‘Ah,’ Albert thought, with a sigh, ‘there is a contented man!’
As it happens, he was not wrong.
LXXIX
LEMONADE
Morrel was indeed very contented. M. Noirtier had just sent for him, and he was in such a hurry to know why that he had not taken a cab, trusting his own two legs more than those of a hired horse. He had set out at a fair pace from the Rue Meslay and was on his way to the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. He was proceeding at a jog, while poor Barrois followed on as best he could. Morrel was thirty-one, Barrois sixty; Morrel was drunk with love, Barrois faint with heat. The two men, so different in age and interests, were like two sides of a triangle: separated at the base, meeting at the apex; the apex was Noirtier.
He had told Morrel to make haste, and Morrel, much to the despair of Barrois, was following this instruction precisely. When they arrived, Morrel was not even out of breath – love gives wings – but Barrois, who had not been in love for a long time, was pouring with sweat.
The old servant showed Morrel in by the side entrance and closed the study door. Soon the sound of a dress brushing against the floor announced the arrival of Valentine. She was ravishingly beautiful in her mourning clothes. The dream was becoming so sweet that Morrel would almost have done without talking to Noirtier; but the old man’s wheelchair could soon be heard outside, and he came in.
With a benevolent smile Noirtier accepted the thanks which Morrel heaped upon him for the miraculous intervention that had saved Valentine and himself from despair. Then Morrel’s look turned towards the young woman, enquiring of her the reason why he was newly in favour. She, shyly sitting at some distance from Morrel, was waiting to speak until she was obliged to. Noirtier looked at her in turn.
‘Must I say what you told me to, then?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ Noirtier indicated.
‘Monsieur Morrel,’ Valentine said, addressing the young man who was devouring her with his eyes. ‘My grandpapa Noirtier had a thousand things to tell you, and he has told them to me in the past three days. Today, he has sent for you so that I can repeat them. I shall do so, since he has chosen me as his interpreter, without changing a word of his meaning.’
‘I am impatient to hear,’ the young man replied. ‘Please speak, Mademoiselle, speak.’
Valentine lowered her eyes. This was a sign that seemed to Morrel to augur well: Valentine was weak only when she was happy.
‘My grandfather wants to leave this house,’ she said. ‘Barrois is trying to find him suitable lodgings.’
‘What about you, Mademoiselle,’ said Morrel, ‘you, who are so dear and so essential to Monsieur Noirtier?’
‘I shall not abandon my grandfather,’ the young woman said. ‘This has been agreed between us. My apartment will be near his. Either I shall have Monsieur de Villefort’s consent to go and live with grandpapa Noirtier, or it will be refused. In the first case, I shall leave at once; in the second, I shall await my majority, which falls in eighteen months. Then I shall be free, I shall have independent means and…’
‘And?’ said Morrel.
‘And, with my grandfather’s permission, I shall keep the promise that I made to you.’
Valentine spoke these last words so softly that Morrel would have been unable to hear them, had they not meant as much to him as they did.
‘Isn’t that your opinion, grandpa?’ she added, turning to Noirtier.
‘Yes,’ said the old man.
‘Once I am settled in at my grandfather’s,’ Valentine added, ‘Monsieur Morrel will be able to come and visit me in the presence of this good and worthy protector. Our hearts may be ignorant or capricious; but if the bond that they have started to form seems respectable and gives some guarantees of future happiness to our endeavour – though, alas, they do say that hearts which are fired to overcome obstacles go cold when these are removed – then Monsieur Morrel can ask me for my hand; I shall wait for him.’
‘Oh!’ cried Morrel, tempted to kneel in front of the old man as before God, and in front of Valentine as before an angel. ‘Oh! What have I done in my life to deserve such happiness?’
‘Until then,’ the young woman continued, in her clear, strict voice, ‘we shall respect the conventions, and even the will of our parents, provided that will does not attempt to separate us for ever. In a word, and I repeat it, because it says everything, we shall wait.’
‘I swear to carry out the sacrifices that the word imposes, Monsieur,’ Morrel said, ‘not with resignation, but with joy.’
