Then the figure, from whom she could not detach her eyes, and who
appeared more protecting than menacing, took the glass, and walking
towards the night-light held it up, as if to test its transparency.
This did not seem sufficient; the man, or rather the ghost — for he
trod so softly that no sound was heard — then poured out about a
spoonful into the glass, and drank it. Valentine witnessed this
scene with a sentiment of stupefaction. Every minute she had
expected that it would vanish and give place to another vision; but
the man, instead of dissolving like a shadow, again approached her,
and said in an agitated voice, "Now you may drink."
Valentine shuddered. It was the first time one of these visions
had ever addressed her in a living voice, and she was about to
utter an exclamation. The man placed his finger on her lips. "The
Count of Monte Cristo!" she murmured.
It was easy to see that no doubt now remained in the young
girl's mind as to the reality of the scene; her eyes started with
terror, her hands trembled, and she rapidly drew the bedclothes
closer to her. Still, the presence of Monte Cristo at such an hour,
his mysterious, fanciful, and extraordinary entrance into her room
through the wall, might well seem impossibilities to her shattered
reason. "Do not call any one — do not be alarmed," said the Count;
"do not let a shade of suspicion or uneasiness remain in your
breast; the man standing before you, Valentine (for this time it is
no ghost), is nothing more than the tenderest father and the most
respectful friend you could dream of."
Valentine could not reply; the voice which indicated the real
presence of a being in the room, alarmed her so much that she
feared to utter a syllable; still the expression of her eyes seemed
to inquire, "If your intentions are pure, why are you here?" The
count's marvellous sagacity understood all that was passing in the
young girl's mind.
"Listen to me," he said, "or, rather, look upon me; look at my
face, paler even than usual, and my eyes, red with weariness — forface, paler even than usual, and my eyes, red with weariness — for
four days I have not closed them, for I have been constantly
watching you, to protect and preserve you for Maximilian." The
blood mounted rapidly to the cheeks of Valentine, for the name just
announced by the count dispelled all the fear with which his
presence had inspired her. "Maximilian!" she exclaimed, and so
sweet did the sound appear to her, that she repeated it —
"Maximilian! — has he then owned all to you?"
"Everything. He told me your life was his, and I have promised
him that you shall live."
"You have promised him that I shall live?"
"Yes."
"But, sir, you spoke of vigilance and protection. Are you a
doctor?"
"Yes; the best you could have at the present time, believe
me."
"But you say you have watched?" said Valentine uneasily; "where
have you been? — I have not seen you." The count extended his hand
towards the library. "I was hidden behind that door," he said,
"which leads into the next house, which I have rented." Valentine
turned her eyes away, and, with an indignant expression of pride
and modest fear, exclaimed: "Sir, I think you have been guilty of
an unparalleled intrusion, and that what you call protection is
more like an insult."
"Valentine," he answered, "during my long watch over you, all I
have observed has been what people visited you, what nourishment
was prepared, and what beverage was served; then, when the latter
appeared dangerous to me, I entered, as I have now done, and
substituted, in the place of the poison, a healthful draught;
which, instead of producing the death intended, caused life to
circulate in your veins."
"Poison — death!" exclaimed Valentine, half believing herself
under the influence of some feverish hallucination; "what are you
saying, sir?"
"Hush, my child," said Monte Cristo, again placing his finger
upon her lips, "I did say poison and death. But drink some of
this;" and the count took a bottle from his pocket, containing a
red liquid, of which he poured a few drops into the glass. "Drinkred liquid, of which he poured a few drops into the glass. "Drink
this, and then take nothing more to-night." Valentine stretched out
her hand, but scarcely had she touched the glass when she drew back
in fear. Monte Cristo took the glass, drank half its contents, and
then presented it to Valentine, who smiled and swallowed the rest.
"Oh, yes," she exclaimed, "I recognize the flavor of my nocturnal
beverage which refreshed me so much, and seemed to ease my aching
brain. Thank you, sir, thank you!"
"This is how you have lived during the last four nights,
Valentine," said the count. "But, oh, how I passed that time! Oh,
the wretched hours I have endured — the torture to which I have
submitted when I saw the deadly poison poured into your glass, and
how I trembled lest you should drink it before I could find time to
throw it away!"
