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

by Alexandre Dumas

  “No. Why should anyone desire my death?”

  “You will see this person,” said Monte Cristo, listening.

  “How?” asked Valentine, looking round her in terror.

  “Because you are not delirious or feverish to-night, you are wide awake. Midnight is just striking; this is the hour murderers choose. Summon all your courage to your assistance; still the beatings of your heart; let no sound escape your lips, feign sleep, and you will see, you will see!”

  Valentine seized the Count’s hand. “I hear a noise,” said she. “Go quickly.”

  “Au revoir,” replied the Count, as with a sad smile he tiptoed to the door of the library. Before closing the door, he turned round once more and said: “Not a movement, not a word, pretend you are asleep.” With this fearful injunction, the Count disappeared behind the door, which he closed noiselessly after him.

  Chapter LXII

  THE APPARITION AGAIN

  Valentine was alone. Except for the rumbling of distant carriages, all was still. Valentine’s attention was concentrated on the clock in the room, which marked the seconds, and noticed that they were twice as slow as the beatings of her heart. Yet she was in a maze of doubt. She, who never did harm to anyone, could not imagine that anyone should desire her death. Why? To what purpose? What harm had she done that she should have an enemy? There was no fear of her falling asleep. A terrible thought kept her mind alert: there existed a person in the world who had attempted to murder her, and was going to make another attempt. What if the Count had not the time to run to her help! What if her last moment were approaching, and she would see Morrel no more!

  This train of thought nearly compelled her to ring the bell for help, but she fancied she saw the Count’s eye peering through the door, and at the thought of it her mind was overwhelmed with such shame that she did not know whether her feeling of gratitude toward him could be large enough to efface the painful effect of his indiscreet attention.

  Thirty minutes, which seemed like an eternity, passed thus, and at length the clock struck the half-hour; at the same moment a slight scratching of fingernails on the door of the library apprised Valentine that the Count was still watching.

  Then Valentine seemed to hear the floor creaking on the opposite side, that is to say, in Edward’s room. She listened with bated breath; the latch grated, and the door swung on its hinges. Valentine had raised herself upon her elbow, and she only just had time to lay herself down again and cover her eyes with her arms. Then trembling, agitated, and her heart heavy with indescribable terror, she waited.

  Someone approached her bed and touched the curtains. Valentine summoned all her strength and breathed with the regular respiration which proclaims tranquil sleep.

  “Valentine,” said a low voice.

  A shudder went through the girl’s whole frame, but she made no reply.

  “Valentine,” the same voice repeated.

  The same silence: Valentine had promised not to waken. Then all was still except for the almost noiseless sound of liquid being poured into the tumbler she had just emptied. Then from the vantage ground of her arm she risked opening her eyes a little and saw a woman in a white dressing-gown emptying some liquid from a phial into her tumbler. Perhaps Valentine held her breath for an instant, or made a slight movement, for the woman became uneasy, paused in her devilish work and leaned over the bed to see if Valentine was really asleep. It was Mme de Villefort!

  When Valentine recognized her stepmother she trembled so violently that the whole bed shook. Mme de Villefort instantly stepped back close to the wall, and from there, herself hidden behind the bed-hangings, watched attentively and silently for the slightest movement on Valentine’s part. Summoning all her will power to her assistance, the sick girl forced herself to close her eyes, but so strong was the feeling of curiosity which prompted her to keep her eyes open and learn the truth that this function of the most delicate of our organs, which is generally such a simple action, became almost impossible of achievement at that moment.

  However, hearing Valentine’s even breathing once more and reassured thereby that she was asleep, Mme de Villefort stretched out her arm once more, and, hidden as she was behind the curtains at the head of the bed, emptied the contents of the phial into Valentine’s tumbler. Then she withdrew, but so quietly that not the least sound told Valentine that she was gone.

  It is impossible to describe what Valentine went through during the minute and a half that Mme de Villefort was in the room. The scratching of the fingernails on the library door roused the poor girl from the stupor into which she had fallen, and she raised her head with an effort. The door noiselessly turned on its hinges, and the Count of Monte Cristo appeared again.

