Chapter 94. Maximilian’s Avowal
At the same moment M. de Villefort’s voice was heard calling from hisstudy, “What is the matter?”
Morrel looked at Noirtier who had recovered his self-command, and with aglance indicated the closet where once before under somewhat similarcircumstances, he had taken refuge. He had only time to get his hat andthrow himself breathless into the closet when the procureur’s footstepwas heard in the passage.
Villefort sprang into the room, ran to Valentine, and took her in hisarms.
“A physician, a physician,—M. d’Avrigny!” cried Villefort; “or rather Iwill go for him myself.”
He flew from the apartment, and Morrel at the same moment darted out atthe other door. He had been struck to the heart by a frightfulrecollection—the conversation he had heard between the doctor andVillefort the night of Madame de Saint-Méran’s death, recurred to him;these symptoms, to a less alarming extent, were the same which hadpreceded the death of Barrois. At the same time Monte Cristo’s voiceseemed to resound in his ear with the words he had heard only two hoursbefore, “Whatever you want, Morrel, come to me; I have great power.”
More rapidly than thought, he darted down the Rue Matignon, and thenceto the Avenue des Champs-Élysées.
Meanwhile M. de Villefort arrived in a hired cabriolet at M. d’Avrigny’sdoor. He rang so violently that the porter was alarmed. Villefort ranupstairs without saying a word. The porter knew him, and let him pass,only calling to him:
“In his study, Monsieur Procureur—in his study!” Villefort pushed, orrather forced, the door open.
“Ah,” said the doctor, “is it you?”
“Yes,” said Villefort, closing the door after him, “it is I, who am comein my turn to ask you if we are quite alone. Doctor, my house isaccursed!”
“What?” said the latter with apparent coolness, but with deep emotion,“have you another invalid?”
“Yes, doctor,” cried Villefort, clutching his hair, “yes!”
D’Avrigny’s look implied, “I told you it would be so.” Then he slowlyuttered these words, “Who is now dying in your house? What new victim isgoing to accuse you of weakness before God?”
A mournful sob burst from Villefort’s heart; he approached the doctor,and seizing his arm,—“Valentine,” said he, “it is Valentine’s turn!”
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“Your daughter!” cried d’Avrigny with grief and surprise.
“You see you were deceived,” murmured the magistrate; “come and see her,and on her bed of agony entreat her pardon for having suspected her.”
“Each time you have applied to me,” said the doctor, “it has been toolate; still I will go. But let us make haste, sir; with the enemies youhave to do with there is no time to be lost.”
“Oh, this time, doctor, you shall not have to reproach me with weakness.This time I will know the assassin, and will pursue him.”
“Let us try first to save the victim before we think of revenging her,”said d’Avrigny. “Come.”
The same cabriolet which had brought Villefort took them back at fullspeed, and at this moment Morrel rapped at Monte Cristo’s door.
The count was in his study and was reading with an angry look somethingwhich Bertuccio had brought in haste. Hearing the name of Morrel, whohad left him only two hours before, the count raised his head, arose,and sprang to meet him.
“What is the matter, Maximilian?” asked he; “you are pale, and theperspiration rolls from your forehead.” Morrel fell into a chair.
“Yes,” said he, “I came quickly; I wanted to speak to you.”
“Are all your family well?” asked the count, with an affectionatebenevolence, whose sincerity no one could for a moment doubt.
“Thank you, count—thank you,” said the young man, evidently embarrassedhow to begin the conversation; “yes, everyone in my family is well.”
“So much the better; yet you have something to tell me?” replied thecount with increased anxiety.
“Yes,” said Morrel, “it is true; I have but now left a house where deathhas just entered, to run to you.”
“Are you then come from M. de Morcerf’s?” asked Monte Cristo.
“No,” said Morrel; “is someone dead in his house?”
“The general has just blown his brains out,” replied Monte Cristo withgreat coolness.
“Oh, what a dreadful event!” cried Maximilian.
“Not for the countess, or for Albert,” said Monte Cristo; “a dead fatheror husband is better than a dishonored one,—blood washes out shame.”
