The Count of Monte Cristo, Illustrated

by Alexandre Dumas

  Chapter 72. Madame de Saint-Méran

  A gloomy scene had indeed just passed at the house of M. de Villefort.After the ladies had departed for the ball, whither all the entreatiesof Madame de Villefort had failed in persuading him to accompany them,the procureur had shut himself up in his study, according to his custom,with a heap of papers calculated to alarm anyone else, but whichgenerally scarcely satisfied his inordinate desires.

  But this time the papers were a mere matter of form. Villefort hadsecluded himself, not to study, but to reflect; and with the door lockedand orders given that he should not be disturbed excepting for importantbusiness, he sat down in his armchair and began to ponder over theevents, the remembrance of which had during the last eight days filledhis mind with so many gloomy thoughts and bitter recollections.

  Then, instead of plunging into the mass of documents piled before him,he opened the drawer of his desk, touched a spring, and drew out aparcel of cherished memoranda, amongst which he had carefully arranged,in characters only known to himself, the names of all those who, eitherin his political career, in money matters, at the bar, or in hismysterious love affairs, had become his enemies.

  Their number was formidable, now that he had begun to fear, and yetthese names, powerful though they were, had often caused him to smilewith the same kind of satisfaction experienced by a traveller who fromthe summit of a mountain beholds at his feet the craggy eminences, thealmost impassable paths, and the fearful chasms, through which he has soperilously climbed. When he had run over all these names in his memory,again read and studied them, commenting meanwhile upon his lists, heshook his head.

  “No,” he murmured, “none of my enemies would have waited so patientlyand laboriously for so long a space of time, that they might now comeand crush me with this secret. Sometimes, as Hamlet says:

  ‘Foul deeds will rise, Though all the earth o’erwhelm them, to men’seyes;’ but, like a phosphoric light, they rise but to mislead. The storyhas been told by the Corsican to some priest, who in his turn hasrepeated it. M. de Monte Cristo may have heard it, and to enlightenhimself——

  “But why should he wish to enlighten himself upon the subject?” askedVillefort, after a moment’s reflection, “what interest can this M. deMonte Cristo or M. Zaccone,—son of a shipowner of Malta, discoverer of amine in Thessaly, now visiting Paris for the first time,—what interest,I say, can he take in discovering a gloomy, mysterious, and useless factlike this? However, among all the incoherent details given to me by theAbbé Busoni and by Lord Wilmore, by that friend and that enemy, onething appears certain and clear in my opinion—that in no period, in nocase, in no circumstance, could there have been any contact between himand me.”

  But Villefort uttered words which even he himself did not believe. Hedreaded not so much the revelation, for he could reply to or deny itstruth;—he cared little for that mene, mene, tekel upharsin, whichappeared suddenly in letters of blood upon the wall;—but what he wasreally anxious for was to discover whose hand had traced them. While hewas endeavoring to calm his fears,—and instead of dwelling upon thepolitical future that had so often been the subject of his ambitiousdreams, was imagining a future limited to the enjoyments of home, infear of awakening the enemy that had so long slept,—the noise of acarriage sounded in the yard, then he heard the steps of an aged personascending the stairs, followed by tears and lamentations, such asservants always give vent to when they wish to appear interested intheir master’s grief.

  He drew back the bolt of his door, and almost directly an old ladyentered, unannounced, carrying her shawl on her arm, and her bonnet inher hand. The white hair was thrown back from her yellow forehead, andher eyes, already sunken by the furrows of age, now almost disappearedbeneath the eyelids swollen with grief.

  “Oh, sir,” she said; “oh, sir, what a misfortune! I shall die of it; oh,yes, I shall certainly die of it!”

  And then, falling upon the chair nearest the door, she burst into aparoxysm of sobs. The servants, standing in the doorway, not daring toapproach nearer, were looking at Noirtier’s old servant, who had heardthe noise from his master’s room, and run there also, remaining behindthe others. Villefort rose, and ran towards his mother-in-law, for itwas she.

  “Why, what can have happened?” he exclaimed, “what has thus disturbedyou? Is M. de Saint-Méran with you?”

  “M. de Saint-Méran is dead,” answered the old marchioness, withoutpreface and without expression; she appeared to be stupefied. Villefortdrew back, and clasping his hands together, exclaimed:

  “Dead!—so suddenly?”

