However, Valentine had not been warned of his arrival, since this was not the usual time when he came, and pure chance -- or, if you prefer, a sympathetic instinct -- had brought her to the garden. When she appeared, Morrel called her and she ran to the gate. "You! At this time!" she said.
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It was, indeed, Morrel who had been in a frantic state since the previous evening. With that instinct which only lovers and mothers possess, he had guessed that, following Mme de Saint-Méran's return and the death of the marquis, something would happen that affected his love for Valentine. As we shall see, his forebodings had been realized and it was not mere anxiety that brought him in fear and trembling to the gate by the chestnut-trees.
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"Yes, my poor friend," Morrel replied, "I have come to look for you, bringing bad news."
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"Dear Valentine," Morrel said, trying to master his own feelings and speak calmly. "Please listen, because what I have to say is most important. When do they intend for you to marry?"
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"This is the house of ill-fortune," said Valentine. "Tell me, Maximilien, even though our cup of sorrows is more than overflowing."
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"Maximilien," said Valentine, "I don't want to hide anything from you. They were discussing my marriage this morning, and my grandmother, on whom I had counted as an unfailing support, not only declared herself to be in favour of my marrying Franz d'Epinay, but wants it so much that she is only waiting for his return: the contract will be signed the very next day."
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The young man gave a painful sigh and for a long time stared sadly at the girl. "Alas," he said quietly, "it is terrible to hear the woman one loves say calmly: 'The hour of your torment is fixed, it will take place shortly, but no matter, this must be and I shall not make any objection to it.' Well, since you tell me that they are only waiting for Monsieur d'Epinay to sign the contract, and since you will be his the day after he arrives home, then you will be engaged to Monsieur d'Epinay tomorrow, because he reached Paris this morning."
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Valentine cried out.
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"I was with the Count of Monte Cristo an hour ago," Morrel continued. "We were talking, he about the sorrow in your house and I about your sorrow, when suddenly a carriage pulled up in the courtyard. Listen, I have never until now believed in premonitions, Valentine, but henceforth I must. At the sound of that carriage, I began to tremble. Soon I heard footsteps on the stairs. The echoing steps of the Commander did not terrify Don Juan more than those steps terrified me. At length the door opened. Albert de Morcerf was the first to come in and I was about to doubt my own instincts and decide that I had been mistaken, when another young man approached behind him and the count exclaimed: 'Ah, Baron Franz d'Epinay!' I had to summon up all the strength and courage in my heart to contain my feelings. I may have gone pale, I may have shuddered, but I certainly kept a smile on my lips. Five minutes later, however, I left without hearing a single word of what had been said in that time. I was totally prostrate."
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Valentine lowered her head. She was overwhelmed.
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"Poor Maximilien!" Valentine muttered.
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"Here I am, Valentine. Now, answer me this, as you would answer a man to whom your words are the difference between life and death: what are you going to do?"
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"Listen," said Morrel, "this is not the first time that you have thought about the situation in which we now find ourselves. It is serious, it is pressing, it is crucial. I do not think this is the moment to give way to sterile misery: that may be enough for those who want to suffer at their ease and have time to drink their own tears. There are people like that, and God will no doubt reward them in heaven for their resignation on earth; but anyone who has the will to fight will not lose precious time, but immediately strike back at that Fate which has dealt a blow. Have you the will to fight against ill-fortune, Valentine? Tell me, because that is what I have come to ask you."
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Valentine shuddered and looked at Morrel wide-eyed in terror. The idea of standing up to her father, her grandfather, in short her whole family, had not even occurred to her. "What are you saying, Maximilien?" she asked. "What do you mean by 'fight'? Rather call it a sacrilege! Am I to struggle against my father's orders and the wishes of my dying grandmother! Impossible!"
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Morrel shuffled.
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"You are too noble a spirit not to understand me and you do understand me, dear Maximilien, since I have reduced you to silence. I, fight? God forbid! No, no, I must keep all my strength to struggle against myself and drink my own tears, as you say. As for bringing sorrow to my father and disturbing my grandmother's final hours -- never!"
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"Mademoiselle!" Valentine cried. "Mademoiselle! Oh, the selfish man! He sees I am in despair and pretends he cannot understand me."
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"My God! The way you say that…" Valentine cried, wounded.
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"You are right," said Morrel coolly.
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"You are mistaken, I understand you perfectly. You do not want to go against Monsieur de Villefort's wishes, you do not want to disobey the marquise, and tomorrow you will sign the contract binding you to your husband."
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"But what else can I do, for heaven's sake?"
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"I say it as a man who admires you, mademoiselle."
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"Don't ask me, Mademoiselle, I am a poor judge in this case and my selfishness would blind me," said Morrel, his blank voice and clenched fists indicating his growing exasperation.
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"What would you have suggested, Morrel, if you had found me ready to accept your proposal? Come, tell me. Instead of telling me that I am doing wrong, advise me."
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"Yes, indeed, dear Maximilien. If it is good, I shall take it. You know that I am devoted to you."
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"Are you seriously asking me for advice, Valentine?"
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"Which is?"
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The girl raised her eyes to heaven and sighed.
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"This, Valentine."
