The Count of Monte Cristo

by Alexandre Dumas

  It was one o’clock in the morning. Barrois, who wanted to go to bed himself, remarked that after such a painful evening everyone needed rest. The old man did not like to say that rest, as far as he was concerned, was to see his granddaughter. He sent Valentine away; tiredness and sorrow had indeed made her look unwell.

  The next day she came in to see her grandmother and found her still in bed. Her fever had not gone down; on the contrary, a dull fire burned in the old marchioness’s eyes and she seemed to have been seized by a violent fit of nervous irritation.

  ‘Oh, my dear grandmother! Are you feeling worse this morning?’ Valentine exclaimed, seeing these signs of agitation.

  ‘No, no, my girl,’ said Mme de Saint-Méran. ‘I was waiting for you to come so that I could send you to fetch your father.’

  ‘My father?’ Valentine asked anxiously.

  ‘Yes, I want to speak to him.’

  Valentine did not dare to object to the old woman’s wish – and in any case did not know what was behind it; so a moment later Villefort came in.

  ‘Monsieur,’ Mme de Saint-Méran said, without any preliminaries and as though she was afraid of running out of time. ‘You wrote to tell me that there were plans to marry your daughter, I believe?’

  ‘Yes, Madame,’ Villefort replied. ‘It is more than a plan, it is an agreement.’

  ‘And your future son-in-law is Franz d’Epinay?’

  ‘Yes, Madame.’

  ‘Son of General d’Epinay, one of our people, who was assassinated a few days before the usurper returned from Elba?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘The son is not deterred by the idea of marrying the granddaughter of a Jacobin?’

  ‘Thankfully, mother, our civil strife is ended,’ said Villefort. ‘Monsieur d’Epinay was little more than a child when his father died. He is not well acquainted with Monsieur Noirtier and will regard him, if not with pleasure, at least with indifference.’

  ‘Is it a good match?’

  ‘In every way.’

  ‘The young man…’

  ‘Enjoys general respect.’

  ‘Is he acceptable?’

  ‘He is one of the most distinguished young men I know.’

  Valentine had remained silent throughout this conversation.

  ‘Well, Monsieur,’ said Mme de Saint-Méran after a few moments’ thought. ‘You must hurry, because I have little time left to live.’

  ‘You, Madame! You, dear grandmother!’ Villefort and Valentine exclaimed together.

  ‘I know what I am saying,’ the marchioness went on. ‘You must hurry so that, not having a mother, she may at least have a grandmother to bless her marriage. I am the only one remaining to her from the side of my poor dear Renée, whom you so soon forgot, Monsieur.’

  ‘Madame,’ said Villefort, ‘you forget that I had to give this poor child a mother when she no longer had her own.’

  ‘A stepmother can never be a mother. But we’re not talking about that. We’re talking about Valentine. Let the dead lie!’

  All this was said with such volubility and emphasis that the conversation almost seemed like the beginning of a delirium.

  ‘Everything shall be done according to your wishes, Madame,’ said Villefort, ‘particularly as they accord with my own; and as soon as Monsieur d’Epinay arrives in Paris…’

  ‘Grandmother,’ said Valentine, ‘think of convention, your recent bereavement… Would you wish a marriage to take place under such sad auspices?’

  ‘My dear girl,’ said the grandmother, brusquely interrupting her, ‘don’t give me any of those trite arguments that prevent weak minds from building a solid future for themselves. I too was married at my mother’s deathbed, and was no unhappier for that.’

  ‘Again, this idea of death, Madame!’ said Villefort.

  ‘Again! Still! I tell you, I am going to die, do you understand? Well, before dying I want to see my grandson-in-law, I want to tell him to make my granddaughter happy, I want to read in his eyes whether he intends to obey me, in short I want to know him,’ the old woman continued, with a terrifying look, ‘so that I can seek him out from the depth of my tomb if he is not what he should be, if he is not what he must be.’

  ‘Madame,’ said Villefort, ‘you must put aside such wild fancies, which are close to madness. Once the dead have been laid in their tombs, they sleep there and do not return.’

  ‘Oh, yes, grandmother, calm yourself,’ said Valentine.