  “Well,” he asked, “do you still doubt?”

  “Alas!”

  “Did you recognize her?”

  Valentine groaned as she answered: “I did, but I still cannot believe it! What am I to do? Can I not leave the house? . . . Can I not escape?”

  “Valentine, the hand that pursues you now will follow you everywhere; your servants will be seduced with gold, and death will face you disguised in every shape and form; in the water you drink from the well, in the fruit you pluck from the tree.”

  “But did you not say my grandfather’s precautions had made me immune from poisoning?”

  “From one kind of poisoning, but, even then, not large doses. The poison will be changed or the dose increased.”

  He took the tumbler and put his lips to it.

  “You see, it has already been done. She is no longer trying to poison you with brucine but with a simple narcotic. I can recognize the taste of the alcohol in which it has been dissolved. If you had drunk what Mme de Villefort has just poured into this tumbler, you would have been lost.”

  “Oh, dear!” cried the young girl. “Why does she pursue me thus? I cannot understand. I have never done her any harm!”

  “But you are rich, Valentine; you have an income of two hundred thousand francs; what is more, you are keeping her son from getting this money.”

  “Edward? Poor child! Is it for his sake that all these crimes are committed?”

  “Ah, you understand at last.”

  “Heaven grant that he may not suffer for this!”

  “You are an angel, Valentine.”

  “But why is my grandfather allowed to live?”

  “Because she thought that if once you were dead, the money would naturally revert to your brother; unless, of course, he were disinherited, and that after all it would be running a useless risk to commit this crime.”

  “Has such a plan really been conceived in the mind of a woman? ’Tis too horrible!”

  “Do you remember the vine arbour of the Hôtel de la Poste at Perugia and the man in the brown mantle whom your mother questioned about aqua tofana? Well, this infernal plan has been maturing in her brain ever since that period!”

  “Then if it is so, I see that I am doomed to die!” cried the girl, bursting into tears.

  “No, Valentine, for I have foreseen all her plots, and so your enemy is beaten. You will live, Valentine, you will live to love and be loved; you will live to be happy and make a noble heart happy. But to attain this, you must have confidence in me. You must take blindly what I give you. You must trust no one, not even your father.”

  “My father is not a party to this frightful plot, is he?” cried Valentine, wringing her hands.

  “No, and yet your father, who is accustomed to juridical accusations, must know that all these people who have died in your house have not died natural deaths. Your father should have watched over you; he should be where I am now; he should have emptied this tumbler, and he should have risen up against this murderer.”

  “I shall do all I can to live, for there are two persons in the world who love me so much that my death would mean their death—my grandfather and Maximilian.”

  “I shall watch over them as I have watched over you,” said Monte Cristo. Then he went on:
“Whatever happens to you, Valentine, do not be alarmed. Though you suffer and lose your sight and hearing, do not be afraid; though you awaken and know not where you are, fear not; even though on awakening you find yourself in some sepulchral vault or coffin; collect your thoughts quickly and say to yourself: ‘At this moment a friend is watching over me, a father, a man who desires our happiness, mine and Maximilian’s.’”

  “Alas! alas! To think that I have to go through all that!”

  “Valentine, would you prefer to denounce your stepmother?”

  “I would sooner die a hundred times.”

  “No, you shall not die, but promise me that whatever happens, you will not complain or lose hope?”

  “I shall think of Maximilian.”

  “You are my darling child, Valentine! I alone can save you, and save you I will! My daughter, believe in my devotion to you, as you believe in the goodness of God and in Maximilian’s love for you,” said the Count with an affectionate smile.

  Valentine gave him a grateful look and became submissive as a little child. Then the Count took from his waistcoat pocket the little emerald box, and, taking off the lid, put into Valentine’s right hand a pill about the size of a pea. Valentine took it into her other hand and looked earnestly at the Count. There was a look of grandeur almost divine in the features of her sure protector. He answered her mute inquiry with a nod of assent.

