He was not mistaken. With his eyes glued to the cracks in the palings he saw her running toward him and throwing her usual precaution to the winds. The first word she uttered filled his heart with joy.
“Saved!” she cried.
“Saved?” repeated Morrel, unable to believe such happiness. “Who has saved us?”
“My grandfather. You should really love him, Morrel!”
Morrel swore to love him with his whole heart; the oath cost him nothing, for at that moment he felt it was not sufficient to love him as a father or a friend, he almost adored him as a god.
“How did he manage it?” he asked. “What means did he use?”
Valentine was about to recount everything when she remembered that at the root of all was a secret which did not belong wholly to her grandfather.
“I will tell you all about it later,” she said.
“When?”
“When I am your wife.”
The turn the conversation was taking was so pleasing to Morrel that he was quite content to leave the matter at that and be satisfied with the one all-important piece of news for that day. He would not leave her, however, till she had given her promise that she would see him the next evening. This Valentine was ready to do. Her outlook had undergone a complete change and it was certainly less difficult for her now to believe that she would marry Maximilian than it was for her to believe an hour back that she would not marry Franz.
In the meantime Mme de Villefort went up to Noirtier’s room, where she was received with the habitual cold and forbidding look.
“There is no need for me to tell you, monsieur,” said she, “that Valentine’s engagement is broken off since it is here that the rupture took place; but what you do not know is that I have always been opposed to this marriage and that it was being contracted against my will.”
Noirtier looked at his daughter-in-law as though demanding an explanation.
“Now that this marriage, which I know did not meet with your approval, has been stopped, I have come to speak to you of something which neither Monsieur de Villefort nor Valentine could mention.”
Noirtier’s eyes bade her proceed.
“As the only one disinterested and therefore the only one who has the right to speak on the matter,” she continued, “I come to ask you to restore, not your love, for that she has always had, but your fortune to your grandchild.”
For an instant Noirtier’s eyes hesitated; evidently he was trying to find a motive for this request, but was unable to do so.
“May I hope, monsieur,” said Mme de Villefort, “that your intentions coincide with my request?”
“Yes,” signalled Noirtier.
“In that case, I leave you a grateful and happy woman, monsieur,” she said, and, bowing to Noirtier, she withdrew.
True to his word, M. Noirtier sent for the notary the next day: the first will was torn up and a new one made in which he left the whole of his fortune to Valentine on condition that she should not separate herself from him.
It was then noised abroad that Mlle de Villefort, the heiress of the Marquis and Marquise de Saint-Méran, had been restored to her grandfather’s good graces, and that one day she would have an income of over three hundred thousand francs.
While the events recorded above were taking place in the house of Monsieur de Villefort, the Count of Morcerf had received Monte Cristo’s visit, ordered his carriage and driven to the Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin. Danglars was making his monthly balance, and it was certainly not the best time to find him in a good humour; as a matter of fact, it had not been so for the past few months. On seeing his old friend, he assumed his most commanding air and seated himself squarely in his chair. Morcerf, on the other hand, laid aside his habitual stiffness of manner and was almost jovial and affable. Feeling sure that his overtures would be well received, he lost no time in coming to the point.
“Well, here I am, Baron. We have made no headway in our plans since our former conversation.”
“What plans, Count?” Danglars asked as though vainly trying to discover some explanation of the General’s words.
“Since you are such a stickler, my dear Baron, and since you desire to remind me that the ceremony is to be carried out in all due form, I will comply with your wishes.” With a forced smile he rose, made a deep bow to Danglars, and said: “I have the honour, Baron, to ask the hand of Mademoiselle Eugénie Danglars, your daughter, for my son the Viscount Albert de Morcerf.”
But instead of welcoming these words as Morcerf had every right to expect, Danglars knit his brows and, without even inviting the Count to take a seat, replied:
“Before giving you an answer, Count, I must think the matter over.”
“Think the matter over?” exclaimed Morcerf more and more astonished. “Have you not had time enough for reflection during the eight years that have elapsed since we first spoke of this marriage?”
“Every day things happen, Count, which call for reconsideration of questions which we believed to be exhaustively considered,” was Danglars’ reply.
“What do you mean?” asked Morcerf. “I do not understand you.”
“What I mean is that during the last fortnight unforeseen circumstances . . .”
“Excuse me, but is this a play we are acting?”
“A play?”
“Yes. Pray let us be more explicit.”
“I should be delighted.”
“Have you seen the Count of Monte Cristo lately?”
“I see him very often. He is a friend of mine.”
“When you saw him the other day did you not tell him that I appeared to you to be irresolute and forgetful in regard to this marriage? You see that I am neither the one nor the other since I have come to bid you keep your promise.”
Danglars made no reply.
“Have you changed your mind so soon?” continued Morcerf. “Or have you but egged me on to make this proposal in order to see me humiliated?”
Danglars understood that if he continued the conversation in the same strain as that in which he had begun it, he might be taken at a disadvantage, so he said: “I quite comprehend that you are amazed at my reserve, Count. Believe me, I am the first one to regret that painful circumstances compel me to act thus.”