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"Valentine," Morrel said, taking away an already loose plank, "give me your hand to show that you forgive me my anger. You understand, my head is reeling and in the past hour the maddest ideas have been whirling around my head. Oh, if you were not to take my advice…"
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"You are making me afraid," the girl said.
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"Come with me," Morrel said. "I will take you to my sister, who is worthy of being yours. We shall set off for Algiers, for England or for America, unless you would prefer us to find a place together in the country where we can wait until our friends have overcome your family's objections before we return to Paris."
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"I am free," Maximilien continued. "I am rich enough for both of us. I swear to you that you will be my wife even before my lips have touched your brow."
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"So you will follow your fate, whatever it may bring, without even trying to resist?" Morrel said, his face clouding over.
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Valentine shook her head. "I was expecting this, Maximilien," she said. "This is a mad scheme and I should be madder even than you if I were not to stop you immediately with a single word: impossible, Morrel, it is impossible."
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"Yes, even if it kills me!"
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"Once more, Maximilien, you are driving me to despair! Once more you are turning the knife in the wound! What would you do, if your sister were to listen to the sort of advice you are giving me?"
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"Well, Valentine," Maximilien continued, "I can only repeat that you are right. Indeed, I am the madman and you have proved to me that passion can blind the sanest mind. So thank you, thank you for reasoning without passion. Very well, it's agreed then, tomorrow you will be irrevocably engaged to Monsieur Franz d'Epinay, not by that theatrical formality invented for the last act of a comedy, which is called 'signing the contract', but by your own free will."
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"I shall have the honour of bidding you farewell, Mademoiselle, asking God, who hears my words and reads what is in my heart, to witness that I wish you a tranquil life, happy and busy enough for it to hold no place for any memory of me."
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Morrel spoke perfectly calmly. Valentine looked at him for a moment with her large questioning eyes, trying not to let those of Morrel look at the storm already raging at the bottom of her heart. "So what will you do?" she asked.
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"Mademoiselle," Morrel said with a bitter smile, "I am selfish and an egoist, as you say; and, as such, I do not think of what others would do in my position, only of what I intend to do. I think that I have known you for a year; that, on the day we met, I wagered all my chances of happiness on your love; that the day came when you told me that you loved me; and that from that day forward I have staked all my future on having you. That has been my life. Now, I no longer think anything. All I can tell myself is that fate has turned against me, that I expected to win heaven and I have lost it. It happens every day that a gambler loses not only what he has, but also what he does not have."
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The young man smiled sadly.
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"Speak, speak!" Valentine cried. "I beg you, speak!"
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"I am going to ensure that I bring no further disruption to your family and to give an example for all honest and devoted men who find themselves in my position to follow."
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"It cannot change. Alas, unhappy man, you know it cannot!" she said.
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"Oh," Valentine murmured.
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"But before you leave, tell me what you are going to do, Maximilien."
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"Then, Valentine, adieu!"
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"Where are you going?" the young woman cried, reaching out her hand through the fence and grasping Maximilien by his jacket, realizing from her own inner turmoil that her lover's calm demeanour must be feigned. "Where are you going?"
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"Farewell, Valentine, farewell!" Morrel said, bowing.
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"Has your resolve changed, Valentine?"
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Valentine shook the grille with a force that one would have thought beyond her and, as Morrel was leaving, put both hands through the fence and clasped them, twisting them together. "What are you going to do?" she cried. "Where are you going?"
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"You, Valentine! Oh, God forbid. Woman is sacred, the woman one loves is holy."
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"Have no fear," said Maximilien, stopping three yards from the gate. "It is not my intention to make another man responsible for the harsh fate that is in store for me. Anyone else might threaten to find Monsieur Franz, provoke him and fight with him; but all that would be senseless. What has Monsieur Franz to do with all this? He saw me this morning for the first time, and has already forgotten that he saw me. He did not even know that I existed when an understanding between your two families decided that you would belong to one another. So I have no quarrel to pick with Monsieur Franz, I swear it. I shall not blame him."
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"Yourself then, you unhappy man…? Yourself?"
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"Whom then? Me?"
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"Maximilien, come here," said Valentine. "I command it!"
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"Listen to me, my dear, my beloved Valentine," he said in his low, melodious voice. "People like us, who have never had a thought that would have made them blush before others, before their parents or before God, people like us can read one another's hearts like an open book. I have never been a character in a novel, I am not a melancholy hero, I have no pretensions to be Manfred or Antony. But without words, without oaths and protestations, I entrusted my life to you. You are failing me and you are right to do what you are doing, I told you so and I repeat it. But you are failing me and my life is lost. If you go away from me, Valentine, I shall be alone in the world. My sister is happy with her husband, and her husband is only my brother-in-law, that is to say a man who is attached to me by social convention alone; hence, no one on earth has any need of me and my existence is useless. This is what I shall do: I shall wait until the last second before you are married, because I do not wish to lose even the faintest shadow of one of those unexpected twists of fate that chance sometimes has in store for us: between now and then, Franz d'Epinay may die; or, just as you are approaching it, a bolt of lightning may strike the altar. To a condemned man, everything is credible and, when his life itself is at stake, miracles may be counted possible events. So, as I say, I shall wait until the final moment and when my misfortune is certain, without any hope or remedy, I shall write a confidential letter to my brother-in-law and another to the prefect of police to inform him of my intention, and in the corner of some wood, beside some ditch or on the bank of some river, I shall blow out my brains, as surely as I am the son of the most honest man who has ever lived in France."
