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

by Alexandre Dumas

  It was at this moment that he heard a voice say: “She is dead!” and a second voice repeat like an echo: “Dead! dead!”

  Chapter LXIV

  MAXIMILIAN

  Villefort rose, almost ashamed at being surprised in such a paroxysm of grief. The terrible office he had held for twenty-five years had placed him far outside the range of any human feeling. He looked at Morrel in a half-dazed manner.

  “Who are you,” said he, “that you are unaware that one does not enter a house where death reigns? Go, go!”

  Morrel stood still; he could not take his eyes from the disordered bed and the pale figure lying on it.

  “Do you hear me, go!” cried Villefort, while d’Avrigny advanced toward Morrel to persuade him to leave.

  Dazed, the young man looked at the corpse, the two men, and the room; then he hesitated for a moment and opened his mouth to reply, but could not give utterance to any of the thoughts that crowded in his brain; he thrust his hand in his hair and turned on his heels. D’Avrigny and Villefort, distracted for a moment from their morbid thoughts, looked at one another as though to say: “He is mad.”

  But in less than five minutes they heard the stairs creaking under a heavy weight and perceived Morrel carrying Noirtier in his chair up the stairs with almost superhuman strength. Arrived at the top, Morrel set the chair down and wheeled it rapidly into Valentine’s room. Noirtier’s face was dreadful to behold as Morrel pushed him toward the bed: all the resources at the disposal of his intelligence were displayed therein, and all his power was concentrated in his eyes, which had to do duty for the other faculties. This pale face with its glaring eyes seemed to Villefort like a terrible apparition. Every time he had come in contact with his father something disastrous had happened.

  “Look what they have done!” cried Morrel, resting one hand on the arm of the chair he had just wheeled up to the bedside, and with the other one pointing to Valentine. “Look, Father, look!”

  Villefort started back and looked with amazement on this young man, almost unknown to him, who called M. Noirtier “Father.”

  In response to Morrel’s words, the old man’s whole soul seemed to show itself in his eyes, which became bloodshot; the veins of his throat swelled, and his neck, cheeks, and temples assumed a bluish hue. Nothing, indeed, was needed to put the finishing touch to this internal ebullition in his whole being but the utterance of a cry. And in truth a mute cry issued from him, if we may use the expression, which was terrifying and heart-rending because of its very silence. D’Avrigny rushed up to the old man and made him inhale a strong restorative.

  “They ask me who I am, monsieur, and what right I have to be here!” cried Morrel, seizing the inert hand of the paralytic. “Oh, you know! Tell them! Tell them!” And the young man’s voice was choked with sobs. “Tell them that I was betrothed to her; tell them she was my darling, the only one I love on earth.” And looking like the personification of broken strength, he fell heavily on his knees before the bed which his hands grasped convulsively. His grief was such that d’Avrigny turned his head away to hide his emotion, and Villefort, attracted by the magnetism which draws us toward such as have loved those we mourn, gave his hand to the young man without asking any further explanations.

  For some time nothing was heard in the room but sobs, imprecations and prayers. Yet one sound gained the mastery over all the rest; it was the harsh and heartrending breathing of Noirtier. With each intake it seemed as though his very lungs must burst asunder. At length Villefort, who had, so to say, yielded his place to Morrel and was now the most composed of them all, said to Maximilian: “You say that you loved Valentine and that you were betrothed to her. I was unaware of your love for her, as also of your engagement. Yet I, her father, forgive you, for I see that your grief is deep and true. Besides, my own grief is too great for anger to find a place in my heart. But, as you see, the angel you hoped to possess, has left us. Take your farewell of her sad remains: Valentine has now no further need of anyone but the priest and the doctor.”

  “You are mistaken, monsieur,” cried Morrel, rising on to one knee, and his heart was pierced with a pang sharper than any he had yet felt. “You are quite wrong. Valentine, as I judge from the manner of her death, not only needs a priest but also an avenger. Send for the priest, Monsieur de Villefort; I will be her avenger!”

  “What do you mean, monsieur?” murmured Villefort, trembling before this new idea of Morrel’s.