“These are but so many empty words,” replied the Count. “They might perhaps satisfy an ordinary man, but not the Count of Morcerf. When a man of his position comes to another man to remind him of his plighted word, and that man breaks his word, he is at least justified in demanding from him a good reason for his conduct.”
Danglars was a coward but did not wish to appear one; besides he was annoyed at the tone Morcerf had adopted.
“I do not break my word without good reason,” he retorted.
“What do you mean by that?”
“That my reason is good enough; but it is not an easy one to tell.”
“You must understand, however, that I cannot be put off by such cryptic remarks. In any case, it is quite clear that you reject my proposal.”
“Not altogether,” replied Danglars, “I merely suspend my decision.”
“But surely you do not presume to think that I am going to submit to your whims, and wait patiently and humbly until such time as I shall be restored to your favour again?”
“Then, Count, if you will not wait, we must consider our plan as null and void.”
The Count bit his lips till they bled in his effort to suppress the outburst which was so natural to his proud and irritable temper. He realized, however, that in this case, a scene would only make him look ridiculous, and had reached the door when he changed his mind and turned back. A cloud had gathered on his brow, which showed that his pride had given way to uneasiness.
“Come now, my dear Danglars,” said he, “we have known each other for many long years and should, therefore, have some consideration for one another. You owe me an explanation, and the least you can do is to inform me what unfortunate occurrence has deprived my son of you
r favour.”
“I bear the Viscount personally no ill-will, that is all I can tell you, monsieur,” replied Danglars, adopting his insolent attitude once more now that the Count had become calmer.
“Then against whom is your ill-will directed?” asked Morcerf, his uneasiness showing itself in his changed voice and pale face.
Danglars did not let any of these symptoms escape him, and, fixing a look of greater assurance on the Count than was his wont, said: “You may be thankful I do not give a more detailed explanation.”
A nervous trembling caused by repressed anger shook Morcerf’s whole frame, but pulling himself together with a violent effort, he said: “I have the right to insist on an explanation. Have you anything against Madame de Morcerf ? Is my fortune too small for you? Is it because my opinions differ from yours?”
“Nothing of the kind, monsieur,” said Danglars. “If it were so, I should be at fault, for I was fully informed on these matters at the time of the engagement. Seek no more for a reason, I pray. I am really quite ashamed to see you indulging in such self-examination. Let us leave the matter as it stands and agree to a postponement. Surely, monsieur, there is no hurry. My daughter is but seventeen and your son twenty-one. In the meanwhile, time follows its course carrying events with it; what is obscure one evening, is often revealed the next, and the vilest calumnies ofttimes die in one day.”
“Calumnies, did you say?” exclaimed Morcerf, turning livid. “Can anyone be slandering me?”
“As I already said, monsieur, we will not go into details. I assure you this is more painful for me than for you, for I had reckoned on the honour of an alliance with you, and the breaking off of a marriage proposal always injures the lady more than the gentleman.”
“Enough, monsieur, we will drop the subject,” said Morcerf, as, crumpling his gloves up in his rage, he left the room.
Danglars noticed that not once had Morcerf dared to ask whether it was on his own account that he, Danglars, had broken his word.
That same evening the banker had a long conference with several friends, and M. Cavalcanti, who had remained in the salon with the ladies, was the last to leave the house.
As soon as he awoke the next morning, Danglars asked for the newspapers. He flung three or four on one side till he came to the Impartial, of which Beauchamp was the chief editor. He hastily tore off the wrapper and opened it nervously. Disdainfully passing over the leading article, he came to the miscellaneous news column, and, with a malicious smile, stopped at a paragraph which read as follows:
A correspondent at Janina writes: A fact hitherto unknown, or at any rate unpublished, has just come to my knowledge. The castles defending this town were given up to the Turks by a French officer in whom the Vizier Ali Tebelin had placed entire confidence. This French officer who was in the service of Ali, Pasha of Janina, and who not only surrendered the Castle of Janina, but also sold his benefactor to the Turks, at that time was called Fernand, but he has since added to his Christian name a title of nobility and a family name. He is now styled the Count of Morcerf and ranks among the peers.
“Good!” Danglars observed after having read the paragraph; “here is a nice little article on Colonel Fernand which will, methinks, relieve me of the necessity of giving any explanation to the Count of Morcerf.”
Chapter LII
THE LEMONADE
Morrel was, indeed, very happy. M. Noirtier had sent for him, and he was in such haste to learn the reason that, trusting to his own two legs more than to the four legs of a cab-horse, he started off from the Rue Meslay at a rapid pace and ran all the way to the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, while Barrois followed as well he might. Morrel was thirty-one years of age and was urged on by love; Barrois was sixty and parched with the heat. On arriving at the house, Morrel was not even out of breath, for love lends wings; but Barrois had not been in love for many long years and was bathed in perspiration.
The old servant let Morrel in by a private door, and before long the rustling of a dress on the parquet floor announced the arrival of Valentine. She looked adorable in her mourning, in fact so charming that Morrel could almost have dispensed with his interview with Noirtier; but the old man’s chair was soon heard being wheeled along to the room in which they were awaiting him.