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Maximilien came over, smiling softly. Had it not been for the pallor of his face, one might have thought he was in his normal state.
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"I am the guilty one, am I not?" said Morrel.
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"My God," Valentine said, raising her two hands to heaven with a sublime expression on her face, "witness that I have done everything in my power to remain a dutiful daughter: I have begged, prayed and implored, but he has not listened to my entreaties, to my prayers or to my tears. Well, then," she continued, wiping away her tears and recovering her resolve, "I do not wish to die of remorse, I should rather die of shame. You will live, Maximilien, and I shall belong to no one except you. When? At once? Speak, order me, I am ready."
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Valentine fell to her knees, clasping her breaking heart. "Maximilien," she said, "Maximilien, my friend, my brother on earth, my true husband in heaven, I implore you, do as I shall and live with your suffering. Perhaps one day we shall be reunited."
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"Oh, for pity's sake, for pity's sake," she said, "tell me that you will live."
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"Adieu, Valentine!"
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"No, on my honour," Maximilien said. "But what does it matter to you? You will have done your duty and your conscience will be clear."
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Valentine was seized with a violent trembling. She let go of the fence that she had been holding in both hands, her arms fell to her sides and two large tears ran down her cheeks. The young man remained standing before her, sombre and resolute.
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"In truth," Valentine murmured, "who in the world loves me? He does. Who has consoled me in all my unhappiness? He has. Who is the repository of all my hopes, the focus of my distracted eyes, the resting-place of my bleeding heart? He is, none but he. Well, now it is you who are right, Maximilien. I shall follow you, leave my father's house, everything. Oh, how ungrateful I am!" she exclaimed with a sob. "Everything! Even my dear grandfather -- I was forgetting him!"
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Morrel, who had again taken a few steps away, came back once more, pale with joy, his heart swelling, and, passing both hands through the fence to Valentine, said: "My dearest friend, you must not speak to me in that way; or else, let me die. Why should I owe my possession of you to force, if you love me as I love you? Are you obliging me to live, out of humanity, and nothing more? In that case, I should prefer to die."
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"No," said Maximilien. "You shall not leave him. It appears, as you said, that Monsieur Noirtier feels some sympathy for me; so, before you leave, tell him everything; his consent will be a sanction for you before God. Then, as soon as we are married, he will come with us: instead of one child, he will have two. You told me how he spoke to you and how you answered. Come, Valentine, I shall soon learn this tender language of signs. I swear to you, instead of despair, it is happiness that awaits us."
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"Yes, let us wait," Valentine repeated. "There are many things that may save unfortunates like ourselves."
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"I swear that I will, as you have sworn to me that this frightful marriage will never take place and that, even if you were to be dragged before a magistrate or a priest, you would say no."
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"Then let us wait," Morrel said.
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"I swear it, Maximilien, by all that is most sacred to me in the world, by my mother!"
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"Oh, Maximilien, look, look what power you have over me: you have almost made me believe what you are saying; and yet it is insane, because I shall bear my father's curse. I know him, his heart is stone, he will never forgive. So, listen to me, Maximilien, if by some trick, by prayer, by an accident -- I don't know what -- I can delay the marriage, you will wait for me, won't you?"
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"I am trusting in you, Valentine," Morrel said. "Everything that you do will be well done; but suppose they disregard your prayers, suppose your father and Madame de Saint-Méran were to call tomorrow for Monsieur Franz d"Epinay to sign the contract…"
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"Yes, I know him."
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"Instead of signing…"
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"You have my word, Morrel."
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"I shall come to you and we shall flee. But in the meantime, let's not tempt fate. We must not meet: it is a miracle, a divine gift that no one has yet discovered us. If that were to happen, if anyone knew how we meet, we should no longer have any recourse left."
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"Very well. Thank you, my beloved Valentine," Morrel continued. "So we are agreed. Once I know the day and the hour, I shall hurry here and you can leap over this wall into my arms. It will be simple. A carriage will be waiting for us at the gate into the field, you will get in it with me and I shall take you to my sister's. There, incognito if you wish, or ostentatiously if you prefer, emboldened by knowing our own strength and will, we shall not allow ourselves to have our throats cut like lambs, defended only by our sighs."
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"You are right. But, then, how can I find out…"
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"Through the notary, Monsieur Deschamps."
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"And from me, because you may be assured that I myself shall write to you. My God, Maximilien! This marriage is as detestable to me as it is to you."
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Valentine had drawn close to the fence, or rather had put her lips to it, and her words, on her sweet-scented breath, drifted across the lips of Morrel, whose mouth was pressed to the other side of the cold and implacable barrier.
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"My beloved Valentine, it is too little to say no more than 'yes'."
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"Are you happy with your wife?" she said sadly.
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"Say it, even so."
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"Oh!"
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"Thank you, my dear wife. Goodbye." There was the sound of an innocent lost kiss, and Valentine ran off under the linden-trees.
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"Yes."
