Count of Monte Cristo (abridged) (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Alexandre Dumas

  “Madame de Saint-Méran had attained a great age, it is true, but she was in excellent health.”

  Morrel began to breathe freely again.

  “Grief has killed her,” said Villefort, “yes, Doctor, grief! After living with the Marquis for more than forty years!”

  “It is not grief, my dear Villefort,” said the doctor. “Grief does kill, though very rarely, but not in a day, not in an hour, nor yet in ten minutes.”

  Villefort made no reply; he just raised his bowed head, and looked at the doctor with staring eyes.

  “Were you present during the death agony?” asked Doctor d’Avrigny.

  “Certainly,” replied the Procureur du Roi, “you yourself whispered to me not to go away.”

  “Did you note the symptoms of the disease to which Madame de Saint-Méran succumbed?”

  “Perfectly. Madame de Saint-Méran had three successive attacks at intervals of a few minutes, each one worse than the other. When you arrived, she had been gasping for breath for some few minutes; then she had a fit which I took for a simple nervous attack. I did not actually become alarmed till I saw her raise herself on her bed, and her limbs and neck stiffen. Then I saw by your face that it was more serious than I had supposed. When the attack was over, I sought your eyes, but you did not look at me. You were feeling her pulse, counting her respirations, and the second attack seized her before you had turned round. This was more terrible than the first, the same twitching of the nerves, the mouth contracted and purple in colour. At the end of the third attack she died. At the very first attack I saw signs of tetanus; you confirmed my opinion.”

  “Yes, in the hearing of everybody,” replied the doctor, “but now we are alone.”

  “My God! What are you going to tell me?”

  “That the symptoms of tetanus and poisoning by vegetable matter are absolutely identical!”

  M. de Villefort sprang up, then after a moment sank on to the bench again.

  “My God! Doctor,” said he, “do you realize what you are telling me?”

  Morrel knew not whether he was awake or dreaming.

  “I know both the significance of my statement and the character of the man to whom I make it.”

  “Do you speak to me as magistrate or as friend?” asked Villefort.

  “At this moment as friend only; the similarity of tetanus and poisoning by vegetable matter is so great that I should hesitate to sign the statement I have just made. I therefore repeat once more, I speak not to the magistrate but to the friend, and to the friend I declare that during the three-quarters of an hour the agony lasted, I watched the convulsions and the death struggle of Madame de Saint-Méran, and my firm conviction is that she died of poisoning, and what is more, I can name the poison that killed her.”

  “Oh, Doctor! Doctor!”

  “All the symptoms were there; sleep disturbed by nervous tremors, excitement of the brain followed by torpor. Madame de Saint-Méran has succumbed to a large dose of brucine or strychnine, which has doubtless been administered to her by mistake.”

  Villefort seized the doctor’s hands.

  “It is impossible!” he said. “Am I dreaming? Surely I must be. It is terrible to hear such things from a man like you! For pity’s sake, Doctor, tell me you have been mistaken!”

  “Did anyone see Madame de Saint-Méran besides myself ?”

  “No one.”

  “Has any prescription been made up at the chemist’s that has not been shown me?”

  “None.”

  “Had Madame de Saint-Méran any enemies?”

  “I do not know of any.”

  “Would her death be to anyone’s interest?”

  “No, no, surely not! My daughter is her sole heiress, Valentine alone . . . Oh, if such a thought came into my heart, I should stab that heart to punish it for having harboured such a thought if only for one moment.”

  “God forbid that I should accuse anyone,” exclaimed M. d’Avrigny. “I speak of an accident, a mistake, you understand. But whether accident or mistake, the fact remains and is appealing to my conscience, which compels me to speak to you. Make inquiries.”

  “Of whom? How? About what?”

  “Is it not possible that Barrois, the old servant, has made a mistake and given Madame de Saint-Méran a potion prepared for his master?”

  “But how could a potion prepared for my father kill Madame de Saint-Méran?”

