Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  “Oh, you rave, sir,” exclaimed Villefort, in vain endeavoring to escape the net in which he was taken.

  “I rave?” said Morrel; “well, then, I appeal to M. d’Avrigny himself. Ask him, sir, if he recollects the words he uttered in the garden of this house on the night of Madame de Saint-Meran’s death. You thought yourselves alone, and talked about that tragical death, and the fatality you mentioned then is the same which has caused the murder of Valentine.” Villefort and d’Avrigny exchanged looks. “Yes, yes,” continued Morrel; “recall the scene, for the words you thought were only given to silence and solitude fell into my ears. Certainly, after witnessing the culpable indolence manifested by M. de Villefort towards his own relations, I ought to have denounced him to the authorities; then I should not have been an accomplice to thy death, as I now am, sweet, beloved Valentine; but the accomplice shall become the avenger. This fourth murder is apparent to all, and if thy father abandon thee, Valentine, it is I, and I swear it, that shall pursue the assassin.” And this time, as though nature had at least taken compassion on the vigorous frame, nearly bursting with its own strength, the words of Morrel were stifled in his throat; his breast heaved; the tears, so long rebellious, gushed from his eyes; and he threw himself weeping on his knees by the side of the bed.

  Then d’Avrigny spoke. “And I, too,” he exclaimed in a low voice, “I unite with M. Morrel in demanding justice for crime; my blood boils at the idea of having encouraged a murderer by my cowardly concession.”

  “Oh, merciful heavens!” murmured Villefort. Morrel raised his head, and reading the eyes of the old man, which gleamed with unnatural lustre,—”Stay,” he said, “M. Noirtier wishes to speak.”

  “Yes,” indicated Noirtier, with an expression the more terrible, from all his faculties being centred in his glance.

  “Do you know the assassin?” asked Morrel.

  “Yes,” replied Noirtier.

  “And will you direct us?” exclaimed the young man. “Listen, M. d’Avrigny, listen!” Noirtier looked upon Morrel with one of those melancholy smiles which had so often made Valentine happy, and thus fixed his attention. Then, having riveted the eyes of his interlocutor on his own, he glanced towards the door.

  “Do you wish me to leave?” said Morrel, sadly.

  “Yes,” replied Noirtier.

  “Alas, alas, sir, have pity on me!”

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

  “May I, at least, return?” asked Morrel.

  “Yes.”

  “Must I leave alone?”

  “No.”

  “Whom am I to take with me? The procureur?”

  “No.”

  “The doctor?”

  “Yes.”

  “You wish to remain alone with M. de Villefort?”

  “Yes.”

  “But can he understand you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh,” said Villefort, inexpressibly delighted to think that the inquiries were to be made by him alone,—”oh, be satisfied, I can understand my father.” D’Avrigny took the young man’s arm, and led him out of the room. A more than deathlike silence then reigned in the house. At the end of a quarter of an hour a faltering footstep was heard, and Villefort appeared at the door of the apartment where d’Avrigny and Morrel had been staying, one absorbed in meditation, the other in grief. “You can come,” he said, and led them back to Noirtier. Morrel looked attentively on Villefort. His face was livid, large drops rolled down his face, and in his fingers he held the fragments of a quill pen which he had torn to atoms.

  “Gentlemen,” he said in a hoarse voice, “give me your word of honor that this horrible secret shall forever remain buried amongst ourselves!” The two men drew back.

  “I entreat you.”—continued Villefort.

  “But,” said Morrel, “the culprit—the murderer—the assassin.”

  “Do not alarm yourself, sir; justice will be done,” said Villefort. “My father has revealed the culprit’s name; my father thirsts for revenge as much as you do, yet even he conjures you as I do to keep this secret. Do you not, father?”

