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

  The Count of Monte Cristo turned a ghastly colour; his wild eyes were burning with a devouring flame; he bounded into the adjoining room, and, within a second, tearing off his tie, his coat, and his waistcoat, had put on a small sailor’s blouse and a sailor’s hat, from under which his long black hair flowed.

  He returned thus attired, and, with his arms crossed, walked up to the General, who had wondered at his sudden disappearance. On seeing him again his teeth chattered, his legs gave way under him, and he stepped back until he found a table against which to lay his clenched hand for support.

  “Fernand!” cried Monte Cristo, “I need but mention one of my many names to strike terror into your heart. But you guess this name, or rather you remember it, do you not? For, in spite of all my grief and tortures, I show you to-day a face made young by the joy of vengeance, a face that you must often have seen in your dreams since your marriage with—Mercédès.”

  With head thrown back and hands stretched out, the General stared at this terrible apparition in silence; then, leaning against the wall for support, he glided slowly along it to the door through which he went out backward, uttering but the one distressing and piercing cry: “Edmond Dantès!”

  With a moan that can be compared with no human sound, he dragged himself to the yard, staggering like a drunken man, and fell into his valet’s arms. “Home! home!” he muttered.

  The fresh air and the shame he felt at having given way before his servant made him pull himself together, but the drive was a short one, and the nearer he got to his house the greater was his anguish.

  A few paces from his door, the carriage stopped, and the Count alighted. The door of the house was wide open; a cab, whose driver looked his surprise at being called to this magnificent residence, was stationed in the middle of the yard. The Count looked at it in terror, and, not daring to question anyone, fled to his room.

  Two people were coming down the staircase, and he had only just time to hide himself in a room near by. It was Mercédès, leaning on her son’s arm. They were both leaving the house. They passed quite close to the unhappy man, who, hidden behind a door-curtain, felt Mercédès’ silk dress brush past him and the warm breath of his son on his face, as he said:

  “Have courage, Mother! Come away, this is no longer our home.”

  The words died away and the steps were lost in the distance. The General drew himself up, clinging to the curtains with clenched hands, and the most terrible sob escaped him that ever came from the bosom of a father abandoned at the same time by his wife and his son.

  Soon he heard the door of the cab closed and the voice of the coachman, followed by the rumbling of the lumbersome vehicle as it shook the windowpanes. He rushed into his bedroom to see once more all that he had loved on earth; the cab passed, and neither Mercédès’ nor Albert’s head appeared at the door to take a last farewell of the deserted house, or to cast on the abandoned husband and father a last look of farewell and regret.

  At the very moment when the wheels of that cab passed under the arched gate, a report was heard, and dark smoke issued through the glass of the bedroom window, which had been broken by the force of the explosion.

  Chapter LX

  VALENTINE

  On leaving Monte Cristo, Morrel walked slowly toward Villefort’s house. Noirtier and Valentine had allowed him two visits a week, and he was now going to take advantage of his rights.

  Valentine was waiting for him. Almost beside herself with anxiety, she seized his hand and led him to her grandfather. She had heard of the affair at the Opera and its consequences, and, with her woman’s instinct, had guessed that Morrel would be Monte Cristo’s second, and, knowing the young man’s courage and his affection for the Count, she feared he would not be satisfied with the impassive part assigned to him.

  One can understand with what eagerness all details were asked, given, and received, and the expression of indescribable joy that appeared in Valentine’s eyes when she learned the happy issue of the terrible affair.

  “Now, let us speak of our own affairs,” said Valentine, making a sign to Morrel to take a seat beside her grandfather while she sat on a hassock at his feet. “You know Grandpapa wants to leave this house? Do you know what reason he has given?”

  Noirtier looked at his granddaughter to impose silence on her, but she was not looking at him; her eyes and smiles were all for Morrel.

  “Whatever the reason may be that Monsieur Noirtier has given, I am sure it is a good one!” exclaimed Maximilian.

  “He pretends that the air of the Faubourg Saint-Honoré does not suit me!”

