The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin)

by Alexandre Dumas

  ‘What would you have suggested, Morrel, if you had found me ready to accept your proposal? Come, tell me. Instead of telling me that I am doing wrong, advise me.’

  ‘Are you seriously asking me for advice, Valentine?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, dear Maximilien. If it is good, I shall take it. You know that I am devoted to you.’

  ‘Valentine,’ Morrel said, taking away an already loose plank, ‘give me your hand to show that you forgive me my anger. You understand, my head is reeling and in the past hour the maddest ideas have been whirling around my head. Oh, if you were not to take my advice…’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘This, Valentine.’

  The girl raised her eyes to heaven and sighed.

  ‘I am free,’ Maximilien continued. ‘I am rich enough for both of us. I swear to you that you will be my wife even before my lips have touched your brow.’

  ‘You are making me afraid,’ the girl said.

  ‘Come with me,’ Morrel said. ‘I will take you to my sister, who is worthy of being yours. We shall set off for Algiers, for England or for America, unless you would prefer us to find a place together in the country where we can wait until our friends have overcome your family’s objections before we return to Paris.’

  Valentine shook her head. ‘I was expecting this, Maximilien,’ she said. ‘This is a mad scheme and I should be madder even than you if I were not to stop you immediately with a single word: impossible, Morrel, it is impossible.’

  ‘So you will follow your fate, whatever it may bring, without even trying to resist?’ Morrel said, his face clouding over.

  ‘Yes, even if it kills me!’

  ‘Well, Valentine,’ Maximilien continued, ‘I can only repeat that you are right. Indeed, I am the madman and you have proved to me that passion can blind the sanest mind. So thank you, thank you for reasoning without passion. Very well, it’s agreed then, tomorrow you will be irrevocably engaged to Monsieur Franz d’Epinay, not by that theatrical formality invented for the last act of a comedy, which is called “signing the contract”, but by your own free will.’

  ‘Once more, Maximilien, you are driving me to despair! Once more you are turning the knife in the wound! What would you do, if your sister were to listen to the sort of advice you are giving me?’

  ‘Mademoiselle,’ Morrel said with a bitter smile, ‘I am selfish and an egoist, as you say; and, as such, I do not think of what others would do in my position, only of what I intend to do. I think that I have known you for a year; that, on the day we met, I wagered all my chances of happiness on your love; that the day came when you told me that you loved me; and that from that day forward I have staked all my future on having you. That has been my life. Now, I no longer think anything. All I can tell myself is that fate has turned against me, that I expected to win heaven and I have lost it. It happens every day that a gambler loses not only what he has, but also what he does not have.’

  Morrel spoke perfectly calmly. Valentine looked at him for a moment with her large questioning eyes, trying not to let those of Morrel look at the storm already raging at the bottom of her heart. ‘So what will you do?’ she asked.

  ‘I shall have the honour of bidding you farewell, Mademoiselle, asking God, who hears my words and reads what is in my heart, to witness that I wish you a tranquil life, happy and busy enough for it to hold no place for any memory of me.’

  ‘Oh,’ Valentine murmured.

  ‘Farewell, Valentine, farewell!’ Morrel said, bowing.

  ‘Where are you going?’ the young woman cried, reaching out her hand through the fence and grasping Maximilien by his jacket, realizing from her own inner turmoil that her lover’s calm demeanour must be feigned. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I am going to ensure that I bring no further disruption to your family and to give an example for all honest and devoted men who find themselves in my position to follow.’

  ‘But before you leave, tell me what you are going to do, Maximilien.’

  The young man smiled sadly.

  ‘Speak, speak!’ Valentine cried. ‘I beg you, speak!’

  ‘Has your resolve changed, Valentine?’

  ‘It cannot change. Alas, unhappy man, you know it cannot!’ she said.

  ‘Then, Valentine, adieu!’