“Poor countess,” said Maximilian, “I pity her very much; she is so noblea woman!”
“Pity Albert also, Maximilian; for believe me he is the worthy son ofthe countess. But let us return to yourself. You have hastened to me—canI have the happiness of being useful to you?”
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“Yes, I need your help: that is I thought like a madman that you couldlend me your assistance in a case where God alone can succor me.”
“Tell me what it is,” replied Monte Cristo.
“Oh,” said Morrel, “I know not, indeed, if I may reveal this secret tomortal ears, but fatality impels me, necessity constrains me, count——”Morrel hesitated.
“Do you think I love you?” said Monte Cristo, taking the young man’shand affectionately in his.
“Oh, you encourage me, and something tells me there,” placing his handon his heart, “that I ought to have no secret from you.”
“You are right, Morrel; God is speaking to your heart, and your heartspeaks to you. Tell me what it says.”
“Count, will you allow me to send Baptistin to inquire after someone youknow?”
“I am at your service, and still more my servants.”
“Oh, I cannot live if she is not better.”
“Shall I ring for Baptistin?”
“No, I will go and speak to him myself.” Morrel went out, calledBaptistin, and whispered a few words to him. The valet ran directly.
“Well, have you sent?” asked Monte Cristo, seeing Morrel return.
“Yes, and now I shall be more calm.”
“You know I am waiting,” said Monte Cristo, smiling.
“Yes, and I will tell you. One evening I was in a garden; a clump oftrees concealed me; no one suspected I was there. Two persons passednear me—allow me to conceal their names for the present; they werespeaking in an undertone, and yet I was so interested in what they saidthat I did not lose a single word.”
“This is a gloomy introduction, if I may judge from your pallor andshuddering, Morrel.”
“Oh, yes, very gloomy, my friend. Someone had just died in the house towhich that garden belonged. One of the persons whose conversation Ioverheard was the master of the house; the other, the physician. Theformer was confiding to the latter his grief and fear, for it was thesecond time within a month that death had suddenly and unexpectedlyentered that house which was apparently destined to destruction by someexterminating angel, as an object of God’s anger.”
“Ah, indeed?” said Monte Cristo, looking earnestly at the young man, andby an imperceptible movement turning his chair, so that he remained inthe shade while the light fell full on Maximilian’s face.
“Yes,” continued Morrel, “death had entered that house twice within onemonth.”
“And what did the doctor answer?” asked Monte Cristo.
“He replied—he replied, that the death was not a natural one, and mustbe attributed”—
“To what?”
“To poison.”
“Indeed!” said Monte Cristo with a slight cough which in moments ofextreme emotion helped him to disguise a blush, or his pallor, or theintense interest with which he listened; “indeed, Maximilian, did youhear that?”
“Yes, my dear count, I heard it; and the doctor added that if anotherdeath occurred in a similar way he must appeal to justice.”
Monte Cristo listened, or appeared to do so, with the greatest calmness.
“Well,” said Maximilian, “death came a third time, and neither themaster of the house nor the doctor said a word. Death is now, perhaps,striking a fourth blow. Count, what am I bound to do, being inpossession of this secret?”
“My dear friend,” said Monte Cristo, “you appear to be relating anadventure which we all know by heart. I know the house where you heardit, or one very similar to it; a house with a garden, a master, aphysician, and where there have been three unexpected and sudden deaths.Well, I have not intercepted your confidence, and yet I know all that aswell as you, and I have no conscientious scruples. No, it does notconcern me. You say an exterminating angel appears to have devoted thathouse to God’s anger—well, who says your supposition is not reality? Donot notice things which those whose interest it is to see them passover. If it is God’s justice, instead of his anger, which is walkingthrough that house, Maximilian, turn away your face and let his justiceaccomplish its purpose.”
Morrel shuddered. There was something mournful, solemn, and terrible inthe count’s manner.
“Besides,” continued he, in so changed a tone that no one would havesupposed it was the same person speaking—“besides, who says that it willbegin again?”
“It has returned, count,” exclaimed Morrel; “that is why I hastened toyou.”
