The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas
At the bottom of an alcove, under a white sheet covering its head and outlining its shape, lay the corpse, still more terrifying in Morrel’s eyes now that he had chanced on the secret of her death. Valentine was kneeling beside the bed, her head buried in the cushions of a broad-backed chair, shivering and heaving with sobs, her two hands stiffly joined above her head, which remained invisible.
She had come back here from the still-open window and was praying aloud in tones that would have melted the hardest heart. The words poured swiftly from her lips, made incoherent by the pain that grasped her throat in its burning embrace.
The moon, its light coming in shafts through the blinds, outshone the candle and cast a funereal glow over this scene of desolation.
Morrel was overcome by it. Though he was neither exceptionally pious nor easy to impress, it was more than he could do to remain silent on seeing Valentine suffer, weep and wring her hands in front of him. He sighed and breathed a name; the head, bathed in tears and like marble against the velvet cushion of the chair, the head of a Mary Magdalene by Correggio, was raised and turned towards him.
Valentine gave no sign of astonishment on seeing him there. No halfway emotions can exist in a heart swollen with utmost despair.
Morrel offered her his hand. To excuse herself for not coming to meet him, Valentine showed him the body lying under its shroud and once more began to sob. Neither one of them dared to speak in this room and each was reluctant to break a silence that seemed to have been ordered by some figure of Death standing in a corner with a finger to its lips.
Valentine, at length, was the first to speak.
‘My friend,’ she said, ‘what are you doing here? Alas! I should say welcome to you, if it were not that Death had opened the doors of this house to you.’
‘Valentine,’ Morrel said in a trembling voice, his hands clasped, ‘I have been here since half-past eight. Not seeing you come, I was overwhelmed with anxiety, so I leapt over the wall and entered the garden. Then I heard voices talking about the terrible occurrence…’
‘What voices?’ Valentine asked.
Morrel shuddered, suddenly remembering the whole conversation between the doctor and M. de Villefort; and, through the winding sheet, thought he could see those twisted arms, convulsed neck and violet lips.
‘The servants’ voices told me everything,’ he said.
‘But we are lost now that you have come here,’ Valentine said, with neither anger nor fear.
‘Forgive me,’ Morrel replied in the same tones. ‘I shall leave.’
‘No,’ said Valentine. ‘They will see you. Stay.’
‘Suppose someone comes?’
She shook her head. ‘No one will come,’ she said. ‘Have no fear. This is our safeguard.’ And she pointed to the shape of the body under its shroud.
‘But what happened to Monsieur d’Epinay? Tell me, I beg you.’
‘He arrived to sign the contract at the very moment when my dear grandmother was breathing her last.’
‘Alas!’ Morrel exclaimed, with a feeling of egoistic joy, thinking in himself that this death would indefinitely delay Valentine’s marriage.
‘But what increases my sorrow,’ the young woman went on – as if his feeling were destined for instant punishment, ‘is that my poor grandmother, as she died, ordered the marriage to be concluded as soon as possible. My God! Even she, thinking she was protecting me, acted against my interest!’
‘Listen!’ Morrel exclaimed. The two young people fell silent.
They could hear a door opening and footsteps along the floor in the corridor and on the staircase.
‘It’s my father, coming out of his study,’ Valentine said.
‘And showing the doctor out,’ said Morrel.
‘How do you know it is the doctor?’ she asked in astonishment.
‘I assume it must be,’ said Morrel.
Valentine looked at him.
Meanwhile they heard the street door shut. M. de Villefort also went to lock the door to the garden and then came back up the stairs. Reaching the antechamber, he paused for a moment, as though hesitating between his own room and that of Mme de Saint-Méran. Morrel hastily hid behind a door. Valentine did not move: it was as though the depth of her sorrow had put her beyond the reach of ordinary fears.
