“Yes, but why need that worry you?”
“You know, women are singular creatures, Albert. It would give me pleasure to see him take something, even though it were nothing more than a bit of pomegranate. It may be that he is not yet reconciled to the French way of living, or that he would prefer something else.”
“Oh, dear no, I have seen him eat of everything in Italy. No doubt he does not feel inclined this evening.”
“Then again, he may not feel the heat as much as we do, since he has always lived in hot climates.”
“I do not think that is so,” said Albert, “he complained just now of feeling almost suffocated, and asked why the venetian blinds were not opened as well as the windows.”
“Ah! It will give me the means of ascertaining whether or not his abstinence is deliberate.”
She left the room, and an instant later the venetian blinds were opened, permitting a view through the jasmine and clematis that overhung the windows of the lantern-illuminated garden. Dancers, players, and talkers all uttered an exclamation of joy; everybody inhaled with delight the air that flowed in.
At the same moment Mercédès returned, even paler than before, but with a determined look on her face which was characteristic of her in certain circumstances. She went straight up to the group of gentlemen round her husband, and said: “Do not detain these gentlemen here; if they are not playing I have no doubt they would prefer to take the fresh air in the garden rather than stay in this suffocating room.”
“But, madame, we will not go into the garden alone!” said a gallant old general.
“Very well, I will set the example,” said Mercédès, and turning to Monte Cristo, she added: “Will you give me your arm, Count!”
The Count was staggered at these simple words; he looked at Mercédès. It was but a momentary glance, but the Count put so many thoughts into that one look that it seemed to Mercédès it lasted a century. He offered the Countess his arm; she laid her delicate hand gently on it, and together they went into the garden, followed by some twenty of the guests. With her companion, Mme de Morcerf passed under an archway of lime-trees leading to a conservatory.
“Did you not find it too hot in the room?” said she.
“Yes, madame, but it was an excellent idea of yours to open the windows and venetian blinds.”
As he said the last words he felt Mercédès’ arm tremble.
“Maybe you feel cold, though, in that thin dress with no other wrap than a thin gauze scarf ?” said he.
“Do you know whither I am taking you?” said Mercédès without answering Monte Cristo’s question.
“No, madame, but, as you see, I make no resistance.”
“To the conservatory at the end of this path.”
The Count looked at Mercédès as if he was about to ask her a question, but she went on her way without saying another word, and the Count also remained silent.
They reached the building resplendent with magnificent fruit of every kind. The Countess left the Count’s side, and went over to a vine-stock to pluck a bunch of Muscatel grapes. “Take these, Count,” said she with such a sad smile that one could almost see the tears springing up into her eyes. “I know our French grapes cannot compare with yours of Sicily and Cyprus, but you must make allowances for our poor Northern sun.”
The Count bowed and drew back a step.
“Do you refuse?” said Mercédès in a tremulous voice.
“I must ask you to excuse me, madame, I never eat Muscatel grapes.”
With a sigh Mercédès dropped the grapes. A magnificent peach, warmed by the artificial heat of the conservatory, was hanging against an adjoining wall. Mercédès plucked it.
“Take this peach, then.”
The Count again refused.
“What, again!” she exclaimed in so plaintive a tone that one felt she was stifling a sob. “Really, Count, you pain me.”
A long silence ensued; like the grapes, the peach rolled to the ground.
“There is a touching Arabian custom, Count,” Mercédès said at last, looking at Monte Cristo supplicatingly, “which makes eternal friends of those who share bread and salt under the same roof.”
“I know it, madame, but we are in France and not in Arabia, and in France eternal friendships are as rare as the beautiful custom you just mentioned.”
“But we are friends, are we not?” said the Countess breathlessly, with her eyes fixed on Monte Cristo, whose arm she convulsively clasped between her two hands.
“Certainly we are friends, madame,” he replied, “in any case, why should we not be?”
His tone was so different from what Mercédès desired that she turned away to give vent to a sigh resembling a groan.
“Thank you!” was all she said; she began to walk on, and they went all round the garden without uttering another word. After about ten minutes’ silence, she suddenly said: “Is it true that you have seen much, travelled far, and suffered deeply?”
“I have suffered deeply, madame,” answered Monte Cristo.
“But now you are happy?”
“Doubtless,” replied the Count, “since no one hears me complain.”
“And has your present happiness softened your heart?”
“My present happiness equals my past misery,” said the Count.
“Are you not married?” asked the Countess.
“I, married!” exclaimed Monte Cristo shuddering, “who could have told you that?”
“No one told me you were, but you have frequently been seen at the Opera with a young and lovely person.”
“She is a slave whom I bought at Constantinople, madame, the daughter of a prince. Having no one else to love in the world, I have adopted her as my daughter.”
“You live alone, then?”
“I do.”
“You have no sister, no son, no father?”
“I have no one.”
“How can you live thus, with no one to attach you to life?”
“It is not my fault, madame. At Malta, I loved a young girl, and was on the point of marrying her when war came and carried me away, as in a whirlpool. I thought she loved me well enough to wait for me, even to remain faithful to my memory. When I returned she was married. Most men who have passed thirty have the same tale to tell, but perhaps my heart was weaker than that of others, and in consequence I suffered more than they would have done in my place. That’s all.”
