The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) (172 page)

‘But I do!’ Morrel shouted in agony. ‘I do! I love her!’

‘Whom do you love?’ cried Monte Cristo, leaping to his feet and clasping the two hands which Morrel was lifting, entwined, to heaven.

‘I love passionately, I love madly, I love like a man who would give his life’s blood to spare her a tear, I love Valentine de Villefort who is being murdered at this moment, do you understand? I love her and I beg God and you to tell me how I can save her.’

Monte Cristo gave a savage cry which can only be imagined by those who have heard the roar of a wounded lion.

‘Wretch!’ he cried, wringing his hands in his turn. ‘Wretch! You love Valentine! You love that daughter of an accursed race!’

Morrel had never seen such an expression. Never had such a fearful eye blazed up before his face and never had the spirit of terror which he had so often seen appear, either on the battlefield or in the murderous Algerian night, fanned such sinister flames around him. He shrank back in horror.

As for Monte Cristo, after this outburst he closed his eyes for a moment as if dazzled by some inner lightning. During that moment he collected himself with such force that one could gradually see his chest cease to heave with the inner storms that shook it, as the raging and foaming of the sea is appeased when the clouds disperse and the sun shines out again.

This silence, this inner struggle, lasted for some twenty seconds. Then the count raised his pale face. ‘You see,’ he said in a strained voice. ‘See how, my dear friend, how God punishes the most boastful and the most detached of men for their indifference to the frightful scenes that He displays before them. I, who was watching the unfolding of this dreadful tragedy as an impassive and curious spectator; I, who, like the fallen angel, laughed at the evil that men do when they are sheltered by secrecy – and secrecy is easy to preserve for the rich and powerful – now I myself am bitten by that serpent whose progress I was observing – bitten to the heart!’

Morrel gave a dull moan.

‘Come now,’ the count said. ‘No more sighs. Be a man, be strong, be full of hope, for I am here, watching over you.’

Morrel sadly shook his head.

‘Don’t you understand: I told you to hope!’ cried Monte Cristo. ‘Learn this: I never lie, I am never wrong. It is mid-day, Maximilien. Give thanks to heaven that you came at mid-day and not this evening or tomorrow morning. Listen to what I am about to tell you, Morrel: it is mid-day and, if Valentine is not dead now, she will not die.’

‘Oh my God! My God!’ Morrel cried. ‘And I left her dying!’

Monte Cristo put a hand to his forehead. What was going on inside that head, so heavy with its terrible secrets? What were the angel of light and the angel of darkness saying to that mind, at once implacable and humane? Only God knew.

Monte Cristo looked up once more, and this time he was as calm as a child waking from sleep. ‘Maximilien,’ he said, ‘go quietly back home. I order you not to do anything, not to try any approach, not let the shadow of a single worry cloud your face. I shall have news for you. Now go.’

‘My God!’ said Morrel. ‘You terrify me, Count, with your lack of emotion. Have you some remedy for death? Are you more than a man? Are you an angel? A god?’ And the young man, who had never flinched from any danger, shrank away from Monte Cristo, seized with unspeakable terror.

However, Monte Cristo was looking at him with a smile that was at once so melancholy and so tender that Maximilien felt the tears filling his eyes.

‘I can do many things, my friend,’ the count replied. ‘Go now; I need to be alone.’

So Morrel, subjugated by the powerful ascendancy that Monte Cristo exercised over everything around him, did not even try to object. He shook the count’s hand and left. But at the door he stopped to wait for Baptistin, whom he had just seen running round the corner of the Rue Matignon.

In the meantime Villefort and d’Avrigny had hurried home. When they got there, Valentine was still unconscious, and the doctor examined his patient with the care demanded by the circumstances and an attentiveness made all the more minute by his knowledge of the secret. Villefort, hanging on his every look and word, awaited the outcome of the examination. Noirtier, paler than the girl herself, even more eager to find a solution than Villefort, was also waiting, everything about him expressing intelligence and sensitivity.