  “A week ago,” continued Madame de Saint-Méran, “we went out together inthe carriage after dinner. M. de Saint-Méran had been unwell for somedays; still, the idea of seeing our dear Valentine again inspired himwith courage, and notwithstanding his illness he would leave. At sixleagues from Marseilles, after having eaten some of the lozenges he isaccustomed to take, he fell into such a deep sleep, that it appeared tome unnatural; still I hesitated to wake him, although I fancied that hisface was flushed, and that the veins of his temples throbbed moreviolently than usual. However, as it became dark, and I could no longersee, I fell asleep; I was soon aroused by a piercing shriek, as from aperson suffering in his dreams, and he suddenly threw his head backviolently. I called the valet, I stopped the postilion, I spoke to M. deSaint-Méran, I applied my smelling-salts; but all was over, and Iarrived at Aix by the side of a corpse.”

  Villefort stood with his mouth half open, quite stupefied.

  “Of course you sent for a doctor?”

  “Immediately; but, as I have told you, it was too late.”

  “Yes; but then he could tell of what complaint the poor marquis haddied.”

  “Oh, yes, sir, he told me; it appears to have been an apoplecticstroke.”

  “And what did you do then?”

  “M. de Saint-Méran had always expressed a desire, in case his deathhappened during his absence from Paris, that his body might be broughtto the family vault. I had him put into a leaden coffin, and I ampreceding him by a few days.”

  “Oh! my poor mother!” said Villefort, “to have such duties to perform atyour age after such a blow!”

  “God has supported me through all; and then, my dear marquis, he wouldcertainly have done everything for me that I performed for him. It istrue that since I left him, I seem to have lost my senses. I cannot cry;at my age they say that we have no more tears,—still I think that whenone is in trouble one should have the power of weeping. Where isValentine, sir? It is on her account I am here; I wish to seeValentine.”

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  Villefort thought it would be terrible to reply that Valentine was at aball; so he only said that she had gone out with her step-mother, andthat she should be fetched. “This instant, sir—this instant, I beseechyou!” said the old lady. Villefort placed the arm of Madame de Saint-Méran within his own, and conducted her to his apartment.

  “Rest yourself, mother,” he said.

  The marchioness raised her head at this word, and beholding the man whoso forcibly reminded her of her deeply-regretted child, who still livedfor her in Valentine, she felt touched at the name of mother, andbursting into tears, she fell on her knees before an armchair, where sheburied her venerable head. Villefort left her to the care of the women,while old Barrois ran, half-scared, to his master; for nothing frightensold people so much as when death relaxes its vigilance over them for amoment in order to strike some other old person. Then, while Madame deSaint-Méran remained on her knees, praying fervently, Villefort sent fora cab, and went himself to fetch his wife and daughter from Madame deMorcerf’s. He was so pale when he appeared at the door of the ball-room,that Valentine ran to him, saying:

  “Oh, father, some misfortune has happened!”

  “Your grandmamma has just arrived, Valentine,” said M. de Villefort.

  “And grandpapa?” inquired the young girl, trembling with apprehension.M. de Villefort only replied by offering his arm to his dau
ghter. It wasjust in time, for Valentine’s head swam, and she staggered; Madame deVillefort instantly hastened to her assistance, and aided her husband indragging her to the carriage, saying:

  “What a singular event! Who could have thought it? Ah, yes, it is indeedstrange!”

  And the wretched family departed, leaving a cloud of sadness hangingover the rest of the evening. At the foot of the stairs, Valentine foundBarrois awaiting her.

  “M. Noirtier wishes to see you tonight, he said, in an undertone.

  “Tell him I will come when I leave my dear grandmamma,” she replied,feeling, with true delicacy, that the person to whom she could be of themost service just then was Madame de Saint-Méran.

  Valentine found her grandmother in bed; silent caresses, heartwrungsobs, broken sighs, burning tears, were all that passed in this sadinterview, while Madame de Villefort, leaning on her husband’s arm,maintained all outward forms of respect, at least towards the poorwidow. She soon whispered to her husband:

  “I think it would be better for me to retire, with your permission, forthe sight of me appears still to afflict your mother-in-law.” Madame deSaint-Méran heard her.

  “Yes, yes,” she said softly to Valentine, “let her leave; but do youstay.”

