“A thousand thanks,” said the Count. “Your invitation is most kind, and I regret exceedingly that it is not in my power to accept it. I am not so free as you suppose; on the contrary, I have a most important engagement.”
“Take care! You showed me just now how one could creditably refuse an unwelcome invitation. I require proofs. I am not a banker like Monsieur Danglars, but, I assure you, I am as incredulous as he.”
“I will give you a proof,” said the Count as he rang the bell.
“Humph!” said Morcerf. “This is the second time you have refused to dine with my mother; it is evidently done deliberately.”
Monte Cristo started. “You do not mean that,” said he. “Besides, here comes my proof.”
Baptistin entered and remained standing at the door.
“Baptistin,” said the Count, “what did I tell you this morning when I called you into my study?”
“To close the door against visitors as soon as the clock struck five,” replied the valet.
“What then?”
“You further told me to admit no one but Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti and his son.”
“You hear: Major Cavalcanti, a man who ranks amongst the most ancient nobility of Italy, whose name Dante has celebrated in the tenth canto of the Inferno; you remember it, don’t you? Then there is his son, a charming young man of about your own age, Viscount, and bearing the same title as yourself, who is making his début into Paris society aided by his father’s millions. The Major will bring his son, the contino,bq as we say in Italy, with him this evening; he wishes to confide him to my care. If he prove himself worthy of it, I will do what I can for him; you will assist me, will you not?”
“Most certainly. This Major Cavalcanti is an old friend of yours?”
“By no means. I met him several times at Florence, Bologna, and Lucca, and he has now communicated to me that he has arrived here. I shall give him a good dinner; he will confide his son to my care; I shall promise to watch over him; I shall let him follow in whatever path his folly may lead him, and then I shall have done my part.”
“Splendid! I see you are a valuable mentor,” said Albert. “Good-bye. We shall be back on Sunday. By the way, I have received news of Franz.”
“Have you? Is he still enjoying himself in Italy?”
“I believe so, and he greatly regrets your absence. He says you were the sun of Rome, and that without you all appears dark and cloudy; I am not sure that he does not go so far as to say that it rains.”
“He is a charming young man,” said Monte Cristo, “and I have always felt a lively interest in him. He is the son of General d’Épinay, I think.”
“Yes, he is.”
“The same who was so shamefully assassinated in eighteen-fifteen?”
“By the Bonapartists.”
“That’s it. Really, I like him extremely. Is there not a matrimonial engagement contemplated for him, too?”
“Yes, he is to marry Mademoiselle de Villefort.”
“Indeed!”
“And you know I am to marry Mademoiselle Danglars,” said Albert laughing.
“You smile? Why?”
“I smile because there seems to be as much sympathy for that marriage as there is for my own. But really, my dear Count, we are talking as much of women as they do of us; it is unpardonable.”
Albert rose.
“Give my compliments to your illustrious visitor, Cavalcanti,” he continued, “and if by any chance he should be desirous of finding a wife for his son who is very rich, of very noble birth on her mother’s side, and a Baroness in right of her father, I will help you to find one.”
And with a laugh Albert departed.
Chapter XXXVIII
PYRAMUS AND THISBE
Our readers must permit us to conduct them to the enclosure surrounding Monsieur de Villefort’s house, and, behind the gate half hidden by wide-spreading chestnut-trees, we shall find some persons of our acquaintance.
Maximilian was the first to arrive. With his eyes close to the fence he was watching for a shadow among the trees at the bottom of the garden, and listening for a footfall on the gravel paths.
At length the desired sound was heard, but instead of one shadow there were two. Valentine had been delayed by a visit from Mme Danglars and Eugénie which had lasted longer than she had anticipated; but that she might not fail to keep her appointment with Maximilian, she had proposed to Mlle Danglars that they should take a walk in the garden, which would enable her to show Maximilian that the delay was not caused by any fault of hers.
With the intuitive perception of a lover, the young man understood the circumstances and was greatly relieved. Besides, without coming within speaking distance, Valentine led her companion where Maximilian could see her go by, and each time she passed near him a look, unperceived by her companion, said to him: “Have patience, my friend, you see it is none of my doing.”