  “Monsieur Noirtier may be right too,” said Morrel. “You have not looked at all well for the past fortnight.”

  “Perhaps not,” replied Valentine, “but my grandfather has become my physician, and, as he knows everything, I have the greatest confidence that he will soon cure me.”

  “Then you are really ill, Valentine?” Morrel asked anxiously.

  “Oh, not really ill; I only feel a little unwell, nothing more.”

  Noirtier did not let one of Valentine’s words escape him.

  “What treatment are you following for this strange illness?”

  “A very simple one,” said Valentine. “Every morning I take a spoonful of my grandfather’s medicine; that is, I commenced with one spoonful, but now I take four. Grandfather says it is a panacea.”

  Valentine smiled, yet her smile was a sad one. Maximilian looked at her in silence, but his eyes looked his love. She was very beautiful, but her paleness had become more marked, her eyes shone more brilliantly than usual, and her hands, which were generally of the whiteness of mother-of-pearl, now resembled wax turned yellow with age.

  “But I thought this medicine was made up especially for Monsieur Noirtier?” said Morrel.

  “I know it is, and it is very bitter,” replied Valentine. “Everything I drink afterwards seems to have the same taste.”

  Noirtier looked at his granddaughter questioningly.

  “Yes, Grandpapa, it is so,” she replied. “Just now before coming to you I drank some sugared water; it tasted so bitter that I left half of it.”

  Noirtier made a sign that he wished to say something. Valentine at once got up to fetch the dictionary, her grandfather following her all the while with visible anguish. As a matter of fact, the blood was rushing to the girl’s head, and her cheeks became red.

  “Well, this is singular,” she said, without losing any of her gaiety. “I have become giddy again. It is the sun shining in my eyes.” And she leaned against the window.

  “There is no sun,” replied Morrel, more concerned by the expression on Noirtier’s face than by Valentine’s indisposition. He ran toward her.

  “Do not be alarmed,” she said with a smile. “It is nothing and has already passed. But listen! Do I not hear a carriage in the courtyard?” She opened Noirtier’s door, ran to a window in the passage and returned quickly.

  “Yes,” she said. “It is Madame Danglars and her daughter, who have come to call on us. Good-bye, I must run away, otherwise they will come to look for me here. Stay with Grandpapa, Max. I promise you to come back very soon.”

  With that she ran out, but she had scarcely gone down three stairs when a cloud passed before her eyes, her legs became stiff, her hands lost the power of holding the baluster, and she rolled down to the bottom.

  Morrel started up, and, opening the door, found Valentine stretched out on the landing. Quick as lightning he picked her up in his arms, and, carrying her back into the room, seated her on a chair. Valentine opened her eyes and looked round her. She saw the deepest terror depicted on her grandfather’s features, and, trying to smile, said: “Do not be alarmed, Grandpapa. It is nothing at all. I only went giddy.”

  “Giddy again!” exclaimed Morrel alarmed. “I beg of you, Valentine, take care of yourself.”

  “But it has passed now, and I am quite myself again. Now let me give you some news. Eugénie Danglars is going to be marrie
d in a week and in three days her mother is going to give a sort of betrothal festival. We are all invited, my father, Madame de Villefort, and myself—at least I understand so.”

  “When will it be our turn to think of these things? Oh, Valentine, you can do so much with your grandfather. Try to persuade him to say it will be soon! Do something quickly. So long as you are not really mine, I am always afraid I may lose you.”

  “Really, Maximilian, you are too timid for an officer, a soldier who, they say, knows not what fear is,” said Valentine with a spasmodic movement of pain, and she burst into harsh, painful laughter. Her arms stiffened, her head fell back on her chair, and she remained motionless.

  The cry of terror which was imprisoned in Noirtier’s throat found expression in his eyes. Morrel understood he was to call for help. The young man pulled at the bell; the maid, who was in Valentine’s room, and the servant who had taken Barrois’ place came rushing in immediately.