"Sir," said Valentine, at the height of her terror, "you say you
endured tortures when you saw the deadly poison poured into my
glass; but if you saw this, you must also have seen the person who
poured it?"
"Yes." Valentine raised herself in bed, and drew over her chest,
which appeared whiter than snow, the embroidered cambric, still
moist with the cold dews of delirium, to which were now added those
of terror. "You saw the person?" repeated the young girl. "Yes,"
repeated the count.
"What you tell me is horrible, sir. You wish to make me believe
something too dreadful. What? — attempt to murder me in my father's
house, in my room, on my bed of sickness? Oh, leave me, sir; you
are tempting me — you make me doubt the goodness of providence — it
is impossible, it cannot be!"
"Are you the first that this hand has stricken? Have you not
seen M. de Saint-Meran, Madame de Saint-Meran, Barrois, all fall?
would not M. Noirtier also have fallen a victim, had not the
treatment he has been pursuing for the last three years neutralized
the effects of the poison?"
"Oh, heaven," said Valentine; "is this the reason why grandpapa
has made me share all his beverages during the last month?"


has made me share all his beverages during the last month?"
"And have they all tasted of a slightly bitter flavor, like that
of dried orange-peel?"
"Oh, yes, yes!"
"Then that explains all," said Monte Cristo. "Your grandfather
knows, then, that a poisoner lives here; perhaps he even suspects
the person. He has been fortifying you, his beloved child, against
the fatal effects of the poison, which has failed because your
system was already impregnated with it. But even this would have
availed little against a more deadly medium of death employed four
days ago, which is generally but too fatal."
"But who, then, is this assassin, this murderer?"
"Let me also ask you a question. Have you never seen any one
enter your room at night?"
"Oh, yes; I have frequently seen shadows pass close to me,
approach, and disappear; but I took them for visions raised by my
feverish imagination, and indeed when you entered I thought I was
under the influence of delirium."
"Then you do not know who it is that attempts your life?"
"No," said Valentine; "who could desire my death?"
"You shall know it now, then," said Monte Cristo, listening.
"How do you mean?" said Valentine, looking anxiously around.
"Because you are not feverish or delirious to-night, but
thoroughly awake; midnight is striking, which is the hour murderers
choose."
"Oh, heavens," exclaimed Valentine, wiping off the drops which
ran down her forehead. Midnight struck slowly and sadly; every hour
seemed to strike with leaden weight upon the heart of the poor
girl. "Valentine," said the count, "summon up all your courage;
still the beatings of your heart; do not let a sound escape you,
and feign to be asleep; then you will see." Valentine seized the
count's hand. "I think I hear a noise," she said; "leave me."
"Good-by, for the present," replied the count, walking upon
tiptoe towards the library door, and smiling with an expression so
sad and paternal that the young girl's heart was filled with
gratitude. Before closing the door he turned around once more, andgratitude. Before closing the door he turned around once more, and
said, "Not a movement — not a word; let them think you asleep, or
perhaps you may be killed before I have the power of helping you."
And with this fearful injunction the count disappeared through the
door, which noiselessly closed after him.Valentine was alone; two other clocks, slower than that of
Saint-Philippe du Roule, struck the hour of midnight from different
directions, and excepting the rumbling of a few carriages all was
silent. Then Valentine's attention was engrossed by the clock in
her room, which marked the seconds. She began counting them,
remarking that they were much slower than the beatings of her
heart; and still she doubted, — the inoffensive Valentine could not
imagine that any one should desire her death. Why should they? To
what end? What had she done to excite the malice of an enemy? There
was no fear of her falling asleep. One terrible idea pressed upon
her mind, — that some one existed in the world who had attempted to
assassinate her, and who was about to endeavor to do so again.
Supposing this person, wearied at the inefficacy of the poison,
should, as Monte Cristo intimated, have recourse to steel! — What
if the count should have no time to run to her rescue! — What if
her last moments were approaching, and she should never again see
Morrel! When this terrible chain of ideas presented itself,
Valentine was nearly persuaded to ring the bell, and call for help.