‘So,’ Valentine went on, with a look that was very dear to Maximilien’s heart, ‘no more rash deeds, my friend. Do not compromise one who, from today onwards, considers herself destined to bear your name with purity and dignity.’
Morrel put his hand to his heart.
During this time, Noirtier was watching them both tenderly. Barrois, who had stayed at the back of the room, as someone from whom they had nothing to hide, was smiling and wiping the huge beads of sweat that coursed across his bald head.
‘Heavens above, look how hot he is, poor Barrois,’ said Valentine.
‘That’s because I had a good run, Mademoiselle,’ Barrois said. ‘But I must grant him this, Monsieur Morrel ran even faster than I did.’
Noirtier’s eyes turned towards a tray on which were a carafe of lemonade and a glass. Half an hour earlier, Noirtier himself had drunk what was missing from the jug.
‘Go on, my dear Barrois,’ the girl said. ‘Have it: I can see that you are casting envious looks at that half-empty jug.’
‘The fact is,’ he replied, ‘I am dying of thirst and I should dearly like to drink a glass of lemonade to your health.’
‘Go on, then,’ said Valentine. ‘Come back in a moment.’
Barrois took the tray and no sooner was he in the corridor than they saw him, through the door that he had forgotten to close, toss back his head to empty the glass that Valentine had filled.
Valentine and Morrel were exchanging farewells in Noirtier’s presence when they heard the bell ring in Villefort’s staircase. It was the signal that someone was coming to visit. Valentine looked at the clock.
‘It is midday,’ she said. ‘And as today is Saturday, grandpapa, this must be the doctor.’
Noirtier made a sign confirming that he agreed with her.
‘Since he is going to come here, Monsieur Morrel must leave, mustn’t he, grandpapa?’
‘Yes,’ the old man replied.
‘Barrois!’ Valentine called. ‘Barrois, come here!’
They heard the voice of the old servant answer: ‘I’m coming, Mademoiselle.’
‘Barrois will take you to the door,’ Valentine said to Morrel. ‘Now, Captain, remember one thing, which is that my grandfather advises you not to do anything which might threaten out future happiness.’
‘I promised to wait,’ said Morrel, ‘and I shall.’
At this moment, Barrois came in.
‘Who rang?’ Valentine asked.
‘Doctor d’Avrigny,’ Barrois said, staggering.
‘What’s wrong, Barrois?’ Valentine asked. The old man did not reply. He was looking at his master with panic-stricken eyes, while his hand grasped for something to hold on to, to keep him upright.
‘He’s going to fall!’ Morrel cried.
The trembling in Barrois’ limbs was increasing at an alarming rate and his expression was contorted by the contractions of the muscles, suggesting a violent nervous seizure. Noirtier, seeing Barrois’ distress, gave a succession of looks that clearly and plainly expressed all the emotions that he was feeling. Barrois took a few steps towards his master. ‘Oh, my God! My God!’ he exclaimed. ‘What is wrong with me? I am in such pain. I can no longer see. There are a thousand burning embers in my brain. Oh, don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!’
His eyes began to bulge, distraught, and his head fell backwards, while the rest of his body stiffened. Valentine gave a cry of terror and Morrel took her in his arms, as though to
defend her against some unknown danger.
‘Monsieur d’Avrigny! Monsieur d’Avrigny!’ she cried in a strangled voice. ‘Come here! Help!’
Barrois wheeled around, took three steps backwards, staggered and fell at Noirtier’s feet, resting his hand on his knee and gasping: ‘My master! My good master!’
At that moment, M. de Villefort appeared on the threshold of the room, attracted by the commotion.
Morrel let go of the half-unconscious Valentine and leapt back, hiding in a corner of the room where he was partly concealed by a curtain. Pale, as if he had seen a snake rearing up before him, he stared in horror at the dying man.
Noirtier was burning with impatience and terror; his soul flew to the aid of the poor old man – a friend rather than a servant. One could see the life-and-death struggle on his brow by the bulging of the veins and the contraction of the few muscles that were still living around his eyes.