  She placed the pill in her mouth and swallowed it.

  “Now good-bye, my child,” said he. “I shall try to gain a little sleep, for you are saved!”

  Monte Cristo looked long at the dear child as she gradually dropped off to sleep, overcome by the powerful narcotic he had given her. Taking the tumbler, he emptied three-quarters of its contents into the fireplace, so that it might be believed Valentine had drunk it, and replaced it on the table. Then, regaining the door of his retreat he disappeared after casting one more look on Valentine, who was sleeping with the confidence and innocence of an angel at the feet of the Lord.

  Chapter LXIII

  THE SERPENT

  The night-light continued to burn on the mantelpiece; all noise in the streets had ceased and the silence of the room was oppressive. The door of Edward’s room opened, and a head we have already seen appeared in the mirror opposite: it was Mme de Villefort, who had come to see the effects of her draught. She paused on the threshold and listened; then she slowly approached the night-table to see whether Valentine’s tumbler was empty.

  It was still a quarter full, as we know. Mme de Villefort took it and emptied the rest of the draught on to the embers, which she disturbed to facilitate the absorption of the liquid; then she carefully washed the tumbler, and drying it with her handkerchief, placed it on the table. Anyone looking into the room at that moment would have observed Mme de Villefort’s reluctance to turn her eyes toward Valentine, or to go up to the bed. The dim light, the silence and the heaviness of the night no doubt combined with the frightful heaviness of her conscience; the poisoner stood in fear of her work!

  At length she gained courage, drew aside the curtain, and, leaning over the head of the bed, looked at Valentine. The girl breathed no more; her white lips had ceased to quiver, her eyes appeared to float in a bluish vapour and her long black eyelashes veiled a cheek as white as wax. Mme de Villefort contemplated this face with an expression eloquent in its impas- sivity. Lowering the quilt, she ventured to place her hand on the young girl’s heart. It was still and cold. The only pulsation she felt was that in her own hand. She withdrew her hand with a shudder.

  One of Valentine’s arms was hanging out of bed. It was a beautiful arm, but the forearm was slightly contorted, and the delicately shaped wrist was resting with fingers outspread on the mahogany woodwork of the bed. The nails were turning blue. Mme de Villefort could not doubt that all was over. This terrible work was done; the poisoner had nothing more to do in the room. She retired with great precaution, fearing even to hear the sound of her own footsteps.

  The hours passed, until a wan light began to filter through the blinds. It gradually grew brighter and brighter, till at length every object in the room was distinguishable. About this time the nurse’s cough was heard on the staircase, and she entered the room with a cup in her hand.

  One glance would have sufficed to convince a father or a lover that Valentine was dead, but this mercenary woman thought she slept.

  “That is good,” she said, going up to the night-table; “she has drunk some of her draught, the tumbler is three-quarters empty.” Then she went to the fireplace, rekindled the fire, made herself comfortable in an armchair and, though she had but just left her bed, took advantage of the opportunity to snatch a few minutes’ sleep.

  She was awakened by the clock striking eight. Astonished to find the girl still asleep, and alarmed at seeing her arm still hanging out of bed, she drew nearer. It was not until then that she noticed the cold lips and still bosom. She tried to place the arm alongside the body, and its terrible stiffness could not deceive a nurse. With a horrified scream, she rushed to the door, crying out: “Help! help!”

  “Help? For whom?” asked the doctor from the bottom of the stairs, it being the hour he usually called.

  “What is the matter?” cried Villefort, rushing out of his room. “Do you not hear the cry for help, Doctor?”

  “Yes, let us go quickly to Valentine,” replied d’Avrigny.

  But before the father and doctor could reach the room, all the servants who were on the same story had rushed in, and, seeing Valentine pale and motionless on the bed, raised their hands heavenward and stood rooted to the spot with terror.

  “Call Mme de Villefort! Wake Mme de Villefort!” shouted the Procureur du Roi from the door, for he seemed almost afraid to enter the room. But, instead of obeying, the servants simply stared at d’Avrigny, who had run to Valentine and taken her in his arms.

