Count of Monte Cristo (abridged) (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

  “An extremely nervous excitement and an unnatural restlessness. This morning, in her sleep, she fancied that her soul was hovering over her body, which she saw asleep. It must have been delirium! She fancies, too, that she saw a phantom enter her chamber, and even heard the noise it made in touching her glass.”

  “It is singular,” said the doctor. “I was not aware that Madame de Saint-Méran was subject to such hallucinations.”

  “It is the first time I ever saw her thus,” said Valentine, “and this morning she frightened me so that I thought she was mad and even my father, who you know is a strong-minded man, appeared deeply impressed.”

  “We will go and see,” said the doctor. “What you tell me seems very strange.”

  The notary came downstairs, and Valentine was informed her grandmother was alone.

  “Go upstairs,” she said to the doctor.

  “And you?”

  “Oh, I dare not. She forbade my sending for you, and I am agitated, feverish, unwell. I will go and take a turn in the garden to compose myself.”

  The doctor pressed Valentine’s hand, and, while he visited her grandmother, she went into the garden. We need not say which was her favourite walk. After remaining for a short time in the flower garden surrounding the house, and gathering a rose to place in her waist or hair, she turned into the dark avenue which led to the bench, from thence to the gate. As she advanced she fancied she heard a voice pronounce her name. She stopped astonished, then the voice reached her ear more distinctly, and she recognized it to be the voice of Maximilian.

  Chapter XLVII

  THE PROMISE

  It was indeed Maximilian Morrel. He had been in despair since the previous day. With the instinct of a lover, he had divined that with the arrival of Mme de Saint-Méran, and the death of the Marquis, some change would take place in the Villefort household which would touch his love for Valentine.

  Valentine had not expected to see Morrel, for it was not his usual hour, and it was only pure chance or, better still, a happy sympathy that took her into the garden. When she appeared, Morrel called her, and she ran to the gate.

  “You here, at this hour!” she said.

  “Yes, my poor dear,” replied Morrel. “I have come to bring and to hear bad tidings.”

  “This is indeed a house of mourning,” said Valentine. “Speak, Maximilian, yet in truth my cup of sorrow seems full to overflowing.”

  “Dear Valentine, listen, I entreat you,” said Morrel endeavouring to conceal his emotion. “I have something grave to tell you. When are you to be married?”

  “I will conceal nothing from you, Maximilian,” said Valentine. “This morning the subject was introduced, and my grandmother, in whom I had hoped to find a sure support, not only declares herself favourable to the marriage, but is so anxious for it that the day after Monsieur d’Épinay arrives the contract will be signed.”

  A sob of anguish was wrung from the young man’s breast, and he looked long and mournfully at his beloved.

  “Alas!” he whispered, “it is terrible thus to hear the woman you love calmly say: ‘The time of your execution is fixed, and will take place in a few hours; it had to be, and I will do nothing to prevent it!’ Monsieur d’Épinay arrived this morning!”

  Valentine uttered a cry.

  “And now, Valentine, answer me, and remember that my life or death depends on your answer. What do you intend doing?”

  Valentine hung her head; she was overwhelmed.

  “This is not the first time we have reflected on our present grave and critical position. It is not now the moment to give way to useless sorrow; leave that to those who delight in suffering, and wallow in their grief. There are such people, but those who feel in themselves the desire to fight against their bitter lot must not lose one precious moment. Are you prepared to fight against our ill-fortune, Valentine? Tell me, for this is what I have come to ask you.”

  Valentine trembled visibly, and stared at Maximilian with wide open eyes. The idea of opposing her grandmother, her father, in short, her whole family, had never occurred to her.

  “What is this you bid me do, Maximilian?” asked Valentine. “How could I oppose my father’s orders and my dying grandmother’s wish! It is impossible!”

  Morrel started.

  “You are too noble-hearted not to understand me, and your very silence is proof that you do. I fight! God preserve me from it! No, I need all my strength to hold back my tears. Never could I grieve my father or disturb the last moments of my grandmother!”