Barrois, with a tortured expression, bloodshot eyes and head thrown back, was lying on the floor, beating it with his hands, while his legs, on the contrary, were so stiff that they seemed liable to break rather than bend. Traces of foam had appeared around his lips and he was gasping painfully.
Villefort, astonished, remained for a moment staring at this scene, which is what had drawn his attention as soon as he entered. He had not seen Morrel. After an instant of mute contemplation, in which his face paled and his hair stood on end, he cried: ‘Doctor! Doctor! Come quickly!’ as he rushed to the door.
‘Madame! Madame!’ Valentine cried, calling her stepmother and dashing herself against the walls of the stairway. ‘Come! Come quickly, and bring your smelling-salts!’
‘What is the matter?’ asked the self-possessed, metallic voice of Mme de Villefort.
‘Oh, please come! Quickly!’
‘But where is the doctor!’ Villefort cried. ‘Where has he gone?’
Mme de Villefort came slowly down; they could hear the boards creaking under her feet. In one hand she held a handkerchief with which she was wiping her face, in the other a flask of English smelling-salts. Her first glance, as she reached the door, was for Noirtier, whose face showed his condition was unaltered, apart from the anxiety natural in such circumstances. Only then did she turn to look at the dying man.
She went pale and her eyes flashed as it were from the servant to the master.
‘But in heaven’s name, Madame, where is the doctor? He went into your apartments. It’s an apoplexy, as you can see, and if he is bled we can save him.’
‘Has he eaten anything recently?’ Mme de Villefort asked, evading the question.
‘He has had nothing to eat, Madame,’ said Valentine, ‘but he ran very hard this morning on an errand for grandpapa. The only thing he had, on his return, was a glass of lemonade.’
‘Oh?’ said Mme de Villefort. ‘Why not wine? Lemonade is very bad for you.’
‘The lemonade was right here, in grandpapa’s jug. Poor Barrois was thirsty, so he drank what he had to hand.’
Mme de Villefort shuddered. Noirtier fixed her with his penetrating eyes.
‘His neck is so short!’ she said.
‘Madame,’ said Villefort, ‘you must tell us where Monsieur d’Avrigny is. In heaven’s name, answer!’
‘He is with Edouard, who is slightly unwell, in his room,’ she said, unable to evade the question any longer.
Villefort dashed to the stairs himself to fetch the doctor.
‘Here,’ the young woman said, giving her flask to Valentine. ‘I expect they will bleed him. I’ll go back to my room: I can’t stand the sight of blood.’ And she followed her husband.
Morrel emerged from the dark corner where he had concealed himself and remained unseen during the commotion.
‘Go quickly, Maximilien,’ Valentine said, ‘and wait until I call for you. Go.’
Morrel made a gesture to ask Noirtier’s opinion and the old man, who had kept himself under control, indicated that he should do as she said. He pressed Valentine’s hand to his heart and went out through the hidden passage. As he was doing so, Villefort and the doctor came in through the opposite door.
Barrois was starting to regain his senses: the crisis had passed, he could groan a few words and he raised himself on one knee. D’Avrigny and Villefort carried him to a chaise-longue.
‘What do you prescribe, doctor?’ asked Villefort.
‘Bring me water and ether – do you have some in the house?’
‘We do.’
‘Go and fetch me some oil of terebinth and an emetic.’
‘Go on!’ Villefort commanded.
‘Now, everyone must leave.’
‘Including me?’ Valentine asked timidly.
‘Yes, Mademoiselle, especially you,’ the doctor said harshly. Valentine looked at him in astonishment, kissed M. Noirtier on the forehead and went out. The doctor emphatically closed the door behind her.
‘There now, doctor. He’s coming round. It was only some mild seizure.’
M. d’Avrigny gave a grim smile. ‘How do you feel, Barrois?’ he asked.
‘A little better, Monsieur.’
‘Can you drink this glass of etherized water?’
‘I can try, but don’t touch me.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I feel that, if you were to touch me, even with the tip of a finger, I should suffer another attack.’
‘Drink it.’
