Monte Cristo raised his head once more, and this time his face was as calm as that of a sleeping child.
“Maximilian, return quietly to your home,” he said. “I command you to do nothing, to take no steps, to let no shadow of sorrow be seen on your face. I will send you tidings. Go!”
“Count, you frighten me with your calm. Have you any power over death? Are you more than man? Are you an angel?”
The young man who would shrink from no danger now shrank from Monte Cristo in unutterable terror. Monte Cristo only looked at him with a smile mingled with sadness which brought the tears to Morrel’s eyes.
“I can do much, my friend,” replied the Count. “Go, I need to be alone . . .”
Conquered by the prodigious ascendancy Monte Cristo exercised on all around him, Morrel did not even attempt to resist. He shook the Count’s hand and went out, but waited at the door for Baptistin, whom he saw running toward him.
In the meantime Villefort and d’Avrigny had made all possible haste. When they returned Valentine was still unconscious, and the doctor examined her with the care called for by the circumstances and in the light of the secret he had discovered. Villefort awaited the result of the examination, watching every movement of the doctor’s eyes and lips. Noirtier, more eager for a verdict than Villefort himself, was also waiting, and all in him became alert and sensitive.
At last d’Avrigny slowly said: “She still lives!”
“Still!” cried Villefort. “Oh, Doctor, what a terrible word.”
“Yes,” said the doctor. “I repeat my words; she is still living, and I am surprised to find it is so.”
“She is saved?” asked the father.
“Since she still lives, she is.”
At this moment d’Avrigny met Noirtier’s eyes, which sparkled with such extraordinary joy that he was startled and stood for a moment motionless, looking at the old man, who, on his part, seemed to anticipate and commend all he did.
The doctor laid the girl back on her chair; her lips were so pale and bloodless that they were scarcely outlined against the rest of her pallid face.
“Call Mademoiselle de Villefort’s maid, if you please,” he said to Villefort.
Villefort left his daughter’s side and himself went in search of the maid. Directly the door was shut behind him, the doctor approached Noirtier.
“You have something to say to me?” he asked.
The old man blinked expressively.
“To me alone?”
“Yes.”
“Very well, I will stay with you.”
Villefort returned, followed by the maid, and after them came Mme de Villefort.
“What ails the dear child?” she exclaimed with tears in her eyes, and affecting every proof of maternal love as she went up to Valentine and took her hand.
D’Avrigny continued to watch Noirtier; he saw the eyes of the old man dilate and grow large, his cheeks turn pale, and the perspiration break out on his forehead.
“Ah,” said he involuntarily as he followed the direction of Noirtier’s eyes and fixed his own gaze on Mme de Villefort, who said: “The poor child would be better in bed. Come and help me, Fanny.”
M. d’Avrigny saw an opportunity of being alone with M. Noirtier and nodded his assent, but forbade anyone to give her to eat or drink except what he prescribed. Valentine had returned to consciousness, but her whole frame was so shattered by the attack that she was unable to move and scarcely able to speak. She had the strength, however, to throw a farewell glance to her grandfather, and it seemed almost as though in carrying her away, they were taking away part of himself. D’Avrigny followed the invalid, wrote his prescriptions, and told Villefort to take a cab and go himself to the chemist’s, have the prescriptions made up before his eyes, and wait for him in the girl’s room. After renewing his instructions that Valentine was not to partake of anything, he returned to Noirtier and carefully closed the doors. Ascertaining that no one was listening, he said: “Come now, you know something about your granddaughter’s illness.”
“Yes,” motioned the old man.
“We have no time to lose. I will question you, and you will answer.”
Noirtier made a sign that he agreed.
“Did you anticipate the accident that has occurred to Valentine today?”
“Yes.”
D’Avrigny thought for a moment, then, drawing closer to Noirtier, said: “Forgive me what I am going to say, but no stone must be left unturned in this terrible predicament. You saw Barrois die. Do you know what he died of ?”
“Yes,” was the reply.
“Do you think he died a natural death?”
Something like a smile showed itself on Noirtier’s immovable lips.
“Then the idea occurred to you that Barrois had been poisoned?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think the poison was intended for him?”
“No.”
“Now do you think that the same hand that struck Barrois in mistake for someone else has to-day struck Valentine?”
“Yes.”
“Then she will also succumb to it?” d’Avrigny asked, looking attentively at Noirtier to mark the effect these words would have on him.
“No,” he replied with an air of triumph which would have bewildered the cleverest of diviners.
“You hope, then? What do you hope?” said the doctor with surprise.
The old man gave him to understand that he could not answer.
“Ah, yes, it is true,” murmured d’Avrigny, and turning to Noirtier again: “You hope that the murderer will grow weary of his attempts?”
“No.”
“Then do you hope that the poison will not take effect on Valentine?”
“Yes.”
“Then in what way do you think Valentine will escape?”
Noirtier fixed his gaze obstinately on one spot; d’Avrigny followed the direction of his eyes and saw that they were fixed on a bottle containing his medicine.
