“Yes.”
“Is it, then, to Mademoiselle Valentine de Villefort that you leave these nine hundred thousand francs?” demanded the notary, thinking that he had but to insert this clause, though he must first wait for Noirtier’s assent, which needed to be given before all the witnesses of this singular scene.
Valentine had stepped back with eyes cast down and was weeping silently. The old man looked at her for a moment with an expression of the deepest tenderness; then, turning toward the notary, he blinked in a most emphatic manner.
“What!” said the notary. “Do you not intend making Mademoiselle Valentine de Villefort your residuary legatee?”
“No.”
“You are not making any mistake, are you?” said the notary. “You really mean to say no?”
“No, no.”
Valentine raised her head; she was astonished not so much at the fact that she was disinherited as that she should have provoked the feeling which generally dictates such actions. Noirtier, however, looked at her so lovingly that she exclaimed :
“Oh, Grandpapa! I see now that it is only your fortune of which you deprive me; you still leave me your love.”
The old man’s declaration that Valentine was not the destined inheritor of his fortune had raised hopes in Mme de Villefort; she approached the invalid and said:
“Then, doubtless, dear Monsieur Noirtier, you desire to leave your fortune to your grandson, Edward de Villefort?”
The blinking of the eyes was terrible in its vigour and expressed a feeling almost amounting to hatred.
“No!” said the notary. “Then perhaps to your son, Monsieur de Villefort?”
“No.”
The two notaries looked at each other in mute astonishment and inquiry. Villefort and his wife both flushed a deep crimson, the one from shame, the other from anger.
“What have we all done, then, dear Grandpapa?” said Valentine. “Do you not love us any more?”
Noirtier fixed his intelligent eyes on Valentine’s hand.
“My hand?” said she. “Ah, I understand, I understand. It is my marriage you mean, is it not, dear Grandpapa?”
“Yes, yes, yes!” the paralytic repeated three times, and each time he raised his eyelids his eyes gleamed angrily.
“You are angry with us all on account of this marriage, are you not?”
“Yes.”
“Really this is too absurd!” exclaimed Villefort.
“Excuse me, monsieur,” said the notary, “but it is, on the contrary, very logical and I quite follow his train of thought.”
“You do not wish me to marry Monsieur Franz d’Épinay?” observed Valentine.
“I do not wish it!” said her grandfather’s eyes.
“And you disinherit your granddaughter,” continued the notary, “because she has contracted an engagement contrary to your wishes?”
“Yes.”
There was profound silence. The two notaries entered into consultation; Valentine, her hands clasped, looked at her grandfather with a smile of intense gratitude, and Villefort bit his thin lips in suppressed anger, whilst Mme de Villefort could not succeed in repressing an inward feeling of joy which, in spite of herself, was depicted on her whole countenance.
“But I consider that I am the best judge of the propriety of the marriage in question,” said Villefort, who was the first to break the silence. “I alone possess the right to dispose of my daughter’s hand. It is my wish that she should marry Monsieur Franz d’Épinay—and marry him she shall!”
Valentine sank into a chair, weeping.
“How do you intend disposing of your fortune, monsieur, in the event of Mademoiselle de Villefort marrying Monsieur Franz?” said the notary. “You will, of course, dispose of it in some way or other?”
“Yes.”
“In favour of some member of your family?”
“No.”
“Do you intend devoting it to charitable purposes, then?”
“Yes.”
“But you are aware that the law does not allow a son to be entirely deprived of his patrimony?” said the notary.
“Yes.”
“Then you only intend to dispose of that part of your fortune which the law allows you to subtract from your son’s inheritance?”
Noirtier made no answer.
“Do you still wish to dispose of all?”
“Yes.”
“But they will contest the will after your death!”
“No.”
“My father knows me,” replied Villefort. “He is quite sure that his wishes will be held sacred by me; besides, he understands that, in my position, I cannot plead against the poor.”
Noirtier’s eyes beamed triumphantly.
“What have you decided on, monsieur?” asked the notary of Villefort.
“Nothing; it is a resolution which my father has taken, and I know he never changes his mind. I am quite resigned. These nine hundred thousand francs will pass from the family to enrich some hospital; but I shall not yield to the whims of an old man, and I shall therefore act according to the dictates of my conscience.”
Having said this, Villefort quitted the room with his wife, leaving his father at liberty to do what he pleased.
The same day the will was drawn up, the witnesses were brought forward, it was approved by the old man, sealed in the presence of all, and given into the charge of M. Deschamps, the family notary.
Chapter XLI
THE TELEGRAPH
On returning to their own apartments, M. and Mme de Villefort learned that the Count of Monte Cristo, who had come to pay them a visit, had, during their absence, been shown into the salon where he was awaiting them. Mme de Villefort was too agitated to see him at once and retired to her bedroom, while her husband, being more self-possessed, went straight into the salon. But though he was able to master his feelings and compose his features, he could not dispel the cloud that shadowed his brow, and the Count, who received him with a radiant smile, noticed his gloomy and preoccupied manner.