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"Agreed," said Valentine. "And I in turn tell you that whatever you do, Maximilien, will be well done."
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"You will send me a letter?"
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"Goodbye," Valentine said, tearing herself away from this bliss. "Goodbye!"
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Morrel listened to the fading sounds of her dress rustling among the bushes and her footsteps on the gravel, raised his eyes to heaven with an indescribable smile of thanks to God for allowing him to be so well loved, then left in his turn. He went home and waited for the remainder of the evening and all the following day, but had no word. It was only on the day after that, at around ten o'clock in the morning, as he was about to set out for M. Deschamps, the notary, that the postman arrived with a little note which he recognized as being from Valentine, even though he had never seen her handwriting. It read as follows:
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Tears, entreaties and prayers have all been in vain. Yesterday I spent two hours at the church of Saint-Philippe-du-Roule and for two hours I prayed from the depth of my heart; but God is as indifferent as men. The signing of the marriage contract is to take place this evening at nine o'clock.
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This evening, then, at a quarter to nine, at the gate.
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I think they are keeping grandpa Noirtier from learning that the contract will be signed this evening.
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I have only one word to give, as I have only one heart; and my word has been given to you, Morrel: my heart is yours.
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Your wife,
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VALENTINE
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P. S. My poor grandmother's state of health gets worse and worse. Yesterday, her excitement became delirium, and today the delirium is almost madness.
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You will love me truly, won't you, Morrel, and help me to forget that I abandoned her in this state?
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Morrel was not simply content with hearing this from Valentine; he went to the notary, who confirmed that the signing of the contract would take place at nine o'clock that evening. Then he went to see Monte Cristo, and there he heard the most detailed account. Franz had been to tell the count of this solemn event, and Mme de Villefort had written to him to apologize for not inviting him, but the death of M. de Saint-Méran and his widow's state of health cast a pall of sadness over the gathering which she could not ask the count to share, wishing him on the contrary every happiness.
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Twenty times during the day the young man re-read Valentine's letter. This was the first time she had written to him -- and in such circumstances! Each time he re-read it, Maximilien renewed his promise to himself that he would make Valentine happy. A girl who can take such a courageous decision acquires every right: is there any degree of devotion that she does not deserve from the person for whom she has sacrificed everything! To her lover, she must surely be the first and worthiest object of his devotion, at once the wife and the queen; no soul is vast enough to thank and to love her.
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As one may well imagine, Morrel was in a state of agitation that could hardly be expected to escape an eye as perceptive as that of the count. Monte Cristo was consequently more affectionate towards him than ever, to such a point that two or three times Maximilien was on the verge of confessing everything to him. But he remembered his formal promise to Valentine and the secret remained sealed in his heart.
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On the previous day, Franz had been introduced to Mme de Saint-Méran, who had left her bed long enough for the introduction to take place, then immediately returned to it.
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Morrel kept thinking, with unspeakable anxiety, of the moment when Valentine would arrive and say: "Here I am. Take me!"
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From time to time a shudder passed right through Morrel's body. He was thinking of the moment when he would be helping Valentine come down from the top of the wall and would feel this girl, whom he had not touched until then except to squeeze her hand and kiss the tips of her fingers, abandon herself, trembling, to his arms.
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However, when the afternoon came and Morrel knew that the time was drawing near, he felt a need to be alone. His blood was boiling and the merest question, even the voice of a friend, would have irritated him. He shut himself up at home and tried to read, but his eyes slipped across the pages without taking anything in, and eventually he tossed the book aside and, for the second time, set about drawing his plan, his ladders and his field.
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He had prepared everything for the escape. Two ladders were concealed among the alfalfa grass in the field. A cab, which would take Maximilien himself, was waiting; there would be no servants and no lights, though, once round the first corner, they would light the lanterns, because it was essential that an excess of precautions should not lead them into the hands of the police.
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Half-past eight struck. Half an hour more went by in waiting. Morrel walked up and down; then, at increasingly frequent intervals, went over to press his face against the fence. The garden was growing darker and darker, but he looked in vain for the white dress in the blackness and listened in vain for the footfall on the path.
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Leaving the Rue Meslay at half-past eight on his clock, Morrel went into the field just as eight o'clock was striking at Saint-Philippe-du-Roule. The horse and cab were hidden behind a little ruined hut in which Morrel himself was accustomed to hide.
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No man truly in love has ever let the hands of a clock go peacefully on their way. Morrel tortured his so much that finally they showed half-past eight at six o'clock; so he decided that it was time to leave, that nine o'clock might be the hour appointed for signing the contract, but that in all probability Valentine would not wait for this pointless ceremony.
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At last, the moment approached.
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Little by little, night fell and the trees in the garden merged into deep black clusters. Morrel came out of his hiding-place and, with beating heart, went to look through the hole in the fence. So far, there was no one there.
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The house, which could be seen through the leaves, remained dark and there was nothing about it that suggested a house open to celebrate an event as important as the signing of a marriage contract. Morrel looked at his watch, which struck a quarter to ten; but almost at once the church clock, which he had heard already two or three times, corrected the mistake by striking half-past nine. This meant he had already been waiting for half an hour beyond the time Valentine herself had appointed: she had said nine o'clock, before rather than after.