  ‘Whatever you say, Monsieur,’ the marchioness said, ‘I have to tell you that things are not as you believe. Last night I slept very badly. I could, as it were, see myself sleeping, as though my soul was already hovering above my body. I struggled to open my eyes, but they refused to obey me. I know that this will seem impossible to you, especially to you, Monsieur, but with my eyes shut, at the very spot where you are now standing, coming from the corner where there is a door leading to Madame de Villefort’s dressing-room, I saw a white shape.’

  Valentine gave a cry. Villefort said: ‘You were feverish, Madame.’

  ‘Doubt me if you wish, but I am sure of what I am saying. I saw a white figure and, as if God were afraid that I might doubt the evidence of any of my senses, I heard my glass move – that glass, on the table.’

  ‘Oh, grandmother, it was a dream!’

  ‘It was so surely not a dream that I reached out for the bell, and upon that the shadow vanished. Then the chambermaid came in with a lantern. Ghosts only appear to those who ought to see them. This was the soul of my husband. Well, if my husband’s soul is coming back to call me, why should my soul not come back to defend my granddaughter? I think the tie is even stronger.’

  In spite of himself, Villefort was profoundly shaken. ‘Madame,’ he said, ‘do not give way to such mournful ideas. You will live with us, you will live for a long time, happy, loved, honoured, and we shall help you to forget…’

  ‘Never! Never! Never!’ said the marquise. ‘When does Monsieur d’Epinay return?’

  ‘We are expecting him at any moment.’

  ‘Very well. Tell me as soon as he arrives. We must hurry. Then I should like to see a lawyer to ensure that all our property goes to Valentine.’

  ‘Oh, grandmother,’ Valentine murmured, pressing her lips to the old woman’s burning brow. ‘Do you want me to die? You are feverish. It’s not a lawyer you need, but a doctor.’

  ‘A doctor?’ she said, shrugging her shoulders. ‘I am not in pain; a little thirsty, that’s all.’

  ‘What would you like to drink?’

  ‘You know what I like: my orange juice. The glass is on that table. Please give it to me, Valentine.’

  Valentine poured out the orange juice from the carafe into the glass and forced herself to pick it up and give it to her grandmother: this was the same glass that the ghost was supposed to have touched. The marquise emptied it at a single gulp, then lay back on her pillow, saying: ‘A lawyer, a lawyer!’

  M. de Villefort went out. Valentine sat down near her grandmother’s bed. The poor child herself seemed much in need of the doctor whom she had suggested calling. Her cheeks burned red, her breathing was short and panting, and her pulse was beating as if she had a high temperature. She was thinking of Maximilien’s despair when he learned that Mme de Saint-Méran, instead of being an ally, was unconsciously acting as though she were his enemy.

  More than once, Valentine had thought of telling her grandmother everything, and she would not have hesitated for a moment if Maximilien Morrel had been called Albert de Morcerf or Raoul de Château-Renaud; but Morrel came from a lower-class family and Valentine knew how much the proud Marquise de Saint-Méran despised everyone who was not well bred. Consequently, whenever her secret had been on the point of coming out, it had been driven back into her heart by the sad assurance that she would reveal it in vain and that, once her father and grandmother shared that secret, all would be lost.

  About two hours passed. Mme de Saint-Méran slept fitfully and feveris
hly. The lawyer was announced.

  Even though the servant had spoken very softly, Mme de Saint-Méran sat up in bed. ‘The lawyer?’ she said. ‘Have him brought here!’

  He had been standing outside, and came in.

  ‘Go away, Valentine,’ Mme de Saint-Méran said, ‘and leave me with this gentleman.’

  ‘But, grandmother…’

  ‘Go, go.’

  The girl kissed her grandmother’s forehead and went out, holding a handkerchief to her eyes. At the door she found the valet de chambre, who told her that the doctor was waiting in the drawing-room.

  Valentine quickly went down. The doctor was a family friend and at the same time one of the most skilled of his profession. He was very fond of Valentine, whom he had seen being born. He had a daughter of roughly Mlle de Villefort’s age but whose mother was a consumptive. His life was spent in continual fear for her child.