  Madame de Villefort left, and Valentine remained alone beside the bed,for the procureur, overcome with astonishment at the unexpected death,had followed his wife. Meanwhile, Barrois had returned for the firsttime to old Noirtier, who having heard the noise in the house, had, aswe have said, sent his old servant to inquire the cause; on his return,his quick intelligent eye interrogated the messenger.

  “Alas, sir,” exclaimed Barrois, “a great misfortune has happened. Madamede Saint-Méran has arrived, and her husband is dead!”

  M. de Saint-Méran and Noirtier had never been on strict terms offriendship; still, the death of one old man always considerably affectsanother. Noirtier let his head fall upon his chest, apparentlyoverwhelmed and thoughtful; then he closed one eye, in token of inquiry.

  Barrois asked, “Mademoiselle Valentine?”

  Noirtier nodded his head.

  “She is at the ball, as you know, since she came to say good-bye to youin full dress.” Noirtier again closed his left eye.

  “Do you wish to see her?” Noirtier again made an affirmative sign.

  “Well, they have gone to fetch her, no doubt, from Madame de Morcerf’s;I will await her return, and beg her to come up here. Is that what youwish for?”

  “Yes,” replied the invalid.

  Barrois, therefore, as we have seen, watched for Valentine, and informedher of her grandfather’s wish. Consequently, Valentine came up toNoirtier, on leaving Madame de Saint-Méran, who in the midst of hergrief had at last yielded to fatigue and fallen into a feverish sleep.Within reach of her hand they placed a small table upon which stood abottle of orangeade, her usual beverage, and a glass. Then, as we havesaid, the young girl left the bedside to see M. Noirtier.

  Valentine kissed the old man, who looked at her with such tendernessthat her eyes again filled with tears, whose sources he thought must beexhausted. The old gentleman continued to dwell upon her with the sameexpression.

  “Yes, yes,” said Valentine, “you mean that I have yet a kind grandfatherleft, do you not.” The old man intimated that such was his meaning. “Ah,yes, happily I have,” replied Valentine. “Without that, what wouldbecome of me?”

  It was one o’clock in the morning. Barrois, who wished to go to bedhimself, observed that after such sad events everyone stood in need ofrest. Noirtier would not say that the only rest he needed was to see hischild, but wished her good-night, for grief and fatigue had made herappear quite ill.

  The next morning she found her grandmother in bed; the fever had notabated, on the contrary her eyes glistened and she appeared to besuffering from violent nervous irritability.

  “Oh, dear grandmamma, are you worse?” exclaimed Valentine, perceivingall these signs of agitation.

  “No, my child, no,” said Madame de Saint-Méran; “but I was impatientlywaiting for your arrival, that I might send for your father.”

  “My father?” inquired Valentine, uneasily.

  “Yes, I wish to speak to him.”

  Valentine durst not oppose her grandmother’s wish, the cause of whichshe did not know, and an instant afterwards Villefort entered.

  “Sir,” said Madame de Saint-Méran, without using any circumlocution, andas if fearing she had no time to lose, “you wrote to me concerning themarriage of this child?”

  “Yes, madame,” replied Villefort, “it is not only projected butarranged.”

  “Your intended son-in-law is named M. Franz d’Épinay?”

  “Yes, madame.”

  “Is he not the son of General d’Épinay who was on our side, and who wasassassinated some days before the usurper returned from the Island ofElba?”

  “The same.”

  “Does he not dislike the idea of marrying the granddaughter of aJacobin?”

  “Our civil dissensions are now happily extinguished, mother,” saidVillefort; “M. d’Épinay was quite a child when his father died, he knowsvery little of M. Noirtier, and will meet him, if not with pleasure, atleast with indifference.”

  “Is it a suitable match?”

  “In every respect.”

  “And the young man?”

  “Is regarded with universal esteem.”

  “You approve of him?”

  “He is one of the most well-bred young men I know.”

  During the whole of this conversation Valentine had remained silent.

  “Well, sir,” said Madame de Saint-Méran, after a few minutes’reflection, “I must hasten the marriage, for I have but a short time tolive.”

  “You, madame?” “You, dear mamma?” exclaimed M. de Villefort andValentine at the same time.

  “I know what I am saying,” continued the marchioness; “I must hurry you,so that, as she has no mother, she may at least have a grandmother tobless her marriage. I am all that is left to her belonging to my poorRenée, whom you have so soon forgotten, sir.”