“What on earth is the matter, Monsieur de Villefort?” said Monte Cristo after the first compliments were exchanged. “Have you just been drawing up some capital indictment?”
“No, Count,” said he, trying to smile, “this time I am the victim. It is I who have lost my case, and fate, obstinacy, and madness have been the counsel for the prosecution.”
“What do you mean?” asked the Count, with well-feigned interest. “Have you really met with some serious misfortune?”
“Oh, it is not worth mentioning,” said he, with a calmness that betokened bitterness. “It is nothing, only a loss of money.”
“Loss of money is, indeed, somewhat insignificant to a man with a fortune such as you possess, and to a mind as elevated and philosophical as yours is.”
“It is, however, not the loss of the money that grieves me, though after all nine hundred thousand francs is worthy of regret, and annoyance at its loss is quite comprehensible. What hurts me is the ill-will manifested by fate, chance, fatality, or whatever the designation of the power may be that has dealt this blow. My hopes of a fortune are dashed to the ground, and perhaps even my daughter’s future blasted by the whims of an old man who has sunk into second childhood.”
“Nine hundred thousand francs, did you say?” exclaimed the Count. “That is certainly a sum of money that even a philosopher might regret. Who has caused you this annoyance?”
“My father, of whom I spoke to you.”
“My dear,” said Mme de Villefort, who had just entered the room, “perhaps you are exaggerating the evil.”
“Madame,” said the Count, bowing.
Mme de Villefort acknowledged the salutation with one of her most gracious smiles.
“What is this Monsieur de Villefort has just been telling me?” asked Monte Cristo. “What an incomprehensible misfortune!”
“Incomprehensible! That is the very word,” exclaimed Villefort, shrugging his shoulders. “A whim born of old age!”
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“Is there no means of making him revoke his decision?”
“There is,” was Mme de Villefort’s reply. “It is even in my husband’s power to have the will changed in Valentine’s favour instead of its being to her prejudice.”
“My dear,” said Villefort in answer to his wife, “it is distasteful to me to play the patriarch in my own house; I have never believed that the fate of the universe depended upon a word from my lips. Nevertheless my opinions must be respected in my family, and the insanity of an old man and the caprices of a child shall not be allowed to frustrate a project I have entertained for so many years. The Baron d’Épinay was my friend, as you know, and an alliance with his son is most desirable and appropriate.”
“Notwithstanding your father’s wishes?” asked Madame de Villefort, opening a new line of attack. “That is a very serious matter.”
Though pretending not to listen, the Count did not lose a word of the conversation.
“I may say that I have always entertained the highest respect for my father, madame. To-day, however, I must refuse to acknowledge intelligence in an old man who vents his anger on a son because of his hatred for the father. I shall continue to entertain the highest respect for Monsieur Noirtier. I shall submit uncomplainingly to the pecuniary loss, but I shall remain adamant in my determination. I shall, therefore, bestow my daughter’s hand on Baron Franz d’Épinay because in my opinion this marriage is appropriate and honourable and, finally, because I shall marry my daughter to whom I choose.”
“But it seems to me,” said Monte Cristo after a moment’s silence, “and I crave your pardon for what I am about to say, it seems to me that if Monsieur Noirtier disinherits Mademoiselle de Villefort because she wishes to marry a young man whose father he detested, he cannot have the same cause for complaint against this dear child Edward.”
“You are right, Count. Is it not atrociously unjust?” cried Mme de Villefort in tones impossible to describe. “Poor Edward is just as much Monsieur Noirtier’s grandchild as Valentine is, and yet if she were not going to marry Monsieur Franz she would inherit all his riches. Edward bears the family name, yet, even though she be disinherited by her grandfather, she will be three times as rich as he!”
Having thrust his dart, the Count merely listened and said nothing.
“We will not entertain you longer with our family troubles, Count,” said M. de Villefort. “It is quite true that my patrimony will swell the coffers of the poor, who are the truly rich. My father has frustrated my legitimate hope, without any reason whatsoever, nevertheless I have acted as a man of intelligence and feeling. I have promised Monsieur d’Èpinay the income accruing from this sum, and he shall have it, though I have to suffer the cruellest privations in consequence.”
When M. de Villefort had finished speaking, the Count rose to depart.
“Are you leaving us, Count?” said Mme de Villefort.
“I am obliged to, madame. I only came to remind you of your promise for Saturday. You will come?”
“Did you think we should forget it?”
“You are too kind, madame. Now you must allow me to take leave of you. I am going, merely as a looker-on, you understand, to see something that has given me food for many long hours’ thought.”
“What is that?”
“The telegraph. There, my secret is out!”
“The telegraph!” repeated Mme de Villefort.