  “You are right,” said Morrel phlegmatically.

  “How can you say that?” cried Valentine in a hurt voice.

  “I speak as one full of admiration for you, mademoiselle.”

  “Mademoiselle!” exclaimed Valentine. “Mademoiselle?—how selfish! He sees me in despair and pretends he cannot understand my point of view!”

  “On the contrary, I understand you perfectly. You do not wish to thwart your father or disobey the Marquise, so you will sign the contract to-morrow which will bind you to your husband.”

  “How can I do otherwise?”

  “It is no good appealing to me, mademoiselle, for I am not a competent judge. My selfishness will blind me,” Morrel continued, and his toneless voice and clenched hands showed his increasing exasperation.

  “What would you have proposed, had you found me willing to comply with your wishes? Ah! Maximilian, tell me what you advise!”

  “Do you mean that seriously?”

  “Certainly I do, and, if your advice is good, I shall follow it. You know how I love you.”

  “Valentine, give me your hand in token that you forgive me my anger,” said Morrel. “I am utterly distraught, and for the past hour the most extravagant ideas have been running through my head. Follow me, Valentine. I will take you to my sister, who is worthy to be your sister also. We will embark for Algiers . . . England . . . America . . . Or, if you prefer, we can go together to some province until our friends have persuaded your family to a reconciliation.”

  Valentine shook her head.

  “Then you will submit to your fate whatever it may be, without even attempting to oppose it?”

  “Even if it spelt death!”

  “I repeat once more, Valentine, you are quite right. Indeed, it is I who am mad and you are but giving me a proof that passion blinds the most balanced minds. Fortunate are you that you can reason dispassionately. It is, therefore, an understood thing that to-morrow you will be irrevocably promised to Franz d’Épinay, not by the theatrical formality invented to bind a couple together which is called the signing of the contract, but by your own free will.”

  Morrel said these words with perfect calmness. Valentine looked at him for a moment with her large searching eyes, at the same time endeavouring to conceal from him the grief that struggled in her heart.

  “And what are you going to do?” she asked.

  “I shall have the honour of bidding you farewell, mademoiselle, calling on God to make your life so happy and contented that there may be no place for me even in your memory. He will hear my prayers for He sees to the bottom of my heart. Farewell, Valentine, farewell!” continued he, bowing.

  “Where are you going?” cried the distracted girl, thrusting her hand through the gate and seizing Maximilian’s coat. Her own agitated feelings told her that her lover’s calmness could not be real. “Where are you going?”

  The young man gave a sad smile.

  “Oh! speak, speak! I entreat you!” said Valentine.

  “Has your resolution changed, Valentine?”

  “It cannot change, unhappy man! You know it cannot!” cried she.

  “Then farewell, Valentine!”

  Valentine shook the gate with a strength she had not thought herself capable of, and, as Morrel was going away pushed her two hands through, and, clasping them, called out:

  “Maximilian, come here; I wish it.”

  Maximilian drew near with his sweet smile, and had it n
ot been for his pallor, one would have thought that nothing unusual had taken place.

  “Listen to me, my dear, my adored Valentine,” said he in a solemn voice. “People like us who have never harboured a thought for which we had reason to blush before the world, our parents, or God, people like ourselves can read one another’s heart like an open book. I have never been romantic, and I shall not be a melancholy hero. However, without words, protestations, or vows, I have laid my life in your hands. You fail me, and, I repeat once more, you are quite right in acting thus; nevertheless in losing you I lose part of my life. The moment you part from me, Valentine, I am alone in the world. My sister is happy with her husband; her husband is only my brother-in-law, that is to say, a man who is attached to me solely by social laws; no one on earth has any further need of my useless existence. This is what I shall do: I shall wait until you are actually married, for I will not lose the smallest of one of those unexpected chances fate sometimes holds in store for us. After all, Monsieur Franz might die, a thunderbolt might fall on the altar as you approach it; everything appears possible to the condemned man, to whom a miracle becomes an everyday occurrence when it is a question of saving his life. I shall therefore wait until the very last moment, and when my fate is sealed, and my misery beyond all hope and remedy, I shall write a confidential letter to my brother-in-law, another one to the prefect of police, to notify him of my design; then, in a corner of some wood, in a ditch, or on the bank of some river, I shall blow out my brains, as certainly as I am the son of the most honest man who ever breathed in France.”