  ‘Oh, dear Monsieur d’Avrigny,’ said Valentine. ‘We have been waiting for you. But, first of all, how are Madeleine and Antoinette?’

  Madeleine was M. d’Avrigny’s daughter, Antoinette his niece.

  ‘Antoinette, very well,’ he answered, with a sad smile, ‘Madeleine, quite well. But you called for me, my dear child. I hope it is not your father or Madame de Villefort who is ill? As for us, although clearly we have trouble overcoming our nerves, I suppose you have no need of me except to recommend that you don’t let your imagination run away with you?’

  Valentine blushed. M. d’Avrigny had almost miraculous powers of divination: he was one of those doctors who always treat physical ills through the mind.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s my poor grandmother. I suppose you know the misfortune that we have suffered?’

  ‘I don’t know anything,’ said d’Avrigny.

  ‘Alas,’ Valentine said, repressing a sob. ‘My grandfather is dead.’

  ‘Monsieur de Saint-Méran? Was it sudden?’

  ‘An attack of apoplexy.’

  ‘Apoplexy?’ the doctor repeated.

  ‘Yes, and the result is that my poor grandmother has the idea that her husband, whose side she never left, is calling for her and she is going to join him. Oh, Monsieur d’Avrigny! Please go and look at her!’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In her room, with the lawyer.’

  ‘And Monsieur Noirtier?’

  ‘Always the same: perfectly clear in his mind, but still immobile and speechless.’

  ‘And still as affectionate towards you, I imagine, my dear child?’

  ‘Oh, yes, he is very fond of me,’ Valentine said with a sigh.

  ‘Who would not be?’

  She smiled sadly.

  ‘How does your grandmother’s illness manifest itself?’

  ‘Unusual nervous excitement and oddly troubled sleep. This morning she claimed that while she was asleep her soul had hovered above her body and she had seen herself sleeping. She is delirious. She claimed to have seen a ghost come into her room and heard the noise made by this supposed ghost when it touched her glass.’

  ‘That’s odd,’ the doctor said. ‘I did not know Madame de Saint-Méran was subject to such hallucinations.’

  ‘This is the first time I have seen her like that,’ said Valentine. ‘This morning she really frightened me, I thought she was going mad. Even my father – and, Monsieur d’Avrigny, you know what a serious-minded man my father is – even my father seemed deeply troubled.’

  ‘Let’s go and see. What you tell me is odd.’

  The lawyer came down and the servant came to tell Valentine that her grandmother was alone.

  ‘Go up,’ she said to the doctor.

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I dare not. She forbade me to send for you. And then, as you say, I am upset, feverish and unwell. I shall take a walk round the garden to revive myself.’

  The doctor shook Valentine’s hand and, while he went up to her grandmother, she went down the steps.

  We hardly need say what part of the garden was Valentine’s favourite walk. After walking twice round the path that encircled the house, and plucking a rose to put in her hair or her belt, she set off down the dark path that led to the bench, then from the bench she went across to the grille.

  This time, as usual, she walked two or three times round among her flowers, but without picking any. The mourning in her heart, though it had not yet had time to be reflected in her dress, rejected that simple ornament. Then she went over to the path by the gate. As she was going there, she thought she heard a voice speaking her name. She stopped short in astonishment.

  The voice seemed more distinct, and she recognized it as Maximilien’s.

  LXXIII

  THE PROMISE

  It was, indeed, Morrel who had been in a frantic state since the previous evening. With that instinct which only lovers and mothers possess, he had guessed that, following Mme de Saint-Méran’s return and the death of the marquis, something would happen that affected his love for Valentine. As we shall see, his forebodings had been realized and it was not mere anxiety that brought him in fear and trembling to the gate by the chestnut-trees.

  However, Valentine had not been warned of his arrival, since this was not the usual time when he came, and pure chance – or, if you prefer, a sympathetic instinct – had brought her to the garden. When she appeared, Morrel called her and she ran to the gate.

  ‘You! At this time!’ she said.

  ‘Yes, my poor friend,’ Morrel replied, ‘I have come to look for you, bringing bad news.’

  ‘This is the house of ill-fortune,’ said Valentine. ‘Tell me, Maximilien, even though our cup of sorrows is more than overflowing.’