  Valentine shook the grille with a force that one would have thought beyond her and, as Morrel was leaving, put both hands through the fence and clasped them, twisting them together. ‘What are you going to do?’ she cried. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Have no fear,’ said Maximilien, stopping three yards from the gate. ‘It is not my intention to make another man responsible for the harsh fate that is in store for me. Anyone else might threaten to find Monsieur Franz, provoke him and fight with him; but all that would be senseless. What has Monsieur Franz to do with all this? He saw me this morning for the first time, and has already forgotten that he saw me. He did not even know that I existed when an understanding between your two families decided that you would belong to one another. So I have no quarrel to pick with Monsieur Franz, I swear it. I shall not blame him.’

  ‘Whom then? Me?’

  ‘You, Valentine! Oh, God forbid. Woman is sacred, the woman one loves is holy.’

  ‘Yourself then, you unhappy man… ? Yourself?’

  ‘I am the guilty one, am I not?’ said Morrel.

  ‘Maximilien, come here,’ said Valentine. ‘I command it!’

  Maximilien came over, smiling softly. Had it not been for the pallor of his face, one might have thought he was in his normal state.

  ‘Listen to me, my dear, my beloved Valentine,’ he said in his low, melodious voice. ‘People like us, who have never had a thought that would have made them blush before others, before their parents or before God, people like us can read one another’s hearts like an open book. I have never been a character in a novel, I am not a melancholy hero, I have no pretensions to be Manfred or Antony.2 But without words, without oaths and protestations, I entrusted my life to you. You are failing me and you are right to do what you are doing, I told you so and I repeat it. But you are failing me and my life is lost. If you go away from me, Valentine, I shall be alone in the world. My sister is happy with her husband, and her husband is only my brother-in-law, that is to say a man who is attached to me by social convention alone; hence, no one on earth has any need of me and my existence is useless. This is what I shall do: I shall wait until the last second before you are married, because I do not wish to lose even the faintest shadow of one of those unexpected twists of fate that chance sometimes has in store for us: between now and then, Franz d’Epinay may die; or, just as you are approaching it, a bolt of lightning may strike the altar. To a condemned man, everything is credible and, when his life itself is at stake, miracles may be counted possible events. So, as I say, I shall wait until the final moment and when my misfortune is certain, without any hope or remedy, I shall write a confidential letter to my brother-in-law and another to the prefect of police to inform him of my intention, and in the corner of some wood, beside some ditch or on the bank of some river, I shall blow out my brains, as surely as I am the son of the most honest man who has ever lived in France.’

  Valentine was seized with a violent trembling. She let go of the fence that she had been holding in both hands, her arms fell to her sides and two large tears ran down her cheeks. The young man remained standing before her, sombre and resolute.

  ‘Oh, for pity’s sake, for pity’s sake,’ she said, ‘tell me that you will live.’

  ‘No, on my honour,’ Maximilien said. ‘But what does it matter to you? You will have done your duty and your conscience will be clear.’

  Valentine fell to her knees, clasping her breaking heart. ‘Maximilien,’ she said, ‘Maximilien, my friend, my brother on earth, my true husband in heaven, I implore you, do as I shall and live with your suffering. Perhaps one day we shall be reunited.’

  ‘Adieu, Valentine!’

  ‘My God,�
�� Valentine said, raising her two hands to heaven with a sublime expression on her face, ‘witness that I have done everything in my power to remain a dutiful daughter: I have begged, prayed and implored, but he has not listened to my entreaties, to my prayers or to my tears. Well, then,’ she continued, wiping away her tears and recovering her resolve, ‘I do not wish to die of remorse, I should rather die of shame. You will live, Maximilien, and I shall belong to no one except you. When? At once? Speak, order me, I am ready.’

  Morrel, who had again taken a few steps away, came back once more, pale with joy, his heart swelling, and, passing both hands through the fence to Valentine, said: ‘My dearest friend, you must not speak to me in that way; or else, let me die. Why should I owe my possession of you to force, if you love me as I love you? Are you obliging me to live, out of humanity, and nothing more? In that case, I should prefer to die.’