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This was the worst moment for the young man, on whose heart each second fell like a lead mallet.
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The slightest rustling of the leaves or whisper of the wind would catch his attention and make the sweat break out on his forehead. When he heard these sounds, shivering, he set up his ladder and, not to lose any time, put his foot on the bottom rung. While he was caught between these contraries of hope and despair, in the midst of these swellings and contractions of the heart, he heard ten o'clock strike on the church tower.
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"It's impossible," Morrel muttered in terror, "that the signing of a contract should take so long, unless something out of the ordinary has happened. I've taken everything into account and worked out how long each part of the ceremony should take: something is wrong."
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Eventually he fixed on the idea that Valentine's strength had given way during her flight and she had fallen, senseless, in the middle of one of the garden paths. "And if that is so," he cried, hurrying to the top of the ladder, "I should lose her, and by my own fault!"
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Now, alternately, he paced feverishly in front of the gate and stopped to press his burning forehead on the icy metal. Had Valentine fainted after the contract? Had she been stopped while trying to flee? These were the only two conjectures that occurred to the young man, and each was horrifying.
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The demon which had whispered this idea to him would not leave him, buzzing in his ear with that persistence which rapidly ensures that some doubts, by the sole force of reasoning, become certainties. Seeking to penetrate the growing darkness, his eyes thought that they could detect something lying on the path under the trees. Morrel even ventured to call and thought he could hear a faint cry carried back to him on the wind.
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At length half-past also struck. It was impossible for him to contain himself any longer. Anything might have happened. Maximilien's temples were beating violently and a haze clouded his eyes. He swung his legs over the wall and jumped down on the far side.
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He was in the Villeforts' garden; he had just climbed over their wall. He was fully aware of what might be the consequences of such an action, but he had not come this far only to turn back. In a few seconds he had passed the clump of trees and reached a point from which he could see the house.
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This confirmed one thing that Morrel had guessed in trying to peer through the trees, which was that instead of the lights that he expected to see shining from every window, as would be normal on such an important occasion, he could see nothing except a grey pile, still further obscured by the great curtain of darkness cast by a huge cloud crossing in front of the moon. From time to time a single light flickered as it crossed in front of three first-floor windows, as if distraught. These three windows belonged to the apartment of Mme de Saint-Méran.
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Morrel guessed all these things. Often, trying to follow Valentine in his thoughts at all times of the day, he had asked her to make him a plan of the house, so that now he knew it, without ever having seen it.
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At this noise, he stepped backwards into the bushes from which he had already half emerged and, concealing himself entirely in them, remained there without moving or making a sound, buried in darkness.
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Another light remained motionless behind some red curtains. These were the curtains at the windows of Mme de Villefort's bedroom.
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He was now resolved. If it was Valentine alone, he would whisper to her as she went past; if Valentine was accompanied by someone else, he would at least see her and ensure that no misfortune had befallen her; if they were strangers, he might grasp some words of their conversation and manage to understand this mystery, which so far remained impenetrable.
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The young man felt even more appalled by this darkness and silence than he had been by Valentine's absence. Distraught, wild with grief and determined to brave all in order to see Valentine and discover what was wrong, whatever it might be, Morrel reached the edge of the trees and was about to start crossing the flower garden -- as fast as he could, because it was entirely open -- when a sound of voices, still quite distant, drifted across to him on the wind.
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The moon now came out from behind the cloud that had been concealing it and Morrel saw Villefort at the door leading into the garden, followed by a man in black. They came down the steps and began to walk towards where he was hiding. They had only taken a few paces when Morrel recognized the man in black as Dr d'Avrigny. Seeing them approach, he automatically shrank back until he came up against the trunk of a sycamore at the centre of the clump; here he was obliged to stop.
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Very shortly afterwards, the sound of the two men's footsteps left the gravel.
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"My dear doctor," the crown prosecutor said, "heaven is definitely looking with disfavour on my house. What a horrible death! What a terrible blow! Do not try to console me; alas, the wound is too fresh and too deep. Dead! She is dead!"
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"My dear Monsieur de Villefort," the doctor replied, in tones that only increased the young man's terror. "I have not brought you here to console you. Quite the opposite."
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The young man burst out in a cold sweat and his teeth began to chatter. Who then had died in this house which Villefort himself described as accursed?
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"Because I have a dreadful secret to impart to you," the doctor said. "Let's sit down."
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"Speak, doctor, I am listening," said Villefort. "Strike. I am ready for anything."
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"Yes, quite alone. But why these precautions?"
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Villefort fell rather than sat down on a bench. The doctor remained standing in front of him, one hand resting on his shoulder. Morrel, chilled with terror, was clasping one hand to his forehead, while the other was pressed against his heart, for fear that they could hear it beating.
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"Are we quite alone, my friend?"
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"What do you mean?" the crown prosecutor asked, appalled.
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"What I mean is that, behind the misfortune that has just befallen you, there may be another, still greater misfortune."
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"Madame de Saint-Méran was certainly very old, but she enjoyed excellent health."
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Morrel breathed again for the first time in ten minutes.
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"Dead, dead!" he repeated, his thoughts echoed by his heart. And he himself felt as though he would die.