  Valentine was so cold, pale, and inanimate that the fear that prevailed in this accursed house took possession of them, and they flew out of the room shouting for help. At the same moment, Villefort’s voice was heard calling from his study: “What is the matter?”

  Morrel looked questioningly at Noirtier, who had now regained his composure, and indicated by a look the little room where Morrel had already taken refuge on a similar occasion. He was only just in time, for Villefort’s footsteps were heard approaching. He rushed into the room, ran up to Valentine and took her in his arms for an instant, calling out the while: “A doctor! Monsieur d’Avrigny! No, I will go for him myself,” and he flew out of the room.

  Morrel went out by the other door. A dreadful recollection chilled his heart; the conversation between Villefort and the doctor which he had overheard the night Mme de Saint-Méran died came back to his mind. These were the same symptoms, though less acute, that had preceded Barrois’ death. On the other hand Monte Cristo’s words seemed to resound in his ears: “If you have need of anything, Morrel, come to me. I can do much,” and, quicker than thought, he sped from the Faubourg Saint-Honoré to the Champs Élysées.

  In the meantime, Villefort arrived at the doctor’s house in a hired cabriolet, and rang the bell so violently that the porter became quite alarmed and hastened to open the door. Without saying a word, Villefort ran up the stairs. The porter knew him and let him pass, calling after him: “In his study, monsieur, in his study!” Villefort pushed open the door.

  “Doctor,” cried Villefort, shutting the door behind him, “there is a curse on my house!”

  “What!” cried d’Avrigny, outwardly calm though inwardly deeply moved. “Is there someone ill again?”

  “Yes, Doctor,” said Villefort, clutching at his hair.

  D’Avrigny’s look said: “I told you so,” but his lips slowly articulated the words: “Who is dying in your house now? What new victim is going to accuse us of weakness before God?”

  A painful sob broke from Villefort’s lips. He went up to the doctor and, seizing his arm, said: “Valentine! It is Valentine’s turn!”

  “Your daughter!” cried the doctor with grief and surprise.

  “You see you were mistaken,” said the magistrate. “Come and see her on her bed of torture and ask her forgiveness for having harboured suspicion against her.”

  “Each time you have summoned me, it has been too late,” said d’Avrigny. “No matter, I will come. But let us hasten. You have no time to lose in fighting against your enemies.”

  “Oh, this time you shall not reproach me with weakness, Doctor. This time I shall seek out the murderer and give him his deserts.”

  “Let us try to save the victim before thinking of vengeance,” said d’Avrigny. The cabriolet which had brought Villefort took them both back at a gallop just as Morrel knocked at the Count of Monte Cristo’s door.

  The Count was in his study, and, with a worried look, was reading a note Bertuccio had just brought him. On hearing Morrel, who had left him barely two hours before, announced, he raised his head. Doubtless the last two hours had held much for him as well as for the Count, for, whereas he had left him with a smile on his face, he now returned with a troubled mien.

  “What is the matter, Maximilian?” the Count asked. “You are quite white, and the perspiration is rolling down your forehead.”

  “I need your help, or rather, fool that I am, I thought you could help me where God alone can help!”

  “In any case tell me what it is.”

  “I really do not know whether I should reveal this secret to any human ears, Count, but misfortune urges me to it, necessity constrains me to do so.”

  Morrel hesitated a moment.

  “Do you believe in my affection for you?” said Monte Cristo, taking the young man’s hands affectionately in his.

  “There, you give me courage, and something tells me here”—Morrel laid his hand on his heart—“that I must withhold no secrets from you.”

  “You are right, Morrel. God speaks to your heart and your heart speaks to you. Tell me what it says.”

  “Count, will you allow me to send Baptistin to inquire after someone you know?”

  “I have placed myself at your service and with me my servants.”

  “I could not live if I did not know she was better!”

  Morrel went out, and, calling Baptistin, said a few words to him in a low voice, whereupon the valet ran to do the young man’s errand.

  “Well, have you sent him?” said Monte Cristo, when he made his appearance again.