“Well, what do you wish me to do? Do you wish me, for instance, to giveinformation to the procureur?” Monte Cristo uttered the last words withso much meaning that Morrel, starting up, cried out:
“You know of whom I speak, count, do you not?”
“Perfectly well, my good friend; and I will prove it to you by puttingthe dots to the i, or rather by naming the persons. You were walking oneevening in M. de Villefort’s garden; from what you relate, I suppose itto have been the evening of Madame de Saint-Méran’s death. You heard M.de Villefort talking to M. d’Avrigny about the death of M. de Saint-Méran, and that no less surprising, of the countess. M. d’Avrigny saidhe believed they both proceeded from poison; and you, honest man, haveever since been asking your heart and sounding your conscience to knowif you ought to expose or conceal this secret. We are no longer in theMiddle Ages; there is no longer a Vehmgericht, or Free Tribunals; whatdo you want to ask these people? ‘Conscience, what hast thou to do withme?’ as Sterne said. My dear fellow, let them sleep on, if they areasleep; let them grow pale in their drowsiness, if they are disposed todo so, and pray do you remain in peace, who have no remorse to disturbyou.”
Deep grief was depicted on Morrel’s features; he seized Monte Cristo’shand. “But it is beginning again, I say!”
“Well,” said the Count, astonished at his perseverance, which he couldnot understand, and looking still more earnestly at Maximilian, “let itbegin again,—it is like the house of the Atreidae;19 God has condemnedthem, and they must submit to their punishment. They will all disappear,like the fabrics children build with cards, and which fall, one by one,under the breath of their builder, even if there are two hundred ofthem. Three months since it was M. de Saint-Méran; Madame de Saint-Mérantwo months since; the other day it was Barrois; today, the old Noirtier,or young Valentine.”
“You knew it?” cried Morrel, in such a paroxysm of terror that MonteCristo started,—he whom the falling heavens would have found unmoved;“you knew it, and said nothing?”
“And what is it to me?” replied Monte Cristo, shrugging his shoulders;“do I know those people? and must I lose the one to save the other?Faith, no, for between the culprit and the victim I have no choice.”
“But I,” cried Morrel, groaning with sorrow, “I love her!”
“You love?—whom?” cried Monte Cristo, starting to his feet, and seizingthe two hands which Morrel was raising towards heaven.
“I love most fondly—I love madly—I love as a man who would give hislife-blood to spare her a tear—I love Valentine de Villefort, who isbeing murdered at this moment! Do you understand me? I love her; and Iask God and you how I can save her?”
Monte Cristo uttered a cry which those only can conceive who have heardthe roar of a wounded lion. “Unhappy man,” cried he, wringing his handsin his turn; “you love Valentine,—that daughter of an accursed race!”
Never had Morrel witnessed such an expression—never had so terrible aneye flashed before his face—never had the genius of terror he had sooften seen, either on the battle-field or in the murderous nights ofAlgeria, shaken around him more dreadful fire. He drew back terrified.
As for Monte Cristo, after this ebullition he closed his eyes as ifdazzled by internal light. In a moment he restrained himself sopowerfully that the tempestuous heaving of his breast subsided, asturbulent and foaming waves yield to the sun’s genial influence when thecloud has passed. This silence, self-control, and struggle lasted abouttwenty seconds, then the count raised his pallid face.
“See,” said he, “my dear friend, how God punishes the most thoughtlessand unfeeling men for their indifference, by presenting dreadful scenesto their view. I, who was looking on, an eager and curious spectator,—I,who was watching the working of this mournful tragedy,—I, who like awicked angel was laughing at the evil men committed protected by secrecy(a secret is easily kept by the rich and powerful), I am in my turnbitten by the serpent whose tortuous course I was watching, and bittento the heart!”
Morrel groaned.
“Come, come,” continued the count, “complaints are unavailing, be a man,be strong, be full of hope, for I am here and will watch over you.”
Morrel shook his head sorrowfully.
“I tell you to hope. Do you understand me?” cried Monte Cristo.“Remember that I never uttered a falsehood and am never deceived. It istwelve o’clock, Maximilian; thank heaven that you came at noon ratherthan in the evening, or tomorrow morning. Listen, Morrel—it is noon; ifValentine is not now dead, she will not die.”