  ‘Dear Valentine,’ Morrel said, trying to master his own feelings and speak calmly. ‘Please listen, because what I have to say is most important. When do they intend for you to marry?’

  ‘Maximilien,’ said Valentine, ‘I don’t want to hide anything from you. They were discussing my marriage this morning, and my grandmother, on whom I had counted as an unfailing support, not only declared herself to be in favour of my marrying Franz d’Epinay, but wants it so much that she is only waiting for his return: the contract will be signed the very next day.’

  The young man gave a painful sigh and for a long time stared sadly at the girl. ‘Alas,’ he said quietly, ‘it is terrible to hear the woman one loves say calmly: “The hour of your torment is fixed, it will take place shortly, but no matter, this must be and I shall not make any objection to it.” Well, since you tell me that they are only waiting for Monsieur d’Epinay to sign the contract, and since you will be his the day after he arrives home, then you will be engaged to Monsieur d’Epinay tomorrow, because he reached Paris this morning.’

  Valentine cried out.

  ‘I was with the Count of Monte Cristo an hour ago,’ Morrel continued. ‘We were talking, he about the sorrow in your house and I about your sorrow, when suddenly a carriage pulled up in the courtyard. Listen, I have never until now believed in premonitions, Valentine, but henceforth I must. At the sound of that carriage, I began to tremble. Soon I heard footsteps on the stairs. The echoing steps of the Commander did not terrify Don Juan1 more than those steps terrified me. At length the door opened. Albert de Morcerf was the first to come in and I was about to doubt my own instincts and decide that I had been mistaken, when another young man approached behind him and the count exclaimed: “Ah, Baron Franz d’Epinay!” I had to summon up all the strength and courage in my heart to contain my feelings. I may have gone pale, I may have shuddered, but I certainly kept a smile on my lips. Five minutes later, however, I left without hearing a single word of what had been said in that time. I was totally prostrate.’

  ‘Poor Maximilien!’ Valentine muttered.

  ‘Here I am, Valentine. Now, answer me this, as you would answer a man to whom your words are the difference between life and death: what are you going to do?’

  Valentine lowered her head. She was overwhelmed.

  �
�Listen,’ said Morrel, ‘this is not the first time that you have thought about the situation in which we now find ourselves. It is serious, it is pressing, it is crucial. I do not think this is the moment to give way to sterile misery: that may be enough for those who want to suffer at their ease and have time to drink their own tears. There are people like that, and God will no doubt reward them in heaven for their resignation on earth; but anyone who has the will to fight will not lose precious time, but immediately strike back at that Fate which has dealt a blow. Have you the will to fight against ill-fortune, Valentine? Tell me, because that is what I have come to ask you.’

  Valentine shuddered and looked at Morrel wide-eyed in terror. The idea of standing up to her father, her grandfather, in short her whole family, had not even occurred to her.

  ‘What are you saying, Maximilien?’ she asked. ‘What do you mean by “fight”? Rather call it a sacrilege! Am I to struggle against my father’s orders and the wishes of my dying grandmother! Impossible!’

  Morrel shuffled.

  ‘You are too noble a spirit not to understand me and you do understand me, dear Maximilien, since I have reduced you to silence. I, fight? God forbid! No, no, I must keep all my strength to struggle against myself and drink my own tears, as you say. As for bringing sorrow to my father and disturbing my grandmother’s final hours – never!’

  ‘You are right,’ said Morrel coolly.

  ‘My God! The way you say that…’ Valentine cried, wounded.

  ‘I say it as a man who admires you, mademoiselle.’

  ‘Mademoiselle!’ Valentine cried. ‘Mademoiselle! Oh, the selfish man! He sees I am in despair and pretends he cannot understand me.’

  ‘You are mistaken, I understand you perfectly. You do not want to go against Monsieur de Villefort’s wishes, you do not want to disobey the marquise, and tomorrow you will sign the contract binding you to your husband.’

  ‘But what else can I do, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘Don’t ask me, Mademoiselle, I am a poor judge in this case and my selfishness would blind me,’ said Morrel, his blank voice and clenched fists indicating his growing exasperation.