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"My God!" said Villefort, clasping his hands. "What more have you to tell me?"
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"Sorrow killed her," said Villefort. "Yes, doctor, sorrow. After forty years living with the marquis…"
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"Did you stay with her in her last moments?" d'Avrigny asked.
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"It was not sorrow, my dear Villefort," the doctor said. "Sorrow can kill, though such cases are rare, but it does not kill in one day, in one hour, in ten minutes."
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Villefort did not answer, merely raising his head, which had been lowered until then, and looking at the doctor with terrified eyes.
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"Of course," the crown prosecutor answered. "You whispered to me not to go away."
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"Certainly I did. Madame de Saint-Méran had three successive attacks, a few minutes apart, the intervals becoming shorter and the attacks more serious. When you arrived, Madame de Saint-Méran had already been gasping for breath for some minutes. Then she suffered what I took to be a simple nervous attack: I did not start to become seriously concerned until I saw her rise up in her bed, her limbs and her neck stiffening. At this point, I could see from her face that it was more serious than I had believed. When the crisis was over, I tried to catch your eye, but I could not. You were taking her pulse and counting it when the second crisis occurred, before you had turned in my direction. The second seizure was worse than the first, accompanied by the same convulsive movements, while the mouth contracted and turned purple. At the third crisis she expired. I had already recognized tetanus from the first attack, and you confirmed that opinion."
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"Did you notice the symptoms of the disease to which Madame de Saint-Méran succumbed?"
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M. de Villefort leapt to his feet; then, after standing for a moment in silence, he sat back down on the bench.
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"My God, doctor," he exclaimed. "Have you really considered what you are saying?"
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"What do you have to tell me, doctor?"
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"Are you speaking to the magistrate or to your friend?" Villefort asked.
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"That the symptoms of tetanus and poisoning by certain vegetable substances are precisely the same."
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"Yes," said the doctor, "in front of everybody; but now we are alone."
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"Listen," the doctor said. "I know the significance of what I say and the character of the man to whom I have said it."
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Morrel did not know if he was awake or dreaming.
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"To my friend, and to him alone at the moment. The similarity between the symptoms of tetanus and those of poisoning by certain extracts of plants are so similar that, if I had to put my hand to what I am telling you, I should be reluctant to do so. So, I repeat, I am addressing you as a friend, not as a magistrate. What I have to say to this friend is as follows: for the three-quarters of an hour that it lasted, I studied Madame de Saint-Méran's agony, her convulsions and her death. I am convinced, not only that Madame de Saint-Méran died of poisoning, but that I can say -- I can actually say -- what poison killed her."
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"I know of none."
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"Were any prescriptions sent out to the chemist's that were not shown to me?"
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"No, good heavens! My daughter is her sole heir. Valentine alone… Oh, but if I could ever entertain such a thought I should drive a dagger into my heart to punish it for conceiving the idea."
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"Of course, I may, but…"
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"But?"
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"Doctor, spare me. In the last few days, so many unheard-of things have been happening to me that I am beginning to believe in the possibility that I may be going mad."
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"Look, it is all there: drowsiness, broken by nervous fits; over-excitement of the brain; sluggishness of the vital organs. Madame de Saint-Méran succumbed to a massive dose of brucine or strychnine, which was administered to her, no doubt by chance, perhaps by mistake."
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"Did anyone apart from me see Madame de Saint-Méran?"
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"No one."
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"But I think not."
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"None."
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Villefort grasped the doctor's hand. "Impossible!" he said. "My God, I must be dreaming! I must be dreaming! It is appalling to hear a man like yourself say such things. In heaven's name, doctor, tell me you may be mistaken."
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"Did Madame de Saint-Méran have any enemies?"
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"Did anyone have an interest in seeing her dead?"
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"Monsieur!"
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"For my father?"
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"Of whom? How? What about?"
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"Come!" M. d'Avrigny exclaimed in his turn. "My dear friend, God forbid that I should accuse anyone; I am only speaking of an accident, you understand, a mistake. But whether accident or mistake, the fact is there, and it whispers to my conscience; so my conscience speaks aloud to you: make enquiries."
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"Let's see. Perhaps Barrois, the old servant, made a mistake and gave Madame de Saint-Méran a potion which had been prepared for his master."
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"But how could a potion that had been prepared for Monsieur Noirtier poison Madame de Saint-Méran?"
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"Yes."
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"Quite simply. As you know, in some illnesses, poisons become remedies; paralysis is one of those. About three months ago, after trying everything to restore the power of speech and movement to Monsieur Noirtier, I decided to resort to one final remedy; so, as I say, for the past three months I have been treating him with brucine. The last potion that I ordered for him contained six centigrammes. These six centigrammes had no effect on Monsieur Noirtier's paralysed organs; he has in any case become accustomed to them by successive doses; but the same six centigrammes would be enough to kill anyone else but him."
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"Why do you ask? What are you suggesting?"
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"But my dear doctor, there is no direct access from Monsieur Noirtier's apartment to that of Madame de Saint-Méran, and Barrois never used to go into my mother-in-law's. So, even though I know you to be the most skilled and, above all, the most conscientious man in the world, and even though your words are on every occasion a guiding light to me, equal to that of the sun, well, doctor, even so and despite my belief in you, I must have recourse to the maxim: errare humanum est."
