slight shrug of his shoulders. He then motioned to his wife to take
leave. "Now sir," said Madame de Villefort, "I must bid you
farewell. Would you like me to send Edward to you for a short
time?"
It had been agreed that the old man should express his
approbation by closing his eyes, his refusal by winking them
several times, and if he had some desire or feeling to express, he
raised them to heaven. If he wanted Valentine, he closed his right
eye only, and if Barrois, the left. At Madame de Villefort's
proposition he instantly winked his eyes. Provoked by a complete
refusal, she bit her lip and said, "Then shall I send Valentine to
you?" The old man closed his eyes eagerly, thereby intimating that
such was his wish. M. and Madame de Villefort bowed and left the
room, giving orders that Valentine should be summoned to her
grandfather's presence, and feeling sure that she would have much
to do to restore calmness to the perturbed spirit of the invalid.
Valentine, with a color still heightened by emotion, entered the
room just after her parents had quitted it. One look was sufficient
to tell her that her grandfather was suffering, and that there was
much on his mind which he was wishing to communicate to her. "Dear
grandpapa," cried she, "what has happened? They have vexed you, and
you are angry?" The paralytic closed his eyes in token of assent.
"Who has displeased you? Is it my father?"
"No."
"Madame de Villefort?"
"No."
"Me?" The former sign was repeated. "Are you displeased with
me?" cried Valentine in astonishment. M. Noirtier again closed his
eyes. "And what have I done, dear grandpapa, that you should be
angry with me?" cried Valentine.
There was no answer, and she continued. "I have not seen you all
day. Has any one been speaking to you against me?"
"Yes," said the old man's look, with eagerness.
"Let me think a moment. I do assure you, grandpapa — Ah — M. and
Madame de Villefort have just left this room, have they not?"
"Yes."
"And it was they who told you something which made you angry?"Yes."
"And it was they who told you something which made you angry?
What was it then? May I go and ask them, that I may have the
opportunity of making my peace with you?"
"No, no," said Noirtier's look.
"Ah, you frighten me. What can they have said?" and she again
tried to think what it could be.
"Ah, I know," said she, lowering her voice and going close to
the old man. "They have been speaking of my marriage, — have they
not?"
"Yes," replied the angry look.
"I understand; you are displeased at the silence I have
preserved on the subject. The reason of it was, that they had
insisted on my keeping the matter a secret, and begged me not to
tell you anything of it. They did not even acquaint me with their
intentions, and I only discovered them by chance, that is why I
have been so reserved with you, dear grandpapa. Pray forgive me."
But there was no look calculated to reassure her; all it seemed to
say was, "It is not only your reserve which afflicts me."
"What is it, then?" asked the young girl. "Perhaps you think I
shall abandon you, dear grandpapa, and that I shall forget you when
I am married?"
"No."
"They told you, then, that M. d'Epinay consented to our all
living together?"
"Yes."
"Then why are you still vexed and grieved?" The old man's eyes
beamed with an expression of gentle affection. "Yes, I understand,"
said Valentine; "it is because you love me." The old man assented.
"And you are afraid I shall be unhappy?"
"Yes."
"You do not like M. Franz?" The eyes repeated several times,
"No, no, no."
"Then you are vexed with the engagement?"
"Yes."
"Well, listen," said Valentine, throwing herself on her knees,
and putting her arm round her grandfather's neck, "I am vexed, too,
for I do not love M. Franz d'Epinay." An expression of intense joy
illumined the old man's eyes. "When I wished to retire into a
convent, you remember how angry you were with me?" A tear trembled
in the eye of the invalid. "Well," continued Valentine, "the reason
of my proposing it was that I might escape this hateful marriage,of my proposing it was that I might escape this hateful marriage,
which drives me to despair." Noirtier's breathing came thick and
short. "Then the idea of this marriage really grieves you too? Ah,
if you could but help me — if we could both together defeat their
plan! But you are unable to oppose them, — you, whose mind is so
quick, and whose will is so firm are nevertheless, as weak and
unequal to the contest as I am myself. Alas, you, who would have
been such a powerful protector to me in the days of your health and
strength, can now only sympathize in my joys and sorrows, without
being able to take any active part in them. However, this is much,
and calls for gratitude and heaven has not taken away all my
blessings when it leaves me your sympathy and kindness."
At these words there appeared in Noirtier's eye an expression of
such deep meaning that the young girl thought she could read these
words there: "You are mistaken; I can still do much for you."
"Do you think you can help me, dear grandpapa?" said
Valentine.
"Yes." Noirtier raised his eyes, it was the sign agreed on
between him and Valentine when he wanted anything.
"What is it you want, dear grandpapa?" said Valentine, and she
endeavored to recall to mind all the things which he would be
likely to need; and as the ideas presented themselves to her mind,
she repeated them aloud, then, — finding that all her efforts
elicited nothing but a constant "No," — she said, "Come, since this
plan does not answer, I will have recourse to another." She then
recited all the letters of the alphabet from A down to N. When she
arrived at that letter the paralytic made her understand that she
had spoken the initial letter of the thing he wanted. "Ah," said
Valentine, "the thing you desire begins with the letter N; it is
with N that we have to do, then. Well, let me see, what can you
want that begins with N? Na — Ne — Ni — No" —
"Yes, yes, yes," said the old man's eye.
"Ah, it is No, then?"
"Yes." Valentine fetched a dictionary, which she placed on a


"Ah, it is No, then?"
"Yes." Valentine fetched a dictionary, which she placed on a
desk before Noirtier; she opened it, and, seeing that the odd man's
eye was thoroughly fixed on its pages, she ran her finger quickly
up and down the columns. During the six years which had passed
since Noirtier first fell into this sad state, Valentine's powers
of invention had been too often put to the test not to render her
expert in devising expedients for gaining a knowledge of his
wishes, and the constant practice had so perfected her in the art
that she guessed the old man's meaning as quickly as if he himself
had been able to seek for what he wanted. At the word "Notary,"
Noirtier made a sign to her to stop. "Notary," said she, "do you
want a notary, dear grandpapa?" The old man again signified that it
was a notary he desired.
"You would wish a notary to be sent for then?" said
Valentine.
"Yes."
"Shall my father be informed of your wish?"
"Yes."
"Do you wish the notary to be sent for immediately?"
"Yes."
"Then they shall go for him directly, dear grandpapa. Is that
all you want?"
"Yes." Valentine rang the bell, and ordered the servant to tell
Monsieur or Madame de Villefort that they were requested to come to
M. Noirtier's room. "Are you satisfied now?" inquired
Valentine.
"Yes."
"I am sure you are; it is not very difficult to discover that,"
— and the young girl smiled on her grandfather, as if he had been a
child. M. de Villefort entered, followed by Barrois. "What do you
want me for, sir?" demanded he of the paralytic.
"Sir," said Valentine, "my grandfather wishes for a notary." At
this strange and unexpected demand M. de Villefort and his father
exchanged looks. "Yes," motioned the latter, with a firmness which
seemed to declare that with the help of Valentine and his old
servant, who both knew what his wishes were, he was quite prepared
to maintain the contest. "Do you wish for a notary?" asked
Villefort.
"Yes."
"What to do?"
Noirtier made no answer. "What do you want with a notary?" againVillefort.
"Yes."
"What to do?"
Noirtier made no answer. "What do you want with a notary?" again
repeated Villefort. The invalid's eye remained fixed, by which
expression he intended to intimate that his resolution was
unalterable. "Is it to do us some ill turn? Do you think it is
worth while?" said Villefort.
"Still," said Barrois, with the freedom and fidelity of an old
servant, "if M. Noirtier asks for a notary, I suppose he really
wishes for a notary; therefore I shall go at once and fetch one."
Barrois acknowledged no master but Noirtier, and never allowed his
desires in any way to be contradicted.
"Yes, I do want a notary," motioned the old man, shutting his
eyes with a look of defiance, which seemed to say, "and I should
like to see the person who dares to refuse my request."
"You shall have a notary, as you absolutely wish for one, sir,"
said Villefort; "but I shall explain to him your state of health,
and make excuses for you, for the scene cannot fail of being a most
ridiculous one."
"Never mind that," said Barrois; "I shall go and fetch a notary,
nevertheless," — and the old servant departed triumphantly on his
mission.At the Place Louis XV. the three young people separated — that
is to say, Morrel went to the Boulevards, Chateau-Renaud to the
Pont de la Revolution, and Debray to the Quai. Most probably Morrel
and Chateau-Renaud returned to their "domestic hearths," as they
say in the gallery of the Chamber in well-turned speeches, and in
the theatre of the Rue Richelieu in well-written pieces; but it was
not the case with Debray. When he reached the wicket of the Louvre,
he turned to the left, galloped across the Carrousel, passed
through the Rue Saint-Roch, and, issuing from the Rue de la
Michodiere, he arrived at M. Danglars' door just at the same time
that Villefort's landau, after having deposited him and his wife at
the Faubourg St. Honore, stopped to leave the baroness at her own
house. Debray, with the air of a man familiar with the house,
entered first into the court, threw his bridle into the hands of a
footman, and returned to the door to receive Madame Danglars, to
whom he offered his arm, to conduct her to her apartments. The gate
once closed, and Debray and the baroness alone in the court, he
asked, — "What was the matter with you, Hermine? and why were you
so affected at that story, or rather fable, which the count
related?"
"Because I have been in such shocking spirits all the evening,
my friend," said the baroness.
"No, Hermine," replied Debray; "you cannot make me believe that;
on the contrary, you were in excellent spirits when you arrived at
the count's. M. Danglars was disagreeable, certainly, but I know
how much you care for his ill-humor. Some one has vexed you; I will
allow no one to annoy you."
"You are deceived, Lucien, I assure you," replied Madame
Danglars; "and what I have told you is really the case, added to
the ill-humor you remarked, but which I did not think it worth
while to allude to." It was evident that Madame Danglars was
suffering from that nervous irritability which women frequently
cannot account for even to themselves; or that, as Debray hadcannot account for even to themselves; or that, as Debray had
guessed, she had experienced some secret agitation that she would
not acknowledge to any one. Being a man who knew that the former of
these symptoms was one of the inherent penalties of womanhood, he
did not then press his inquiries, but waited for a more appropriate
opportunity when he should again interrogate her, or receive an
avowal proprio motu. At the door of her apartment the baroness met
Mademoiselle Cornelie, her confidential maid. "What is my daughter
doing?" asked Madame Danglars.
"She practiced all the evening, and then went to bed," replied
Mademoiselle Cornelie.
"Yet I think I hear her piano."
"It is Mademoiselle Louise d'Armilly, who is playing while
Mademoiselle Danglars is in bed."
"Well," said Madame Danglars, "come and undress me." They
entered the bedroom. Debray stretched himself upon a large couch,
and Madame Danglars passed into her dressing-room with Mademoiselle
Cornelie. "My dear M. Lucien," said Madame Danglars through the
door, "you are always complaining that Eugenie will not address a
word to you."
"Madame," said Lucien, playing with a little dog, who,
recognizing him as a friend of the house, expected to be caressed,
"I am not the only one who makes similar complaints, I think I
heard Morcerf say that he could not extract a word from his
betrothed."
"True," said Madame Danglars; "yet I think this will all pass
off, and that you will one day see her enter your study."
"My study?"
"At least that of the minister."
"Why so!"
"To ask for an engagement at the Opera. Really, I never saw such
an infatuation for music; it is quite ridiculous for a young lady
of fashion." Debray smiled. "Well," said he, "let her come, with
your consent and that of the baron, and we will try and give her an
engagement, though we are very poor to pay such talent as
hers."
"Go, Cornelie," said Madame Danglars, "I do not require you any
longer."
Cornelie obeyed, and the next minute Madame Danglars left her