“How so?” cried Morrel, “when I left her dying?”
Monte Cristo pressed his hands to his forehead. What was passing in thatbrain, so loaded with dreadful secrets? What does the angel of light orthe angel of darkness say to that mind, at once implacable and generous?God only knows.
Monte Cristo raised his head once more, and this time he was calm as achild awaking from its sleep.
“Maximilian,” said he, “return home. I command you not to stir—attemptnothing, not to let your countenance betray a thought, and I will sendyou tidings. Go.”
“Oh, count, you overwhelm me with that coolness. Have you, then, poweragainst death? Are you superhuman? Are you an angel?” And the young man,who had never shrunk from danger, shrank before Monte Cristo withindescribable terror. But Monte Cristo looked at him with so melancholyand sweet a smile, that Maximilian felt the tears filling his eyes.
“I can do much for you, my friend,” replied the count. “Go; I must bealone.”
Morrel, subdued by the extraordinary ascendancy Monte Cristo exercisedover everything around him, did not endeavor to resist it. He pressedthe count’s hand and left. He stopped one moment at the door forBaptistin, whom he saw in the Rue Matignon, and who was running.
Meanwhile, Villefort and d’Avrigny had made all possible haste,Valentine had not revived from her fainting fit on their arrival, andthe doctor examined the invalid with all the care the circumstancesdemanded, and with an interest which the knowledge of the secretintensified twofold. Villefort, closely watching his countenance and hislips, awaited the result of the examination. Noirtier, paler than eventhe young girl, more eager than Villefort for the decision, was watchingalso intently and affectionately.
At last d’Avrigny slowly uttered these words: “She is still alive!”
“Still?” cried Villefort; “oh, doctor, what a dreadful word is that.”
“Yes,” said the physician, “I repeat it; she is still alive, and I amastonished at it.”
“But is she safe?” asked the father.
“Yes, since she lives.”
At that moment d’Avrigny’s glance met Noirtier’s eye. It glis
tened withsuch extraordinary joy, so rich and full of thought, that the physicianwas struck. He placed the young girl again on the chair,—her lips werescarcely discernible, they were so pale and white, as well as her wholeface,—and remained motionless, looking at Noirtier, who appeared toanticipate and commend all he did.
“Sir,” said d’Avrigny to Villefort, “call Mademoiselle Valentine’s maid,if you please.”
Villefort went himself to find her; and d’Avrigny approached Noirtier.
“Have you something to tell me?” asked he. The old man winked his eyesexpressively, which we may remember was his only way of expressing hisapproval.
“Privately?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I will remain with you.” At this moment Villefort returned,followed by the lady’s maid; and after her came Madame de Villefort.
“What is the matter, then, with this dear child? she has just left me,and she complained of being indisposed, but I did not think seriously ofit.”
The young woman with tears in her eyes and every mark of affection of atrue mother, approached Valentine and took her hand. D’Avrigny continuedto look at Noirtier; he saw the eyes of the old man dilate and becomeround, his cheeks turn pale and tremble; the perspiration stood in dropsupon his forehead.
“Ah,” said he, involuntarily following Noirtier’s eyes, which were fixedon Madame de Villefort, who repeated:
“This poor child would be better in bed. Come, Fanny, we will put her tobed.”
M. d’Avrigny, who saw that would be a means of his remaining alone withNoirtier, expressed his opinion that it was the best thing that could bedone; but he forbade that anything should be given to her except what heordered.
They carried Valentine away; she had revived, but could scarcely move orspeak, so shaken was her frame by the attack. She had, however, justpower to give one parting look to her grandfather, who in losing herseemed to be resigning his very soul. D’Avrigny followed the invalid,wrote a prescription, ordered Villefort to take a cabriolet, go inperson to a chemist’s to get the prescribed medicine, bring it himself,and wait for him in his daughter’s room. Then, having renewed hisinjunction not to give Valentine anything, he went down again toNoirtier, shut the doors carefully, and after convincing himself that noone was listening:
“Do you,” said he, “know anything of this young lady’s illness?”
