Chapter 102. Valentine
The night-light continued to burn on the chimney-piece, exhausting thelast drops of oil which floated on the surface of the water. The globeof the lamp appeared of a reddish hue, and the flame, brightening beforeit expired, threw out the last flickerings which in an inanimate objecthave been so often compared with the convulsions of a human creature inits final agonies. A dull and dismal light was shed over the bedclothesand curtains surrounding the young girl. All noise in the streets hadceased, and the silence was frightful.
It was then that the door of Edward’s room opened, and a head we havebefore noticed appeared in the glass opposite; it was Madame deVillefort, who came to witness the effects of the drink she hadprepared. She stopped in the doorway, listened for a moment to theflickering of the lamp, the only sound in that deserted room, and thenadvanced to the table to see if Valentine’s glass were empty. It wasstill about a quarter full, as we before stated. Madame de Villefortemptied the contents into the ashes, which she disturbed that they mightthe more readily absorb the liquid; then she carefully rinsed the glass,and wiping it with her handkerchief replaced it on the table.
If anyone could have looked into the room just then he would havenoticed the hesitation with which Madame de Villefort approached the bedand looked fixedly on Valentine. The dim light, the profound silence,and the gloomy thoughts inspired by the hour, and still more by her ownconscience, all combined to produce a sensation of fear; the poisonerwas terrified at the contemplation of her own work.
At length she rallied, drew aside the curtain, and leaning over thepillow gazed intently on Valentine. The young girl no longer breathed,no breath issued through the half-closed teeth; the white lips no longerquivered—the eyes were suffused with a bluish vapor, and the long blacklashes rested on a cheek white as wax. Madame de Villefort gazed uponthe face so expressive even in its stillness; then she ventured to raisethe coverlet and press her hand upon the young girl’s heart. It was coldand motionless. She only felt the pulsation in her own fingers, andwithdrew her hand with a shudder. One arm was hanging out of the bed;from shoulder to elbow it was moulded after the arms of Germain Pillon’s“Graces,”23 but the fore-arm seemed to be slightly distorted byconvulsion, and the hand, so delicately formed, was resting with stiffoutstretched fingers on the framework of the bed. The nails, too, wereturning blue.
Madame de Villefort had no longer any doubt; all was over—she hadconsummated the last terrible work she had to accomplish. There was nomore to do in the room, so the poisoner retired stealthily, as thoughfearing to hear the sound of her own footsteps; but as she withdrew shestill held aside the curtain, absorbed in the irresistible attractionalways exerted by the picture of death, so long as it is merelymysterious and does not excite disgust.
The minutes passed; Madame de Villefort could not drop the curtain whichshe held like a funeral pall over the head of Valentine. She was lost inreverie, and the reverie of crime is remorse.
Just then the lamp again flickered; the noise startled Madame deVillefort, who shuddered and dropped the curtain. Immediately afterwardsthe light expired, and the room was plunged in frightful obscurity,while the clock at that minute struck half-past four.
Overpowered with agitation, the poisoner succeeded in groping her way tothe door, and reached her room in an agony of fear. The darkness lastedtwo hours longer; then by degrees a cold light crept through theVenetian blinds, until at length it revealed the objects in the room.
About this time the nurse’s cough was heard on the stairs and the womanentered the room with a cup in her hand. To the tender eye of a fatheror a lover, the first glance would have sufficed to reveal Valentine’scondition; but to this hireling, Valentine only appeared to sleep.
“Good,” she exclaimed, approaching the table, “she has taken part of herdraught; the glass is three-quarters empty.”
Then she went to the fireplace and lit the fire, and although she hadjust left her bed, she could not resist the temptation offered byValentine’s sleep, so she threw herself into an armchair to snatch alittle more rest. The clock striking eight awoke her. Astonished at theprolonged slumber of the patient, and frightened to see that the arm wasstill hanging out of the bed, she advanced towards Valentine, and forthe first time noticed the white lips. She tried to replace the arm, butit moved with a frightful rigidity which could not deceive a sick-nurse.She screamed aloud; then running to the door exclaimed:
“Help, help!”
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“What is the matter?” asked M. d’Avrigny, at the foot of the stairs, itbeing the hour he usually visited her.
“What is it?” asked Villefort, rushing from his room. “Doctor, do youhear them call for help?”
“Yes, yes; let us hasten up; it was in Valentine’s room.”
But before the doctor and the father could reach the room, the servantswho were on the same floor had entered, and seeing Valentine pale andmotionless on her bed, they lifted up their hands towards heaven andstood transfixed, as though struck by lightening.
“Call Madame de Villefort!—Wake Madame de Villefort!” cried theprocureur from the door of his chamber, which apparently he scarcelydared to leave. But instead of obeying him, the servants stood watchingM. d’Avrigny, who ran to Valentine, and raised her in his arms.
“What?—this one, too?” he exclaimed. “Oh, where will be the end?”
Villefort rushed into the room.
“What are you saying, doctor?” he exclaimed, raising his hands toheaven.
“I say that Valentine is dead!” replied d’Avrigny, in a voice terriblein its solemn calmness.