longer."
Cornelie obeyed, and the next minute Madame Danglars left her
room in a charming loose dress, and came and sat down close to
Debray. Then she began thoughtfully to caress the little spaniel.
Lucien looked at her for a moment in silence. "Come, Hermine," he
said, after a short time, "answer candidly, — something vexes you —
is it not so?"
"Nothing," answered the baroness.
And yet, as she could scarcely breathe, she rose and went
towards a looking-glass. "I am frightful to-night," she said.
Debray rose, smiling, and was about to contradict the baroness upon
this latter point, when the door opened suddenly. M. Danglars
appeared; Debray reseated himself. At the noise of the door Madame
Danglars turned round, and looked upon her husband with an
astonishment she took no trouble to conceal. "Good-evening,
madame," said the banker; "good-evening, M. Debray."
Probably the baroness thought this unexpected visit signified a
desire to make up for the sharp words he had uttered during the
day. Assuming a dignified air, she turned round to Debray, without
answering her husband. "Read me something, M. Debray," she said.
Debray, who was slightly disturbed at this visit, recovered himself
when he saw the calmness of the baroness, and took up a book marked
by a mother-of-pearl knife inlaid with gold. "Excuse me," said the
banker, "but you will tire yourself, baroness, by such late hours,
and M. Debray lives some distance from here."
Debray was petrified, not only to hear Danglars speak so calmly
and politely, but because it was apparent that beneath outward
politeness there really lurked a determined spirit of opposition to
anything his wife might wish to do. The baroness was also
surprised, and showed her astonishment by a look which would
doubtless have had some effect upon her husband if he had not been
intently occupied with the paper, where he was looking to see the
closing stock quotations. The result was, that the proud look
entirely failed of its purpose.closing stock quotations. The result was, that the proud look
entirely failed of its purpose.
"M. Lucien," said the baroness, "I assure you I have no desire
to sleep, and that I have a thousand things to tell you this
evening, which you must listen to, even though you slept while
hearing me."
"I am at your service, madame," replied Lucien coldly.
"My dear M. Debray," said the banker, "do not kill yourself
to-night listening to the follies of Madame Danglars, for you can
hear them as well to-morrow; but I claim to-night and will devote
it, if you will allow me, to talk over some serious matters with my
wife." This time the blow was so well aimed, and hit so directly,
that Lucien and the baroness were staggered, and they interrogated
each other with their eyes, as if to seek help against this
aggression, but the irresistible will of the master of the house
prevailed, and the husband was victorious.
"Do not think I wish to turn you out, my dear Debray," continued
Danglars; "oh, no, not at all. An unexpected occurrence forces me
to ask my wife to have a little conversation with me; it is so
rarely I make such a request, I am sure you cannot grudge it to
me." Debray muttered something, bowed and went out, knocking
himself against the edge of the door, like Nathan in "Athalie."
"It is extraordinary," he said, when the door was closed behind
him, "how easily these husbands, whom we ridicule, gain an
advantage over us."
Lucien having left, Danglars took his place on the sofa, closed
the open book, and placing himself in a dreadfully dictatorial
attitude, he began playing with the dog; but the animal, not liking
him as well as Debray, and attempting to bite him, Danglars seized
him by the skin of his neck and threw him upon a couch on the other
side of the room. The animal uttered a cry during the transit, but,
arrived at its destination, it crouched behind the cushions, and
stupefied at such unusual treatment remained silent and motionless.
"Do you know, sir," asked the baroness, "that you are improving?"Do you know, sir," asked the baroness, "that you are improving?
Generally you are only rude, but to-night you are brutal."
"It is because I am in a worse humor than usual," replied
Danglars. Hermine looked at the banker with supreme disdain. These
glances frequently exasperated the pride of Danglars, but this
evening he took no notice of them.
"And what have I to do with your ill-humor?" said the baroness,
irritated at the impassibility of her husband; "do these things
concern me? Keep your ill-humor at home in your money boxes, or,
since you have clerks whom you pay, vent it upon them."
"Not so," replied Danglars; "your advice is wrong, so I shall
not follow it. My money boxes are my Pactolus, as, I think, M.
Demoustier says, and I will not retard its course, or disturb its
calm. My clerks are honest men, who earn my fortune, whom I pay
much below their deserts, if I may value them according to what
they bring in; therefore I shall not get into a passion with them;
those with whom I will be in a passion are those who eat my
dinners, mount my horses, and exhaust my fortune."
"And pray who are the persons who exhaust your fortune? Explain
yourself more clearly, I beg, sir."
"Oh, make yourself easy! — I am not speaking riddles, and you
will soon know what I mean. The people who exhaust my fortune are
those who draw out 700,000 francs in the course of an hour."
"I do not understand you, sir," said the baroness, trying to
disguise the agitation of her voice and the flush of her face. "You
understand me perfectly, on the contrary," said Danglars: "but, if
you will persist, I will tell you that I have just lost 700,000
francs upon the Spanish loan."
"And pray," asked the baroness, "am I responsible for this
loss?"
"Why not?"
"Is it my fault you have lost 700,000 francs?"
"Certainly it is not mine."
"Once for all, sir," replied the baroness sharply, "I tell you I
will not hear cash named; it is a style of language I never heard
in the house of my parents or in that of my first husband."


in the house of my parents or in that of my first husband."
"Oh, I can well believe that, for neither of them was worth a
penny."
"The better reason for my not being conversant with the slang of
the bank, which is here dinning in my ears from morning to night;
that noise of jingling crowns, which are constantly being counted
and re-counted, is odious to me. I only know one thing I dislike
more, which is the sound of your voice."
"Really?" said Danglars. "Well, this surprises me, for I thought
you took the liveliest interest in all my affairs!"
"I? What could put such an idea into your head?"
"Yourself."
"Ah? — what next?"
"Most assuredly."
"I should like to know upon what occasion?"
"Oh, mon Dieu, that is very easily done. Last February you were
the first who told me of the Haitian funds. You had dreamed that a
ship had entered the harbor at Havre, that this ship brought news
that a payment we had looked upon as lost was going to be made. I
know how clear-sighted your dreams are; I therefore purchased
immediately as many shares as I could of the Haitian debt, and I
gained 400,000 francs by it, of which 100,000 have been honestly
paid to you. You spent it as you pleased; that was your business.
In March there was a question about a grant to a railway. Three
companies presented themselves, each offering equal securities. You
told me that your instinct, — and although you pretend to know
nothing about speculations, I think on the contrary, that your
comprehension is very clear upon certain affairs, — well, you told
me that your instinct led you to believe the grant would be given
to the company called the Southern. I bought two thirds of the
shares of that company; as you had foreseen, the shares trebled in
value, and I picked up a million, from which 250,000 francs were
paid to you for pin-money. How have you spent this 250,000 francs?
— it is no business of mine."
"When are you coming to the point?" cried the baroness,
shivering with anger and impatience.
"Patience, madame, I am coming to it."
"That's fortunate."shivering with anger and impatience.
"Patience, madame, I am coming to it."
"That's fortunate."
"In April you went to dine at the minister's. You heard a
private conversation respecting Spanish affairs — on the expulsion
of Don Carlos. I bought some Spanish shares. The expulsion took
place and I pocketed 600,000 francs the day Charles V. repassed the
Bidassoa. Of these 600,000 francs you took 50,000 crowns. They were
yours, you disposed of them according to your fancy, and I asked no
questions; but it is not the less true that you have this year
received 500,000 livres."
"Well, sir, and what then?"
"Ah, yes, it was just after this that you spoiled
everything."
"Really, your manner of speaking" —
"It expresses my meaning, and that is all I want. Well, three
days after that you talked politics with M. Debray, and you fancied
from his words that Don Carlos had returned to Spain. Well, I sold
my shares, the news got out, and I no longer sold — I gave them
away, next day I find the news was false, and by this false report
I have lost 700,000 francs."
"Well?"
"Well, since I gave you a fourth of my gains, I think you owe me
a fourth of my losses; the fourth of 700,000 francs is 175,000
francs."
"What you say is absurd, and I cannot see why M. Debray's name
is mixed up in this affair."
"Because if you do not possess the 175,000 francs I reclaim, you
must have lent them to your friends, and M. Debray is one of your
friends."
"For shame!" exclaimed the baroness.
"Oh, let us have no gestures, no screams, no modern drama, or
you will oblige me to tell you that I see Debray leave here,
pocketing the whole of the 500,000 livres you have handed over to
him this year, while he smiles to himself, saying that he has found
what the most skilful players have never discovered — that is, a
roulette where he wins without playing, and is no loser when he
loses." The baroness became enraged. "Wretch!" she cried, "will you
dare to tell me you did not know what you now reproach me
with?"dare to tell me you did not know what you now reproach me
with?"
"I do not say that I did know it, and I do not say that I did
not know it. I merely tell you to look into my conduct during the
last four years that we have ceased to be husband and wife, and see
whether it has not always been consistent. Some time after our
rupture, you wished to study music, under the celebrated baritone
who made such a successful appearance at the Theatre Italien; at
the same time I felt inclined to learn dancing of the danseuse who
acquired such a reputation in London. This cost me, on your account
and mine, 100,000 francs. I said nothing, for we must have peace in
the house; and 100,000 francs for a lady and gentleman to be
properly instructed in music and dancing are not too much. Well,
you soon become tired of singing, and you take a fancy to study
diplomacy with the minister's secretary. You understand, it
signifies nothing to me so long as you pay for your lessons out of
your own cashbox. But to-day I find you are drawing on mine, and
that your apprenticeship may cost me 700,000 francs per month. Stop
there, madame, for this cannot last. Either the diplomatist must
give his lessons gratis, and I will tolerate him, or he must never
set his foot again in my house; — do you understand, madame?"
"Oh, this is too much," cried Hermine, choking, "you are worse
than despicable."
"But," continued Danglars, "I find you did not even pause there"
—
"Insults!"
"You are right; let us leave these facts alone, and reason
coolly. I have never interfered in your affairs excepting for your
good; treat me in the same way. You say you have nothing to do with
my cash-box. Be it so. Do as you like with your own, but do not
fill or empty mine. Besides, how do I know that this was not a
political trick, that the minister enraged at seeing me in the
opposition, and jealous of the popular sympathy I excite, has not
concerted with M. Debray to ruin me?"
"A probable thing!"
"Why not? Who ever heard of such an occurrence as this? — a