  “Yes,” resolutely replied Noirtier. Morrel suffered an exclamation of horror and surprise to escape him. “Oh, sir,” said Villefort, arresting Maximilian by the arm, “if my father, the inflexible man, makes this request, it is because he knows, be assured, that Valentine will be terribly revenged. Is it not so, father?” The old man made a sign in the affirmative. Villefort continued: “He knows me, and I have pledged my word to him. Rest assured, gentlemen, that within three days, in a less time than justice would demand, the revenge I shall have taken for the murder of my child will be such as to make the boldest heart tremble;” and as he spoke these words he ground his teeth, and grasped the old man’s senseless hand.

  “Will this promise be fulfilled, M. Noirtier?” asked Morrel, while d’Avrigny looked inquiringly.

  “Yes,” replied Noirtier with an expression of sinister joy.

  “Swear, then,” said Villefort, joining the hands of Morrel and d’Avrigny, “swear that you will spare the honor of my house, and leave me to avenge my child.” D’Avrigny turned round and uttered a very feeble “Yes,” but Morrel, disengaging his hand, rushed to the bed, and after having pressed the cold lips of Valentine with his own, hurriedly left, uttering a long, deep groan of despair and anguish. We have before stated that all the servants had fled. M. de Villefort was therefore obliged to request M. d’Avrigny to superintend all the arrangements consequent upon a death in a large city, more especially a death under such suspicious circumstances.

  It was something terrible to witness the silent agony, the mute despair of Noirtier, whose tears silently rolled down his cheeks. Villefort retired to his study, and d’Avrigny left to summon the doctor of the mayoralty, whose office it is to examine bodies after decease, and who is expressly named “the doctor of the dead.” M. Noirtier could not be persuaded to quit his grandchild. At the end of a quarter of an hour M. d’Avrigny returned with his associate; they found the outer gate closed, and not a servant remaining in the house; Villefort himself was obliged to open to them. But he stopped on the landing; he had not the courage to again visit the death chamber. The two doctors, therefore, entered the room alone. Noirtier was near the bed, pale, motionless, and silent as the corpse. The district doctor approached with the indifference of a man accustomed to spend half his time amongst the dead; he then lifted the sheet which was placed over the face, and just unclosed the lips.

  “Alas,” said d’Avrigny, “she is indeed dead, poor child!”

  “Yes,” answered the doctor laconically, dropping the sheet he had raised. Noirtier uttered a kind of hoarse, rattling sound; the old man’s eyes sparkled, and the good doctor understood that he wished to behold his child. He therefore approached the bed, and while his companion was dipping the fingers with which he had touched the lips of the corpse in chloride of lime, he uncovered the calm and pale face, which looked like that of a sleeping angel. A tear, which appeared in the old man’s eye, expressed his thanks to the doctor. The doctor of the dead then laid his permit on the corner of the table, and having fulfilled his duty, was conducted out by d’Avrigny. Villefort met them at the door of his study; having in a few words thanked the district doctor, he turned to d’Avrigny, and said,—”And now the priest.”

  “Is there any particular priest you wish to pray with Valentine?” asked d’Avrigny.

  “No.” said Villefort; “fetch the nearest.”

  “The nearest,” said the district doctor, “is a good Italian abbe, who lives next door to you. Shall I call on him as I pass?”

  “D’Avrigny,” said Villefort, “be so kind, I beseech you, as to accompany this gentleman. Here is the key of the door, so that you can go in and out as you please; you will bring the priest with you, and will oblige me by introducing him into my child’s room.”

  “Do you wish to see him?”

  “I only wish to be alone. You will excuse me, will y
ou not? A priest can understand a father’s grief.” And M. de Villefort, giving the key to d’Avrigny, again bade farewell to the strange doctor, and retired to his study, where he began to work. For some temperaments work is a remedy for all afflictions. As the doctors entered the street, they saw a man in a cassock standing on the threshold of the next door. “This is the abbe of whom I spoke,” said the doctor to d’Avrigny. D’Avrigny accosted the priest. “Sir,” he said, “are you disposed to confer a great obligation on an unhappy father who has just lost his daughter? I mean M. de Villefort, the king’s attorney.”