At last d’Avrigny said slowly: ‘She’s still alive.’

‘Still!’ Villefort exclaimed. ‘Oh, doctor, what a dreadful word that is.’

‘Yes,’ the doctor said, ‘and I repeat: she is still alive and I am very surprised by it.’

‘But is she saved?’ the father asked.

‘Yes, since she is alive.’

At that moment, d’Avrigny’s eye caught that of Noirtier, which shone with such astonishing joy and such a rich abundance of ideas that the doctor was quite struck by it.

He lowered the girl on to the chair. Her lips were so pale and white, like the rest of her face, as to be barely distinguishable. Then he stayed motionless, watching Noirtier, who was waiting and observing each of the doctor’s movements.

‘Monsieur,’ d’Avrigny said to Villefort, ‘call Mademoiselle Valentine’s chambermaid, if you please.’

Villefort laid down his daughter’s head, which he had been supporting, and went in person to call the chambermaid. As soon as he had closed the door, d’Avrigny went over to Noirtier. ‘Do you have something to tell me?’ he asked.

The old man blinked expressively; it was, as we have said, the only affirmative sign that he had at his disposal.

‘To me alone?’

‘Yes,’ Noirtier affirmed.

‘Very well, I shall remain with you.’

At that moment Villefort returned, followed by the chambermaid. Behind her came Mme de Villefort.

‘But what has happened to this dear child?’ she asked. ‘She has just left me and she did complain that she was not feeling well, but I could not believe it was serious.’ And, with tears in her eyes and with every mark of affection of a true mother, the young woman crossed to Valentine and took her hand.

D’Avrigny was still watching Noirtier. He saw the old man’s eyes dilate and grow round, his cheeks drain of colour and start to tremble. There was sweat on his brow. ‘Ah!’ d’Avrigny said involuntarily, following Noirtier’s eyes towards Mme de Villefort, who was saying: ‘This poor child will be better lying down. Come, Fanny, we must take her to her bed.’

M. d’Avrigny saw in this suggestion a means to stay alone with Noirtier and nodded to show that this was indeed the best thing to
do, but forbade them to give the patient anything at all except what he would prescribe for her.

Valentine was taken away, having regained consciousness but still unable to make any movement or virtually to speak, so grave had been the effect of the shock on her limbs. However, she did muster the strength to greet her grandfather with a look; and, as they took her away, it seemed as though they were tearing out his soul.

D’Avrigny followed the patient, finished giving his instructions and told Villefort to take a cab and go in person to the pharmacist’s to have the preparations made up in front of him, then to bring them back and wait for him in his daughter’s room. Finally, after repeating his order that Valentine should not be allowed to take anything, he went back down to Noirtier’s, carefully closed the doors and, after making sure that they could not be overheard, said: ‘Now, do you know something about your granddaughter’s illness?’

‘Yes,’ the old man affirmed.

‘Listen, we have no time to lose. I am going to question you and you will answer me.’

Noirtier indicated that he was ready to reply.

‘Did you foresee what happened to Valentine today?’

‘Yes.’

D’Avrigny thought for a moment, then came closer to Noirtier and added: ‘Excuse me for what I am about to say, but no clue must be overlooked in the present frightful circumstances. Did you see poor Barrois die?’

Noirtier looked heavenwards.

‘Do you know what he died of?’ d’Avrigny asked, putting a hand on Noirtier’s shoulder.

‘Yes,’ the old man replied.

‘Do you think his death was natural?’

Something like a smile appeared on Noirtier’s paralysed lips.

‘So the idea has occurred to you that Barrois was poisoned?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you think that the poison that killed him was intended for him?’

‘No.’

‘Now do you think that the same hand which struck Barrois down, intending to strike at someone else, has now struck Valentine?’

‘Yes.’