  “What I mean is that there are two personalities in you: the father has done enough weeping, it is now time that the magistrate bethought him of his duty.”

  Noirtier’s eyes gleamed, and d’Avrigny drew nearer.

  “I know what I am saying,” continued Morrel, reading the thoughts that were revealed on the faces of those present, “and you all know as well as I do what I am going to say. Valentine has been murdered!”

  Villefort hung his head; d’Avrigny advanced a step farther, and Noirtier made a sign of assent.

  “You know, monsieur,” continued Morrel, “that nowadays a girl does not suddenly disappear without inquiries being made as to her disappearance, even though she be not so young, beautiful, and adorable as Valentine was. Show no mercy, Monsieur le Procureur!” he cried with increasing vehemence. “I denounce the crime; it is now your duty to find the murderer.”

  “You are mistaken, monsieur,” replied Villefort. “No crimes are committed in my house. Fate is against me, God is trying me. It is a horrible thought, but no one has been murdered.”

  “I tell you that murder has been committed here!” cried the young man, lowering his voice but speaking in a very decided tone. “This is the fourth victim during the past four months. I declare that they attempted to poison Valentine four days ago but failed owing to Monsieur Noirtier’s precautions. I declare that the dose has now been doubled or else the poison changed, so that their dastardly work has succeeded. You know all this as well as I do, for this gentleman warned you, both as a friend and a doctor.”

  “You are raving, monsieur,” said Villefort, vainly endeavouring to escape from the trap into which he felt he had fallen.

  “I raving!” cried Morrel. “Well, then, I appeal to Monsieur d’Avrigny himself. Ask him, Doctor, whether he remembers his words to you in your garden on the evening of Madame de Saint-Méran’s death when you and he thought you were alone! You were conversing about her tragic death, and, as now, you unjustly blamed fate, but the only blame that can attach to fate is that by her decree the murderer was created who has poisoned Valentine. Yes, yes,” he continued, “recall those words that you thought were spoken in silence and solitude, whereas every one of them fell on my ear. On seeing Monsieur de Villefort’s culpable indifference towards his relatives that evening, I certainly ought to have revealed everything to the authorities. Then I should not have been an accomplice to your death, Valentine, my darling Valentine! But the accomplice shall become the avenger. I swear to you, Valentine, that if your father forsakes you, I, yes I, shall pursue the murderer!”

  And then it was d’Avrigny’s turn.

  “I, too, join Monsieur Morrel in demanding justice for the crime,” said he. “My blood boils at the thought that my cowardly indifference has encouraged the murderer.”

  “Have mercy! Oh, my God, have mercy!” murmured Villefort, beside himself.

  Morrel raised his head, and, seeing that Noirtier’s eyes were shining with an almost supernatural light, he said: “Wait a moment, Monsieur Noirtier wishes to speak. Do you know the murderer?” he continued, turning to the old man.

  “Yes,” replied Noirtier.

  “And you will help us to find him?” cried the young man. “Listen, Monsieur d’Avrigny, listen!”

  Noirtier threw the unhappy Morrel a sad smile, one of those smiles expressed in his eyes which had so often made Valentine happy, and demanded his attention. Then having, so to say, riveted his questioner’s eyes on his own, he looked toward the door.

  “Do you wish me to leave the
room?” asked Morrel sadly.

  “Yes,” looked Noirtier.

  “Alas! Alas! Have pity on me!”

  The old man’s eyes remained relentlessly fixed on the door.

  “May I at least come back again?”

  “Yes.”

  “Am I to go alone?”

  “No.”

  “Whom shall I take with me? The doctor?”

  “Yes.”

  “But will Monsieur de Villefort understand you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have no fear, I understand my father very well,” said Villefort, overjoyed that the inquiries between him and his father were to be made privately.

  D’Avrigny took the young man’s arm and led him into the adjoining room. At length, after a quarter of an hour had elapsed, a faltering footstep was heard, and Villefort appeared on the threshold. “Come,” said he, leading them back to Noirtier.