And Maximilian was patient and spent his time appreciating the contrast between the two young girls: the one fair-haired, with languid eyes and a tall figure, slightly bent like a beautiful weeping willow; the other dark-haired, with fiery eyes and a figure as upright as a poplar. Needless to say, the comparison between these two opposed natures was all in Valentine’s favour, at least in the opinion of the young man.
At the end of half an hour, the girls disappeared, and an instant later Valentine returned alone. She ran up to the gate.
“Good evening, Valentine,” said a voice.
“Good evening, Maximilian. I have kept you waiting, but you saw the reason.”
“Yes, I recognized Mademoiselle Danglars. I did not know you were so intimate with her.”
“Who told you we were intimate?”
“No one, but the manner in which you walked and talked rather suggested it. You looked like two schoolgirls exchanging confidences.”
“We were in fact exchanging confidences,” returned Valentine. “She was telling me how repugnant to her was the idea of a marriage with Monsieur de Morcerf, and I confessed to her how unhappy I was at the thought of marrying Monsieur d’Épinay. In speaking of the man I cannot love, I thought of the man I love. She told me that she detests the idea of marriage, that her greatest joy would be to lead a free and independent life, and that she almost wished her father would lose his fortune so that she could become an artist like her friend, Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly. But let us talk of ourselves and not of her, for we have not more than ten minutes together.”
“Why, what has happened, Valentine, that you must leave me so soon?”
“I do not know. Madame de Villefort told me to go to her room as she had something to communicate to me which influences a part of my fortune. Ah, well! let them take the whole of my fortune, I am too rich. When they have taken it, perhaps they will leave me in peace. You would love me just as much if I were poor, would you not, Maximilian?”
“I shall always love you. What should I care about wealth or poverty so long as my Valentine was near me, and I was sure no one could take her from me. But do you not fear the communication may be in connexion with your approaching marriage?”
“I do not think so.”
“In any case, listen to me, Valentine, and do not be afraid, for as long as I live, I will never belong to another.”
“Do you think you make me happy by telling me that, Maximilian?”
“Forgive me, dear, for being such a churl. What I wanted to tell you is that the other day I met Monsieur de Morcerf who, as you know, is Monsieur Franz’s friend. He had received a letter from him intimating his early return.”
Valentine turned pale and leaned against the gate for support.
“Can it be that?” she cried. “But no, such a communication would not come from Madame de Villefort.”
“Why not?”
“Because . . . I scarcely know why . . . but though she does not oppose my proposed marriage openly, Madame de Villefort seems to be against it.”
“Is that so? Then
I think I almost love Madame de Villefort!”
“Do not be in such a hurry, Maximilian,” said Valentine with a sad smile.
“If she is averse to this marriage, let the engagement be broken off, and then perhaps she would lend her ear to some other proposal.”
“Do not lay any hopes on that, Maximilian, it is not the husband my stepmother objects to, it is marriage itself.”
“You don’t mean to say so! But if she has such a strong aversion to marriage, why did she herself marry?”
“You do not understand. A year ago, when I spoke of entering a convent, though she felt it her duty to make certain comments, she accepted my proposal with joy. Even my father consented—at her instigation, I am sure. It was my poor grandfather kept me back! Maximilian, you can have no idea of the expression in the eyes of the old man, who loves no one but me, and (may God forgive me if I am wrong) who is loved by no one but me. If you knew how he looked at me when he heard of my resolution! What reproach there was in those dear eyes and despair in the uncomplaining tears that chased each other down his lifeless cheeks! Oh, Maximilian, I felt such remorse that I threw myself at his feet exclaiming: ‘For give me. Oh, forgive me, Grandfather! Let them do with me what they will, I will never leave you!’ He just raised his eyes to Heaven! I can suffer much! That look recompensed me in advance for all I shall suffer.”
“Dearest Valentine! You are an angel, and I am sure I do not know in what way I have merited your love. But tell me, how could it be to Madame de Villefort’s interest that you should not marry?”