‘Will she also succumb to it?’ d’Avrigny asked, looking attentively at Noirtier. He was waiting to see the effect of the question on the old man.

‘No,’ the latter replied, with an air of triumph that could have refuted the prophecies of the most skilled soothsayer.

‘So you are hopeful?’ d’Avrigny said in surprise.

‘Yes.’

‘What are you hoping for?’

The old man indicated with a look that he could not reply to such a question. ‘Ah, of course,’ d’Avrigny muttered. Then, turning back to Noirtier, he said: ‘Do you hope that the murderer will give up trying?’

‘No.’

‘Then you hope that the poison will not affect Valentine?’

‘Yes.’

‘Because I am not revealing anything to you, am I, when I tell you that someone has tried to poison her?’

The invalid showed that he had no doubt on that subject.

‘So how do you hope that Valentine will escape?’

Noirtier kept his eyes obstinately fixed in one direction. D’Avrigny followed them and saw that they were settled on the bottle containing the potion that he brought every morning.

‘Ah! I see!’ said d’Avrigny, suddenly understanding. ‘Did you have the idea…’

Noirtier did not let him finish.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘The idea of forearming her against the poison…’

‘Yes.’

‘By accustoming her little by little…’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Noirtier, delighted at being understood.

‘In short, you learned that there was brucine in the potions which I have been giving you?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, by accustoming her to this poison, you hoped to neutralize the effects of the poison?’

The same triumphant joy on Noirtier’s face.

‘Well, you succeeded!’ d’Avrigny exclaimed. ‘Without that, Valentine would be dead today, murdered without any possible protection, murdered without mercy; the shock was considerable,
but she has only been shaken, and this time at least Valentine will not die.’

A supreme ray of joy lit the old man’s eyes, which he turned heavenwards with a look of infinite gratitude.

At that moment Villefort returned. ‘Here you are, doctor,’ he said. ‘This is what you requested.’

‘Was it prepared in front of you?’

‘Yes,’ the crown prosecutor replied.

‘It has not left your hands?’

‘No.’

D’Avrigny took the bottle and poured out a few drops of the liquid it contained into the palm of his hand, then swallowed it.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Let’s go up to Valentine’s. I shall give my instructions to everyone and you will be personally responsible, Monsieur de Villefort, for ensuring that no one disobeys them.’

As d’Avrigny was entering Valentine’s room, accompanied by M. de Villefort, an Italian priest, stern in manner, calm and firm of speech, rented the house next door to the mansion inhabited by M. de Villefort.

It was impossible to know exactly what persuaded the three tenants of the house to move out two hours later; but the rumour that went round the district was that the house was not solidly fixed on its foundations and was threatening to collapse. However, this did not prevent the new tenant from settling in, with his modest furnishings, at around five o’clock on the very same day.

A lease was taken out for three, six or nine years by the new tenant who, in accordance with a custom established by the landlords, paid six months in advance. This new tenant – who, as we have said, was Italian – was named Signor Giacomo Busoni.

Workmen were immediately summoned and the very same night the few passers-by who stopped at the top end of the Faubourg were surprised to see carpenters and builders shoring up the foundations of the unsteady building.

In the previous chapter we heard Mme Danglars officially announce to Mme de Villefort the forthcoming marriage of Mlle Eugénie Danglars with M. Andrea Cavalcanti.

This formal announcement, which indicated (or appeared to do so) a resolution taken by all parties involved in this great matter, had however been preceded by a scene which we owe it to our readers to inform them about.

We beg them in consequence to step back in time with us and to transport themselves, on the very morning of this day which was to be marked by such great catastrophes, to the finely gilded drawing-room to which we have already introduced them, the pride and joy of its owner, Baron Danglars.

At around ten o’clock in the morning, the baron himself was pacing up and down in this drawing-room, thoughtful and visibly anxious, pausing at every sound and looking at every door. When his store of patience was exhausted, he called the valet.