M. de Villefort went into his room.
‘Now,’ said Valentine, ‘you cannot leave either through the garden door or through that leading into the street.’ Morrel looked at her in astonishment. ‘Now,’ she continued, ‘there is only one safe way out remaining, which is through my grandfather’s apartments.’
She got up. ‘Follow me,’ she said.
‘Where?’ Maximilien asked.
‘To my grandfather’s.’
‘Me? To Monsieur Noirtier’s?’
‘Yes.’
‘How can you think of such a thing, Valentine?’
‘I have been thinking of it for a long time. He is my only friend in the world, and we both need him. Come.’
‘Careful, Valentine,’ Morrel said, reluctant to do as she said. ‘Take care. The scales have fallen from my eyes and I can see that I was mad to come here. Are you sure that you are acting altogether sensibly, my dearest?’
‘Yes,’ Valentine said. ‘I have no misgivings, except that I must leave the mortal remains of my grandmother alone when I promised to guard them.’
‘Death is sacred in itself, Valentine.’
‘Yes, and in any case I shall not be away long. Come.’
She crossed the corridor and went down a little staircase that led to Noirtier’s. Morrel followed her on tiptoe. As they reached the landing outside Noirtier’s rooms, they met the old servant.
‘Barrois,’ Valentine said, ‘shut the door and let no one come in.’ And she led the way.
Noirtier, still sitting up in his chair and alert to the slightest noise, knowing everything that went on through his servant, was looking eagerly towards the bedroom door. He saw Valentine and his eyes lit up. But the old man was struck by something grave and solemn in the young woman’s approach and manner; and, while continuing to shine, his eye also looked questioningly at her.
‘Dear grandfather,’ she said briefly, ‘listen carefully to what I have to say. You know that grandmother Saint-Méran died an hour ago and that now, apart from yourself, I have no one left who loves me in the world?’
An expression of infinite tenderness passed across the old man’s eyes.
‘So, if I have any sorrows or any hopes, I must confide them to you alone?’
The invalid answered, yes.
Valentine took Maximilien’s hand. ‘Well, then,’ she said, ‘look at this gentleman.’
The old man turned an enquiring and mildly astonished look on Morrel.
‘This is Monsieur Maximilien Morrel,’ she continued, ‘the son of the honest businessman in Marseille whom you have no doubt heard of?’
‘Yes,’ the old man indicated.
‘His is a name beyond reproach, and Maximilien is in process of making it glorious for, at the age of only thirty, he is a captain of spahis and an officer of the Legion of Honour.’
The old man indicated that he recalled Morrel.
‘Well, then, grandfather,’ said Valentine, kneeling in front of the old man and indicating Morrel with one hand, ‘I love him and I shall belong to no one else! If I am forced to marry another, I shall let myself die or kill myself!’
The invalid’s eyes expressed the tumult of ideas in his head.
‘You love Monsieur Maximilien Morrel, don’t you, grandfather?’ the young woman asked.
‘Yes,’ the old man answered, motionless.
‘And can you protect us, we who are also your children, against my father’s will?’
Noirtier turned his intelligent look towards Morrel, as if to say: ‘That depends.’
Maximilien understood. ‘Mademoiselle,’ he said, ‘you have a sacred duty to perform in your grandmother’s room. Would you permit me t
‘Yes, yes, that’s right!’ said the old man’s eyes. Then he looked anxiously at Valentine.
‘Do you mean: how will he understand you, grandfather?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, don’t worry. We have so often spoken about you that he knows very well how I communicate with you.’
Then, turning to Maximilien with a charming smile (though one clouded with inexpressible sadness), she said: ‘He knows everything that I do.’
She got to her feet, drew up a seat for Morrel and instructed Barrois not to let anyone in; then, after tenderly embracing her grandfather and sadly saying farewell to Morrel, she left.
As soon as she had gone, Morrel, to prove to Noirtier that he had Valentine’s confidence and knew all their secrets, took the dictionary, the pen and paper, and put all of them on a table with a lamp. ‘But first, Monsieur,’ he said, ‘please let me tell you who I am, that I love Mademoiselle Valentine and my intentions towards her.’