“Ha, ha,” said d’Avrigny, struck by a sudden thought. “You conceived the idea of preparing her system against this poison?”
“Yes.”
“By accustoming her to it little by little?”
“Yes, yes, yes!” replied Noirtier, delighted at being understood.
“In fact, you heard me say there was brucine in your medicine, and wished to neutralize the effects of the poison by getting her system accustomed to it?”
Noirtier showed the same triumphant joy.
“And you have achieved it, too!” exclaimed the doctor. “Without this precaution Valentine would have died this day, and no one could have helped her. As it is her system has suffered a violent shock, but this time, at any rate, she will not die.”
A supernatural joy shone in the old man’s eyes as he raised them to Heaven with an expression of infinite gratitude. Just then Villefort returned.
“Here is what you asked for, Doctor,” said he.
“Was this medicine made up before you? It has not left your hands?”
“Just so.”
D’Avrigny took the bottle, poured a few drops of its contents into the palm of his hand, and swallowed them.
“It is all right,” said he. “Now let us go to Valentine. I shall give my instructions to everyone, and you must see that no one disregards them.”
At the time that d’Avrigny returned to Valentine’s room, accompanied by Villefort, an Italian priest, with dignified gait and a calm but decided manner, rented for his use the house adjoining that inhabited by M. de Villefort. It is not known what was done to induce the former occupiers to move out of it, but it was reported that the foundations were unsafe; however, this did not prevent the new tenant from moving in with his humble furniture at about five o’clock in the afternoon of the same day. The new tenant’s name was Signor Giacomo Busoni.
Workmen were summoned at once, and the same night the few passers-by were astonished to find carpenters and masons at work repairing the foundations of this
tottering house.
Chapter LXI
THE SECRET DOOR
Valentine was confined to her bed; she was very weak and completely exhausted by the severe attack. During the night her sick brain wove vague and strange ideas and fleeting phantoms, while confused forms passed before her eyes, but in the day-time she was brought back to normal reality by her grandfather’s presence. The old man had himself carried into his granddaughter’s room every morning and watched over her with paternal care. Villefort would spend an hour or two with his father and child when he returned from the Law Courts. At six o’clock Villefort retired to his study, and at eight o’clock Monsieur d’Avrigny arrived, bringing with him the night draught for his young patient. Then Noirtier was taken back to his room, and a nurse, of the doctor’s choice, succeeded them. She did not leave the bedside until ten or eleven o’clock, when Valentine had dropped off to sleep, and gave the keys of the room to M. de Villefort, so that no one could enter the room except through that occupied by Mme de Villefort and little Edward.
Morrel called on Noirtier every morning for news of Valentine, and, extraordinary as it seemed, each day found him less anxious. For one thing, though she showed signs of great nervous excitement, Valentine’s improvement was more marked each day; then, again, had not Monte Cristo already told him that if she was not dead in two hours, she would be saved? Four days had elapsed, and she still lived!
The nervous excitement we mentioned even pursued Valentine in her sleep, or rather in that state of somnolence which succeeded her waking hours. It was in the silence of the night, when the darkness of the room was relieved by a night-light burning in its alabaster receptacle on the chimney-piece, that she saw the shadows pass which come to the rooms of the sick, fanning their fever with their quivering wings. At one time she would see her stepmother threatening her, at another time Morrel was holding his arms out to her, or again she was visited by beings who were almost strangers to her, such as the Count of Monte Cristo; during these moments of delirium even the furniture appeared to become animated. This lasted until about two or three o’clock, when she fell into a deep sleep from which she did not wake until the morning.
One evening after Villefort, d’Avrigny, and Noirtier had successively left her room, and the nurse, after placing within her reach the draught the doctor had prepared for her, had also retired, carefully locking the door after her, an unexpected incident occurred.
Ten minutes had elapsed since the nurse left. For the past hour Valentine had been a prey to the fever which returned every night, and she gave herself up to the active and monotonous workings of her unruly brain, which repeatedly reproduced the same thoughts and conjured up the same images. The night-light threw out countless rays, each one assuming some weird shape. All at once Valentine dimly saw the door of the library, which was beside the fireplace in a hollow of the wall, slowly open without making the least sound. At any other time she would have seized the bell-pull to call for help, but nothing astonished her in her present state. She was aware that all the visions that surrounded her were the children of her delirium, for in the morning there was no trace of all these phantoms of the night.
A human figure emerged from behind the door. Valentine had become too familiar with such apparitions to be alarmed; she simply stared, hoping to see Morrel. The figure continued to approach her bed, then it stopped and appeared to listen with great attention. Just then a reflection from the night-light played on the face of her nocturnal visitor. “It is not he,” she murmured, and waited, convinced that she was dreaming and that the man would disappear or turn into some other person. She noticed the rapid beating of her pulse, and remembered that the best means of dispelling these importunate visions was to take a drink of the draught which had been prescribed by the doctor to calm these agitations. It was so refreshing that, while allaying the fever, it seemed to cause a reaction of the brain and for a moment she suffered less. She, therefore, reached out her hand for the glass, but as she did so the apparition made two big strides to her bed and came so close to her that she thought she heard his breathing and felt the pressure of his hand. This time the illusion, or rather the reality, surpassed anything she had yet experienced. She began to believe herself fully awake and alive, and the knowledge that she was in full possession of her senses made her shudder.