"A probable thing!"
"Why not? Who ever heard of such an occurrence as this? — a
false telegraphic despatch — it is almost impossible for wrong
signals to be made as they were in the last two telegrams. It was
done on purpose for me — I am sure of it."
"Sir," said the baroness humbly, "are you not aware that the man
employed there was dismissed, that they talked of going to law with
him, that orders were issued to arrest him and that this order
would have been put into execution if he had not escaped by flight,
which proves that he was either mad or guilty? It was a
mistake."
"Yes, which made fools laugh, which caused the minister to have
a sleepless night, which has caused the minister's secretaries to
blacken several sheets of paper, but which has cost me 700,000
francs."
"But, sir," said Hermine suddenly, "if all this is, as you say,
caused by M. Debray, why, instead of going direct to him, do you
come and tell me of it? Why, to accuse the man, do you address the
woman?"
"Do I know M. Debray? — do I wish to know him? — do I wish to
know that he gives advice? — do I wish to follow it? — do I
speculate? No; you do all this, not I."
"Still it seems to me, that as you profit by it — "
Danglars shrugged his shoulders. "Foolish creature," he
exclaimed. "Women fancy they have talent because they have managed
two or three intrigues without being the talk of Paris! But know
that if you had even hidden your irregularities from your husband,
who has but the commencement of the art — for generally husbands
will not see — you would then have been but a faint imitation of
most of your friends among the women of the world. But it has not
been so with me, — I see, and always have seen, during the last
sixteen years. You may, perhaps, have hidden a thought; but not a
step, not an action, not a fault, has escaped me, while you
flattered yourself upon your address, and firmly believed you had
deceived me. What has been the result? — that, thanks to my
pretended ignorance, there is none of your friends, from M. depretended ignorance, there is none of your friends, from M. de
Villefort to M. Debray, who has not trembled before me. There is
not one who has not treated me as the master of the house, — the
only title I desire with respect to you; there is not one, in fact,
who would have dared to speak of me as I have spoken of them this
day. I will allow you to make me hateful, but I will prevent your
rendering me ridiculous, and, above all, I forbid you to ruin
me."
The baroness had been tolerably composed until the name of
Villefort had been pronounced; but then she became pale, and,
rising, as if touched by a spring, she stretched out her hands as
though conjuring an apparition; she then took two or three steps
towards her husband, as though to tear the secret from him, of
which he was ignorant, or which he withheld from some odious
calculation, — odious, as all his calculations were. "M. de
Villefort! — What do you mean?"
"I mean that M. de Nargonne, your first husband, being neither a
philosopher nor a banker, or perhaps being both, and seeing there
was nothing to be got out of a king's attorney, died of grief or
anger at finding, after an absence of nine months, that you had
been enceinte six. I am brutal, — I not only allow it, but boast of
it; it is one of the reasons of my success in commercial business.
Why did he kill himself instead of you? Because he had no cash to
save. My life belongs to my cash. M. Debray has made me lose
700,000 francs; let him bear his share of the loss, and we will go
on as before; if not, let him become bankrupt for the 250,000
livres, and do as all bankrupts do — disappear. He is a charming
fellow, I allow, when his news is correct; but when it is not,
there are fifty others in the world who would do better than
he."
Madame Danglars was rooted to the spot; she made a violent
effort to reply to this last attack, but she fell upon a chair
thinking of Villefort, of the dinner scene, of the strange series
of misfortunes which had taken place in her house during the lastof misfortunes which had taken place in her house during the last
few days, and changed the usual calm of her establishment to a
scene of scandalous debate. Danglars did not even look at her,
though she did her best to faint. He shut the bedroom door after
him, without adding another word, and returned to his apartments;
and when Madame Danglars recovered from her half-fainting
condition, she could almost believe that she had had a disagreeable
dream.Let us leave the banker driving his horses at their fullest
speed, and follow Madame Danglars in her morning excursion. We have
said that at half-past twelve o'clock Madame Danglars had ordered
her horses, and had left home in the carriage. She directed her
course towards the Faubourg Saint Germain, went down the Rue
Mazarine, and stopped at the Passage du Pont-Neuf. She descended,
and went through the passage. She was very plainly dressed, as
would be the case with a woman of taste walking in the morning. At
the Rue Guenegaud she called a cab, and directed the driver to go
to the Rue de Harlay. As soon as she was seated in the vehicle, she
drew from her pocket a very thick black veil, which she tied on to
her straw bonnet. She then replaced the bonnet, and saw with
pleasure, in a little pocket-mirror, that her white complexion and
brilliant eyes were alone visible. The cab crossed the Pont-Neuf
and entered the Rue de Harlay by the Place Dauphine; the driver was
paid as the door opened, and stepping lightly up the stairs Madame
Danglars soon reached the Salle des Pas-Perdus.
There was a great deal going on that morning, and many
business-like persons at the Palais; business-like persons pay very
little attention to women, and Madame Danglars crossed the hall
without exciting any more attention than any other woman calling
upon her lawyer. There was a great press of people in M. de
Villefort's ante-chamber, but Madame Danglars had no occasion even
to pronounce her name. The instant she appeared the door-keeper
rose, came to her, and asked her whether she was not the person
with whom the procureur had made an appointment; and on her
affirmative answer being given, he conducted her by a private
passage to M. de Villefort's office. The magistrate was seated in
an arm-chair, writing, with his back towards the door; he did not
move as he heard it open, and the door-keeper pronounce the words,
"Walk in, madame," and then reclose it; but no sooner had the man's


"Walk in, madame," and then reclose it; but no sooner had the man's
footsteps ceased, than he started up, drew the bolts, closed the
curtains, and examined every corner of the room. Then, when he had
assured himself that he could neither be seen nor heard, and was
consequently relieved of doubts, he said, — "Thanks, madame, —
thanks for your punctuality; "and he offered a chair to Madame
Danglars, which she accepted, for her heart beat so violently that
she felt nearly suffocated.
"It is a long time, madame," said the procureur, describing a
half-circle with his chair, so as to place himself exactly opposite
to Madame Danglars, — "it is a long time since I had the pleasure
of speaking alone with you, and I regret that we have only now met
to enter upon a painful conversation."
"Nevertheless, sir, you see I have answered your first appeal,
although certainly the conversation must be much more painful for
me than for you." Villefort smiled bitterly.
"It is true, then," he said, rather uttering his thoughts aloud
than addressing his companion, — "it is true, then, that all our
actions leave their traces — some sad, others bright — on our
paths; it is true that every step in our lives is like the course
of an insect on the sands; — it leaves its track! Alas, to many the
path is traced by tears."
"Sir," said Madame Danglars, "you can feel for my emotion, can
you not? Spare me, then, I beseech you. When I look at this room, —
whence so many guilty creatures have departed, trembling and
ashamed, when I look at that chair before which I now sit trembling
and ashamed, — oh, it requires all my reason to convince me that I
am not a very guilty woman and you a menacing judge." Villefort
dropped his head and sighed. "And I," he said, "I feel that my
place is not in the judge's seat, but on the prisoner's stool."
"You?" said Madame Danglars.
"Yes, I."
"I think, sir, you exaggerate your situation," said Madame
Danglars, whose beautiful eyes sparkled for a moment. "The paths ofDanglars, whose beautiful eyes sparkled for a moment. "The paths of
which you were just speaking have been traced by all young men of
ardent imaginations. Besides the pleasure, there is always remorse
from the indulgence of our passions, and, after all, what have you
men to fear from all this? the world excuses, and notoriety
ennobles you."
"Madame," replied Villefort, "you know that I am no hypocrite,
or, at least, that I never deceive without a reason. If my brow be
severe, it is because many misfortunes have clouded it; if my heart
be petrified, it is that it might sustain the blows it has
received. I was not so in my youth, I was not so on the night of
the betrothal, when we were all seated around a table in the Rue du
Cours at Marseilles. But since then everything has changed in and
about me; I am accustomed to brave difficulties, and, in the
conflict to crush those who, by their own free will, or by chance,
voluntarily or involuntarily, interfere with me in my career. It is
generally the case that what we most ardently desire is as ardently
withheld from us by those who wish to obtain it, or from whom we
attempt to snatch it. Thus, the greater number of a man's errors
come before him disguised under the specious form of necessity;
then, after error has been committed in a moment of excitement, of
delirium, or of fear, we see that we might have avoided and escaped
it. The means we might have used, which we in our blindness could
not see, then seem simple and easy, and we say, `Why did I not do
this, instead of that?' Women, on the contrary, are rarely
tormented with remorse; for the decision does not come from you, —
your misfortunes are generally imposed upon you, and your faults
the results of others' crimes."
"In any case, sir, you will allow," replied Madame Danglars,
"that, even if the fault were alone mine, I last night received a
severe punishment for it."
"Poor thing," said Villefort, pressing her hand, "it was too
severe for your strength, for you were twice overwhelmed, and yet"
—
"Well?"severe for your strength, for you were twice overwhelmed, and yet"
—
"Well?"
"Well, I must tell you. Collect all your courage, for you have
not yet heard all."
"Ah," exclaimed Madame Danglars, alarmed, "what is there more to
hear?"
"You only look back to the past, and it is, indeed, bad enough.
Well, picture to yourself a future more gloomy still — certainly
frightful, perhaps sanguinary." The baroness knew how calm
Villefort naturally was, and his present excitement frightened her
so much that she opened her mouth to scream, but the sound died in
her throat. "How has this terrible past been recalled?" cried
Villefort; "how is it that it has escaped from the depths of the
tomb and the recesses of our hearts, where it was buried, to visit
us now, like a phantom, whitening our cheeks and flushing our brows
with shame?"
"Alas," said Hermine, "doubtless it is chance."
"Chance?" replied Villefort; "No, no, madame, there is no such
thing as chance."
"Oh, yes; has not a fatal chance revealed all this? Was it not
by chance the Count of Monte Cristo bought that house? Was it not
by chance he caused the earth to be dug up? Is it not by chance
that the unfortunate child was disinterred under the trees? — that
poor innocent offspring of mine, which I never even kissed, but for
whom I wept many, many tears. Ah, my heart clung to the count when
he mentioned the dear spoil found beneath the flowers."
"Well, no, madame, — this is the terrible news I have to tell
you," said Villefort in a hollow voice — "no, nothing was found
beneath the flowers; there was no child disinterred — no. You must
not weep, no, you must not groan, you must tremble!"
"What can you mean?" asked Madame Danglars, shuddering.
"I mean that M. de Monte Cristo, digging underneath these trees,
found neither skeleton nor chest, because neither of them was
there!"
"Neither of them there?" repeated Madame Danglars, her staring,
wide-open eyes expressing her alarm.
"Neither of them there!" she again said, as though striving to


