D’Avrigny turned away and muttered a barely audible ‘Yes’, but Morrel tore his hand away from the judge, dashed over to the bed, pressed his lips to the icy lips of Valentine, and fled with the long-drawn-out groan of a soul plunged in despair.
We have already mentioned that all the servants had left. As a result, Monsieur de Villefort was obliged to ask d’Avrigny to take care of the proceedings, so delicate and so many, which must follow a death in one of our large towns, especially when it takes place in suspicious circumstances.
As for Noirtier, his motionless grief, his frozen despair and his noiseless tears were something terrible to behold.
Villefort returned to his study. D’Avrigny went to fetch from the town hall the doctor who fulfils the office of coroner and is quite unambiguously designated ‘doctor of the dead’.
Noirtier did not want to leave his granddaughter.
After half an hour d’Avrigny returned with his colleague. The street door had been closed and, since the concierge had left with the rest of the staff, Villefort himself came to open it. But he stopped on the landing; he no longer had the courage to go into the death chamber, so the two doctors went in alone.
Noirtier was close to the bed, as pale as the corpse, as motionless and as silent.
The coroner approached the body with the indifference of a man who spends half his life in the presence of corpses, lifted the sheet covering the young woman and partly opened her lips.
‘Don’t worry, she’s quite dead,’ said d’Avrigny. ‘Poor girl.’
‘Yes,’ the doctor replied laconically, letting the sheet fall back on to Valentine’s face. Noirtier gave a dull croak.
D’Avrigny turned around: the old man’s eyes were shining. The good doctor understood that Noirtier was asking to see his child. He brought him closer to the bed and, while the coroner was dipping the fingers that had touched the dead woman’s lips into some chlorinated water, he uncovered the calm, pale face which looked like that of a sleeping angel. A tear once more appearing in Noirtier’s eye expressed his gratitude to the doctor. The ‘doctor of the dead’ wrote his report on the corner of a table in Valentine’s room and, when this last formality was completed, d’Avrigny showed him out.
Villefort heard them descend and came to the door of his study. He briefly thanked the doctor and said, turning to d’Avrigny: ‘And now, the priest?’
‘Do you have a clergyman whom you would particularly like to have pray beside Valentine?’ D’Avrigny asked.
‘No,’ Villefort said. ‘Fetch the nearest one.’
‘The nearest one,’ the doctor said, ‘is a good Italian abbé who has come to live in the house next to yours. Shall I go and see him on my way?’
‘D’Avrigny,’ Villefort said, ‘please would you go with this gentleman? Here is a key so that you can come and go as you wish. Bring back the priest and take charge of settling him in my poor child’s room.’
‘Would you like to speak to him, my friend?’
‘I want to be alone. Please forgive me. A priest must understand every kind of sorrow, including a father’s.’ And M. de Villefort, giving d’Avrigny a master key, once more took leave of the unknown doctor and returned to his study, where he began to work.
For some constitutions work is the cure for all ills.
Just as the doctors were going out into the street, they noticed a man, dressed in a soutane, standing on the threshold of the house next door. ‘There is the person I mentioned,’ the coroner told d’Avrigny. D’Avrigny went over to the priest.
‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘would you be willing to do a great service for an unfortunate father who has just lost his daughter, the crown prosecutor, Villefort?’
‘Yes, Monsieur, I know,’ the priest answered, in a pronounced Italian accent. ‘I know that death is in his house.’
‘Then I do not need to tell you what he would like you to do for him.’
‘I was going to volunteer my services, Monsieur,’ the priest said. ‘It is our mission to exceed our duties.’
‘It is a young woman.’
‘I know. I learned that from the servants whom I saw fleeing the house. I learned, too, that she was called Valentine, and I have already prayed for her.’
‘Thank you, Monsieur, thank you,’ said d’Avrigny. ‘And since you have already started to perform your holy office, please be good enough to continue. Come and sit with the dead woman, and the whole family will be grateful to you in its grief.’