  Morrel looked fixedly at Villefort. His face was livid; large drops of perspiration rolled down his face; between his teeth was a pen twisted out of shape and bitten to half its natural length.

  “Messieurs,” said he in a voice choked with emotion, turning to d’Avrigny and Morrel. “Give me your word of honour that this terrible secret shall remain buried for ever amongst ourselves.”

  The two men stirred uneasily.

  “I entreat you! . . .” continued Villefort.

  “But the culprit! . . . the murderer! . . .” cried Morrel.

  “Fear not, justice shall be done,” said Villefort. “My father has revealed to me the name of the culprit, and, though he is as anxious for revenge as you are, he entreats you even as I do to keep the crime a secret. Oh! if my father makes this request, it is only because he knows that Valentine will be terribly avenged. He knows me, and I have given him my word. I only ask three days. Within three days the vengeance I shall have taken for the murder of my child will be such as to make the most indifferent of men shudder.” As he said these words, he ground his teeth and grasped the lifeless hand of his old father.

  “Will this promise be fulfilled, Monsieur Noirtier?” Morrel asked, while d’Avrigny questioned him with his eyes.

  “Yes,” signalled Noirtier with a look of sinister joy.

  “Then swear,” said Villefort, joining d’Avrigny’s and Morrel’s hands, “swear that you will spare the honour of my house and leave it to me to avenge my child!”

  D’Avrigny turned round and gave a faint “Yes” in reply, but Morrel pulled his hand away and rushed toward the bed. Pressing his lips to Valentine’s mouth, he fled out of the room with a long groan of despair.

  As we have said, all the servants had disappeared. M. de Villefort was therefore obliged to request M. d’Avrigny to take charge of the numerous arrangements consequent upon a death, above all upon a death of such a suspicious nature. This he consented to do, and went in search of the official registrar.

  The registrar duly gave the death certificate without having the least suspicion of the real cause of death, and, when he had gone, d’Avrigny asked Villefort whether he desired any particular priest to pray over Valentine.

  “No,” was Villefort’s reply. “Fetch the nearest one.”

  “The nearest one is an Italian priest who lives in the house next to your own,” replied the doctor. “Shall I summon him?”

  “Pray do so.”

  “Do you wish to speak to him?”

  “All I desire is to be left alone. Make my excuse to him. Being a priest, he will understand my grief.”

  D’Avrigny found the priest standing at his door and went up to him saying: “Would you be good enough to render a great service to an unhappy father who has lost his daughter? I mean Monsieur de Villefort, the Procureur du Roi.”

  “Ah, yes, I know that death is rife in that house,” replied the priest in a very pronounced Italian accent.

  “Then I need not tell you what service it is that he ventures to ask of you?”

  “I was just coming to offer myself, monsieur,” said the priest. “It is our mission to forestall our duties.”

  “It is a young girl who has died.”

  “Yes, I know, I learnt that from the servants whom I saw fleeing from the house. I know that she was called Valentine, and I have already prayed for her.”

  “Thank you, monsieur, thank you,” said d’Avrigny. “Since you have commenced your sacred office, continue it. Come and watch beside the dead girl, and all her mourning relatives will be grateful to you.”

  “I am coming, monsieur,” replied the priest, “and I venture to say that no prayers will be more fervent than mine.”

  D’Avrigny led the priest into Valentine’s room without meeting M. de Villefort, who was closeted in his study. As soon as they entered the room Noirtier’s eyes met those of the priest, and no doubt something particular attracted him, for his gaze never left him. D’Avrigny recommended the living as well as the dead to the priest’s care, and he promised to devote his prayers to Valentine and his attentions to Noirtier.

  The abbé set to his task in all seriousness, and as soon as d’Avrigny had left the room, he not only bolted the door through which the doctor had passed, but also the one leading to Mme de Villefort’s room—doubtless that he might not be disturbed in his prayers or Noirtier in his grief.

  The Abbé Busoni watched by the corpse until daylight, when he returned to his house without disturbing anyone. When M. de Villefort and the doctor went to see how M. Noirtier had spent the night, they were greatly amazed to find him sitting in his big armchair, which served him as a bed, in a peaceful sleep, with something approaching a smile on his face.