wide-open eyes expressing her alarm.
"Neither of them there!" she again said, as though striving to
impress herself with the meaning of the words which escaped
her.
"No," said Villefort, burying his face in his hands, "no, a
hundred times no!"
"Then you did not bury the poor child there, sir? Why did you
deceive me? Where did you place it? tell me — where?"
"There! But listen to me — listen — and you will pity me who has
for twenty years alone borne the heavy burden of grief I am about
to reveal, without casting the least portion upon you."
"Oh, you frighten me! But speak; I will listen."
"You recollect that sad night, when you were half-expiring on
that bed in the red damask room, while I, scarcely less agitated
than you, awaited your delivery. The child was born, was given to
me — motionless, breathless, voiceless; we thought it dead." Madame
Danglars moved rapidly, as though she would spring from her chair,
but Villefort stopped, and clasped his hands as if to implore her
attention. "We thought it dead," he repeated; "I placed it in the
chest, which was to take the place of a coffin; I descended to the
garden, I dug a hole, and then flung it down in haste. Scarcely had
I covered it with earth, when the arm of the Corsican was stretched
towards me; I saw a shadow rise, and, at the same time, a flash of
light. I felt pain; I wished to cry out, but an icy shiver ran
through my veins and stifled my voice; I fell lifeless, and fancied
myself killed. Never shall I forget your sublime courage, when,
having returned to consciousness, I dragged myself to the foot of
the stairs, and you, almost dying yourself, came to meet me. We
were obliged to keep silent upon the dreadful catastrophe. You had
the fortitude to regain the house, assisted by your nurse. A duel
was the pretext for my wound. Though we scarcely expected it, our
secret remained in our own keeping alone. I was taken to
Versailles; for three months I struggled with death; at last, as I
seemed to cling to life, I was ordered to the South. Four menseemed to cling to life, I was ordered to the South. Four men
carried me from Paris to Chalons, walking six leagues a day; Madame
de Villefort followed the litter in her carriage. At Chalons I was
put upon the Saone, thence I passed on to the Rhone, whence I
descended, merely with the current, to Arles; at Arles I was again
placed on my litter, and continued my journey to Marseilles. My
recovery lasted six months. I never heard you mentioned, and I did
not dare inquire for you. When I returned to Paris, I learned that
you, the widow of M. de Nargonne, had married M. Danglars.
"What was the subject of my thoughts from the time consciousness
returned to me? Always the same — always the child's corpse, coming
every night in my dreams, rising from the earth, and hovering over
the grave with menacing look and gesture. I inquired immediately on
my return to Paris; the house had not been inhabited since we left
it, but it had just been let for nine years. I found the tenant. I
pretended that I disliked the idea that a house belonging to my
wife's father and mother should pass into the hands of strangers. I
offered to pay them for cancelling the lease; they demanded 6,000
francs. I would have given 10,000 — I would have given 20,000. I
had the money with me; I made the tenant sign the deed of
resilition, and when I had obtained what I so much wanted, I
galloped to Auteuil.
"No one had entered the house since I had left it. It was five
o'clock in the afternoon; I ascended into the red room, and waited
for night. There all the thoughts which had disturbed me during my
year of constant agony came back with double force. The Corsican,
who had declared the vendetta against me, who had followed me from
Nimes to Paris, who had hid himself in the garden, who had struck
me, had seen me dig the grave, had seen me inter the child, — he
might become acquainted with your person, — nay, he might even then
have known it. Would he not one day make you pay for keeping this
terrible secret? Would it not be a sweet revenge for him when heterrible secret? Would it not be a sweet revenge for him when he
found that I had not died from the blow of his dagger? It was
therefore necessary, before everything else, and at all risks, that
I should cause all traces of the past to disappear — that I should
destroy every material vestige; too much reality would always
remain in my recollection. It was for this I had annulled the lease
— it was for this I had come — it was for this I was waiting. Night
arrived; I allowed it to become quite dark. I was without a light
in that room; when the wind shook all the doors, behind which I
continually expected to see some spy concealed, I trembled. I
seemed everywhere to hear your moans behind me in the bed, and I
dared not turn around. My heart beat so violently that I feared my
wound would open. At length, one by one, all the noises in the
neighborhood ceased. I understood that I had nothing to fear, that
I should neither be seen nor heard, so I decided upon descending to
the garden.
"Listen, Hermine; I consider myself as brave as most men, but
when I drew from my breast the little key of the staircase, which I
had found in my coat — that little key we both used to cherish so
much, which you wished to have fastened to a golden ring — when I
opened the door, and saw the pale moon shedding a long stream of
white light on the spiral staircase like a spectre, I leaned
against the wall, and nearly shrieked. I seemed to be going mad. At
last I mastered my agitation. I descended the staircase step by
step; the only thing I could not conquer was a strange trembling in
my knees. I grasped the railings; if I had relaxed my hold for a
moment, I should have fallen. I reached the lower door. Outside
this door a spade was placed against the wall; I took it, and
advanced towards the thicket. I had provided myself with a dark
lantern. In the middle of the lawn I stopped to light it, then I
continued my path.
"It was the end of November, all the verdure of the garden had


continued my path.
"It was the end of November, all the verdure of the garden had
disappeared, the trees were nothing more than skeletons with their
long bony arms, and the dead leaves sounded on the gravel under my
feet. My terror overcame me to such a degree as I approached the
thicket, that I took a pistol from my pocket and armed myself. I
fancied continually that I saw the figure of the Corsican between
the branches. I examined the thicket with my dark lantern; it was
empty. I looked carefully around; I was indeed alone, — no noise
disturbed the silence but the owl, whose piercing cry seemed to be
calling up the phantoms of the night. I tied my lantern to a forked
branch I had noticed a year before at the precise spot where I
stopped to dig the hole.
"The grass had grown very thickly there during the summer, and
when autumn arrived no one had been there to mow it. Still one
place where the grass was thin attracted my attention; it evidently
was there I had turned up the ground. I went to work. The hour,
then, for which I had been waiting during the last year had at
length arrived. How I worked, how I hoped, how I struck every piece
of turf, thinking to find some resistance to my spade! But no, I
found nothing, though I had made a hole twice as large as the
first. I thought I had been deceived — had mistaken the spot. I
turned around, I looked at the trees, I tried to recall the details
which had struck me at the time. A cold, sharp wind whistled
through the leafless branches, and yet the drops fell from my
forehead. I recollected that I was stabbed just as I was trampling
the ground to fill up the hole; while doing so I had leaned against
a laburnum; behind me was an artificial rockery, intended to serve
as a resting-place for persons walking in the garden; in falling,
my hand, relaxing its hold of the laburnum, felt the coldness of
the stone. On my right I saw the tree, behind me the rock. I stood
in the same attitude, and threw myself down. I rose, and againin the same attitude, and threw myself down. I rose, and again
began digging and enlarging the hole; still I found nothing,
nothing — the chest was no longer there!"
"The chest no longer there?" murmured Madame Danglars, choking
with fear.
Think not I contented myself with this one effort," continued
Villefort. "No; I searched the whole thicket. I thought the
assassin, having discovered the chest, and supposing it to be a
treasure, had intended carrying it off, but, perceiving his error,
had dug another hole, and deposited it there; but I could find
nothing. Then the idea struck me that he had not taken these
precautions, and had simply thrown it in a corner. In the last case
I must wait for daylight to renew my search. I remained the room
and waited."
"Oh, heavens!"
When daylight dawned I went down again. My first visit was to
the thicket. I hoped to find some traces which had escaped me in
the darkness. I had turned up the earth over a surface of more than
twenty feet square, and a depth of two feet. A laborer would not
have done in a day what occupied me an hour. But I could find
nothing — absolutely nothing. Then I renewed the search. Supposing
it had been thrown aside, it would probably be on the path which
led to the little gate; but this examination was as useless as the
first, and with a bursting heart I returned to the thicket, which
now contained no hope for me."
"Oh," cried Madame Danglars, "it was enough to drive you
mad!"
"I hoped for a moment that it might," said Villefort; "but that
happiness was denied me. However, recovering my strength and my
ideas, `Why,' said I, `should that man have carried away the
corpse?'"
"But you said," replied Madame Danglars, "he would require it as
a proof."
"Ah, no, madame, that could not be. Dead bodies are not kept a
year; they are shown to a magistrate, and the evidence is taken.
Now, nothing of the kind has happened."
"What then?" asked Hermine, trembling violently.
"Something more terrible, more fatal, more alarming for us — the"Something more terrible, more fatal, more alarming for us — the
child was, perhaps, alive, and the assassin may have saved it!"
Madame Danglars uttered a piercing cry, and, seizing Villefort's
hands, exclaimed, "My child was alive?" said she; "you buried my
child alive? You were not certain my child was dead, and you buried
it? Ah" —
Madame Danglars had risen, and stood before the procureur, whose
hands she wrung in her feeble grasp. "I know not; I merely suppose
so, as I might suppose anything else," replied Villefort with a
look so fixed, it indicated that his powerful mind was on the verge
of despair and madness. "Ah, my child, my poor child!" cried the
baroness, falling on her chair, and stifling her sobs in her
handkerchief. Villefort, becoming somewhat reassured, perceived
that to avert the maternal storm gathering over his head, he must
inspire Madame Danglars with the terror he felt. "You understand,
then, that if it were so," said he, rising in his turn, and
approaching the baroness, to speak to her in a lower tone, "we are
lost. This child lives, and some one knows it lives — some one is
in possession of our secret; and since Monte Cristo speaks before
us of a child disinterred, when that child could not be found, it
is he who is in possession of our secret."
"Just God, avenging God!" murmured Madame Danglars.
Villefort's only answer was a stifled groan.
"But the child — the child, sir?" repeated the agitated
mother.
"How I have searched for him," replied Villefort, wringing his
hands; "how I have called him in my long sleepless nights; how I
have longed for royal wealth to purchase a million of secrets from
a million of men, and to find mine among them! At last, one day,
when for the hundredth time I took up my spade, I asked myself
again and again what the Corsican could have done with the child. A
child encumbers a fugitive; perhaps, on perceiving it was still
alive, he had thrown it into the river."
"Impossible!" cried Madame Danglars: "a man may murder another


