julie was at the entrance of the
garden, where she was attentively watching Penelon, who, entering with
zeal into his profession of gardener, was very busy grafting some
Bengal roses. “Ah, count,” she exclaimed, with the delight manifested
by every member of the family whenever he visited the Rue Meslay.
“Maximilian has just returned, has he not, madame?” asked the count.
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“Yes, I think I saw him pass; but pray, call Emmanuel.”
“Excuse me, madame, but I must go up to Maximilian’s room this
instant,” replied Monte Cristo, “I have something of the greatest
importance to tell him.”
“Go, then,” she said with a charming smile, which accompanied him until
he had disappeared.
Monte Cristo soon ran up the staircase conducting from the ground floor
to Maximilian’s room; when he reached the landing he listened
attentively, but all was still. Like many old houses occupied by a
single family, the room door was panelled with glass; but it was
locked, Maximilian was shut in, and it was impossible to see what was
passing in the room, because a red curtain was drawn before the glass.
The count’s anxiety was manifested by a bright color which seldom
appeared on the face of that imperturbable man.
“What shall I do!” he uttered, and reflected for a moment; “shall I
ring? No, the sound of a bell, announcing a visitor, will but
accelerate the resolution of one in Maximilian’s situation, and then
the bell would be followed by a louder noise.”
Monte Cristo trembled from head to foot and as if his determination had
been taken with the rapidity of lightning, he struck one of the panes
of glass with his elbow; the glass was shivered to atoms, then
withdrawing the curtain he saw Morrel, who had been writing at his
desk, bound from his seat at the noise of the broken window.
“I beg a thousand pardons,” said the count, “there is nothing the
matter, but I slipped down and broke one of your panes of glass with my
elbow. Since it is opened, I will take advantage of it to enter your
room; do not disturb yourself—do not disturb yourself!”
And passing his hand through the broken glass, the count opened the
door. Morrel, evidently discomposed, came to meet Monte Cristo less
with the intention of receiving him than to exclude his entry.
“_Ma foi_,” said Monte Cristo, rubbing his elbow, “it’s all your
servant’s fault; your stairs are so polished, it is like walking on
glass.”
“Are you hurt, sir?” coldly asked Morrel.
“I believe not. But what are you about there? You were writing.”
“I?”
“Your fingers are stained with ink.”
“Ah, true, I was writing. I do sometimes, soldier though I am.”
Monte Cristo advanced into the room; Maximilian was obliged to let him
pass, but he followed him.
“You were writing?” said Monte Cristo with a searching look.
“I have already had the honor of telling you I was,” said Morrel.
The count looked around him.
“Your pistols are beside your desk,” said Monte Cristo, pointing with
his finger to the pistols on the table.
“I am on the point of starting on a journey,” replied Morrel
disdainfully.
“My friend,” exclaimed Monte Cristo in a tone of exquisite sweetness.
“Sir?”
“My friend, my dear Maximilian, do not make a hasty resolution, I
entreat you.”
“I make a hasty resolution?” said Morrel, shrugging his shoulders; “is
there anything extraordinary in a journey?”
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