  “Nothing more simple. You know that in the case of certain diseases poison becomes a remedy. Paralysis is one of these cases. I have been giving Monsieur Noirtier brucine for the past three months, and in his last prescription I ordered six grains, a quantity that would be perfectly safe for one whose paralysed organs have gradually become accustomed to it, whereas it would be sufficient to kill anyone else.”

  “But there is no communication between Monsieur Noirtier’s room and that of Madame de Saint-Méran, and Barrois never went near my mother-in-law.”

  “It is through carelessness that this has happened; watch your servants; if it is the work of hatred, watch your enemies. In the meantime let us bury this terrible secret in the depths of our hearts. Keep constant watch, for it may be that it will not end here. Make active investigations and seek out the culprit, and if you should find him, I shall say to you: ‘You are a magistrate, do as you will.’”

  “Oh, thank you, Doctor, thank you!” said Villefort with indescribable joy. “Never have I had better friend than you.”

  Fearing lest d’Avrigny might think better of his decision, he rose and ran into the house. The doctor also went away.

  As though he had need of air, Morrel immediately put his head out of the bushes, and the moon shining on his face gave him the appearance of a ghost.

  “I have been protected in a wonderful yet terrible way,” said he. “Valentine, my poor Valentine! how will she bear so much sorrow!”

  As though in answer, he seemed to hear a sob coming from one of the open windows of the house, and he thought he heard his name called by a shadow at the window. He rushed out of his hiding-place, and, at the risk of being seen and of frightening Valentine, and thus causing some exclamation to escape her lips which would lead to discovery, he crossed the flower-garden, which looked like a large white lake in the moonlight, reached the steps, ran up them quickly, and pushed open the door, which offered no resistance. The description of the house Valentine had given him now stood him in good stead, and the thick carpets deadened his tread. He reached the top of the stairs without any accident; a half-open door, from which issued a stream of light, and the sound of a sob indicated to him which direction to take. Pushing open the door, he entered the room.

  In an alcove, under a white sheet, lay the corpse, more terrifying than ever to Morrel since chance had revealed to him the secret concerning the dead woman. Beside the bed knelt Valentine, her hands stretched out in front of her and her whole frame shaking with sobs. The moon shining through the open blinds made pale the light of the lamp, and cast a sepulchral hue over this picture of desolation. Morrel was not of a pious or impressionable nature, but to see Valentine suffering and weeping was almost more than he could endure in silence. With a deep sigh he murmured her name, and the tear-stained face buried in the velvet of the armchair was slowly raised and turned toward him. Valentine manifested no astonishment at seeing him.

  “How came you here?” she asked. “Alas! I should say you are welcome, but that Death has opened the doors of this house to you!”

  “Valentine, I have been waiting there since half-past eight,” said Morrel in a trembling voice. “Such anxiety was tearing at my heart when you did not come that I scaled the wall and . . .”

  “But we shall be lost if you are found here!” said Valentine in a voice devoid of all fear or anger.

  “Forgive me,” replied Morrel in the same tone. “I will go at once.”

  “No, you cannot go out either by the front door or the garden gate. There is only one safe way open to you and that is through my g
randfather’s room. Follow me!”

  “Have you thought what that means?”

  “I have thought long since. He is the only friend I have in the world and we both have need of him. Come!”

  Valentine crossed the corridor and went down a small staircase which led to Noirtier’s room. She entered; Morrel followed her on tiptoe.

  Still in his chair, Noirtier was listening for the least sound. He had been informed by his old servant of all that had happened and was now watching the door with eager eyes. He saw Valentine, and his eyes brightened. There was something grave and solemn about the girl’s whole attitude which struck the old man, and his eyes looked on her questioningly.

  “Dear Grandpapa,” she said, “you know that Grandmama Saint-Méran died an hour ago, and now I have no one but you in the whole world to love me.”

  An expression of infinite tenderness shone in the old man’s eyes.

  “Thus to you alone can I confide all my sorrows and hopes.”