"Impossible!" cried Madame Danglars: "a man may murder another
out of revenge, but he would not deliberately drown a child."
"Perhaps," continued Villefort, "he had put it in the foundling
hospital."
"Oh, yes, yes," cried the baroness; "my child is there!"
"I ran to the hospital, and learned that the same night — the
night of the 20th of September — a child had been brought there,
wrapped in part of a fine linen napkin, purposely torn in half.
This portion of the napkin was marked with half a baron's crown,
and the letter H."
"Truly, truly," said Madame Danglars, "all my linen is marked
thus; Monsieur de Nargonne was a baronet, and my name is Hermine.
Thank God, my child was not then dead!"
"No, it was not dead."
"And you can tell me so without fearing to make me die of joy?
Where is the child?" Villefort shrugged his shoulders. "Do I know?"
said he; "and do you believe that if I knew I would relate to you
all its trials and all its adventures as would a dramatist or a
novel writer? Alas, no, I know not. A woman, about six months
after, came to claim it with the other half of the napkin. This
woman gave all the requisite particulars, and it was intrusted to
her."
"But you should have inquired for the woman; you should have
traced her."
"And what do you think I did? I feigned a criminal process, and
employed all the most acute bloodhounds and skilful agents in
search of her. They traced her to Chalons, and there they lost
her."
"They lost her?"
"Yes, forever." Madame Danglars had listened to this recital
with a sigh, a tear, or a shriek for every detail. "And this is
all?" said she; "and you stopped there?"
"Oh, no," said Villefort; "I never ceased to search and to
inquire. However, the last two or three years I had allowed myself
some respite. But now I will begin with more perseverance and fury
than ever, since fear urges me, not my conscience."
"But," replied Madame Danglars, "the Count of Monte Cristo can
know nothing, or he would not seek our society as he does."know nothing, or he would not seek our society as he does."
"Oh, the wickedness of man is very great," said Villefort,
"since it surpasses the goodness of God. Did you observe that man's
eyes while he was speaking to us?"
"No."
"But have you ever watched him carefully?"
"Doubtless he is capricious, but that is all; one thing alone
struck me, — of all the exquisite things he placed before us, he
touched nothing. I might have suspected he was poisoning us."
"And you see you would have been deceived."
"Yes, doubtless."
"But believe me, that man has other projects. For that reason I
wished to see you, to speak to you, to warn you against every one,
but especially against him. Tell me," cried Villefort, fixing his
eyes more steadfastly on her than he had ever done before, "did you
ever reveal to any one our connection?"
"Never, to any one."
"You understand me," replied Villefort, affectionately; "when I
say any one, — pardon my urgency, — to any one living I mean?"
"Yes, yes, I understand very well," ejaculated the baroness;
"never, I swear to you."
"Were you ever in the habit of writing in the evening what had
transpired in the morning? Do you keep a journal?"
"No, my life has been passed in frivolity; I wish to forget it
myself."
"Do you talk in your sleep?"
"I sleep soundly, like a child; do you not remember?" The color
mounted to the baroness's face, and Villefort turned awfully
pale.
"It is true," said he, in so low a tone that he could hardly be
heard.
"Well?" said the baroness.
"Well, I understand what I now have to do," replied Villefort.
"In less than one week from this time I will ascertain who this M.
de Monte Cristo is, whence he comes, where he goes, and why he
speaks in our presence of children that have been disinterred in a
garden." Villefort pronounced these words with an accent which
would have made the count shudder had he heard him. Then he pressed
the hand the baroness reluctantly gave him, and led her
respectfully back to the door. Madame Danglars returned in anotherrespectfully back to the door. Madame Danglars returned in another
cab to the passage, on the other side of which she found her
carriage, and her coachman sleeping peacefully on his box while
waiting for her.A gloomy scene had indeed just passed at the house of M. de
Villefort. After the ladies had departed for the ball, whither all
the entreaties of Madame de Villefort had failed in persuading him
to accompany them, the procureur had shut himself up in his study,
according to his custom, with a heap of papers calculated to alarm
any one else, but which generally scarcely satisfied his inordinate
desires. But this time the papers were a mere matter of form.
Villefort had secluded himself, not to study, but to reflect; and
with the door locked and orders given that he should not be
disturbed excepting for important business, he sat down in his
arm-chair and began to ponder over the events, the remembrance of
which had during the last eight days filled his mind with so many
gloomy thoughts and bitter recollections. Then, instead of plunging
into the mass of documents piled before him, he opened the drawer
of his desk. touched a spring, and drew out a parcel of cherished
memoranda, amongst which he had carefully arranged, in characters
only known to himself, the names of all those who, either in his
political career, in money matters, at the bar, or in his
mysterious love affairs, had become his enemies.
Their number was formidable, now that he had begun to fear, and
yet these names, powerful though they were, had often caused him to
smile with the same kind of satisfaction experienced by a traveller
who from the summit of a mountain beholds at his feet the craggy
eminences, the almost impassable paths, and the fearful chasms,
through which he has so perilously climbed. When he had run over
all these names in his memory, again read and studied them,
commenting meanwhile upon his lists, he shook his head.
"No," he murmured, "none of my enemies would have waited so
patiently and laboriously for so long a space of time, that they
might now come and crush me with this secret. Sometimes, as Hamlet
says —
`Foul deeds will rise, Tho' all the earth o'erwhelm them to
men's eyes;'


says —
`Foul deeds will rise, Tho' all the earth o'erwhelm them to
men's eyes;'
but, like a phosphoric light, they rise but to mislead. The
story has been told by the Corsican to some priest, who in his turn
has repeated it. M. de Monte Cristo may have heard it, and to
enlighten himself — but why should he wish to enlighten himself
upon the subject?" asked Villefort, after a moment's reflection,
"what interest can this M. de Monte Cristo or M. Zaccone, — son of
a shipowner of Malta, discoverer of a mine in Thessaly, now
visiting Paris for the first time, — what interest, I say, can he
take in discovering a gloomy, mysterious, and useless fact like
this? However, among all the incoherent details given to me by the
Abbe Busoni and by Lord Wilmore, by that friend and that enemy, one
thing appears certain and clear in my opinion — that in no period,
in no case, in no circumstance, could there have been any contact
between him and me."
But Villefort uttered words which even he himself did not
believe. He dreaded not so much the revelation, for he could reply
to or deny its truth; — he cared little for that mene, tekel,
upharsin, which appeared suddenly in letters of blood upon the
wall; — but what he was really anxious for was to discover whose
hand had traced them. While he was endeavoring to calm his fears, —
and instead of dwelling upon the political future that had so often
been the subject of his ambitious dreams, was imagining a future
limited to the enjoyments of home, in fear of awakening the enemy
that had so long slept, — the noise of a carriage sounded in the
yard, then he heard the steps of an aged person ascending the
stairs, followed by tears and lamentations, such as servants always
give vent to when they wish to appear interested in their master's
grief. He drew back the bolt of his door, and almost directly an
old lady entered, unannounced, carrying her shawl on her arm, and
her bonnet in her hand. The white hair was thrown back from her
yellow forehead, and her eyes, already sunken by the furrows ofyellow forehead, and her eyes, already sunken by the furrows of
age, now almost disappeared beneath the eyelids swollen with grief.
"Oh, sir," she said; "oh, sir, what a misfortune! I shall die of
it; oh, yes, I shall certainly die of it!"
And then, falling upon the chair nearest the door, she burst
into a paroxysm of sobs. The servants, standing in the doorway, not
daring to approach nearer, were looking at Noirtier's old servant,
who had heard the noise from his master's room, and run there also,
remaining behind the others. Villefort rose, and ran towards his
mother-in-law, for it was she.
"Why, what can have happened?" he exclaimed, "what has thus
disturbed you? Is M. de Saint-Meran with you?"
"M. de Saint-Meran is dead," answered the old marchioness,
without preface and without expression; she appeared to be
stupefied. Villefort drew back, and clasping his hands together,
exclaimed — "Dead! — so suddenly?"
"A week ago," continued Madame de Saint-Meran, "we went out
together in the carriage after dinner. M. de Saint-Meran had been
unwell for some days; still, the idea of seeing our dear Valentine
again inspired him with courage, and notwithstanding his illness he
would leave. At six leagues from Marseilles, after having eaten
some of the lozenges he is accustomed to take, he fell into such a
deep sleep, that it appeared to me unnatural; still I hesitated to
wake him, although I fancied that his face was flushed, and that
the veins of his temples throbbed more violently than usual.
However, as it became dark, and I could no longer see, I fell
asleep; I was soon aroused by a piercing shriek, as from a person
suffering in his dreams, and he suddenly threw his head back
violently. I called the valet, I stopped the postilion, I spoke to
M. de Saint-Meran, I applied my smelling-salts; but all was over,
and I arrived at Aix by the side of a corpse." Villefort stood with
his mouth half open, quite stupefied.
"Of course you sent for a doctor?"
"Immediately; but, as I have told you, it was too late.""Of course you sent for a doctor?"
"Immediately; but, as I have told you, it was too late."
"Yes; but then he could tell of what complaint the poor marquis
had died."
"Oh, yes, sir, he told me; it appears to have been an apoplectic
stroke."
"And what did you do then?"
"M. de Saint-Meran had always expressed a desire, in case his
death happened during his absence from Paris, that his body might
be brought to the family vault. I had him put into a leaden coffin,
and I am preceding him by a few days."
"Oh, my poor mother," said Villefort, "to have such duties to
perform at your age after such a blow!"
"God has supported me through all; and then, my dear marquis, he
would certainly have done everything for me that I performed for
him. It is true that since I left him, I seem to have lost my
senses. I cannot cry; at my age they say that we have no more
tears, — still I think that when one is in trouble one should have
the power of weeping. Where is Valentine, sir? It is on her account
I am here; I wish to see Valentine." Villefort thought it would be
terrible to reply that Valentine was at a ball; so he only said
that she had gone out with her step-mother, and that she should be
fetched. "This instant, sir — this instant, I beseech you!" said
the old lady. Villefort placed the arm of Madame de Saint-Meran
within his own, and conducted her to his apartment. "Rest yourself,
mother," he said.
The marchioness raised her head at this word, and beholding the
man who so forcibly reminded her of her deeply-regretted child, who
still lived for her in Valentine, she felt touched at the name of
mother, and bursting into tears, she fell on her knees before an
arm-chair, where she buried her venerable head. Villefort left her
to the care of the women, while old Barrois ran, half-scared, to
his master; for nothing frightens old people so much as when death
relaxes its vigilance over them for a moment in order to strike
some other old person. Then, while Madame de Saint-Meran remained