Barrois took the glass, lifted it to his purple lips and drank about half of what was in it.
‘Where is the pain?’ asked the doctor.
‘Everywhere. It is like frightful cramps.’
‘Do you feel dizzy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there a ringing in your ears?’
‘Dreadful.’
‘When did it start?’
‘Just a short while ago.’
‘Very suddenly?’
‘Like a thunderbolt.’
‘Nothing yesterday, or the day before?’
‘Nothing.’
‘No sleepiness? No lassitude?’
‘No.’
‘What have you eaten today?’
‘Nothing. I just took a glass of Monsieur’s lemonade, that’s all.’ And Barrois nodded towards Noirtier, sitting motionless in his chair and watching this dreadful scene without missing a movement or a word.
‘Where is this lemonade?’ the doctor asked urgently.
‘Outside, in the jug.’
‘What do you mean by “outside”?’
‘In the kitchen.’
‘Would you like me to fetch it, doctor?’ Villefort asked.
‘No, stay here and try to make the patient drink the rest of this glass of water.’
‘But the lemonade…’
‘I’ll go myself.’
D’Avrigny leapt up, opened the door and ran out on to the service stairs, where he almost knocked over Madame de Villefort. She, too, was going down to the kitchen.
She cried out. D’Avrigny took no notice; his mind fixed on one single idea, he jumped the last three or four stairs, hurried into the kitchen and, seeing the little jug standing there, three-quarters empty, pounced on it like an eagle on its prey. Panting for breath, he went back to the ground floor and into M. Noirtier’s room.
Mme de Villefort slowly went back up the stairs towards her apartment.
‘Is this the jug?’ d’Avrigny asked.
‘Yes, doctor.’
‘And this lemonade is the same that you drank?’
‘I think so.’
‘How did it taste?’
‘Bitter.’
The doctor poured a few drops of lemonade into the palm of his hand, sniffed it and, after washing it round his mouth as one does when tasting wine, spat the liquid into the fireplace.
‘It must be the same,’ he said. ‘Did you also drink it, Monsieur Noirtier?’
‘Yes,’ said the old man.
‘And you noticed this same bitter taste?’
‘Yes
.’
‘Oh, doctor!’ Barrois cried. ‘It’s starting again! Oh, God! Oh, Lord, have pity on me!’
The doctor hurried across to the sick man. ‘Villefort,’ he said, ‘see if the emetic is coming.’
Villefort hurried out, shouting: ‘The emetic! Has anyone brought the emetic?’ There was no answer. The whole house was gripped with a profound sense of terror.
‘If I had some means of getting air into his lungs,’ d’Avrigny said, looking round about him, ‘there might perhaps be some hope of avoiding asphyxia. But there is nothing! Nothing!’
‘Oh, Monsieur,’ Barrois cried, ‘will you let me die without aid? Oh, I am dying! My God, I am dying!’
‘A quill! A quill!’ said the doctor, then he noticed a pen on the table. He tried to force it into the patient’s mouth; Barrois, in his convulsions, was vainly trying to vomit. His jaw was so rigid that the quill could not pass through it. He was now in the grip of a nervous attack even more powerful than before; he slid from the chaise-longue to the floor and lay there, rigid.
The doctor, powerless to relieve his agony, left him and went over to Noirtier.
‘How do you feel?’ he said to him in an urgent whisper. ‘Well?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does your stomach feel heavy or light? Light?’
‘Yes.’
‘As it does when you take the pill I make for you every Sunday?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did Barrois make your lemonade?’
‘Yes.’
‘And did you urge him to drink some of it?’
‘No.’
‘Was it Monsieur de Villefort?’
‘No.’
‘Madame?’
‘No.’
‘Valentine, then?’
‘Yes.’
D’Avrigny’s attention was drawn by a sigh from Barrois, a yawn that seemed to make his jawbone crack. He left Noirtier and hurried to the patient’s side. ‘Barrois,’ he said, ‘can you speak?’
Barrois muttered a few unintelligible words.
The Count of Monte Cristo (Penguin Classics eBook) Page 110