‘I am going, Monsieur,’ the abbé replied. ‘And I may say that never will prayers have been more ardent than mine.’
D’Avrigny took the abbé’s hand and, without meeting Villefort, who was shut up in his study, he led him up to Valentine’s room, which the undertakers were to occupy only on the following night.
When he entered the room, Noirtier’s eyes met those of the abbé and they must doubtless have read something particular in them, because they remained fixed on the priest. D’Avrigny entrusted him not only with the dead woman but also with the living man, and the priest promised d’Avrigny that he would give his prayers to Valentine and his care to Noirtier.
He made this solemn promise and, doubtless to avoid being interrupted in his devotions and so that Noirtier would not be disturbed in his grief, as soon as M. d’Avrigny had left the room, he went to draw not only the bolts on the door through which the doctor had just left but also those on the door leading to the apartments of Mme de Villefort.
CIV
THE SIGNATURE OF BARON DANGLARS
The following day dawned sad and overcast.
During the night the undertakers had accomplished their dismal task and sewn the body, as it lay on the bed, in that shroud which gloomily enfolds the dead, supplying (whatever is said about the levelling effect of death) a last sign of the luxury that they enjoyed in their lifetimes.
In this case the shroud was a magnificent piece of cambric lawn that the young woman had bought a mere fortnight earlier.
During the evening, some men who had been brought in for this purpose transported Noirtier from Valentine’s room to his own and, against all expectation, the old man made no objection to being taken away from his grandchild’s body.
Abbé Busoni watched until daybreak and then went back to his house without calling anyone.
At about eight in the morning, d’Avrigny returned. He had met Villefort, who was going to see Noirtier, and accompanied him in order to discover how the old man had spent the night. They found him in the large armchair that served as his bed, enjoying a gentle sleep and almost smiling.
They both stopped on the threshold in astonishment. ‘You see,’ d’Avrigny said to Villefort, who was looking at his sleeping father. ‘See how nature is able to assuage the most awful pain. Surely, no one would have said that Monsieur Noirtier did not love his granddaughter, yet he is asleep.’
‘Yes, you are right,’ Villefort replied, in surprise. ‘He is sleeping; and that is very strange, because the slightest upset used to keep him awake for nights on end.’
‘He is exhausted by grief,’ d’Avrigny replied. And the two men returned thoughtfully to the crown prosecutor’s study.
‘Now, I didn’t sleep,’ Villefort said, showing d’Avrigny his untouched bed. ‘Grief has not exhausted me and I have not been to bed for two nights. On the other hand, look at my desk: good Lord, what I have written over those two days and nights! How I have perused that dossier, how I have annotated that indictment against the murderer Benedetto! Work, work! My passion, my joy, my fury: it is for you to exhaust all my griefs!’ And he seized d’Avrigny’s hand in a convulsive grip.
‘Do you need me?’ the doctor asked.
‘No,’ Villefort said. ‘But, I beg you, come back at eleven o’clock. It is at twelve that… oh, my poor child! The departure… My God, my poor child!’ And the crown prosecutor, a man again, raised his eyes to heaven and heaved a great sigh.
‘Will you be receiving in the drawing-room then?’
<
br /> ‘No, I have a cousin who has agreed to undertake that sad honour. I shall work, doctor; when I work, everything vanishes.’
And, indeed, the doctor had hardly reached the door before the crown prosecutor was once more immersed in his labours.
On the steps d’Avrigny met the relative whom Villefort had mentioned, an insignificant personage both in the family and in this story, one of those beings who are born to play a purely utilitarian role in the world.
He was punctual, dressed in black, with a crêpe armband, and he had come round to his cousin’s with his face composed into a suitable expression, which he intended to keep for as long as need be and then put aside.
At eleven o’clock the funerary carriages were clattering over the paved courtyard, and the Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré filled with the murmur of the crowd, equally hungry for the joys and the griefs of the rich, and hurrying to a fine funeral with the same haste as it would to a duchess’s wedding.