The Countess stopped for a moment, as if gasping for breath. “Yes,” she said, “and you have still preserved this love in your heart—one can only love once—and have you ever seen her again?”
“Never!”
“Never?”
“I have never returned to the country where she lived.”
“At Malta?”
“Yes, at Malta.”
“She is now at Malta, then?”
“I think so.”
“And have you forgiven her for all she has made you suffer?”
“Yes, I have forgiven her.”
“But only her. Do you still hate those who separated you?” The Countess placed herself before Monte Cristo, still holding in her hand a portion of the fragrant grapes.
“Take some,” she said.
“I never eat Muscatel grapes, madame,” replied Monte Cristo as if the subject had not been mentioned before.
The Countess flung the grapes into the nearest thicket, with a gesture of despair.
“Inflexible man!” she murmured.
Monte Cristo remained as unmoved as if the reproach had not been addressed to him. At this moment Albert ran up to them.
“Oh, Mother!” he exclaimed, “such a misfortune has happened!”
“What has happened?” asked the Countess, as though awaking from a dream to the realities of life. “A misfortune, did you say? Indeed, it is little more than I should expect!”
“Monsieur de Villefort has come to fetch his wife and daughter.”
“Why?”
“Madame de Saint-Méran
has just arrived in Paris, bringing the news of Monsieur de Saint-Méran’s death, which occurred at the first stage after he left Marseilles. Madame de Villefort was in very good spirits when her husband came, and could neither understand nor believe in such misfortune. At the first words, however, Mademoiselle Valentine guessed the whole truth, notwithstanding all her father’s precautions; the blow struck her like a thunderbolt, and she fell down senseless.”
“How was Monsieur de Saint-Méran related to Mademoiselle Valentine?” asked the Count.
“He was her maternal grandfather. He was coming here to hasten her marriage with Franz.”
“Indeed!”
“Franz is reprieved then! Why is Monsieur de Saint-Méran not grandfather to Mademoiselle Danglars too?”
“Albert! Albert!” said Mme de Morcerf, in a tone of mild reproof, “what are you saying? Ah! Count, he esteems you so highly, tell him he has spoken amiss.”
So saying she took two or three steps forward. Monte Cristo glanced after her with such a pensive expression, at the same time so full of affectionate admiration, that she retraced her steps. Taking his hand and that of her son, she joined them together, saying: “We are friends, are we not?”
“Oh, madame, I do not presume to call myself your friend, but at all times I am your most respectful servant.”
Chapter XLVI
MME DE SAINT-MÉRAN
Valentine found her grandmother in bed; silent caresses, heartrending sobs, broken sighs, and burning tears were the sole recountable details of the distressing interview, at which Mme de Villefort was present, leaning on her husband’s arm, and manifesting, outwardly at least, great sympathy for the poor widow.
After a few moments she whispered to her husband: “I think it would be better for me to retire, for the sight of me still appears to distress your mother-in-law.”
Mme de Saint-Méran heard her and whispered to Valentine: “Yes, yes, let her go, but do you stay with me.”
Mme de Villefort went out and Valentine remained alone with her grandmother, for the Procureur du Roi, dismayed at the sudden death, had followed his wife.
At last, worn out with grief, Mme de Saint-Méran succumbed to her fatigue and fell into a feverish sleep. Valentine placed a small table within her reach and on it a decanter of orangeade, her usual beverage, and, leaving her bedside, went to see old Noirtier. She went up to the old man and kissed him. He looked at her with such tenderness that she again burst into tears.
“Yes, yes, I understand,” she said. “You wish to convey to me that I have still a good grandfather, do you not?”
He intimated that such was his meaning.
“Happily I have,” returned Valentine. “Otherwise what would become of me?”
It was one o’clock in the morning. Barrois, who wished to go to bed himself, remarked that after such a distressing evening everyone had need of rest. M. Noirtier would have liked to say that all the repose he needed was to be found in his granddaughter’s presence, but he bade her good-night, for grief and fatigue had made her look quite ill.
When Valentine went to see her grandmother the next day she found her still in bed; the fever had not abated, on the contrary, the old Marquise’s eyes were lit up with a dull fire and she was prone to great nervous irritability.
“Oh, Grandmama, are you feeling worse?” exclaimed Valentine on perceiving all these symptoms.
“No, child, but I was impatiently waiting for you to fetch your father to me.”
“My father?” inquired Valentine uneasily.
“Yes, I wish to speak to him.”
Valentine did not dare oppose her grandmother’s wish, and an instant later Villefort entered.
“You wrote me, monsieur, concerning this child’s marriage,” said Mme de Saint-Méran, coming straight to the point as though afraid she had not much time left.
“Yes, madame,” replied Villefort. “The matter has already been settled.”
“Is not the name of your future son-in-law Monsieur Franz d’Épinay?”
“Yes, madame.”
“Is he the son of General d’Épinay, who belonged to our party and was assassinated a few days before the usurper returned from Elba?”
“The very same.”