  “Ah, madame,” said Villefort, “you forget that I was obliged to give amother to my child.”

  “A stepmother is never a mother, sir. But this is not to thepurpose,—our business concerns Valentine, let us leave the dead inpeace.”

  All this was said with such exceeding rapidity, that there was somethingin the conversation that seemed like the beginning of delirium.

  “It shall be as you wish, madame,” said Villefort; “more especiallysince your wishes coincide with mine, and as soon as M. d’Épinay arrivesin Paris——”

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  “My dear grandmother,” interrupted Valentine, “consider decorum—therecent death. You would not have me marry under such sad auspices?”

  “My child,” exclaimed the old lady sharply, “let us hear none of theconventional objections that deter weak minds from preparing for thefuture. I also was married at the death-bed of my mother, and certainlyI have not been less happy on that account.”

  “Still that idea of death, madame,” said Villefort.

  “Still?—Always! I tell you I am going to die—do you understand? Well,before dying, I wish to see my son-in-law. I wish to tell him to make mychild happy; I wish to read in his eyes whether he intends to obeyme;—in fact, I will know him—I will!” continued the old lady, with afearful expression, “that I may rise from the depths of my grave to findhim, if he should not fulfil his duty!”

  “Madame,” said Villefort, “you must lay aside these exalted ideas, whichalmost assume the appearance of madness. The dead, once buried in theirgraves, rise no more.”

  “And I tell you, sir, that you are mistaken. This night I have had afearful sleep. It seemed as though my soul were already hovering over mybody, my eyes, which I tried to open, closed against my will, and whatwill appear impossible above all to you, sir, I saw, with my eyes shut,in the spot where you are now standing, issuing from that co
rner wherethere is a door leading into Madame Villefort’s dressing-room—I saw, Itell you, silently enter, a white figure.”

  Valentine screamed.

  “It was the fever that disturbed you, madame,” said Villefort.

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  “Doubt, if you please, but I am sure of what I say. I saw a whitefigure, and as if to prevent my discrediting the testimony of only oneof my senses, I heard my glass removed—the same which is there now onthe table.”

  “Oh, dear mother, it was a dream.”

  “So little was it a dream, that I stretched my hand towards the bell;but when I did so, the shade disappeared; my maid then entered with alight.”

  “But she saw no one?”

  “Phantoms are visible to those only who ought to see them. It was thesoul of my husband!—Well, if my husband’s soul can come to me, whyshould not my soul reappear to guard my granddaughter? the tie is evenmore direct, it seems to me.”

  “Oh, madame,” said Villefort, deeply affected, in spite of himself, “donot yield to those gloomy thoughts; you will long live with us, happy,loved, and honored, and we will make you forget——”

  “Never, never, never,” said the marchioness. “When does M. d’Épinayreturn?”

  “We expect him every moment.”

  “It is well. As soon as he arrives inform me. We must be expeditious.And then I also wish to see a notary, that I may be assured that all ourproperty returns to Valentine.”

  “Ah, grandmamma,” murmured Valentine, pressing her lips on the burningbrow, “do you wish to kill me? Oh, how feverish you are; we must notsend for a notary, but for a doctor!”

  “A doctor?” said she, shrugging her shoulders, “I am not ill; I amthirsty—that is all.”

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  “What are you drinking, dear grandmamma?”

  “The same as usual, my dear, my glass is there on the table—give it tome, Valentine.” Valentine poured the orangeade into a glass and gave itto her grandmother with a certain degree of dread, for it was the sameglass she fancied that had been touched by the spectre.

  The marchioness drained the glass at a single draught, and then turnedon her pillow, repeating,

  “The notary, the notary!”

  M. de Villefort left the room, and Valentine seated herself at thebedside of her grandmother. The poor child appeared herself to requirethe doctor she had recommended to her aged relative. A bright spotburned in either cheek, her respiration was short and difficult, and herpulse beat with feverish excitement. She was thinking of the despair ofMaximilian, when he should be informed that Madame de Saint-Méran,instead of being an ally, was unconsciously acting as his enemy.

  More than once she thought of revealing all to her grandmother, and shewould not have hesitated a moment, if Maximilian Morrel had been namedAlbert de Morcerf or Raoul de Château-Renaud; but Morrel was of plebeianextraction, and Valentine knew how the haughty Marquise de Saint-Mérandespised all who were not noble. Her secret had each time been repressedwhen she was about to reveal it, by the sad conviction that it would beuseless to do so; for, were it once discovered by her father and mother,all would be lost.