  A convulsive trembling shook Valentine in every limb; she relaxed her hold of the gate, her arms fell to her sides, and two large tears rolled down her cheeks.

  The young man stood before her gloomy and resolute.

  “Oh! my God . . . ! Promise me, Maximilian, that you will not take your life!” she cried.

  “I promise you I will not,” said Maximilian. “But what does that matter to you? You will have done your duty and your conscience will be at rest.”

  Valentine fell on her knees, pressing her hand to her breaking heart.

  “Maximilian, my friend, my brother on earth, my real husband before Heaven,” she cried, “I entreat you, do as I am going to do—live in suffering; one day, perhaps, we shall be united.”

  “Farewell!” repeated Morrel.

  “My God,” said Valentine, raising her two hands to Heaven with a sublime expression on her face. “Thou seest I have done my utmost to remain a dutiful daughter. I have begged, entreated, implored. He has heeded neither my entreaties, nor my supplications, nor my tears . . . I would rather die of shame than of remorse,” she continued, wiping away her tears and resuming her air of determination. “You shall live, Maximilian, and I shall belong to no other than you! When shall it be? At once? Speak, command, I will obey.”

  Morrel had already gone several steps; he returned on hearing these words, and pale with joy, his heart beating tumultuously, he held his two hands through the gate to Valentine, and said:

  “Valentine, my beloved, you must not speak to me thus; better let me die. Why should I win you by force if you love me as I love you? Is it for pity that you compel me to live? Then I would rather die!”

  “’Tis too true!” murmured Valentine to herself, “who but he loves me? Who but he has consoled me in all my sorrow? In whom but in him do my hopes lie, and to whom but to him can I fly when in trouble? He is my all! Yes, you are right, Maximilian, I will follow you. I will leave my father’s home, leave all! Ungrateful girl that I am!” she cried, sobbing. “Yes, I will leave all, even my grandfather whom I had nearly forgotten!”

  “No, you shall not leave him,” said Maximilian. “You say that your grandfather likes me. Very well, then, before you flee, tell him all; his consent will be your justification before God. As soon as we are married, he shall come to us: instead of one child, he will have two children. Oh, Valentine, instead of our present hopelessness, nought but happiness is in store for you and me. But if they disregard your entreaties, Valentine,” he continued, “if your father and Madame de Saint-Méran insist on sending for Monsieur d’Épinay to-morrow to sign the contract . . .”

  “You have my word, Maximilian.”

  “Instead of signing . . .”

  “I shall flee with you, but until then, Morrel, let us not tempt Providence. We will see each other no more: it is a marvel, almost a miracle one might say, that we have not been discovered before. If it were found out, and if they learned how we see each other, our last resource would be gone. In the meantime I will write to you. I hate this marriage, Maximilian, as much as you do.”

  “Thank you, my beloved Valentine,” Morrel replied. “Then all is settled. As soon as I know the time, I will hasten here. You will climb the wall with my help and then all will be easy. A carriage will be awaiting us at the gate which will take us to my sister’s.”

  “So be it! Good-bye!” said Valentine, tearing herself away. “Au revoir!”

  “You will be sure to write to me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you, my beloved wife. Au revoir! ”

  Morrel stayed, listening, till the sound of her footsteps on the gravel had died away, then he raised his eyes heavenward with an ineffable smile of gratitude that such supreme love should be given him.