some other old person. Then, while Madame de Saint-Meran remained
on her knees, praying fervently, Villefort sent for a cab, and went
himself to fetch his wife and daughter from Madame de Morcerf's. He
was so pale when he appeared at the door of the ball-room, that
Valentine ran to him, saying —
"Oh, father, some misfortune has happened!"
"Your grandmamma has just arrived, Valentine," said M. de
Villefort.
"And grandpapa?" inquired the young girl, trembling with
apprehension. M. de Villefort only replied by offering his arm to
his daughter. It was just in time, for Valentine's head swam, and
she staggered; Madame de Villefort instantly hastened to her
assistance, and aided her husband in dragging her to the carriage,
saying — "What a singular event! Who could have thought it? Ah,
yes, it is indeed strange!" And the wretched family departed,
leaving a cloud of sadness hanging over the rest of the evening. At
the foot of the stairs, Valentine found Barrois awaiting her.
"M. Noirtier wishes to see you to-night, he said, in an
undertone.
"Tell him I will come when I leave my dear grandmamma," she
replied, feeling, with true delicacy, that the person to whom she
could be of the most service just then was Madame de Saint-Meran.
Valentine found her grandmother in bed; silent caresses, heartwrung
sobs, broken sighs, burning tears, were all that passed in this sad
interview, while Madame de Villefort, leaning on her husband's arm,
maintained all outward forms of respect, at least towards the poor
widow. She soon whispered to her husband, "I think it would be
better for me to retire, with your permission, for the sight of me
appears still to afflict your mother-in-law." Madame de Saint-Meran
heard her. "Yes, yes," she said softly to Valentine, "let her
leave; but do you stay." Madame de Villefort left, and Valentine
remained alone beside the bed, for the procureur, overcome with
astonishment at the unexpected death, had followed his wife.
Meanwhile, Barrois had returned for the first time to old Noirtier,Meanwhile, Barrois had returned for the first time to old Noirtier,
who having heard the noise in the house, had, as we have said, sent
his old servant to inquire the cause; on his return, his quick
intelligent eye interrogated the messenger. "Alas, sir," exclaimed
Barrois, "a great misfortune has happened. Madame de Saint-Meran
has arrived, and her husband is dead!"
M. de Saint-Meran and Noirtier had never been on strict terms of
friendship; still, the death of one old man always considerably
affects another. Noirtier let his head fall upon his chest,
apparently overwhelmed and thoughtful; then he closed one eye, in
token of inquiry. "Mademoiselle Valentine?" Noirtier nodded his
head. "She is at the ball, as you know, since she came to say
good-by to you in full dress." Noirtier again closed his left eye.
"Do you wish to see her?" Noirtier again made an affirmative sign.
"Well, they have gone to fetch her, no doubt, from Madame de
Morcerf's; I will await her return, and beg her to come up here. Is
that what you wish for?"
"Yes," replied the invalid.
Barrois, therefore, as we have seen, watched for Valentine, and
informed her of her grandfather's wish. Consequently, Valentine
came up to Noirtier, on leaving Madame de Saint-Meran, who in the
midst of her grief had at last yielded to fatigue and fallen into a
feverish sleep. Within reach of her hand they placed a small table
upon which stood a bottle of orangeade, her usual beverage, and a
glass. Then, as we have said, the young girl left the bedside to
see M. Noirtier. Valentine kissed the old man, who looked at her
with such tenderness that her eyes again filled with tears, whose
sources he thought must be exhausted. The old gentleman continued
to dwell upon her with the same expression. "Yes, yes," said
Valentine, "you mean that I have yet a kind grandfather left, do
you not." The old man intimated that such was his meaning. "Ah,
yes, happily I have," replied Valentine. "Without that, what would
become of me?"yes, happily I have," replied Valentine. "Without that, what would
become of me?"
It was one o'clock in the morning. Barrois, who wished to go to
bed himself, observed that after such sad events every one stood in
need of rest. Noirtier would not say that the only rest he needed
was to see his child, but wished her good-night, for grief and
fatigue had made her appear quite ill. The next morning she found
her grandmother in bed; the fever had not abated, on the contrary
her eyes glistened and she appeared to be suffering from violent
nervous irritability. "Oh, dear grandmamma, are you worse?"
exclaimed Valentine, perceiving all these signs of agitation.
"No, my child, no," said Madame de Saint-Meran; "but I was
impatiently waiting for your arrival, that I might send for your
father."
"My father?" inquired Valentine, uneasily.
"Yes, I wish to speak to him." Valentine durst not oppose her
grandmother's wish, the cause of which she did not know, and an
instant afterwards Villefort entered. "Sir," said Madame de
Saint-Meran, without using any circumlocution, and as if fearing
she had no time to lose, "you wrote to me concerning the marriage
of this child?"
"Yes, madame," replied Villefort, "it is not only projected but
arranged."
"Your intended son-in-law is named M. Franz d'Epinay?"
"Yes, madame."
"Is he not the son of General d'Epinay who was on our side, and
who was assassinated some days before the usurper returned from the
Island of Elba?"
"The same."
"Does he not dislike the idea of marrying the granddaughter of a
Jacobin?"
"Our civil dissensions are now happily extinguished, mother,"
said Villefort; "M. d'Epinay was quite a child when his father
died, he knows very little of M. Noirtier, and will meet him, if
not with pleasure, at least with indifference."
"Is it a suitable match?"
"In every respect."
"And the young man?"
"Is regarded with universal esteem."
"You approve of him?"
"He is one of the most well-bred young men I know." During the
whole of this conversation Valentine had remained silent. "Well,


whole of this conversation Valentine had remained silent. "Well,
sir," said Madame de Saint-Meran, after a few minutes' reflection,
"I must hasten the marriage, for I have but a short time to
live."
"You, madame?" "You, dear mamma?" exclaimed M. de Villefort and
Valentine at the same time.
"I know what I am saying," continued the marchioness; "I must
hurry you, so that, as she has no mother, she may at least have a
grandmother to bless her marriage. I am all that is left to her
belonging to my poor Renee, whom you have so soon forgotten,
sir."
"Ah, madame," said Villefort, "you forget that I was obliged to
give a mother to my child."
"A stepmother is never a mother, sir. But this is not to the
purpose, — our business concerns Valentine, let us leave the dead
in peace."
All this was said with such exceeding rapidity, that there was
something in the conversation that seemed like the beginning of
delirium.
"It shall be as you wish, madame," said Villefort; "more
especially since your wishes coincide with mine, and as soon as M.
d'Epinay arrives in Paris" —
"My dear grandmother," interrupted Valentine, "consider decorum
— the recent death. You would not have me marry under such sad
auspices?"
"My child," exclaimed the old lady sharply, "let us hear none of
the conventional objections that deter weak minds from preparing
for the future. I also was married at the death-bed of my mother,
and certainly I have not been less happy on that account."
"Still that idea of death, madame," said Villefort.
"Still? — Always! I tell you I am going to die — do you
understand? Well, before dying, I wish to see my son-in-law. I wish
to tell him to make my child happy; I wish to read in his eyes
whether he intends to obey me; — in fact, I will know him — I
will!" continued the old lady, with a fearful expression, "that I
may rise from the depths of my grave to find him, if he should not
fulfil his duty!"
"Madame," said Villefort, "you must lay aside these exalted
ideas, which almost assume the appearance of madness. The dead,ideas, which almost assume the appearance of madness. The dead,
once buried in their graves, rise no more."
"And I tell you, sir, that you are mistaken. This night I have
had a fearful sleep. It seemed as though my soul were already
hovering over my body, my eyes, which I tried to open, closed
against my will, and what will appear impossible above all to you,
sir, I saw, with my eyes shut, in the spot where you are now
standing, issuing from that corner where there is a door leading
into Madame Villefort's dressing-room — I saw, I tell you, silently
enter, a white figure." Valentine screamed. "It was the fever that
disturbed you, madame," said Villefort.
"Doubt, if you please, but I am sure of what I say. I saw a
white figure, and as if to prevent my discrediting the testimony of
only one of my senses, I heard my glass removed — the same which is
there now on the table."
"Oh, dear mother, it was a dream."
"So little was it a dream, that I stretched my hand towards the
bell; but when I did so, the shade disappeared; my maid then
entered with a light."
"But she saw no one?"
"Phantoms are visible to those only who ought to see them. It
was the soul of my husband! — Well, if my husband's soul can come
to me, why should not my soul reappear to guard my granddaughter?
the tie is even more direct, it seems to me."
"Oh, madame," said Villefort, deeply affected, in spite of
himself, "do not yield to those gloomy thoughts; you will long live
with us, happy, loved, and honored, and we will make you forget"
—
"Never, never, never," said the marchioness. "when does M.
d'Epinay return?"
"We expect him every moment."
"It is well. As soon as he arrives inform me. We must be
expeditious. And then I also wish to see a notary, that I may be
assured that all our property returns to Valentine."
"Ah, grandmamma," murmured Valentine, pressing her lips on the
burning brow, "do you wish to kill me? Oh, how feverish you are; we
must not send for a notary, but for a doctor."
"A doctor?" said she, shrugging her shoulders, "I am not ill; I"A doctor?" said she, shrugging her shoulders, "I am not ill; I
am thirsty — that is all."
"What are you drinking, dear grandmamma?"
"The same as usual, my dear, my glass is there on the table —
give it to me, Valentine." Valentine poured the orangeade into a
glass and gave it to her grandmother with a certain degree of
dread, for it was the same glass she fancied that had been touched
by the spectre. The marchioness drained the glass at a single
draught, and then turned on her pillow, repeating, — "The notary,
the notary!"
M. de Villefort left the room, and Valentine seated herself at
the bedside of her grandmother. The poor child appeared herself to
require the doctor she had recommended to her aged relative. A
bright spot burned in either cheek, her respiration was short and
difficult, and her pulse beat with feverish excitement. She was
thinking of the despair of Maximilian, when he should be informed
that Madame de Saint-Meran, instead of being an ally, was
unconsciously acting as his enemy. More than once she thought of
revealing all to her grandmother, and she would not have hesitated
a moment, if Maximilian Morrel had been named Albert de Morcerf or
Raoul de Chateau-Renaud; but Morrel was of plebeian extraction, and
Valentine knew how the haughty Marquise de Saint-Meran despised all
who were not noble. Her secret had each time been repressed when
she was about to reveal it, by the sad conviction that it would be
useless to do so; for, were it once discovered by her father and
mother, all would be lost. Two hours passed thus; Madame de
Saint-Meran was in a feverish sleep, and the notary had arrived.
Though his coming was announced in a very low tone, Madame de
Saint-Meran arose from her pillow. "The notary!" she exclaimed,
"let him come in."
The notary, who was at the door, immediately entered. "Go,
Valentine," said Madame de Saint-Meran, "and leave me with this
gentleman."
"But, grandmamma" —
"Leave me — go!" The young girl kissed her grandmother, and left