  “This one too!” he murmured, letting her fall back on to the pillow again. “My God! My God! When will it cease!”

  Villefort rushed in. “What do you say, Doctor?” he called out. “Oh, Doctor . . . Doctor . . .”

  “I say that Valentine is dead!” replied d’Avrigny in a voice that was terrible in its gravity.

  M. de Villefort staggered as though his legs had given way under him, and he fell with his head on Valentine’s bed.

  On hearing the doctor’s words and the father’s cries, the servants fled terrified, muttering imprecations as they went. They were heard running down the stairs and the passages, there was a great stir in the courtyards, and all was silence again. The servants had, one and all, deserted the accursed house!

  Just then Mme de Villefort, with her dressing-gown half on, appeared. For a moment she stood on the threshold and seemed to be interrogating those present, at the same time endeavouring to summon up a few rebellious tears. Suddenly she stepped, or rather bounded, toward the table, with outstretched hands. She had seen d’Avrigny bend curiously over the table and take the tumbler she was sure she had emptied during the night. The tumbler was one quarter full, just as it had been when she threw its contents on to the embers. Had Valentine’s ghost suddenly confronted her, she would not have been more alarmed. The liquid was actually of the same colour as that which she had poured into the tumbler and which the girl had drunk; it was certainly the poison, and it could not deceive M. d’Avrigny, who was now examining it closely. It must have been a miracle worked by the Almighty, that, notwithstanding all her precautions, there should be some trace left, some proof to denounce the crime.

  While Mme de Villefort remained as though rooted to the spot, looking like a statue of terror, and Villefort lay with his head hidden in the bedclothes oblivious to everything, d’Avrigny went to the window in order to examine more closely the contents of the tumbler. Dipping his finger into it, he tasted it.

  “Ah!” he murmured, “it is no longer brucine, let me see what it is!”

  He went to one of the cupboards, which was used as a medicine-chest, and, tak
ing some nitric acid, poured a few drops into the liquid, which instantly turned blood-red.

  “Ah!” said d’Avrigny in a tone which combined the horror of a judge to whom the truth has been revealed and the joy of the student who has solved a problem.

  For an instant Mme de Villefort was beside herself; her eyes flared up and then dulled again; she staggered toward the door and disappeared. An instant later the distant thud was heard of a body falling. Nobody paid any attention to it, however. The nurse was intent on watching the chemical analysis, and Villefort was still prostrate. Only M. d’Avrigny had watched her and had noticed her departure. He raised the door-curtain, and, looking through Edward’s room, perceived her stretched unconscious on the floor of her own room.

  “Go and attend to Madame de Villefort, she is not well,” he said to the nurse.

  “But Mademoiselle de Villefort?” stammered the nurse.

  “Mademoiselle de Villefort has no further need of help: she is dead!”

  “Dead! dead!” moaned Villefort in a paroxysm of grief which the novelty of such a feeling in this heart of stone made all the more terrible.

  “Dead, did you say?” cried a third voice. “Who says that Valentine is dead?”

  The two men turned round and perceived Morrel standing at the door, pale and terrible in his grief.

  This is what had happened. Morrel had called at his usual hour to obtain tidings of Valentine. Contrary to custom, he found the side door open, and, having no occasion to ring, entered. He waited in the hall for a moment, calling a servant to announce him to M. de Noirtier, but there was no answer, for, as we know, the servants had all fled. Morrel had no particular reason for anxiety that day; he had Monte Cristo’s promise that Valentine should live, and so far this promise had held good. The Count had given him a good report each evening which was confirmed by Noirtier the next day. There was something strange about this silence, however; he called a second and a third time, but still there was no sound. In a turmoil of doubt and fear he flew up the stairs and through several deserted rooms until he reached Valentine’s chamber. The door was open, and the first sound he heard was a sob. As through a mist, he saw a black figure on his knees and lost in a mass of white drapery. Fear, a terrible fear, rooted him to the spot.