  “Yes, and I shall be a little calmer now.”

  “I am all attention,” said the Count, smiling.

  “Well, then, I will begin. One evening I was in a certain garden. I was hidden behind a clump of trees so that no one was aware of my presence. Two people passed close to me—allow me to conceal their names for the present. They were talking in a low voice, but I was so interested in all they said that I did not lose a word of their conversation. Someone had just died in the house to which this garden belonged. One of the two persons thus conversing was the owner of the garden, the other was the doctor. The former was confiding his fears and troubles to the latter, for it was the second time in a month that death had dealt such a sudden and unexpected blow in this house.”

  “What reply did the doctor make?” asked Monte Cristo.

  “He replied . . . he replied that it was not a natural death, and that it could only be attributed to . . .”

  “To what?”

  “To poison.”

  “Really!” said Monte Cristo with a slight cough, “did you really hear that?”

  “Yes, I did, and the doctor added that if a similar case occurred again, he would be compelled to appeal to justice. Well, death knocked a third time, yet neither the master of the house nor the doctor said anything. In all probability it is going to knock for the fourth time. In what way do you think the possession of this secret obliges me to act?”

  “My dear friend,” said Monte Cristo, “you are telling me something that every one of us knows by heart. Look at me; I have not overheard any confidence, but I know it all as well as you do, and yet I have no scruples. If God’s justice has fallen on this house, turn away your face, Maximilian, and let His hand hold sway. God has condemned them, and they must submit to their sentence. Three months ago it was Monsieur de Saint-Méran, two months ago it was Madame de Saint-Méran, to-day it is old Noirtier or young Valentine.”

  “You knew about it then?” cried Morrel in a paroxysm of terror that made Monte Cristo shudder. “You knew it and said nothing?”

  “What is it to me?” replied Monte Cristo, shrugging his shoulders. “Do I know these people? Must I lose the one to save the other? Indeed not, for I have no preference between the guilty one and the victim.”

  “But I . . . I love her!” cried Morrel piteously.

  “You love whom?” exclaimed Monte Cristo, jumping on to his feet and seizing Morrel’s hands.

  “I love her dearly, madly;
I love her so much that I would shed all my blood to save her one tear. I love Valentine de Villefort, whom they are killing, do you hear? I love her, and I beseech you to tell me how I can save her.”

  Monte Cristo uttered a wild cry, which only those can conceive who have heard the roar of a wounded lion.

  Never had Morrel beheld such an expression; never had such a dreadful eye flashed before his face, never had the genius of terror, which he had so often seen either on the field of battle or in the murder-infested nights of Algeria, shed round him such sinister fires! He shrunk back in terror. As for Monte Cristo, he closed his eyes for a moment after this outburst, and, during these few seconds, he restrained the tempestuous heaving of his breast as turbulent and foamy waves sink after a shower under the influence of the sun.

  This silence and inward struggle lasted about twenty seconds, and then the Count raised his pale face.

  “Behold, my dear friend, how God punishes the most boastful and unfeeling for their indifference in the face of terrible disasters,” he said. “I looked on unmoved and curious. I watched this grim tragedy developing, and, like one of those fallen angels, laughed at the evil committed by men under the screen of secrecy. And now my turn has come, and I am bitten by the serpent whose tortuous course I have been watching—bitten to the core.”

  A groan escaped Morrel’s lips.

  “Come, come, lamenting will not help us. Be a man, be strong and full of hope, for I am here, I am watching over you. I tell you to hope! Know once and for all that I never lie and never make a mistake. It is but midday and you can be grateful, Morrel, that you have come to me now instead of this evening or to-morrow morning. Listen to what I am going to tell you. It is midday, and, if Valentine is not dead now, she will not die!”

  “How can you say that when I left her dying!”

  Monte Cristo pressed his hand to his forehead. What was passing through that mind heavy with terrible secrets? What was the angel of light, or the angel of darkness, saying to that implacable human mind? God alone knows.