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"Listen, Villefort," said the doctor, "is there any of my colleagues in whom you have as much confidence as you do in me?"
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"Call him in; I shall tell him what I saw, what I observed, and we shall perform an autopsy."
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"Will you find any traces of poison?"
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"No, not of poison, I'm not saying that, but we can establish the exasperation of the nervous system and recognize the obvious and undeniable signs of asphyxia, and tell you: my dear Villefort, if this was caused by negligence, take care for your servants; if by hatred, take care for your enemies."
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"Good Lord, d'Avrigny, what are you suggesting?" Villefort answered despondently. "If anyone apart from you were to be taken into our confidence, an enquiry would become necessary -- an enquiry, in my house! Impossible! But of course," the crown prosecutor continued, pulling himself up and looking anxiously at the doctor, "of course, if you want it, if you absolutely insist, I shall have it done. Indeed, it may be my duty to pursue the matter; my character demands it. But you see me already overwhelmed with sadness: to start such a scandal in my house after such sorrow. It would kill my wife and daughter; and I, doctor, I… You know, a man does not reach my position, a man cannot be crown prosecutor for twenty-five years, without acquiring a fair number of enemies. I have many of them. If this affair were to come out, it would be a triumph that would make them leap for joy and cover me with shame. Forgive me these base thoughts. If you were a priest, I should not dare to say that to you, but you are a man and you know other men. Doctor, doctor, tell me: you have not told me anything, have you?"
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"My dear Monsieur de Villefort," the doctor replied, shaken, "my first duty is one of humanity. I would have saved Madame de Saint-Méran, if it had been within the power of science to do so, but she is dead and my responsibility is to the living. Let us bury this terrible secret in the depth of our hearts. If the eyes of anyone are opened to it, I shall allow my silence to be blamed on my ignorance. However, Monsieur, keep on looking, actively, because this may not be an end to it. And when you find the guilty party, if you find him, I shall say: you are the judge, do what you will!"
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They vanished. Morrel, as if needing to breathe, put his head out of the arbour so that the moon shone on a face so pale that it might have been taken for that of a ghost.
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"God is protecting me, in an obvious but terrible way," he said. "But Valentine, Valentine, my poor friend! Can she withstand so much sorrow?" And he looked alternately from the window with the red curtains to the three with the white ones.
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"Thank you, doctor, thank you," Villefort said, with inexpressible joy. "I shall never have a better friend than you." And, as though afraid that Dr d'Avrigny might change his mind, he got up and led him back towards the house.
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The light had almost entirely disappeared from the red-curtained window. No doubt Mme de Villefort had just put out her lamp and only a night-light cast a flicker on the window-panes. But at the far end of the building he saw someone open one of the three windows with the red curtains. A candle on the mantelpiece cast a few rays of pale light outside and a shadow came and leant over the balcony. Morrel shuddered: he thought he had heard a sob.
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Although it was impossible for Valentine to see him where he was hiding, he thought he saw the shadow in the window motion to him: his troubled mind told him and his warm heart repeated this to him. The double error became a compelling reality and, with one of those incomprehensible impulses of youth, he leapt from his hiding-place, at the risk of being seen, or of terrifying Valentine and raising the alarm, were she to give an involuntary cry. In two bounds he crossed the flower garden that seemed in the moonlight as broad and white as a lake and, beyond the row of orange trees planted in boxes in front of the house, he reached the steps, ran up them and pushed the door, which opened freely before him.
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It was not surprising that this soul, usually so strong and resolute, now tossed alternately up and down between the two most powerful of human passions, love and fear, should have been weakened to the point where he had begun to have hallucinations.
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Morrel was mad. Fortunately he did not see anyone.
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Meanwhile Morrel had crossed the antechamber and found the banisters. A staircarpet muffled his steps. In any event, he had reached such a degree of exultation that not even the presence of M. de Villefort himself would have frightened him. Should M. de Villefort appear in front of him, he had decided what to do: he would go up to him and confess everything, begging his forgiveness and his approval of the love that bound Morrel to his daughter and vice versa.
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Valentine had not seen him. Her eyes were lifted upwards, following a silver cloud gliding in front of the deep blue sky, its shape like that of a ghost rising to heaven. Her romantic and poetic nature told her it was her grandmother's soul.
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Now, most of all, he found a use for Valentine's descriptions of the internal layout of the house. He arrived safely at the top of the stairs and, once there, was taking his bearings when a sob, in tones that he recognized, showed him the way. He turned around. A half-open door gave out a shaft of light and the moaning voice. He pushed it and went in.
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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.
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The moon, its light coming in shafts through the blinds, outshone the candle and cast a funereal glow over this scene of desolation.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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Valentine gave no sign of astonishment on seeing him there. No halfway emotions can exist in a heart swollen with utmost despair.
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"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."
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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.
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Valentine, at length, was the first to speak.
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"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…"
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"What voices?" Valentine asked.
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"No," said Valentine. "They will see you. Stay."
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"Alas!" Morrel exclaimed, with a feeling of egoistic joy, thinking in himself that this death would indefinitely delay Valentine's marriage.