  Two hours passed thus; Madame de Saint-Méran was in a feverish sleep,and the notary had arrived. Though his coming was announced in a verylow tone, Madame de Saint-Méran arose from her pillow.

  “The notary!” she exclaimed, “let him come in.”

  The notary, who was at the door, immediately entered. “Go, Valentine,”said Madame de Saint-Méran, “and leave me with this gentleman.”

  “But, grandmamma——”

  “Leave me—go!”

  The young girl kissed her grandmother, and left with her handkerchief toher eyes; at the door she found the valet de chambre, who told her thatthe doctor was waiting in the dining-room. Valentine instantly ran down.The doctor was a friend of the family, and at the same time one of thecleverest men of the day, and very fond of Valentine, whose birth he hadwitnessed. He had himself a daughter about her age, but whose life wasone continued source of anxiety and fear to him from her mother havingbeen consumptive.

  “Oh,” said Valentine, “we have been waiting for you with suchimpatience, dear M. d’Avrigny. But, first of all, how are Madeleine andAntoinette?”

  Madeleine was the daughter of M. d’Avrigny, and Antoinette his niece. M.d’Avrigny smiled sadly.

  “Antoinette is very well,” he said, “and Madeleine tolerably so. But yousent for me, my dear child. It is not your father or Madame de Villefortwho is ill. As for you, although we doctors cannot divest our patientsof nerves, I fancy you have no further need of me than to recommend younot to allow your imagination to take too wide a field.”

  Valentine colored. M. d’Avrigny carried the science of divination almostto a miraculous extent, for he was one of the physicians who always workupon the body through the mind.

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  “No,” she replied, “it is for my poor grandmother. You know the calamitythat has happened to us, do you not?”

  “I know nothing.” said M. d’Avrigny.

  “Alas,” said Valentine, restraining her tears, “my grandfather is dead.”

  “M. de Saint-Méran?”

  “Yes.”

  “Suddenly?”

  “From an apoplectic stroke.”

  “An apoplectic stroke?” repeated the doctor.

  “Yes, and my poor grandmother fancies that her husband, whom she neverleft, has called her, and that she must go and join him. Oh, M.d’Avrigny, I beseech you, do something for her!”

  “Where is she?”

  “In her room with the notary.”

  “And M. Noirtier?”

  “Just as he was, his mind perfectly clear, but the same incapability ofmoving or speaking.”

  “And the same love for you—eh, my dear child?”

  “Yes,” said Valentine, “he was very fond of me.”

  “Who does not love you?” Valentine smiled sadly. “What are yourgrandmother’s symptoms?”

  “An extreme nervous excitement and a strangely agitated sleep; shefancied this morning in her sleep that her soul was hovering above herbody, which she at the same time watched. It must have been delirium;she fancies, too, that she saw a phantom enter her chamber and evenheard the noise it made on touching her glass.”

  “It is singular,” said the doctor; “I was not aware that Madame deSaint-Méran was subject to such hallucinations.”

  “It is the first time I ever saw her in this condition,” said Valentine;“and this morning she frightened me so that I thought her mad; and myfather, who you know is a strong-minded man, himself appeared deeplyimpressed.”

  “We will go and see,” said the doctor; “what you tell me seems verystrange.” The notary here descended, and Valentine was informed that hergrandmother was alone.

  “Go upstairs,” she said to the doctor.

  “And you?”

  “Oh, I dare not—she forbade my sending for you; and, as you say, I ammyself agitated, feverish and out of sorts. I will go and take a turn inthe garden to recover myself.”

  The doctor pressed Valentine’s hand, and while he visited hergrandmother, she descended the steps. We need not say which portion ofthe garden was her favorite walk. After remaining for a short time inthe parterre surrounding the house, and gathering a rose to place in herwaist or hair, she turned into the dark avenue which led to the bench;then from the bench she went to the gate. As usual, Valentine strolledfor a short time among her flowers, but without gathering them. Themourning in her heart forbade her assuming this simple ornament, thoughshe had not yet had time to put on the outward semblance of woe.

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  She then turned towards the avenue. As she advanced she fancied sheheard a voice speaking her name. She stopped astonished, then the voicereached her ear more distinctly, and she recognized it to be that ofMaximilian.