  The young man returned home and waited the whole of that evening and the next day without receiving any news. Toward ten o’clock of the third day, however, he received by post a note which he knew was from Valentine, although he had never before seen her handwriting. The note read as follows:

  Tears, supplications, entreaties have been of no avail. I went to the church of St Philip du Roule yesterday and for two hours prayed most fervently. But God appears as unfeeling as man is and the signing of the contract is fixed for this evening at nine o’clock. I have but one heart and can give my hand to one person only: both my hand and my heart are yours, Maximilian.

  I shall see you this evening at the gate at a quarter to nine.

  Your wife,

  VALENTINE DE VILLEFORT

  P. S.—I think they are keeping it a secret from Grandpapa Noirtier that the contract is to be signed to-morrow.

  Not satisfied with the information Valentine had given him, Morrel went in search of the notary, who confirmed the fact that the signing of the contract had been fixed for nine o’clock that evening.

  Maximilian had made all arrangements for the elopement. Two ladders were hidden in the clover near the garden; a cabriolet, which was to take Maximilian to the gate, was in readiness. No servants would accompany him, and the lanterns would not be lit till they reached the first bend of the road.

  From time to time a shudder passed through Morrel’s whole frame as he thought of the moment when he would assist Valentine in her descent from the top of the wall, and when he would clasp in his arms the trembling form of her whose finger tips he had as yet hardly ventured to kiss.

  In the afternoon, when the hour drew near, Morrel felt the necessity of being alone. He shut himself up in his room and attempted to read, but his eyes passed over the pages without understanding what he was reading, and in the end he flung the book from him. At last the hour arrived. The horse and cabriolet were concealed behind some ruins where Maximilian was accustomed to hide.

  The day gradually drew to its close, and the bushes in the garden became nothing but indistinct masses. Morrel came out of his hiding place, and, with beating heart, looked through the hole in the paling. There was no one to be seen. The clock struck nine . . . half-past nine . . . ten! In the darkness he searched in vain for the white dress, in the stillness he waited in vain for the sound of footsteps. Then one idea took possession of his mind: she had been coming to him, but her strength had failed her and she had fallen in a faint on one of the garden paths. He ventured to call her name, and he seemed to hear an inarticulate moan in response. He scaled the wall and jumped down on the other side. Distracted and half mad with an
xiety, he decided to risk everything and anything in order to ascertain if and what misfortune had befallen Valentine. He reached the outskirts of the clump of trees and was just about to cross the open flower-garden with all possible speed when a distant voice, borne upon the wind, reached his ear.

  He retreated a step and stood motionless, concealed, hidden among the trees. He made up his mind that if Valentine was alone, he would warn her of his presence; if she was accompanied, he would at least see her and know whether she was safe and well.

  Just then the moon escaped from behind a cloud and by its light Morrel saw Villefort on the steps followed by a man in black garb. They descended the steps and approached the clump of trees where Morrel was hiding, and he soon recognized the other gentleman as Doctor d’Avrigny. After a short time, their footsteps ceased to crunch the gravel, and the following conversation reached his ears:

  “Oh, Doctor, the hand of God is heavy upon us! What a terrible death! What a blow! Seek not to console me, for alas, the wound is too deep and too fresh. Dead! dead!”

  A cold perspiration broke out on Maximilian’s forehead, and his teeth chattered. Who was dead in that house that Villefort himself called accursed?

  “I have not brought you here to console you, quite the contrary,” said the doctor, in a voice that added to the young man’s terror.

  “What do you mean?” asked the Procureur du Roi, alarmed.

  “What I mean is, that behind the misfortune that has just befallen you, there is perhaps a much greater one. Are we quite alone?”

  “Yes, quite alone. But why such precautions?”

  “I have a terrible secret to confide in you,” said the doctor.

  “Let us sit down.”

  Villefort sank on to a bench. The doctor stood in front of him, one hand on his shoulder. Petrified with fear, Morrel put one hand to his head, and pressed the other to his heart to stop the beatings, lest they should be heard.

  “Speak, Doctor, I am listening,” said Villefort. “Strike your blow. I am prepared for all.”