  ‘In truth,’ Valentine murmured, ‘who in the world loves me? He does. Who has consoled me in all my unhappiness? He has. Who is the repository of all my hopes, the focus of my distracted eyes, the resting-place of my bleeding heart? He is, none but he. Well, now it is you who are right, Maximilien. I shall follow you, leave my father’s house, everything. Oh, how ungrateful I am!’ she exclaimed with a sob. ‘Everything! Even my dear grandfather – I was forgetting him!’

  ‘No,’ said Maximilien. ‘You shall not leave him. It appears, as you said, that Monsieur Noirtier feels some sympathy for me; so, before you leave, tell him everything; his consent will be a sanction for you before God. Then, as soon as we are married, he will come with us: instead of one child, he will have two. You told me how he spoke to you and how you answered. Come, Valentine, I shall soon learn this tender language of signs. I swear to you, instead of despair, it is happiness that awaits us.’

  ‘Oh, Maximilien, look, look what power you have over me: you have almost made me believe what you are saying; and yet it is insane, because I shall bear my father’s curse. I know him, his heart is stone, he will never forgive. So, listen to me, Maximilien, if by some trick, by prayer, by an accident – I don’t know what – I can delay the marriage, you will wait for me, won’t you?’

  ‘I swear that I will, as you have sworn to me that this frightful marriage will never take place and that, even if you were to be dragged before a magistrate or a priest, you would say no.’

  ‘I swear it, Maximilien, by all that is most sacred to me in the world, by my mother!’

  ‘Then let us wait,’ Morrel said.

  ‘Yes, let us wait,’ Valentine repeated. ‘There are many things that may save unfortunates like ourselves.’

  ‘I am trusting in you, Valentine,’ Morrel said. ‘Everything that you do will be well done; but suppose they disregard your prayers, suppose your father and Madame de Saint-Méran were to call tomorrow for Monsieur Franz d’Epinay to sign the contract…’

  ‘You have my word, Morrel.’

  ‘Instead of signing…’

  ‘I shall come to you and we shall flee. But in the meantime, let’s not tempt fate. We must not meet: it is a miracle, a divine gift that no one has yet discovered us. If that were to happen, if anyone knew how we meet, we should no longer have any recourse left.’

  ‘You are right. But, then, how can I find out…’

  ‘Through the notary, Monsieur Deschamps.’

  ‘Yes, I know him.’

  ‘And from me, because you may be assured that I myself shall write to you. My God, Maximilien! This marriage is as detestable to me as it is to you.’

  ‘Very well. Thank you, my beloved Valentine,’ Morrel continued. ‘So we are agreed. Once I know the day and the hour, I shall hurry here and you can leap over this wall into my arms. It will be simple. A carriage will be waiting for us at the gate into the field, you will get in it with me and I shall take you to my sister’s. There, incognito if you wish, or ostentatiously if you prefer, emboldened by knowing our own strength and will, we shall not allow ourselves to have our throats cut like lambs, defended only by our sighs.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Valentine. ‘And I in turn tell you that whatever you do, Maximilien, will be well done.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Are you happy with your wife?’ she said sadly.

  ‘My beloved Valentine, it is too little to say no more than “yes”.’

  ‘Say it, even so.’

  Valentine had drawn close to the fence, or rather had put her lips to it, and her words, on her sweet-scented breath, drifted across the lips of Morrel, whose mouth was pressed to the other side of the cold and implacable barrier.

  ‘Goodbye,’ Valentine said, tearing herself away from this bliss. ‘Goodbye!’

  ‘You will send me a letter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you, my dear wife. Goodbye.’

  There was the sound of an innocent lost kiss, and Valentine ran off under the linden-trees.

  Morrel listened to the fading sounds of her dress rustling among the bushes and her footsteps on the gravel, raised his eyes to heaven with an indescribable smile of thanks to God for allowing him to be so well loved, then left in his turn. He went home and waited for the remainder of the evening and all the following day, but had no word. It was only on the day after that, at around ten o’clock in the morning, as he was about to set out for M. Deschamps, the notary, that the postman arrived with a little note which he recognized as being from Valentine, even though he had never seen her handwriting. It read as follows:

  Tears, entreaties and prayers have all been in vain. Yesterday I spent two hours at the church of Saint-Philippe-du-Roule and for two hours I prayed from the depth of my heart; but God is as indifferent as men. The signing of the marriage contract is to take place this evening at nine o’clock.