  The old man made a sign of assent.

  Valentine took Maximilian by the hand. “Then look well at this gentleman,” said she.

  Somewhat astonished, the paralytic fixed his scrutinizing gaze on Morrel.

  “This is Maximilian Morrel,” said she, “the son of an honest merchant at Marseilles, of whom you have doubtless heard.”

  “Yes,” was the answer.

  “It is an irreproachable name, and Maximilian is in a fair way to making it a glorious one, for, though but thirty years of age, he is Captain of Spahis and an Officer of the Legion of Honour.”

  The old man made a sign that he recollected him.

  Valentine threw herself on her knees before the old man saying: “Grandpapa, I love him and will belong to no other. If they force me to marry another, I shall die or kill myself.”

  The paralytic’s eyes expressed a wealth of tumultuous thoughts.

  “You like Monsieur Maximilian Morrel, do you not, Grandfather?” asked Valentine.

  “Yes,” was the old man’s motionless reply.

  “Will you protect us, then, who are your children, against my father’s will?”

  Noirtier fixed his intelligent gaze on Morrel as though to say: “That depends.”

  Maximilian understood him.

  “Mademoiselle, you have a sacred duty to fulfil in your grandmother’s room. Will you permit me to have a few minutes’ conversation with Monsieur Noirtier?”

  “Yes, yes, that is right,” said the old man’s eyes. Then he looked at Valentine with an expression of anxiety.

  “You wonder how he will understand you, Grandpapa? Have no fear; we have spoken of you so often that he knows quite well how I converse with you.” Then turning to Maximilian with a smile that was adorable, though overshadowed by great sadness, she said: “He knows all that I know.”

  Valentine rose and kissed her grandfather tenderly, and, taking leave of Morrel, sorrowfully left the two men together.

  Then, to show that he was in Valentine’s confidence and knew all their secrets, Morrel took the dictionary, a pen and some paper and placed them on the table near the lamp.

  “First of all, monsieur,” said he, “permit me to tell you who I am, how deeply I love Valentine, and what plans I entertain in regard to her.”

  “I am listening,” said Noirtier’s eyes.

  It was an imposing sight to behold this old man, to all appearances a useless mass, now become the sole protector and support of two young handsome lovers just entering upon life. Imprinted on his face was a noble and remarkably austere expression which filled Morrel with awe. He related how he had become acquainted with Valentine, how he had learned to love her, and how in her unhappiness and solitude Valentine had welcomed his offer of devotion; he gave full information regarding his birth and position, and more than once when he questioned the paralytic’s eye, it said to him: “That is well! Continue!”

  Then Morrel related to him how they had intended to flee together that very night. When he had finished speaking, Noirtier closed and opened his eyes several times which, as we know, was his manner of expressing negation.

  “No?” said Morrel. “You disapprove of my plan?”

  “Yes, I do disapprove of it.”

  “But then, what am I to do?” asked Morrel. “Madame de Saint-Méran’s last words were to the effect that her grandchild’s marriage should not be delayed. Am I to allow it to take place?”

  Noirtier remained motionless.

  “I understand you,” said Morrel. “I am to wait. But we shall be lost if we delay. Alone Valentine is powerless, and she will be compelled to submit like a child. It was little short of miraculous the way I gained admittance to this house to learn what was happening, and was permitted to enter your room; but I cannot reasonably expect the fates to be so kind to me again. Believe me, there is no other course for me to take. Do you give Mademoiselle Valentine permission to entrust herself to my honour?”

  “No!” looked the old man.

  “Whence will help come to us then; are we to seek it in chance?”

  “No.”

  “In you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you fully comprehend what I ask, monsieur? Forgive my importunity, but my life depends upon your answer. Is our salvation to come from you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can answer for it?”

  “Yes.”

  There was so much determination in the look that gave this answer that it was impossible to doubt his will, even if one could not credit his power.