gentleman."
"But, grandmamma" —
"Leave me — go!" The young girl kissed her grandmother, and left
with her handkerchief to her eyes; at the door she found the valet
de chambre, who told her that the doctor was waiting in the
dining-room. Valentine instantly ran down. The doctor was a friend
of the family, and at the same time one of the cleverest men of the
day, and very fond of Valentine, whose birth he had witnessed. He
had himself a daughter about her age, but whose life was one
continued source of anxiety and fear to him from her mother having
been consumptive.
"Oh," said Valentine, "we have been waiting for you with such
impatience, dear M. d'Avrigny. But, first of all, how are Madeleine
and Antoinette?" Madeleine was the daughter of M. d'Avrigny, and
Antoinette his niece. M. d'Avrigny smiled sadly. "Antoinette is
very well," he said, "and Madeleine tolerably so. But you sent for
me, my dear child. It is not your father or Madame de Villefort who
is ill. As for you, although we doctors cannot divest our patients
of nerves, I fancy you have no further need of me than to recommend
you not to allow your imagination to take too wide a field."
Valentine colored. M. d'Avrigny carried the science of divination
almost to a miraculous extent, for he was one of the physicians who
always work upon the body through the mind. "No," she replied, "it
is for my poor grandmother. You know the calamity that has happened
to us, do you not?"
"I know nothing." said M. d'Avrigny.
"Alas," said Valentine, restraining her tears, "my grandfather
is dead."
"M. de Saint-Meran?"
"Yes."
"Suddenly?"
"From an apoplectic stroke."
"An apoplectic stroke?" repeated the doctor.
"Yes, and my poor grandmother fancies that her husband, whom she
never left, has called her, and that she must go and join him. Oh,
M. d'Avrigny, I beseech you, do something for her!"
"Where is she?"
"In her room with the notary."
"And M. Noirtier?"
"Just as he was, his mind perfectly clear, but the same
incapability of moving or speaking.""Just as he was, his mind perfectly clear, but the same
incapability of moving or speaking."
"And the same love for you — eh, my dear child?"
"Yes," said Valentine, "he was very fond of me."
"Who does not love you?" Valentine smiled sadly. "What are your
grandmother's symptoms?"
"An extreme nervous excitement and a strangely agitated sleep;
she fancied this morning in her sleep that her soul was hovering
above her body, which she at the same time watched. It must have
been delirium; she fancies, too, that she saw a phantom enter her
chamber and even heard the noise it made on touching her
glass."
"It is singular," said the doctor; "I was not aware that Madame
de Saint-Meran was subject to such hallucinations."
"It is the first time I ever saw her in this condition," said
Valentine; "and this morning she frightened me so that I thought
her mad; and my father, who you know is a strong-minded man,
himself appeared deeply impressed."
"We will go and see," said the doctor; "what you tell me seems
very strange." The notary here descended, and Valentine was
informed that her grandmother was alone. "Go upstairs," she said to
the doctor.
"And you?"
"Oh, I dare not — she forbade my sending for you; and, as you
say, I am myself agitated, feverish and out of sorts. I will go and
take a turn in the garden to recover myself." The doctor pressed
Valentine's hand, and while he visited her grandmother, she
descended the steps. We need not say which portion of the garden
was her favorite walk. After remaining for a short time in the
parterre surrounding the house, and gathering a rose to place in
her waist or hair, she turned into the dark avenue which led to the
bench; then from the bench she went to the gate. As usual,
Valentine strolled for a short time among her flowers, but without
gathering them. The mourning in her heart forbade her assuming this
simple ornament, though she had not yet had time to put on the
outward semblance of woe. She then turned towards the avenue. Asoutward semblance of woe. She then turned towards the avenue. As
she advanced she fancied she heard a voice speaking her name. She
stopped astonished, then the voice reached her ear more distinctly,
and she recognized it to be that of Maximilian.It was, indeed, Maximilian Morrel, who had passed a wretched
existence since the previous day. With the instinct peculiar to
lovers he had anticipated after the return of Madame de Saint-Meran
and the death of the marquis, that something would occur at M. de
Villefort's in connection with his attachment for Valentine. His
presentiments were realized, as we shall see, and his uneasy
forebodings had goaded him pale and trembling to the gate under the
chestnut-trees. Valentine was ignorant of the cause of this sorrow
and anxiety, and as it was not his accustomed hour for visiting
her, she had gone to the spot simply by accident or perhaps through
sympathy. Morrel called her, and she ran to the gate. "You here at
this hour?" said she. "Yes, my poor girl," replied Morrel; "I come
to bring and to hear bad tidings."
"This is, indeed, a house of mourning," said Valentine; "speak,
Maximilian, although the cup of sorrow seems already full."
"Dear Valentine," said Morrel, endeavoring to conceal his own
emotion, "listen, I entreat you; what I am about to say is very
serious. When are you to be married?"
"I will tell you all," said Valentine; "from you I have nothing
to conceal. This morning the subject was introduced, and my dear
grandmother, on whom I depended as my only support, not only
declared herself favorable to it, but is so anxious for it, that
they only await the arrival of M. d'Epinay, and the following day
the contract will be signed." A deep sigh escaped the young man,
who gazed long and mournfully at her he loved. "Alas," replied he,
"it is dreadful thus to hear my condemnation from your own lips.
The sentence is passed, and, in a few hours, will be executed; it
must be so, and I will not endeavor to prevent it. But, since you
say nothing remains but for M. d'Epinay to arrive that the contract
may be signed, and the following day you will be his, to-morrow you
will be engaged to M. d'Epinay, for he came this morning to Paris."
Valentine uttered a cry.


will be engaged to M. d'Epinay, for he came this morning to Paris."
Valentine uttered a cry.
"I was at the house of Monte Cristo an hour since," said Morrel;
"we were speaking, he of the sorrow your family had experienced,
and I of your grief, when a carriage rolled into the court-yard.
Never, till then, had I placed any confidence in presentiments, but
now I cannot help believing them, Valentine. At the sound of that
carriage I shuddered; soon I heard steps on the staircase, which
terrified me as much as the footsteps of the commander did Don
Juan. The door at last opened; Albert de Morcerf entered first, and
I began to hope my fears were vain, when, after him, another young
man advanced, and the count exclaimed — `Ah, here is the Baron
Franz d'Epinay!' I summoned all my strength and courage to my
support. Perhaps I turned pale and trembled, but certainly I
smiled; and five minutes after I left, without having heard one
word that had passed."
"Poor Maximilian!" murmured Valentine.
"Valentine, the time has arrived when you must answer me. And
remember my life depends on your answer. What do you intend doing?"
Valentine held down her head; she was overwhelmed.
"Listen," said Morrel; "it is not the first time you have
contemplated our present position, which is a serious and urgent
one; I do not think it is a moment to give way to useless sorrow;
leave that for those who like to suffer at their leisure and
indulge their grief in secret. There are such in the world, and God
will doubtless reward them in heaven for their resignation on
earth, but those who mean to contend must not lose one precious
moment, but must return immediately the blow which fortune strikes.
Do you intend to struggle against our ill-fortune? Tell me,
Valentine for it is that I came to know."
Valentine trembled, and looked at him with amazement. The idea
of resisting her father, her grandmother, and all the family, had
never occurred to her. "What do you say, Maximilian?" asked
Valentine. "What do you mean by a struggle? Oh, it would be aValentine. "What do you mean by a struggle? Oh, it would be a
sacrilege. What? I resist my father's order, and my dying
grandmother's wish? Impossible!" Morrel started. "You are too noble
not to understand me, and you understand me so well that you
already yield, dear Maximilian. No, no; I shall need all my
strength to struggle with myself and support my grief in secret, as
you say. But to grieve my father — to disturb my grandmother's last
moments — never!"
"You are right," said Morrel, calmly.
"In what a tone you speak!" cried Valentine.
"I speak as one who admires you, mademoiselle."
"Mademoiselle," cried Valentine; "mademoiselle! Oh, selfish man,
— he sees me in despair, and pretends he cannot understand me!"
"You mistake — I understand you perfectly. You will not oppose
M. Villefort, you will not displease the marchioness, and to-morrow
you will sign the contract which will bind you to your
husband."
"But, mon Dieu, tell me, how can I do otherwise?"
"Do not appeal to me, mademoiselle; I shall be a bad judge in
such a case; my selfishness will blind me," replied Morrel, whose
low voice and clinched hands announced his growing desperation.
"What would you have proposed, Maximilian, had you found me
willing to accede?"
"It is not for me to say."
"You are wrong; you must advise me what to do."
"Do you seriously ask my advice, Valentine?"
"Certainly, dear Maximilian, for if it is good, I will follow
it; you know my devotion to you."
"Valentine," said Morrel pushing aside a loose plank, "give me
your hand in token of forgiveness of my anger; my senses are
confused, and during the last hour the most extravagant thoughts
have passed through my brain. Oh, if you refuse my advice" —
"What do you advise?" said Valentine, raising her eyes to heaven
and sighing. "I am free," replied Maximilian, "and rich enough to
support you. I swear to make you my lawful wife before my lips even
shall have approached your forehead."
"You make me tremble!" said the young girl.shall have approached your forehead."
"You make me tremble!" said the young girl.
"Follow me," said Morrel; "I will take you to my sister, who is
worthy also to be yours. We will embark for Algiers, for England,
for America, or, if your prefer it, retire to the country and only
return to Paris when our friends have reconciled your family."
Valentine shook her head. "I feared it, Maximilian," said she; "it
is the counsel of a madman, and I should be more mad than you, did
I not stop you at once with the word `Impossible, impossible!'"
"You will then submit to what fate decrees for you without even
attempting to contend with it?" said Morrel sorrowfully. "Yes, — if
I die!"
"Well, Valentine," resumed Maximilian, "I can only say again
that you are right. Truly, it is I who am mad, and you prove to me
that passion blinds the most well-meaning. I appreciate your calm
reasoning. It is then understood that to-morrow you will be
irrevocably promised to M. Franz d'Epinay, not only by that
theatrical formality invented to heighten the effect of a comedy
called the signature of the contract, but your own will?"
"Again you drive me to despair, Maximilian," said Valentine,
"again you plunge the dagger into the wound! What would you do,
tell me, if your sister listened to such a proposition?"
"Mademoiselle," replied Morrel with a bitter smile, "I am
selfish — you have already said so — and as a selfish man I think
not of what others would do in my situation, but of what I intend
doing myself. I think only that I have known you not a whole year.
From the day I first saw you, all my hopes of happiness have been
in securing your affection. One day you acknowledged that you loved
me, and since that day my hope of future happiness has rested on
obtaining you, for to gain you would be life to me. Now, I think no
more; I say only that fortune has turned against me — I had thought
to gain heaven, and now I have lost it. It is an every-day
occurrence for a gambler to lose not only what he possesses but