Little by little the drawing-room filled up with mourners. Among the first to arrive were some of our old acquaintances: Debray, Château-Renaud and Beauchamp; then all the luminaries of the bench, of letters and the arts, because Monsieur de Villefort, less by reason of his social standing than for his personal qualities, occupied one of the highest ranks in Parisian society.
The cousin stood at the door and showed everyone in; and it must be said that it was a great relief for the indifferent to see a neutral face who did not require the guests to produce any hypocritical expression or false tears, as a father, brother or fiancé would have done. Those who knew one another exchanged looks and gathered in groups, one of which was made up of Debray, Château-Renaud and Beauchamp.
‘Poor girl!’ Debray said, acknowledging this sad occasion (as, incidentally, everyone else was quite spontaneously doing). ‘Poor girl! So rich and beautiful! Would you have thought it, Château-Renaud, when we came here, when was it – three weeks or a month ago at the most – to sign that contract that was not signed?’
‘Heavens, no,’ said Château-Renaud.
‘Did you know her?’
‘I spoke to her once or twice at Madame de Morcerf’s ball. She seemed charming, if a trifle melancholic. Where is the stepmother? Do you know?’
‘She has gone to spend the day with the wife of the worthy gentleman who greeted us as we came in.’
‘And what might he be?’
‘Who?’
‘The gentleman at the door: a member of parliament?’
‘No,’ said Beauchamp. ‘I am condemned to see those honourable gentlemen daily, and I don’t know his face.’
‘Did you mention this death in your newspaper?’
‘I didn’t write the piece myself, but it was mentioned. I doubt if it will please Monsieur de Villefort. I believe the writer remarked that if four successive deaths had occurred anywhere except in the crown prosecutor’s house, the crown prosecutor would certainly have more to say about it.’
‘For all that,’ Château-Renaud said, ‘Doctor d’Avrigny is my mother’s doctor, and says he is quite distraught.’
‘Who do you keep looking for, Debray?’
‘The Count of Monte Cristo,’ the young man replied.
‘I met him on the boulevard on my way here. I think he was just leaving, going to his banker,’ Beauchamp said.
‘His banker? Isn’t that Danglars?’ Château-Renaud asked Debray.
‘I think so,’ the private secretary answered, with some faint signs of unease. ‘But Monte Cristo is not the only person I can’t see here. Where is Morrel?’
‘Morrel! Did he know them?’ asked Château-Renaud.
‘I think he had been introduced to Madame de Villefort only.’
‘No matter, he should have come,’ said Debray. ‘What will he have to talk about this evening? This burial is the main news of the day. But hush, say no more: here is the Minister of Justice and Religion. He will feel obliged to make his little speech to the mournful cousin.’ And the three young people went over to the door to hear the minister’s speech.
What Beauchamp had said was true: on his way to the funeral he had met Monte Cristo who was going to see Danglars at his home in the Rue de la Chaussée-d’Antin.
From his window the banker had seen the count’s carriage turning into the courtyard. He came to meet him with a sad but welcoming face.
‘Well, Count,’ he said, offering Monte Cristo his hand. ‘You have come to offer me your condolences. In truth, my family is plagued by misfortune – to the point where, when I saw you coming, I was just asking myself whether I might have harboured some uncharitable thoughts against those poor Morcerfs, to justify the proverb: Let ill befall him that wishes ill. Well, no, on my honour, I did not wish any ill on Morcerf. He may perhaps be a little proud for a man who has come up from nothing, like me, and owes everything to himself, like me; but we all have our faults. Ah, mark this, Count, men of our generation… But, forgive me, you aren’t of our generation, you’re a young man… Those of our generation are not having a good year, this year: take our puritanical crown prosecutor, take Villefort, who has just lost his daughter. Why, in sum, there is Villefort, as I said, losing all his family in mysterious circumstances; Morcerf, dishonoured and dead; myself, dishonoured by the villainy of that Benedetto, and then…’
‘Then, what?’ the count asked.
‘Alas, don’t you know?’
‘Some new misfortune?’
‘My daughter…’
‘Mademoiselle Danglars?’