  “Ah,” said the priest, in a marked Italian accent; “yes, I have heard that death is in that house.”

  “Then I need not tell you what kind of service he requires of you.”

  “I was about to offer myself, sir,” said the priest; “it is our mission to forestall our duties.”

  “It is a young girl.”

  “I know it, sir; the servants who fled from the house informed me. I also know that her name is Valentine, and I have already prayed for her.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said d’Avrigny; “since you have commenced your sacred office, deign to continue it. Come and watch by the dead, and all the wretched family will be grateful to you.”

  “I am going, sir; and I do not hesitate to say that no prayers will be more fervent than mine.” D’Avrigny took the priest’s hand, and without meeting Villefort, who was engaged in his study, they reached Valentine’s room, which on the following night was to be occupied by the undertakers. On entering the room, Noirtier’s eyes met those of the abbe, and no doubt he read some particular expression in them, for he remained in the room. D’Avrigny recommended the attention of the priest to the living as well as to the dead, and the abbe promised to devote his prayers to Valentine and his attentions to Noirtier. In order, doubtless, that he might not be disturbed while fulfilling his sacred mission, the priest rose as soon as d’Avrigny departed, and not only bolted the door through which the doctor had just left, but also that leading to Madame de Villefort’s room.

  Chapter 16. Danglars Signature.

  The next morning dawned dull and cloudy. During the night the undertakers had executed their melancholy office, and wrapped the corpse in the winding-sheet, which, whatever may be said about the equality of death, is at least a last proof of the luxury so pleasing in life. This winding-sheet was nothing more than a beautiful piece of cambric, which the young girl had bought a fortnight before. During the evening two men, engaged for the purpose, had carried Noirtier from Valentine’s room into his own, and contrary to all expectation there was no difficulty in withdrawing him from his child. The Abbe Busoni had watched till daylight, and then left without calling any one. D’Avrigny returned about eight o’clock in the morning; he met Villefort on his way to Noirtier’s room, and accompanied him to see how the old man had slept. They found him in the large armchair, which served him for a bed, enjoying a calm, nay, almost a smiling sleep. They both stood in amazement at the door.

  “See,” said d’Avrigny to Villefort, “nature knows how to alleviate the deepest sorrow. No one can say that M. Noirtier did not love his child, and yet he sleeps.”

  “Yes, you are right,” replied Villefort, surprised; “he sleeps, indeed! And this is the more strange, since the least contradiction keeps him awake all night.”

  “Grief has stunned him,” replied d’Avrigny; and they both returned thoughtfully to the procureur’s study.

  “See, I have not slept,” said Villefort, showing his undisturbed bed; “grief does not stun me. I have not been in bed for two nights; but then look at my desk; see what I have written during these two days and nights. I have filled those papers, and have made out the accusation against the assassin Benedetto. Oh, work, work,—my passion, my joy, my delight,—it is for thee to alleviate my sorrows!” and he convulsively grasped the hand of d’Avrigny.

  “Do you require my services now?” asked d’Avrigny.

  “No,” said Villefort; “only return again at eleven o’clock; at twelve the—the—oh, heavens, my poor, poor child!” and the procureur again becoming a man, lifted up his eyes and groaned.

  “Shall you be present in the reception room?”

  “No; I have a cousin who has undertaken this sad office. I shall work, doctor—when I work I forget everything.” And, indeed, no sooner had the doctor left the room, than he was again absorbed in study. On the doorsteps d’Avrigny met the cousin whom Villefort had mentioned, a personage as insignificant in our story as in the world he occupied—one of those beings designed from their birth to make themselves useful to others. He was punctual, dressed in black, with crape around his hat, and presented himself at his cousin’s with a face made up for the occasion, and which he could alter as might be required. At twelve o’clock the mourning-coaches rolled into the paved court, and the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honore was filled with a crowd of idlers, equally pleased to witness the festivities or the mourning of the rich, and who rush with the same avidity to a funeral procession as to the marriage of a duchess.