  I have only one word to give, as I have only one heart; and my word has been given to you, Morrel: my heart is yours.

  This evening, then, at a quarter to nine, at the gate.

  Your wife,

  VALENTINE

  P.S. My poor grandmother’s state of health gets worse and worse. Yesterday, her excitement became delirium, and today the delirium is almost madness.

  You will love me truly, won’t you, Morrel, and help me to forget that I abandoned her in this state?

  I think they are keeping grandpa Noirtier from learning that the contract will be signed this evening.

  Morrel was not simply content with hearing this from Valentine; he went to the notary, who confirmed that the signing of the contract would take place at nine o’clock that evening. Then he went to see Monte Cristo, and there he heard the most detailed account. Franz had been to tell the count of this solemn event, and Mme de Villefort had written to him to apologize for not inviting him, but the death of M. de Saint-Méran and his widow’s state of health cast a pall of sadness over the gathering which she could not ask the count to share, wishing him on the contrary every happiness.

  On the previous day, Franz had been introduced to Mme de Saint-Méran, who had left her bed long enough for the introduction to take place, then immediately returned to it.

  As one may well imagine, Morrel was in a state of agitation that could hardly be expected to escape an eye as perceptive as that of the count. Monte Cristo was consequently more affectionate towards him than ever, to such a point that two or three times Maximilien was on the verge of confessing everything to him. But he remembered his formal promise to Valentine and the secret remained sealed in his heart.

  Twenty times during the day the young man re-read Valentine’s letter. This was the first time she had written to him – and in such circumstances! Each time he re-read it, Maximilien renewed his promise to himself that he would make Valentine happy. A girl who can take such a courageous decision acquires every right: is there any degree of devotion that she does not deserve from the person for whom she has sacrificed everything! To her lover, she must surely be the first and worthiest object of his devotion, at once the wife and the queen; no soul is vast enough to thank and t
o love her.

  Morrel kept thinking, with unspeakable anxiety, of the moment when Valentine would arrive and say: ‘Here I am. Take me!’

  He had prepared everything for the escape. Two ladders were concealed among the alfalfa grass in the field. A cab, which would take Maximilien himself, was waiting; there would be no servants and no lights, though, once round the first corner, they would light the lanterns, because it was essential that an excess of precautions should not lead them into the hands of the police.

  From time to time a shudder passed right through Morrel’s body. He was thinking of the moment when he would be helping Valentine come down from the top of the wall and would feel this girl, whom he had not touched until then except to squeeze her hand and kiss the tips of her fingers, abandon herself, trembling, to his arms.

  However, when the afternoon came and Morrel knew that the time was drawing near, he felt a need to be alone. His blood was boiling and the merest question, even the voice of a friend, would have irritated him. He shut himself up at home and tried to read, but his eyes slipped across the pages without taking anything in, and eventually he tossed the book aside and, for the second time, set about drawing his plan, his ladders and his field.

  At last, the moment approached.

  No man truly in love has ever let the hands of a clock go peacefully on their way. Morrel tortured his so much that finally they showed half-past eight at six o’clock; so he decided that it was time to leave, that nine o’clock might be the hour appointed for signing the contract, but that in all probability Valentine would not wait for this pointless ceremony. Leaving the Rue Meslay at half-past eight on his clock, Morrel went into the field just as eight o’clock was striking at Saint-Philippe-du-Roule. The horse and cab were hidden behind a little ruined hut in which Morrel himself was accustomed to hide.

  Little by little, night fell and the trees in the garden merged into deep black clusters. Morrel came out of his hiding-place and, with beating heart, went to look through the hole in the fence. So far, there was no one there.