“Did I not tell you just now that I was rich, too rich? I have an income of nearly fifty thousand francs from my father; my grandfather and grandmother, the Marquis and Marquise of Saint-Méran, will leave me a similar amount; Monsieur Noirtier obviously intends to make me his sole heir. By comparison with me, therefore, my brother Edward, who will inherit no fortune from his mother, is poor. Madame de Villefort’s love for this child amounts to adoration, and if I had taken the veil, all my fortune would have descended to my father, and would ultimately have reverted to her son.”
“How strange that such a young and beautiful woman should be so avaricious!”
“It is not for herself she wants the money; it is for her son, and what you consider a vice is almost a virtue from the point of view of maternal love.”
“But why not give up part of your fortune to her son?”
“How could I propose such a thing, especially to a woman who continually speaks of her disinterestedness?”
“Valentine, my love is sacred to me, and, this being so, I have covered it with the veil of respect and locked the door to my heart. No one knows of its existence there, for I have confided in no one. Will you permit me to speak of this love to a friend?”
Valentine started. “To a friend?” said she. “Oh, to hear you speak thus makes me shudder. Who is this friend?”
“Valentine, have you never felt for anyone an irresistible sympathy so that, though you meet this person for the first time, you feel you have known him long since?”
“I have.”
“Well, then, this is the feeling I had the first time I saw this extraordinary man, who has, I hear, the power to prophesy.”
“Then,” said the girl sadly, “let me know him that I may learn from him whether I shall be loved sufficiently to compensate me for all I have suffered.”
“Poor girl! You know him already. It is he who saved the life of your stepmother and her son.”
“The Count of Monte Cristo!”
“It is he.”
“Oh, he can never be my friend!” exclaimed Valentine. “He is too much the friend of Madame de Villefort ever to be mine.”
“The Count your stepmother’s friend, Valentine? That cannot be! I am sure you must be mistaken.”
“If you but knew! It is no longer Edward who rules in the house, it is the Count. Courted by my stepmother who sees in him the essence of human knowledge; admired, mark well, Maximilian, admired by my father, who says he has never heard the most elevated ideas expressed so eloquently; idolized by Edward, who, despite his fear of the Count’s large black eyes, runs to him as soon as he arrives and forces his hand open, where he always finds some fascinating toy. Monte Cristo is not in my father’s or my stepmother’s house, he is in his own house.”
“Valentine, you are mistaken, I assure you!”
“If it were otherwise, he would have honoured me at least with one of those smiles, of which you think so much. On the contrary, he sees me unhappy, but he realizes that I can be of no use to him, so he does not pay any attention to me. Quite frankly, I am not a woman to be treated with contempt in this manner without any reason for it. You yourself have told me as much. Forgive me, Maximilian,” she continued on seeing the impression her words were producing on Maximilian. “I am a wicked girl, and am saying things about this man that I did not know existed in my heart. Alas, I see that I have pained you! If only I could take your hand to ask your forgiveness! I desire nothing better than to be convinced. Tell me, what has this Count done for you?”
“I must confess that question rather embarrasses me. He has done nothing that I can definitely mention. My friendship for him is as unaccountable as his is for me. A secret voice warns me that there is something more than chance in this unlooked-for reciprocity of friendship. You will laugh at me, I know, but ever since I have known him the absurd idea possesses me that everything good that befalls me comes from him! Yet I have lived for thirty years without feeling the need of this friendship. I will give you an example of his consideration for me. He has invited me to dinner on Saturday, which is quite natural in view of our present relations. But what have I learned since? Your mother and father are also invited. I shall meet them, and who knows what will be the issue of such a meeting? In appearance this is a perfectly simple circumstance, I know; nevertheless I see in it something that astonishes me and fills me with a strange hope. I cannot help thinking that this extraordinary man, who divines all things, has arranged this meeting with some aim in view. I assure you there are times when I try to read in his eyes whether he has not even guessed my love for you.”
“My dear,” said Valentine, “I should take you for a visionary, and should really fear for your reason if I were to listen to many more such arguments from you. No, no, believe me, apart from you, there is no one in this world to whom I can turn for help and support but my grandfather, who is not much more than alive, and my poor mother, of whom there is nothing left but a shadow.”
“I feel that you are right, Valentine, from a logical point of view, but your sweet voice, which at other times possesses so much power over me, cannot convince me to-day.”