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"But we are lost now that you have come here," Valentine said, with neither anger nor fear.
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"Suppose someone comes?"
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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.
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"But what happened to Monsieur d'Epinay? Tell me, I beg you."
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"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!"
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"Forgive me," Morrel replied in the same tones. "I shall leave."
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"Listen!" Morrel exclaimed. The two young people fell silent.
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"He arrived to sign the contract at the very moment when my dear grandmother was breathing her last."
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"How do you know it is the doctor?" she asked in astonishment.
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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.
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They could hear a door opening and footsteps along the floor in the corridor and on the staircase.
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"I assume it must be," said Morrel.
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M. de Villefort went into his room.
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"It's my father, coming out of his study," Valentine said.
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Valentine looked at him.
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"And showing the doctor out," said Morrel.
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"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."
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"Where?" Maximilien asked.
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"Barrois," Valentine said, "shut the door and let no one come in." And she led the way.
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"Yes, and in any case I shall not be away long. Come."
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"Death is sacred in itself, Valentine."
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"Me? To Monsieur Noirtier's?"
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"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."
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"I have been thinking of it for a long time. He is my only friend in the world, and we both need him. Come."
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"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?"
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"Yes."
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"How can you think of such a thing, Valentine?"
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"To my grandfather's."
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She got up. "Follow me," she said.
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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.
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"So, if I have any sorrows or any hopes, I must confide them to you alone?"
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The invalid answered, yes.
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An expression of infinite tenderness passed across the old man's eyes.
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"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?"
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"This is Monsieur Maximilien Morrel," she continued, "the son of the honest businessman in Marseille whom you have no doubt heard of?"
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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.
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The old man turned an enquiring and mildly astonished look on Morrel.
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Valentine took Maximilien's hand. "Well, then," she said, "look at this gentleman."
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The invalid's eyes expressed the tumult of ideas in his head.
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"Yes," the old man indicated.
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"And can you protect us, we who are also your children, against my father's will?"
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"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!"
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"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."
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The old man indicated that he recalled Morrel.
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"You love Monsieur Maximilien Morrel, don't you, grandfather?" the young woman asked.
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Noirtier turned his intelligent look towards Morrel, as if to say: "That depends."
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Maximilien understood. "Mademoiselle," he said, "you have a sacred duty to perform in your grandmother's room. Would you permit me to have the honour of speaking to Monsieur Noirtier for a moment?"
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"Yes," the old man answered, motionless.
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"Yes, yes, that's right!" said the old man's eyes. Then he looked anxiously at Valentine.
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"Do you mean: how will he understand you, grandfather?"
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Then, turning to Maximilien with a charming smile (though one clouded with inexpressible sadness), she said: "He knows everything that I do."
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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.
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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."
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"Yes."
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"But first, Monsieur," he said, "please let me tell you who I am, that I love Mademoiselle Valentine and my intentions towards her."
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"Oh, don't worry. We have so often spoken about you that he knows very well how I communicate with you."
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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.
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"I am listening," Noirtier indicated.
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Noirtier's look was still questioning.
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"Very well. This is what we have resolved."
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"No."
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"Well, there is another way," said Morrel.
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"So the plan does not have your approval?"
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"Yes."
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"Yes," said the invalid.
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"No."
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"No?" Morrel repeated. "This is not what we should do?"
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"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."
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"No," said Noirtier.
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"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?"
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The old man's eyes looked at him, asking: "What way?"
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"You want to know what I shall do?"
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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.
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"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."
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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."
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"Yes, I disapprove," the old man replied.
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"Yes, I understand," said Morrel. "I must wait."
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"Yes."
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"No?" said Morrel. "Do you disapprove of this second plan, as you did the first?"
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"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?"
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Noirtier remained motionless.
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"No."
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"But, for heaven's sake, who will give us the help that we are praying for?"
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"No."
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"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?"
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"Would you prefer me to go and speak to Monsieur d'Epinay?"
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"So, I must wait?" the young man asked.
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"From you then?"
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"Yes."
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"Yes," the old man repeated.
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"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?"
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"From you?"
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"Yes."
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"Yes."
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"Yes."
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The old man's face lit up with a smile: it is a strange thing, a smile in the eyes on an unmoving face.
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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.
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The same smile reappeared.
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The old man's eyes smiled, as usual when heaven and prayer were mentioned: the old Jacobin had retained some of his atheistic ideas.
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"Are you sure?"
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"From chance?" said Morrel.
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"Do you promise it?"
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"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?"
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"No."
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"Yes."
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"And the contract?"
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"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?"
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"Are you telling me that it will not be signed?"
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"Yes," said Noirtier.
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"No," said the invalid.
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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.
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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.
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"What do you want, Monsieur?" Morrel asked. "That I should repeat my promise to do nothing?"
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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?"
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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.
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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."
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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.
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"Yes."
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"You want me to swear?" Maximilien asked.
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"Without seeing Mademoiselle Valentine?"
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"Very good," said the old man's eyes.
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"Now, Monsieur," Morrel asked, "do you wish me to leave?"
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"Yes."
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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.
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"Yes," the invalid replied with the same solemnity. "I do."
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There was no mistaking the expression in Noirtier's eyes.
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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.
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