  “Oh, thank you, thank you a hundred times. But unless a miracle restore to you your speech and power of movement, how can you, chained to your chair, mute and motionless, how can you prevent this marriage?”

  A smile illumined the old man’s face—a weird smile in the eyes alone, while the rest of his face was impassive.

  “You say I must wait?” asked the young man.

  “Yes.”

  “But the contract?”

  Again the same smile.

  “Do you mean to say that it will not be signed?”

  “I do,” said Noirtier.

  “The contract will not be signed!” exclaimed Morrel. “Forgive me, but I cannot help doubting such happiness. Will the contract really not be signed?”

  “No,” said the paralytic.

  Whether it was that Noirtier understood the young man’s decision, or whether he had not complete confidence in his docility, he looked steadily at him.

  “What do you wish, monsieur?” asked Morrel. “Do you wish me to renew my promise to do nothing?”

  Noirtier’s eyes remained on him in a fixed and firm stare, as though he wished to say that a promise was not sufficient; then they wandered from the face to the hand.

  “Do you wish me to swear it?” asked Maximilian.

  “Yes,” motioned the old man with great solemnity.

  Morrel understood that the old man attached great importance to an oath. He held up his hand: “On my honour,” said he, “I swear to await your decision before acting in any way against Monsieur d’Épinay.”

  “That is right,” said the old man with his eyes.

  “Do you wish me to retire now, monsieur?” asked Morrel.

  “Yes.”

  “Without seeing Mademoiselle Valentine again?”

  “Yes.”

  Morrel made a sign that he was ready to obey. “Now, monsieur, will you permit your grandson to embrace you as your granddaughter did just now?”

  There was no mistaking the expression in Noirtier’s eyes.

  The young man pressed his lips to the old man’s forehead, on the same spot where the girl had imprinted her kiss. Then he bowed again and retired.

  He found the old servant waiting for him on the landing. Valentine had given him all instructions. He took Morrel along a dark corridor which led to a small door opening on to the garden. Once in the garden, Morrel soon scaled the wall, and by m
eans of his ladder reached the field where his cabriolet was waiting for him. He jumped in, and worn out by so many emotions, though feeling more at peace, he reached his home toward midnight, threw himself on his bed, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  Chapter XLVIII

  MINUTES OF THE PROCEEDINGS

  No sooner were the Marquis and Marquise laid to rest together in the family vault than M. de Villefort thought about putting into execution the Marquise’s last wishes. He sent a message to Valentine to request her to be in the salon in half an hour, as he was expecting M. d’Épinay, his two witnesses, and the notary.

  This unexpected news created a great stir throughout the house. Mme de Villefort could scarcely believe it, and Valentine was thunderstruck. She looked round her, as though seeking for help, and would have gone to her grandfather, but on the stairs she met M. de Villefort, who, taking her arm, conducted her to the salon. In the hall she met Barrois, and threw him a despairing look. A moment later Mme de Villefort with her son Edward joined them. It was evident the young woman shared the family grief, for she was pallid, and looked terribly fatigued.

  She sat down with Edward on her knees, and from time to time convulsively caught him to her breast. Soon the rumbling of two carriages was heard. The notary alighted from one, and Franz and his friends from the other.

  Everyone was now united in the salon. Valentine was so pale that one could trace the blue veins round her eyes and down her cheeks.

  After arranging his papers on the table in true lawyer-like fashion, the notary seated himself in an armchair, and taking off his eyeglasses turned to Franz. “Are you Monsieur Franz de Quesnel, Baron d’Épinay?” he asked, though he knew perfectly well that he was.

  “Yes, monsieur,” replied Franz.

  The notary bowed. “I must warn you, monsieur,” he continued, “on Monsieur de Villefort’s behalf, that your projected marriage with mademoiselle has effected a change in Monsieur Noirtier’s designs toward his granddaughter, and that he has disinherited her entirely. I will add, however, that the testator has no right to will away the whole of his fortune. In doing so he has made the will contestable and liable to be declared null and void.”