occurrence for a gambler to lose not only what he possesses but
also what he has not." Morrel pronounced these words with perfect
calmness; Valentine looked at him a moment with her large,
scrutinizing eyes, endeavoring not to let Morrel discover the grief
which struggled in her heart. "But, in a word, what are you going
to do?" asked she.
"I am going to have the honor of taking my leave of you,
mademoiselle, solemnly assuring you that I wish your life may be so
calm, so happy, and so fully occupied, that there may be no place
for me even in your memory."
"Oh!" murmured Valentine.
"Adieu, Valentine, adieu!" said Morrel, bowing.
"Where are you going?" cried the young girl, extending her hand
through the opening, and seizing Maximilian by his coat, for she
understood from her own agitated feelings that her lover's calmness
could not be real; "where are you going?"
"I am going, that I may not bring fresh trouble into your
family: and to set an example which every honest and devoted man,
situated as I am, may follow."
"Before you leave me, tell me what you are going to do,
Maximilian." The young man smiled sorrowfully. "Speak, speak!" said
Valentine; "I entreat you."
"Has your resolution changed, Valentine?"
"It cannot change, unhappy man; you know it must not!" cried the
young girl. "Then adieu, Valentine!" Valentine shook the gate with
a strength of which she could not have been supposed to be
possessed, as Morrel was going away, and passing both her hands
through the opening, she clasped and wrung them. "I must know what
you mean to do!" said she. "Where are you going?"
"Oh, fear not," said Maximilian, stopping at a short distance,
"I do not intend to render another man responsible for the rigorous
fate reserved for me. Another might threaten to seek M. Franz, to
provoke him, and to fight with him; all that would be folly. What
has M. Franz to do with it? He saw me this morning for the first
time, and has already forgotten he has seen me. He did not eventime, and has already forgotten he has seen me. He did not even
know I existed when it was arranged by your two families that you
should be united. I have no enmity against M. Franz, and promise
you the punishment shall not fall on him."
"On whom, then! — on me?"
"On you? Valentine! Oh, heaven forbid! Woman is sacred; the
woman one loves is holy."
"On yourself, then, unhappy man; on yourself?"
"I am the only guilty person, am I not?' said Maximilian.
"Maximilian!" said Valentine, "Maximilian, come back, I entreat
you!" He drew near with his sweet smile, and but for his paleness
one might have thought him in his usual happy mood. "Listen, my
dear, my adored Valentine," said he in his melodious and grave
tone; "those who, like us, have never had a thought for which we
need blush before the world, such may read each other's hearts. I
never was romantic, and am no melancholy hero. I imitate neither
Manfred nor Anthony; but without words, protestations, or vows, my
life has entwined itself with yours; you leave me, and you are
right in doing so, — I repeat it, you are right; but in losing you,
I lose my life.
"The moment you leave me, Valentine, I am alone in the world. My
sister is happily married; her husband is only my brother-in-law,
that is, a man whom the ties of social life alone attach to me; no
one then longer needs my useless life. This is what I shall do; I
will wait until the very moment you are married, for I will not
lose the shadow of one of those unexpected chances which are
sometimes reserved for us, since M. Franz may, after all, die
before that time, a thunderbolt may fall even on the altar as you
approach it, — nothing appears impossible to one condemned to die,
and miracles appear quite reasonable when his escape from death is
concerned. I will, then, wait until the last moment, and when my
misery is certain, irremediable, hopeless, I will write a
confidential letter to my brother-in-law, another to the prefect of
police, to acquaint them with my intention, and at the corner ofpolice, to acquaint them with my intention, and at the corner of
some wood, on the brink of some abyss, on the bank of some river, I
will put an end to my existence, as certainly as I am the son of
the most honest man who ever lived in France."
Valentine trembled convulsively; she loosened her hold of the
gate, her arms fell by her side, and two large tears rolled down
her cheeks. The young man stood before her, sorrowful and resolute.
"Oh, for pity's sake," said she, "you will live, will you not?"
"No, on my honor," said Maximilian; "but that will not affect
you. You have done your duty, and your conscience will be at rest."
Valentine fell on her knees, and pressed her almost bursting heart.
"Maximilian," said she, "Maximilian, my friend, my brother on
earth, my true husband in heaven, I entreat you, do as I do, live
in suffering; perhaps we may one day be united."
"Adieu, Valentine," repeated Morrel.
"My God," said Valentine, raising both her hands to heaven with
a sublime expression, "I have done my utmost to remain a submissive
daughter; I have begged, entreated, implored; he has regarded
neither my prayers, my entreaties, nor my tears. It is done," cried
she, willing away her tears, and resuming her firmness, "I am
resolved not to die of remorse, but rather of shame. Live,
Maximilian, and I will be yours. Say when shall it be? Speak,
command, I will obey." Morrel, who had already gone some few steps
away, again returned, and pale with joy extended both hands towards
Valentine through the opening. "Valentine," said he, "dear
Valentine, you must not speak thus — rather let me die. Why should
I obtain you by violence, if our love is mutual? Is it from mere
humanity you bid me live? I would then rather die."
"Truly," murmured Valentine, "who on this earth cares for me, if
he does not? Who has consoled me in my sorrow but he? On whom do my
hopes rest? On whom does my bleeding heart repose? On him, on him,
always on him! Yes, you are right, Maximilian, I will follow you. I


always on him! Yes, you are right, Maximilian, I will follow you. I
will leave the paternal home, I will give up all. Oh, ungrateful
girl that I am," cried Valentine, sobbing, "I will give up all,
even my dear old grandfather, whom I had nearly forgotten."
"No," said Maximilian, "you shall not leave him. M. Noirtier has
evinced, you say, a kind feeling towards me. Well, before you
leave, tell him all; his consent would be your justification in
God's sight. As soon as we are married, he shall come and live with
us, instead of one child, he shall have two. You have told me how
you talk to him and how he answers you; I shall very soon learn
that language by signs, Valentine, and I promise you solemnly, that
instead of despair, it is happiness that awaits us."
"Oh, see, Maximilian, see the power you have over me, you almost
make me believe you; and yet, what you tell me is madness, for my
father will curse me — he is inflexible — he will never pardon me.
Now listen to me, Maximilian; if by artifice, by entreaty, by
accident — in short, if by any means I can delay this marriage,
will you wait?"
"Yes, I promise you, as faithfully as you have promised me that
this horrible marriage shall not take place, and that if you are
dragged before a magistrate or a priest, you will refuse."
"I promise you by all that is most sacred to me in the world,
namely, by my mother."
"We will wait, then," said Morrel.
"Yes, we will wait," replied Valentine, who revived at these
words; "there are so many things which may save unhappy beings such
as we are."
"I rely on you, Valentine," said Morrel; "all you do will be
well done; only if they disregard your prayers, if your father and
Madame de Saint-Meran insist that M. d'Epinay should be called
to-morrow to sign the contract" —
"Then you have my promise, Maximilian."
"Instead of signing" —
"I will go to you, and we will fly; but from this moment until
then, let us not tempt providence, let us not see each other. It is
a miracle, it is a providence that we have not been discovered. Ifa miracle, it is a providence that we have not been discovered. If
we were surprised, if it were known that we met thus, we should
have no further resource."
"You are right, Valentine; but how shall I ascertain?"
"From the notary, M. Deschamps."
"I know him."
"And for myself — I will write to you, depend on me. I dread
this marriage, Maximilian, as much as you."
"Thank you, my adored Valentine, thank you; that is enough. When
once I know the hour, I will hasten to this spot, you can easily
get over this fence with my assistance, a carriage will await us at
the gate, in which you will accompany me to my sister's; there
living, retired or mingling in society, as you wish, we shall be
enabled to use our power to resist oppression, and not suffer
ourselves to be put to death like sheep, which only defend
themselves by sighs."
"Yes," said Valentine, "I will now acknowledge you are right,
Maximilian; and now are you satisfied with your betrothal?" said
the young girl sorrowfully.
"My adored Valentine, words cannot express one half of my
satisfaction." Valentine had approached, or rather, had placed her
lips so near the fence, that they nearly touched those of Morrel,
which were pressed against the other side of the cold and
inexorable barrier. "Adieu, then, till we meet again," said
Valentine, tearing herself away. "I shall hear from you?"
"Yes."
"Thanks, thanks, dear love, adieu!" The sound of a kiss was
heard, and Valentine fled through the avenue. Morrel listened to
catch the last sound of her dress brushing the branches, and of her
footstep on the gravel, then raised his eyes with an ineffable
smile of thankfulness to heaven for being permitted to be thus
loved, and then also disappeared. The young man returned home and
waited all the evening and all the next day without getting any
message. It was only on the following day, at about ten o'clock in
the morning, as he was starting to call on M. Deschamps, the
notary, that he received from the postman a small billet, which henotary, that he received from the postman a small billet, which he
knew to be from Valentine, although he had not before seen her
writing. It was to this effect: —
Tears, entreaties, prayers, have availed me nothing. Yesterday,
for two hours, I was at the church of Saint-Phillippe du Roule, and
for two hours I prayed most fervently. Heaven is as inflexible as
man, and the signature of the contract is fixed for this evening at
nine o'clock. I have but one promise and but one heart to give;
that promise is pledged to you, that heart is also yours. This
evening, then, at a quarter to nine at the gate.
Your betrothed,
Valentine de Villefort.
P.S. — My poor grandmother gets worse and worse; yesterday her
fever amounted to delirium; to-day her delirium is almost madness.
You will be very kind to me, will you not, Morrel, to make me
forget my sorrow in leaving her thus? I think it is kept a secret
from grandpapa Noirtier, that the contract is to be signed this
evening.
Morrel went also to the notary, who confirmed the news that the
contract was to be signed that evening. Then he went to call on
Monte Cristo and heard still more. Franz had been to announce the
ceremony, and Madame de Villefort had also written to beg the count
to excuse her not inviting him; the death of M. de Saint-Meran and
the dangerous illness of his widow would cast a gloom over the
meeting which she would regret should be shared by the count whom
she wished every happiness. The day before Franz had been presented
to Madame de Saint-Meran, who had left her bed to receive him, but
had been obliged to return to it immediately after. It is easy to
suppose that Morrel's agitation would not escape the count's
penetrating eye. Monte Cristo was more affectionate than ever, —
indeed, his manner was so kind that several times Morrel was on the
point of telling him all. But he recalled the promise he had made
to Valentine, and kept his secret.
The young man read Valentine's letter twenty times in the course