‘I am listening,’ Noirtier indicated.
He made an imposing sight, this old man, in appearance a useless burden, yet who had become the one protector, the sole support and the only judge of two young, handsome, strong lovers on the threshold of life. His face, with its extraordinary nobility and austerity, intimidated Morrel, whose voice trembled as he started to speak. He described how he had met and come to love Valentine, and how Valentine in her loneliness and unhappiness had accepted the offer of his devotion. He described his birth, position and fortune. More than once, when he looked questioningly at the old man, the latter looked back with the reply: ‘Very well, continue.’
‘Now,’ Morrel said, when he had finished the first part of his story, ‘having told you about my love and my hopes, Monsieur, should I tell you what we intend to do?’
‘Yes,’ said the invalid.
‘Very well. This is what we have resolved.’
So he described everything to Noirtier: how a cab was waiting near the field, how he meant to elope with Valentine, take her to his sister’s, marry her and, after waiting for a respectable period, hope that M. de Villefort would pardon him.
‘No,’ said Noirtier.
‘No?’ Morrel repeated. ‘This is not what we should do?’
‘No.’
‘So the plan does not have your approval?’
‘No.’
‘Well, there is another way,’ said Morrel.
The old man’s eyes looked at him, asking: ‘What way?’
‘I shall go and find Monsieur Franz d’Epinay – I am pleased to be able to tell you this in the absence of Mademoiselle de Villefort – and I shall behave towards him in such a way as to oblige him to behave as a gentleman.’
Noirtier’s look was still questioning.
‘You want to know what I shall do?’
‘Yes.’
‘This. As I said, I shall go and speak to him and tell him the ties that unite me to Mademoiselle Valentine. If he is a man of feeling, he will prove it by himself renouncing his claim to his fiancée’s hand, and from that moment until his death, he will be assured of my friendship and devotion. If he refuses, either out of greed or because of some stupid considerations of pride, after proving to him that he would be forcing himself on my wife, that Valentine loves me and cannot love anyone else, I shall fight with him, giving him every advantage. I shall then kill him or he will kill me. In the former case, he will not marry Valentine; in the latter, I shall be certain that Valentine will not marry him.’
Noirtier gazed with unspeakable pleasure on this noble and sincere countenance, on which were illustrated all the feelings that his tongue expressed, the look on his handsome face adding all that colour can add to a firm and accurate drawing. Yet when Morrel had finished speaking, Noirtier closed his eyes several times which, as we know, was his way of saying: ‘No.’
‘No?’ said Morrel. ‘Do you disapprove of this second plan, as you did the first?’
‘Yes, I disapprove,’ the old man replied.
‘So, Monsieur, what can I do?’ Morrel asked. ‘Madame de Saint-Méran’s last words were to hasten her granddaughter’s marriage. Should I let things take their course?’
Noirtier remained motionless.
‘Yes, I understand,’ said Morrel. ‘I must wait.’
‘Yes.’
‘But any delay may be fatal, Monsieur. Alone, Valentine is powerless and she will be forced to submit like a child. Having miraculously entered this house to find out what was happening and miraculously finding myself in your presence, I cannot reasonably expect such good fortune to recur. Believe me, and forgive this youthful vanity on my part, but only one or other of the courses that I have suggested can work. Tell me which you prefer: do you authorize Mademoiselle Valentine to entrust herself to my honour?’
‘No.’
‘Would you prefer me to go and speak to Monsieur d’Epinay?’
‘No.’
‘But, for heaven’s sake, who will give us the help that we are praying for?’
The old man’s eyes smiled, as usual when heaven and prayer were mentioned: the old Jacobin had retained some of his atheistic ideas.
‘From chance?’ said Morrel.
‘No.’
‘From you then?’
‘Yes.’
‘From you?’
‘Yes,’ the old man repeated.