“Is he not opposed to this alliance with the granddaughter of a Jacobin?”
“Our civil dissensions are now happily dispelled,” said Villefort. “Monsieur d’Épinay was little more than a child when his father died. He hardly knows Monsieur Noirtier and will greet him, if not with pleasure, at least with unconcern.”
“Is it a desirable match?”
“In every respect. He is one of the most gentlemanly young men I know.”
Valentine remained silent throughout this conversation.
“Then, monsieur, you must hasten on the marriage, for I have not much longer to live,” said Mme de Saint-Méran after a few seconds’ reflection.
“You, madame?” “You, Grandmama?” cried Monsieur de Villefort and Valentine simultaneously.
“I know what I am saying,” returned the Marquise. “You must hasten on the arrangements so that the poor motherless child may at least have a grandmother to bless her marriage. I am all that is left to her of dear Renée, whom you appear so soon to have forgotten.”
“But, Grandmama, consider decorum—our recent mourning. Would you have me begin my married life under such sad auspices?”
“Nay, I tell you I am going to die, and before dying I wish to see your husband. I wish to bid him make my child happy, to read in his eyes whether he intends to obey me. In short, I must know him,” continued the grandmother with a terrifying expression in her eyes, “so that I may arise from the depths of my grave to seek him out if he is not all he should be.”
“Madame, you must dispel such feverish ideas that are almost akin to madness,” said Villefort. “When once the dead are laid in their graves, they remain there never to rise again.”
“And I tell you, monsieur, it is not as you think. Last night my sleep was sorely troubled. It seemed as though my soul were already hovering over my body; my eyes, which I tried to open, closed against my will; and, what will appear impossible, above all to you, monsieur, with my eyes shut I saw in yonder dark corner, where there is a door leading to Madame de Villefort’s dressing-room, I tell you I saw a white figure enter noiselessly.”
Valentine screamed.
“It was the fever acting on you, madame,” said Villefort.
“Doubt my word if it pleases you, but I am sure of what I say. I saw a white figure, and, as if God feared I should discredit the testimony of my senses, I heard my tumbler move—the same one that is now on the table.”
“But it was a dream, Grandmama!”
“So far was it from being a dream that I stretched out my hand towards the bell, but as I did so the shadow disappeared and my maid entered with a light. Phantoms are visible only to those who are intended to see them. It was my husband’s spirit. If my husband’s spirit can come to me, why should not mine appear to guard my granddaughter? It seems to me there is an even stronger tie between us.”
“Madame, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts,” said Villefort, deeply affected in spite of himself. “You will live long with us, happy, loved, and honoured, and we will help you to forget . . .”
“Never, never, never!” said the Marquise. “When does Monsieur d’Épinay return?”
“We expect him any moment.”
“It is well; as soon as he arrives, let me know. We must lose no time. Then I also wish to see a notary that I may be assured that all our property reverts to Valentine.”
“Ah, my Grandmother!” murmured Valentine, pressing her lips to her grandmother’s burning brow, “do you wish to kill me? Oh, how feverish you are! It is a doctor we must send for, not a notary.”
“A doctor?” she said, shrugging her shoulders, “I am not ill; I am thirsty—nothing more.”
“What are you drinking, Grandmama?”
“The sa
me as usual, my dear, orangeade. Give me my glass, Valentine.”
Valentine poured the orangeade into a glass and gave it to her grandmother, though not without a feeling of dread, for it was the same glass she declared the shadow had touched. The Marquise drained the glass at a single draught, and then, turning over on her pillow, repeated: “The notary! the notary!”
M. de Villefort left the room, and Valentine seated herself at her grandmother’s bedside.
Two hours passed thus, during which Mme de Saint-Méran was in a restless, feverish sleep. At last the notary arrived. He was announced in a very low voice, nevertheless Mme de Saint-Méran heard and raised herself on her pillows.
“Go, Valentine, go,” she said, “and leave me alone with this gentleman.”
Valentine kissed her grandmother and left the room with her handkerchief to her eyes. At the door she met the valet who told her the doctor was waiting in the salon. She instantly went down.
“Oh! dear Monsieur d’Avrigny, we have been waiting for you with such impatience.”
“Who is ill, dear child?” said he. “Not your father or Madame de Villefort?”
“It is my grandmother who needs your services. You know the calamity that has befallen us?”
“I know nothing,” said M. d’Avrigny.
“Alas!” said Valentine, choking back her tears, “my grandfather is dead.”
“Monsieur de Saint-Méran?”
“Yes.”
“Suddenly?”
“From an apoplectic stroke.”
“An apoplectic stroke?” repeated the doctor.
“Yes! and my poor grandmother fancies that her husband, whom she never left, is calling her, and that she must go and join him. Oh! Monsieur d’Avrigny, I beseech you, do something for her!”
“Where is she?”
“In her room with the notary.”
“And Monsieur Noirtier?”
“Just as he was, perfectly clear in his mind but still incapable of moving or speaking.”
“And the same love for you—eh, my dear child!”
“Yes,” said Valentine, “he is very fond of me.”
“Who does not love you?”
Valentine smiled sadly.
“What are your grandmother’s symptoms?”