  Chapter LXV

  DANGLARS’ SIGNATURE

  Before paying his last respects to Valentine, Monte Cristo called on Danglars. From his window the banker saw the Count’s carriage enter the courtyard, and went to meet him with a sad though affable smile.

  “Well, Count,” said he, holding out his hand. “Have you come to offer me your condolence? Ill-fortune is certainly dogging my steps. I was beginning to ask myself whether I had not wished bad luck to those poor Morcerfs, thus proving the truth of the proverb: ‘He who wishes harm to others shall himself suffer misfortune.’ But, on my word, I have wished no harm to Morcerf. He was perhaps a little proud, considering he was a man who had risen from nothing, like myself, and, like myself, owed everything he had to his own wits. But we all have our faults. Have you noticed, Count, that people of our generation—pardon me, you are not of our generation, for you are still young—people of my generation are not lucky this year. For example, look at our puritan, the Procureur du Roi, whose whole family are dying in a most mysterious fashion, the latest victim being his daughter. Then again there is Morcerf, who is dishonoured and killed by his own hand, while I not only am covered with ridicule by that scoundrel Cavalcanti, but have lost my daughter as well.”

  “Your daughter?”

  “Yes, she has gone away with her mother, and, knowing her as I do, I am sure she will never return to France again. She could not endure the shame brought on her by that impostor. Ah! he played his part well! To think that we had been entertaining a murderer, a thief, and an impostor; and that he so nearly became my daughter’s husband! The only piece of good fortune in the whole affair was that he was arrested before the contract was signed.”

  “Still, my dear Baron,” said Monte Cristo, “such family griefs, which would crush a poor man whose child was his only fortune, are endurable to a millionaire. Philosophers may say what they like, a practical man will always give them the lie: money compensates for a great deal, and if you recognize the sovereignty of this sovereign balm you should be easily consoled, you who are the king of finance.”

  Danglars looked at the Count out of the corner of his eye; he wondered whether he was mocking him or whether he meant it seriously. “Yes,” he said, “it is a fact; if wealth brings consolation, I should be consoled, for I am certainly rich.”

  “So rich, my dear Baron, that your wealth
is like the Pyramids; if you wanted to demolish them, you would not dare, and if you dared, you would not be able to do so.”

  Danglars smiled at this good-natured pleasantry of the Count’s.

  “That reminds me,” said he, “when you came in, I was drawing up five little bills; I have already signed two, will you excuse me while I sign the other three?”

  “Certainly, Baron.”

  There was a moment’s silence broken only by the scratching of the banker’s pen.

  “Are they Spanish, Hayti, or Neapolitan bonds?” said Monte Cristo.

  “Neither the one nor the other,” replied Danglars with a self-satisfied smile. “They are bearer bonds on the Bank of France. Look there,” he added, “if I am the king, you are the emperor of finance, but have you seen many scraps of paper of this size each worth a million?”

  The Count took the scraps of paper which the banker proudly handed him and read:

  To the Governor of the Bank of France.

  Please pay to my order from the deposit placed by me with you the sum of one million in present currency.

  Baron Danglars

  “One, two, three, four, five!” counted Monte Cristo. “Five millions! Why, you are a regular Croesus! It is marvellous, especially if, as I suppose, the amount is paid in cash.”

  “It will be.”

  “It is truly a fine thing to have such credit and could only happen in France. Five scraps of paper worth five millions: it must be seen to be believed.”

  “Do you discredit it?”

  “No.”

  “You say it in such a tone . . . But wait, if it gives you pleasure, accompany my clerk to the bank, and you will see him leave with treasury bills to that amount.”

  “No,” said Monte Cristo, folding the five notes, “indeed not. It is so interesting that I will make the experiment myself. My credit with you amounted to six millions: I have had nine hundred thousand, so that I still have a balance of five million, one hundred thousand francs. I will accept the five scraps of paper that I now hold as bonds, on the strength of your signature alone; here is a general receipt for six millions which will settle our account. I made it out beforehand because, I must confess, I am greatly in need of money to-day.”