“Yes,” said the old man.
“We have no time to lose; I will question, and do you answer me.”Noirtier made a sign that he was ready to answer. “Did you anticipatethe accident which has happened to your granddaughter?”
“Yes.” D’Avrigny reflected a moment; then approaching Noirtier:
“Pardon what I am going to say,” added he, “but no indication should beneglected in this terrible situation. Did you see poor Barrois die?”Noirtier raised his eyes to heaven.
“Do you know of what he died!” asked d’Avrigny, placing his hand onNoirtier’s shoulder.
“Yes,” replied the old man.
“Do you think he died a natural death?” A sort of smile was discernibleon the motionless lips of Noirtier.
“Then you have thought that Barrois was poisoned?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think the poison he fell a victim to was intended for him?”
“No.”
“Do you think the same hand which unintentionally struck Barrois has nowattacked Valentine?”
“Yes.”
“Then will she die too?” asked d’Avrigny, fixing his penetrating gaze onNoirtier. He watched the effect of this question on the old man.
“No,” replied he with an air of triumph which would have puzzled themost clever diviner.
“Then you hope?” said d’Avrigny, with surprise.
“Yes.”
“What do you hope?” The old man made him understand with his eyes thathe could not answer.
“Ah, yes, it is true,” murmured d’Avrigny. Then, turning toNoirtier,—“Do you hope the assassin will be tried?”
“No.”
“Then you hope the poison will take no effect on Valentine?”
“Yes.”
“It is no news to you,” added d’Avrigny, “to tell you that an attempthas been made to poison her?” The old man made a sign that heentertained no doubt upon the subject. “Then how do you hope Valentinewill escape?”
Noirtier kept his eyes steadfastly fixed on the same spot. D’Avrignyfollowed the direction and saw that they were fixed on a bottlecontaining the mixture which he took every morning. “Ah, indeed?” saidd’Avrigny, struck with a sudden thought, “has it occurred toyou”—Noirtier did not let him finish.
“Yes,” said he.
“To prepare her system to resist poison?”
“Yes.”
“By accustoming her by degrees——”
“Yes, yes, yes,” said Noirtier, delighted to be understood.
“Of course. I had told you that there was brucine in the mixture I giveyou.”
“Yes.”
“And by accustoming her to that poison, you have endeavored toneutralize the effect of a similar poison?” Noirtier’s joy continued.“And you have succeeded,” exclaimed d’Avrigny. “Without that precautionValentine would have died before assistance could have been procured.The dose has been excessive, but she has only been shaken by it; andthis time, at any rate, Valentine will not die.”
A superhuman joy expanded the old man’s eyes, which were raised towardsheaven with an expression of infinite gratitude. At this momentVillefort returned.
“Here, doctor,” said he, “is what you sent me for.”
“Was this prepared in your presence?”
“Yes,” replied the procureur.
“Have you not let it go out of your hands?”
“No.”
D’Avrigny took the bottle, poured some drops of the mixture it containedin the hollow of his hand, and swallowed them.
“Well,” said he, “let us go to Valentine; I will give instructions toeveryone, and you, M. de Villefort, will yourself see that no onedeviates from them.”
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At the moment when d’Avrigny was returning to Valentine’s room,accompanied by Villefort, an Italian priest, of serious demeanor andcalm and firm tone, hired for his use the house adjoining the hotel ofM. de Villefort. No one knew how the three former tenants of that houseleft it. About two hours afterwards its foundation was reported to beunsafe; but the report did not prevent the new occupant establishinghimself there with his modest furniture the same day at five o’clock.The lease was drawn up for three, six, or nine years by the new tenant,who, according to the rule of the proprietor, paid six months inadvance.
This new tenant, who, as we have said, was an Italian, was called IlSignor Giacomo Busoni. Workmen were immediately called in, and that samenight the passengers at the end of the faubourg saw with surprise thatcarpenters and masons were occupied in repairing the lower part of thetottering house.
The Count of Monte Cristo, Illustrated Page 95