Then the figure, from whom she could not divert her eyes and who appeared desirous of protecting rather than threatening her, took the glass, went over to the light and looked at the draught as though wishing to test its transparency and purity. But this elementary test did not satisfy him, and the man, or rather phantom, for he trod so gently that the carpet deadened the sound of his steps, took a spoonful of the beverage and swallowed it. Valentine watched all this with a feeling of stupefaction. She felt that it must all disappear to give place to another picture, but, instead of vanishing like a shadow, the man came alongside the bed, and, holding the glass to her, he said in an agitated voice: “Now drink!”
Valentine started. It was the first time any of her visions had spoken to her in a living voice. She opened her mouth to scream: the man put his finger to his lips.
“The Count of Monte Cristo!” she murmured.
“Do not call anyone and do not be alarmed,” said the Count. “You need not have the slightest shadow of suspicion or uneasiness in your mind. The man you see before you (for you are right this time, Valentine, it is not an illusion), is as tender a father and as respectful a friend as could ever appear to you in your dreams. Listen to me,” he went on, “or rather, look at me. Do you see my red-rimmed eyes and my pale face, paler than usual? That is because I have not closed my eyes for an instant during the last four nights; for the last four nights have I been watching over you to protect and preserve you for our friend Maximilian.”
The sick girl’s cheeks flushed with joy. “Maximilian,” she repeated, for the sound of the name was very sweet to her. “Maximilian! He has told you all then!”
“Everything. He has told me that you are his, and I have promised him that you shall live.”
“You have promised him that I shall live? Are you a doctor then?”
“Yes, and believe me, the best one Heaven could send just now.”
“You say you have been watching over me?” Valentine asked uneasily. “Where? I have not seen you.”
“I have been hidden behind that door,” he said. “It leads to an adjoining house which I have rented.”
Valentine bashfully turned her eyes away and said with some indignation: “I think you have been guilty of an unparalleled indiscretion, and what you call protection I look upon as an insult.”
“Valentine, during this long vigil over you,” the Count said, “all that I have seen has been what people have come to visit you, what food was prepared for you, and what was given you to drink. When I thought there was danger in the drink served to you, I entered as I have done now and emptied your glass, substituting a health-giving potion for the poison. Instead of producing death, as was intended, this drink made the blood circulate in your veins.”
“Poison! Death!” cried Valentine, believing that she was again under the influence of some feverish hallucination. “What is that you say?”
“Hush, my child,” said Monte Cristo, placing his finger to his lips. “I said poison and I also said death, but drink this.” The Count took from his pocket a phial containing a red liquid, of which he poured a few drops into a glass. “When you have drunk that, take nothing more to-night.”
Valentine put out her hand but immediately drew it back in fear. Monte Cristo took the glass, drank half of its contents and handed it back to Valentine, who smiled at him and swallowed the rest.
“Oh, yes,” said she, “I recognize the flavour of my nightly drinks—the liquid which refreshed and calmed me. Thank you.”
“This has saved your life during the last four nights, Valentine,” said the Count. “But how have I lived? Oh, the horrible nights I have gone through! The terrible tor
tures I have suffered when I saw the deadly poison poured into your glass and feared you would drink it before I could pour it away!”
“You say you suffered tortures when you saw the deadly poison poured into my glass?” replied Valentine, terror-stricken. “If you saw the poison poured into my glass, you must have seen the person who poured it?”
“Yes, I did.”
Valentine sat up, pulling over her snow-white bosom the embroidered sheet still moist with the dews of fever, to which were now added those of terror.
“Oh, horrible! You are trying to make me believe that something diabolical is taking place; that they are continuing their attempts to murder me in my father’s house; on my bed of sickness even! Oh no, it cannot be, it is impossible!”
“Are you the first one this hand has struck, Valentine? Have you not seen Monsieur de Saint-Méran, Madame de Saint-Méran, and Barrois fall under this blow? Would not Monsieur Noirtier have been another victim but for the treatment they have been giving him for nearly three years which has accustomed his system to this poison?”
“Then that is why Grandpapa has been making me share all his beverages for the past month?”
“Had they a bitter flavour, like half-dried orange-peel?”
“Oh, yes, they had.”
“That explains all,” said Monte Cristo. “He also knows there is someone administering poison here, perhaps he even knows who the person is. He has been protecting you, his beloved child, against this evil. That is why you are still alive after having partaken of this poison, which is as a rule unmerciful.”
“But who is this . . . this murderer?”
“Have you never seen anyone enter your room at night?”
“Indeed I have. I have frequently seen shadows pass close to me and then disappear, and even when you came in just now I believed for a long time that I was either delirious or dreaming.”
“Then you do not know who is aiming at your life?”