“Neither can you convince me,” said Valentine, “and I will confess that if you have no other proofs to give me . . .”
“But I have,” interrupted Maximilian, “though I am compelled to own that it sounds even more absurd than the first one. Look through the palings and you will see tied to that tree yonder the horse that brought me here.”
“What a beautiful animal!” exclaimed Valentine. “Why did you not bring him up to the gate? I should have spoken to him, and he would have understood me!”
“As you see, it is really a very valuable animal,” Maximilian continued. “You also know that my income is limited, and I am what one would call a careful man. I went to a horsedealer’s and saw this magnificent animal that I have called Médéah. On asking the price, I was told four thousand five hundred francs. As you can imagine I admired it no longer but, I must confess, I left with a heavy heart. I had a few friends at my house that evening, and they proposed a game of bouillotte. As we were seating ourselves at the table, the Count of Monte Cristo arrived. He took his seat, we played, and I won. I hardly dare tell you how much: it was five thousand francs! We parted at midnight. I could contain myself no longer; I took a cab and drove to the horsedealer’s and, filled with feverish excitement, rang the bell. The man who opened the door to me must ha
ve taken me for a madman. I rushed through to the stable. Oh, joy! There was Médéah calmly eating his hay. I took a saddle and bridle and put them on him; then, placing the four thousand five hundred francs in the astonished dealer’s hand, I leapt on to Médéah’s back and spent the night riding in the Champs Élysées. I saw a light in the Count’s window, and I seemed to see his shadow behind the curtain. Now, I am perfectly certain the Count knew how badly I wanted that horse, and that he intentionally lost at cards so that I might win.”
“Dearest Maximilian, you are becoming so fanciful that I verily believe you will not love me any more. A man who lives in such a world of poetry will grow weary of a monotonous passion such as ours. But listen, they are calling me. Do you hear?”
“Oh, Valentine, give me your little finger through the gate that I may kiss it!”
“Maximilian, we said we would be to each other as two voices, two shadows.”
“As you wish, Valentine.”
“Will it make you happy if I do what you ask?”
“Oh, yes!”
Valentine jumped on to a bench and passed her whole hand, not her little finger, through the grating.
Maximilian uttered a cry of joy and, springing forward, seized the beloved hand and imprinted on it a long and impassioned kiss; but the little hand slipped out of his almost immediately, and the young man heard his beloved running toward the house, frightened perhaps at her own sensations.
Chapter XXXIX
M. NOIRTIER DE VILLEFORT
This is what happened in the house of the Procureur du Roi after the departure of Mme Danglars and her daughter, and while the foregoing conversation was taking place.
M. de Villefort entered his father’s room followed by Mme de Villefort. After saluting the old man and dismissing Barrois, his old servant, they seated themselves on either side of the old gentleman.
M. Noirtier was sitting in his wheel-chair, to which he was carried every morning and left there until the evening. Sight and hearing were the only two senses that, like two solitary sparks, animated this poor human body that was so near the grave. His hair was white and long, reaching down to his shoulders, while his eyes were black, overshadowed by black eyebrows, and, as is generally the case when one organ is used to the exclusion of the others, in these eyes were concentrated all the activity, skill, strength, and intelligence which had formerly characterized his whole body and mind. It is true that the gesture of the arm, the sound of the voice, the attitude of the body were now lacking, but his masterful eye supplied their place. He commanded with his eyes and thanked with his eyes; he was a corpse with living eyes, and nothing was more terrifying than when, in this face of marble, they were lit up in fiery anger or sparkled with joy. There were only three persons who understood the language of the poor paralytic—Villefort, Valentine, and the old servant. As Villefort rarely saw his father, however, and even then did not take any pains to understand him, all the old man’s happiness centred upon his granddaughter, and by force of devotion, love, and patience, she had learned to read all his thoughts by his look. To this dumb language, unintelligible to all others, she replied by throwing her whole soul into her voice and the expression of her countenance. In this manner animated dialogues took place between the granddaughter and this mere lump of clay, now nearly turned to dust, which constituted the body of a man still in possession of an immense fund of knowledge and most extraordinary perception, together with a will as powerful as it is possible for a mind to possess which is encumbered by a body over which it has lost the power of compelling obedience.