‘Eugénie has left us.’
‘Good heavens, what are you saying?’
‘The truth, my dear Count. You don’t know how lucky you are, not having a wife or children!’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Oh, my God.’
‘You said that Mademoiselle Eugénie…’
‘Was unable to bear the indignity to which that wretch subjected us and asked my permission to travel.’
‘Has she left already?’
‘A few nights ago.’
‘With Madame Danglars?’
‘No, with a relative… But we are still losing her, dearest Eugénie, because, knowing her proud character, I doubt if she will ever consent to return to France.’
‘What can be done, my dear Baron?’ said Monte Cristo. ‘These are family sorrows, which would be devastating for some poor devil whose child was his whole fortune, but are bearable for a millionaire. Whatever philosophers say, a practical man will always contradict them on this: money is a great consolation; and you should be more easily consoled than anyone, if you will admit the virtues of this sovereign remedy – you, the king of finance, at the crossroads of power…’
Danglars looked sideways at the count to see if he was mocking him or speaking seriously.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The fact is that if wealth is a consolation, I should feel it, because I am rich.’
‘So rich, my dear Baron, that your fortune is like the pyramids: even if anyone should wish to demolish them, he would not dare; and if he dared, he could not.’
Danglars smiled at this confident bonhomie. ‘That reminds me,’ he said, ‘when you came in I was making out five little bills. I had already signed two of them; would you permit me to do the other three?’
‘Of course, my dear Baron, of course.’
There was a moment’s silence, broken only by the scratching of the banker’s quill, while Monte Cristo stared at the gilt mouldings on the ceiling.
‘Spanish bonds?’ Monte Cristo asked. ‘Haitian bonds, bonds from Naples?’
‘No,’ Danglars said, giving one of his self-satisfied laughs. ‘Bearer bonds, drawn on the Bank of France. Here, Count,’ he added, ‘you who are the emperor of finance as I am the king, have you seen many scraps of paper of this size, each worth a million?’
Monte Cristo took the five paper bills that Danglars proudly tendered him, as if to weigh them in his hand, and read: ‘May it please the Governor of the Bank to pay on my order,
from the funds deposited by me, the sum of one million, value in account. Baron Danglars.’
‘One, two, three, four, five,’ Monte Cristo counted. ‘Five million! Damnation! There’s no stopping you, Milord Croesus!’
‘That’s how I do business,’ said Danglars.
‘Marvellous, especially since, as I have no doubt, the sum is to be paid in cash.’
‘It will be,’ said Danglars.
‘It is wonderful to have such credit. In truth, one only finds such things here in France: five scraps of paper worth five million; it has to be seen to be believed.’
‘Do you doubt it?’
‘No.’
‘You say that in a certain kind of voice… Go on, try it: drive my clerk to the bank and you will see him come out with treasury bonds for the same amount.’
‘No,’ Monte Cristo said, folding the bills. ‘No, it’s too amazing; I’ll test it for myself. My credit with you was six million. I have drawn nine hundred thousand francs, so you still owe me five million, one hundred thousand francs. I’ll take your five scraps of paper, which I will accept on the sole guarantee of your signature, and give you, here, a receipt for the whole of the six million, which will settle our account. I prepared it in advance because, I have to tell you, I am in great need of money today.’ And with one hand Monte Cristo put the five bills in his pocket, while with the other he handed his receipt to the banker.
If a thunderbolt had fallen at Danglars’ feet, he could not have been stricken with such terror.
‘What!’ he stammered. ‘What! What! Count, are you taking that money? Excuse me, please, that’s money I owe to the hospice, a deposit, and I promised to pay it this morning.’
‘Oh, that’s another matter,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘I’m not particular about these five bills exactly. Pay me with some other bonds. It was out of sheer curiosity that I took these, so that I could tell everyone that, with no prior warning, without asking me to wait even for five minutes, the firm of Danglars paid me five million in cash! It would have been quite exceptional! But here are your bonds. As I say, give me some others.’
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