  Gradually the reception-room filled, and some of our old friends made their appearance—we mean Debray, Chateau-Renaud, and Beauchamp, accompanied by all the leading men of the day at the bar, in literature, or the army, for M. de Villefort moved in the first Parisian circles, less owing to his social position than to his personal merit. The cousin standing at the door ushered in the guests, and it was rather a relief to the indifferent to see a person as unmoved as themselves, and who did not exact a mournful face or force tears, as would have been the case with a father, a brother, or a lover. Those who were acquainted soon formed into little groups. One of them was made of Debray, Chateau-Renaud, and Beauchamp.

  “Poor girl,” said Debray, like the rest, paying an involuntary tribute to the sad event,—”poor girl, so young, so rich, so beautiful! Could you have imagined this scene, Chateau-Renaud, when we saw her, at the most three weeks ago, about to sign that contract?”

  “Indeed, no,” said Chateau-Renaud—”Did you know her?”

  “I spoke to her once or twice at Madame de Morcerf’s, among the rest; she appeared to me charming, though rather melancholy. Where is her stepmother? Do you know?”

  “She is spending the day with the wife of the worthy gentleman who is receiving us.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Whom do you mean?”

  “The gentleman who receives us? Is he a deputy?”

  “Oh, no. I am condemned to witness those gentlemen every day,” said Beauchamp; “but he is perfectly unknown to me.”

  “Have you mentioned this death in your paper?”

  “It has been mentioned, but the article is not mine; indeed, I doubt if it will please M. Villefort, for it says that if four successive deaths had happened anywhere else than in the house of the king’s attorney, he would have interested himself somewhat more about it.”

  “Still,” said Chateau-Renaud, “Dr. d’Avrigny, who attends my mother, declares he is in despair about it. But whom are you seeking, Debray?”

  “I am seeking the Count of Monte Cristo” said the young man.

  “I met him on the boulevard, on my way here,” said Beauchamp. “I think he is about to leave Paris; he was going to his banker.”

  “His banker? Danglars is his banker, is he not?” asked Chateau-Renaud of Debray.

  “I believe so,” replied the secretary with slight uneasiness. “But Monte Cristo is not the only one I miss here; I do not see Morrel.”

  “Morrel? Do they know him?” asked Chateau-Renaud. “I think he has only been introduced to Madame de Villefort.”

  “Still, he ought to have been here,” said Debray; “I wonder what will be talked about tonight; this funeral is the news of the day. But hush, here comes our minister of justice; he will feel obliged to make some little speech to the cousin,” and the three young men drew near to listen. Beauchamp told the truth when he said that on his way to the funeral he had met Monte Cristo, who was
directing his steps towards the Rue de la Chausse d’Antin, to M. Danglars’.

  The banker saw the carriage of the count enter the court yard, and advanced to meet him with a sad, though affable smile. “Well,” said he, extending his hand to Monte Cristo, “I suppose you have come to sympathize with me, for indeed misfortune has taken possession of my house. When I perceived you, I was just asking myself whether I had not wished harm towards those poor Morcerfs, which would have justified the proverb of ‘He who wishes misfortunes to happen to others experiences them himself.’ Well, on my word of honor, I answered, ‘No!’ I wished no ill to Morcerf; he was a little proud, perhaps, for a man who like myself has risen from nothing; but we all have our faults. Do you know, count, that persons of our time of life—not that you belong to the class, you are still a young man,—but as I was saying, persons of our time of life have been very unfortunate this year. For example, look at the puritanical procureur, who has just lost his daughter, and in fact nearly all his family, in so singular a manner; Morcerf dishonored and dead; and then myself covered with ridicule through the villany of Benedetto; besides”—

  “Besides what?” asked the Count.

  “Alas, do you not know?”

  “What new calamity?”

  “My daughter”—

  “Mademoiselle Danglars?”

  “Eugenie has left us!”

  “Good heavens, what are you telling me?”

  “The truth, my dear count. Oh, how happy you must be in not having either wife or children!”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Indeed I do.”