Noirtier acknowledged with a kind look Morrel’s effusive thanks for his marvellous intervention which had saved Valentine and himself from despair. Then, in view of the new favour accorded him, Maximilian sought Valentine’s eyes; she was sitting in the far corner timidly waiting till she was forced to speak. Noirtier fixed his eyes on her.
“Am I to say what you told me?” she asked.
“Yes,” was Noirtier’s reply.
“Grandpapa Noirtier had a great many things to say to you, Monsieur Morrel,” said Valentine to the young man, who was devouring her with his eyes. “These he told me three days ago, and he has sent for you to-day that I may repeat them all to you. Since he has chosen me as his interpreter, I will repeat everything in the light of his intentions.”
“I am listening with the greatest impatience,” replied the young man. “Pray speak, mademoiselle.”
“My grandfather wishes to leave this house,” she continued. “Barrois is now looking for a suitable flat for him.”
“But what will become of you, mademoiselle, who are so dear and so necessary to Monsieur Noirtier?”
“Me?” replied Valentine. “It is quite agreed that I shall not leave my grandfather. I shall live with him. Then I shall be free and have an independent income, and with my grandfather’s consent I shall keep the promise I made you.”
Valentine said these last words in such a low voice that nothing but Morrel’s great interest in them made them audible to him.
“When I am with my grandfather,” continued Valentine, “Monsieur Morrel can come and see me in the presence of my good and worthy protector, and if we still feel that our future happiness lies in a union with each other, he can come and claim me. I shall be waiting for him.”
“Oh!” cried Morrel. “What have I done to deserve such happiness?”
Noirtier looked at the lovers with ineffable tenderness. Barrois, before whom there were no secrets, had remained at the far end of the room and smiled happily as he wiped away the last drops of perspiration that were rolling down his bald forehead.
“How hot poor old Barrois is!” said Valentine.
“That is because I have been running fast, mademoiselle, but I must give Monsieur Morrel the credit for running still faster.”
Noirtier indicated by a look a tray on which were standing a decanter of lemonade and a tumbler. Noirtier himself had drunk some of the lemonade half an hour before.
“Have some of this lemonade, Barrois,” the girl said. “I can see you are looking at it with envious eyes.”
“The fact is, mademoiselle, I am dying of thirst, and I shall be only too glad to drink your health in a glass of lemonade.”
Barrois took the tray and was hardly outside the door, which he had forgotten to close, when they saw him throw back his head to empty the tumbler Valentine had filled for him. Valentine and Morrel were bidding each other good-bye; they heard a bell ringing on Villefort’s staircase. It was the signal that a visitor had called. Valentine looked at the clock.
“It is noon,” said she, “and as it is Saturday, it is doubtless the doctor. He will come here, so Monsieur Morrel had better go, do you not think so, Grandpapa?”
“Yes,” replied the old man.
“Barrois!” called Valentine, “Barrois, come!”
The voice of the old servant was heard to reply: “I am coming, mademoiselle.”
“Barrois will conduct you to the door,” Valentine said to Morrel. “And now, remember, Monsieur l’Officier, Grandpapa does not wish us to risk anything that might compromise our happiness.”
“I have promised to wait, and wait I shall,” said Morrel.
At that moment Barrois entered.
“Who rang?” asked Val
entine.
“Doctor d’Avrigny,” said Barrois, staggering.
“What is the matter, Barrois?” Valentine asked him.
The servant did not answer; he looked at his master with wildly staring eyes, while his cramped hand groped for some support to prevent himself from falling.
“He is going to fall!” cried Morrel.
In fact, the trembling fit which had come over Barrois gradually increased, and the twitching of his facial muscles announced a very grave nervous attack. Seeing his old servant in this state, Noirtier looked at him affectionately, and in those intelligent eyes was expressed every emotion that moves the human heart.
Barrois went a few steps toward his master.
“Oh, my God! My God! Lord have pity on me!” he cried. “What is the matter with me? I am ill. I cannot see. A thousand darts of fire are piercing my brain. Oh, don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!”
His haggard eyes started out of their sockets, his head fell back, and the rest of his body stiffened. Valentine uttered a cry of horror, and Morrel took her in his arms as though to defend her against some unknown danger.
“Monsieur d’Avrigny! Monsieur d’Avrigny!” the girl called out in a choking voice. “Help! help!”
Barrois turned round, walked a few steps, stumbled and fell at his master’s feet with his hand on his knee, and cried out: “My master! my good master!”
Attracted by the screams, Villefort rushed into the room. Morrel instantly relaxed his hold of Valentine, who was now in a half-fainting condition, and going to a far corner of the room, hid behind a curtain. As pale as if he had seen a snake start up to attack him, he gazed in horror on the agonized sufferer. Noirtier was burning with impatience and terror, his soul went out to help the poor old man who was his friend rather than his servant. The terrible struggle between life and death that was going on within him made his veins stand out and the few remaining live muscles round his eyes contract.