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M. de Villefort staggered and buried his head in the bed. On theexclamation of the doctor and the cry of the father, the servants allfled with muttered imprecations; they were heard running down the stairsand through the long passages, then there was a rush in the court,afterwards all was still; they had, one and all, deserted the accursedhouse.
Just then, Madame de Villefort, in the act of slipping on her dressing-gown, threw aside the drapery and for a moment stood motionless, asthough interrogating the occupants of the room, while she endeavored tocall up some rebellious tears. On a sudden she stepped, or ratherbounded, with outstretched arms, towards the table. She saw d’Avrignycuriously examining the glass, which she felt certain of having emptiedduring the night. It was now a third full, just as it was when she threwthe contents into the ashes. The spectre of Valentine rising before thepoisoner would have alarmed her less. It was, indeed, the same color asthe draught she had poured into the glass, and which Valentine haddrunk; it was indeed the poison, which could not deceive M. d’Avrigny,which he now examined so closely; it was doubtless a miracle fromheaven, that, notwithstanding her precautions, there should be sometrace, some proof remaining to reveal the crime.
While Madame de Villefort remained rooted to the spot like a statue ofterror, and Villefort, with his head hidden in the bedclothes, sawnothing around him, d’Avrigny approached the window, that he might thebetter examine the contents of the glass, and dipping the tip of hisfinger in, tasted it.
“Ah,” he exclaimed, “it is no longer brucine that is used; let me seewhat it is!”
Then he ran to one of the cupboards in Valentine’s room, which had beentransformed into a medicine closet, and taking from its silver case asmall bottle of nitric acid, dropped a little of it into the liquor,which immediately changed to a blood-red color.
“Ah,” exclaimed d’Avrigny, in a voice in which the horror of a judgeunveiling the truth was mingled with the delight of a student making adiscovery.
Madame de Villefort was overpowered; her eyes first flashed and thenswam, she staggered towards the door and disappeared. Directlyafterwards the distant sound of a heavy weight falling on the ground washeard, but no one paid any attention to it; the nurse was engaged inwatching the chemical analysis, and Villefort was still absorbed ingrief. M. d’Avrigny alone had followed Madame de Villefort with hiseyes, and watched h
er hurried retreat. He lifted up the drapery over theentrance to Edward’s room, and his eye reaching as far as Madame deVillefort’s apartment, he beheld her extended lifeless on the floor.
“Go to the assistance of Madame de Villefort,” he said to the nurse.“Madame de Villefort is ill.”
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“But Mademoiselle de Villefort——” stammered the nurse.
“Mademoiselle de Villefort no longer requires help,” said d’Avrigny,“since she is dead.”
“Dead,—dead!” groaned forth Villefort, in a paroxysm of grief, which wasthe more terrible from the novelty of the sensation in the iron heart ofthat man.
“Dead!” repeated a third voice. “Who said Valentine was dead?”
The two men turned round, and saw Morrel standing at the door, pale andterror-stricken. This is what had happened. At the usual time, Morrelhad presented himself at the little door leading to Noirtier’s room.Contrary to custom, the door was open, and having no occasion to ring heentered. He waited for a moment in the hall and called for a servant toconduct him to M. Noirtier; but no one answered, the servants having, aswe know, deserted the house. Morrel had no particular reason foruneasiness; Monte Cristo had promised him that Valentine should live,and so far he had always fulfilled his word. Every night the count hadgiven him news, which was the next morning confirmed by Noirtier. Stillthis extraordinary silence appeared strange to him, and he called asecond and third time; still no answer. Then he determined to go up.Noirtier’s room was opened, like all the rest. The first thing he sawwas the old man sitting in his armchair in his usual place, but his eyesexpressed alarm, which was confirmed by the pallor which overspread hisfeatures.
“How are you, sir?” asked Morrel, with a sickness of heart.
“Well,” answered the old man, by closing his eyes; but his appearancemanifested increasing uneasiness.
“You are thoughtful, sir,” continued Morrel; “you want something; shallI call one of the servants?”
“Yes,” replied Noirtier.
Morrel pulled the bell, but though he nearly broke the cord no oneanswered. He turned towards Noirtier; the pallor and anguish expressedon his countenance momentarily increased.
“Oh,” exclaimed Morrel, “why do they not come? Is anyone ill in thehouse?” The eyes of Noirtier seemed as though they would start fromtheir sockets. “What is the matter? You alarm me. Valentine? Valentine?”
“Yes, yes,” signed Noirtier.
Maximilian tried to speak, but he could articulate nothing; hestaggered, and supported himself against the wainscot. Then he pointedto the door.
“Yes, yes, yes!” continued the old man.
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Maximilian rushed up the little staircase, while Noirtier’s eyes seemedto say,—“Quicker, quicker!”
In a minute the young man darted through several rooms, till at lengthhe reached Valentine’s.
There was no occasion to push the door, it was wide open. A sob was theonly sound he heard. He saw as though in a mist, a black figure kneelingand buried in a confused mass of white drapery. A terrible feartransfixed him. It was then he heard a voice exclaim “Valentine isdead!” and another voice which, like an echo repeated:
“Dead,—dead!”
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