‘You do understand what I am asking, Monsieur? Forgive my asking you yet again, but my life depends on your reply: will our salvation come from you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you promise it?’
‘Yes.’
There was such strength in the look that gave this affirmative reply that it was impossible to doubt the man’s will, even if one might doubt his power to carry it out.
‘Oh, thank you, Monsieur! Thank you a hundred times! But, unless a divine miracle restores your power of speech and movement, how can you, chained to that chair, dumb and motionless… how can you oppose the marriage?’
The old man’s face lit up with a smile: it is a strange thing, a smile in the eyes on an unmoving face.
‘So, I must wait?’ the young man asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And the contract?’
The same smile reappeared.
‘Are you telling me that it will not be signed?’
‘Yes,’ said Noirtier.
‘So, not even the contract will be signed!’ Morrel exclaimed. ‘Forgive me, Monsieur! One may be forgiven for doubting such happiness. The contract will not be signed?’
‘No,’ said the invalid.
Despite this assurance, Morrel was reluctant to believe. Such a promise from a powerless old man was so strange that, instead of emanating from a powerful will, it might indicate a weakening of the faculties: is it not normal for a madman who does not know his own folly to claim that he can accomplish things that are beyond his power? A weak one speaks of the weights he can lift, a timorous one of the giants he can confront, the poor of the treasures he possesses and the most humble peasant, on account of his pride, is called Jupiter.
Whether it was that Noirtier understood the young man’s uncertainties or that he did not completely trust in the docility that he had shown, he stared hard at him.
‘What do you want, Monsieur?’ Morrel asked. ‘That I should repeat my promise to do nothing?’
Noirtier’s look remained fixed and firm, as if to say that a promise was not enough; then it was lowered from Morrel’s face to his hand.
‘You want me to swear?’ Maximilien asked.
‘Yes,’ the invalid replied with the same solemnity. ‘I do.’
Morrel understood that the old man attached a great deal of importance to this oath. He held out his hand.
‘On my honour,’ he said, ‘I swear to you that I shall await your decision before I do anything against Monsieur d’Epinay.’
‘Now, Monsieur,’ Morrel asked, ‘do you wish me to leave?’
‘Yes.’
‘Without seeing Mademoiselle Valentine?’
‘Yes.’
Morrel indicated that he was ready to obey. ‘But first, Monsieur,’ he said, ‘will you allow your son to embrace you as your daughter did a moment ago?’
There was no mistaking the expression in Noirtier’s eyes.
The young man put his lips on the old man’s forehead at the very same place where the young woman had put hers. Then he bowed once more and went out.
Outside, in the hall, he found the old servant, who had been told by Valentine to wait for him. He guided him down a dark winding corridor to a little door leading into the garden. Once there, Morrel went back to the gate past the arbour and, in a moment, was on top of the wall. A second later, thanks to his ladder, he was in the alfalfa field, where the cab was still waiting for him.
He got in and, exhausted by all the day’s emotions, but lighter in heart, he got home to the Rue Meslay at around midnight, threw himself on his bed and slept as deeply as though he were blind drunk.
LXXIV
THE VILLEFORT FAMILY VAULT
Two days later, a considerable throng gathered at around ten in the morning at M. de Villefort’s door and watched a long line of funeral carriages and private coaches extending the whole length of the Faubourg Saint-Honoré and the Rue de la Pépinière. Among them there was one of peculiar shape which seemed to have travelled a long way. It was a sort of waggon, painted black, which had been one of the first to arrive for this sad appointment. On enquiry it had been learnt that, by a strange coincidence, this carriage contained the body of M. de Saint-Méran, so those who had come for a single funeral would find themselves following two bodies.
Their number was considerable. The Marquis de Saint-Méran, one of the most zealous and faithful dignitaries in the courts of King Louis XVIII and King Charles X,1 had kept a good number of friends, and these, together with people who were socially acquainted with Villefort, made up a large crowd.