“Yes, indeed. On a hillock at the end of the road I have sometimes seen these black, accommodating arms shining in the sun like so many spiders’ legs, and I assure you they have always filled me with deep emotion, for I thought of the strange signs cleaving the air with such precision, conveying the unknown thoughts of one man seated at his table three hundred leagues distant to another man at another table at the other end of the line; that these signs sped through the grey clouds or blue sky solely at the will of the all-powerful operator. Then I began to think of genii, sylphs, gnomes, in short of occult powers until I laughed aloud. Nevertheless I never felt any desire to see at close quarters these fat, white-bellied insects with their long, slender legs, for I feared I might find under their stone-like wings some stiff and pedantic little human genius puffed out with science or sorcery. One fine morning, however, I discovered that the operator of every telegraph was a poor wretch earning a miserable pittance of twelve thousand francs, who spent his whole day not in observing the sky as the astronomer does, not in watching the water as the fisherman does, nor yet in studying the landscape as the dreamer does, but in watching that other white-bellied black-legged insect, his correspondent, placed at some four or five leagues from him. Then I was seized with a strange desire to see this living chrysalis at close quarters, and to be present at the little comedy he plays for the benefit of his fellow chrysalis by pulling one piece of tape after another. I will tell you my impressions on Saturday.”
The Count of Monte Cristo hereupon took his departure. That same evening the following telegram was read in the Messager:
King Don Carlos has escaped the vigilance exercised over him at Burgos and has returned to Spain across the Catalonian frontier. Barcelona has risen in his favour.
All that evening nothing was talked about but Danglars’ foresight in selling his shares, and his luck as a speculator in having lost but five hundred thousand francs by the deal.
The next day the following paragraph was read in the Moniteur:
The report published in yesterday’s Messager of the flight of Don Carlos and the revolt of Barcelona is devoid of all foundation. King Don Carlos has not left Burgos, and perfect peace reigns in the Peninsula. A telegraphic sign improperly interpreted owing to the fog gave rise to this error.
Shares rose to double the price to which they had fallen, so that, with what he had actually lost and what he had failed to gain, it meant a difference of a million francs to Danglars.
Chapter XLII
THE DINNER
At first sight the exterior of Monte Cristo’s house at Auteuil presented nothing magnificent, nothing of what one would have expected of a house chosen for such a grand personage as the Count of Monte Cristo. But no sooner was the door opened than the scene changed. Monsieur Bertuccio had certainly surpassed himself in the taste he had displayed in furnishing the house and in the rapidity with which the work had been executed. Just as formerly the Duke of Antin in one single night had an avenue of trees hewn down which obstructed Louis XIV’s view, so M. Bertuccio in three days had an entirely bare yard planted with beautiful poplars and sycamores which gave shade to the whole of the house. Instead of the flagstones, overgrown with grass, there extended a lawn which had only been laid down that morning and now looked like a vast carpet, upon which still glistened the water with which it had been sprinkled.
But then the Count himself had given all instructions; he had drawn up for Bertuccio a plan indicating the number and position of the trees to be planted, and the shape and extent of the lawn that was to succeed the flagstones.
That which best manifested the ability of the steward and the profound science of the master, the one in serving and the other in being served, was that this house, which had been deserted for twenty years and had appeared sad and gloomy on the previous evening, impregnated as it was with the insipid smell of decay, had with its return to life become permeated with its master’s favourite perfumes and had been given the system of lighting especially favoured by him. Directly he arrived the Count had his books and weapons at hand; his eyes rested upon his favourite pictures; in the hall he was welcomed by his dogs, whose caresses he loved, and his birds, in whose songs he rejoiced; throughout the whole house, suddenly awakened from its long sleep like the Sleeping Beauty’s castle in the wood, there burst forth life, song, and gaiety.
Servants were merrily moving hither and thither across the fine courtyard; those belonging to the kitchen were skipping down the staircase, but yesterday repaired, as though they had always inhabited the house; others filled the coach-houses, wh
ere the carriages were each numbered and each one had its allotted place, as though they had been installed there for the last fifty years; in the stables the horses at the mangers were whinnying to the grooms, who spoke to them with considerably more respect than many a servant does to his master.
The library was divided into two parts and contained about two thousand books; one complete section was devoted to modern novels, and even the one that had only been published the day before was to be seen in its place, proudly displaying its red and gold binding.
On the other side of the house, and matching the library, was a conservatory with exotic plants displayed in large Japanese pots, which were at once wonderful to behold and most pleasing in perfume, and in the middle of the conservatory there was a billiard-table which looked as if it had been abandoned but an hour ago by players who had left the balls on the cloth.
At five precisely the Count arrived, followed by Ali. Bertuccio was awaiting his arrival with impatience mingled with anxiety; he hoped for praise, yet he feared frowns.
Monte Cristo alighted from his carriage in the courtyard, went over the whole house, and strolled through the garden in silence, and without giving the least sign of approval or disapproval. When he came to his bedroom, however, he pointed to a little piece of furniture in rosewood, saying: “The only use you can make of that is for my gloves.”
“If Your Excellency will open the drawer, he will find gloves in it,” said Bertuccio, delighted.
In the various cupboards and drawers about the room the Count found everything for his personal use: bottles of all kinds, cigars, jewellery.
“Good!” said he, and so real was the influence of this man on all around him, that M. Bertuccio withdrew greatly elated.
At six o’clock sharp a horse was heard pawing the ground before the front door. It was our friend the Captain’s horse, Médéah. Monte Cristo awaited Morrel on the steps, a smile on his lips.