But through the door she fancied she saw the luminous eye of the
count — that eye which lived in her memory, and the recollection
overwhelmed her with so much shame that she asked herself whether
any amount of gratitude could ever repay his adventurous and
devoted friendship.
Twenty minutes, twenty tedious minutes, passed thus, then ten
more, and at last the clock struck the half-flour. Just then the
sound of finger-nails slightly grating against the door of the
library informed Valentine that the count was still watching, and
recommended her to do the same; at the same time, on the opposite
side, that is towards Edward's room, Valentine fancied that she
heard the creaking of the floor; she listened attentively, holding
her breath till she was nearly suffocated; the lock turned, and the
door slowly opened. Valentine had raised herself upon her elbow,door slowly opened. Valentine had raised herself upon her elbow,
and had scarcely time to throw herself down on the bed and shade
her eyes with her arm; then, trembling, agitated, and her heart
beating with indescribable terror, she awaited the event.
Some one approached the bed and drew back the curtains.
Valentine summoned every effort, and breathed with that regular
respiration which announces tranquil sleep. "Valentine!" said a low
voice. Still silent: Valentine had promised not to awake. Then
everything was still, excepting that Valentine heard the almost
noiseless sound of some liquid being poured into the glass she had
just emptied. Then she ventured to open her eyelids, and glance
over her extended arm. She saw a woman in a white dressing-gown
pouring a liquor from a phial into her glass. During this short
time Valentine must have held her breath, or moved in some slight
degree, for the woman, disturbed, stopped and leaned over the bed,
in order the better to ascertain whether Valentine slept — it was
Madame de Villefort.
On recognizing her step-mother, Valentine could not repress a
shudder, which caused a vibration in the bed. Madame de Villefort
instantly stepped back close to the wall, and there, shaded by the
bed-curtains, she silently and attentively watched the slightest
movement of Valentine. The latter recollected the terrible caution
of Monte Cristo; she fancied that the hand not holding the phial
clasped a long sharp knife. Then collecting all her remaining
strength, she forced herself to close her eyes; but this simple
operation upon the most delicate organs of our frame, generally so
easy to accomplish, became almost impossible at this moment, so
much did curiosity struggle to retain the eyelid open and learn the
truth. Madame de Villefort, however, reassured by the silence,
which was alone disturbed by the regular breathing of Valentine,
again extended her hand, and half hidden by the curtains succeeded
in emptying the contents of the phial into the glass. Then she


in emptying the contents of the phial into the glass. Then she
retired so gently that Valentine did not know she had left the
room. She only witnessed the withdrawal of the arm — the fair round
arm of a woman but twenty-five years old, and who yet spread death
around her.
It is impossible to describe the sensations experienced by
Valentine during the minute and a half Madame de Villefort remained
in the room. The grating against the library-door aroused the young
girl from the stupor in which she was plunged, and which almost
amounted to insensibility. She raised her head with an effort. The
noiseless door again turned on its hinges, and the Count of Monte
Cristo reappeared. "Well," said he, "do you still doubt?"
"Oh," murmured the young girl.
"Have you seen?"
"Alas!"
"Did you recognize?" Valentine groaned. "Oh, yes;" she said, "I
saw, but I cannot believe!"
"Would you rather die, then, and cause Maximilian's death?"
"Oh," repeated the young girl, almost bewildered, "can I not
leave the house? — can I not escape?"
"Valentine, the hand which now threatens you will pursue you
everywhere; your servants will be seduced with gold, and death will
be offered to you disguised in every shape. You will find it in the
water you drink from the spring, in the fruit you pluck from the
tree."
"But did you not say that my kind grandfather's precaution had
neutralized the poison?"
"Yes, but not against a strong dose; the poison will be changed,
and the quantity increased." He took the glass and raised it to his
lips. "It is already done," he said; "brucine is no longer
employed, but a simple narcotic! I can recognize the flavor of the
alcohol in which it has been dissolved. If you had taken what
Madame de Villefort has poured into your glass, Valentine —
Valentine — you would have been doomed!"
"But," exclaimed the young girl, "why am I thus pursued?"
"Why? — are you so kind — so good — so unsuspicious of ill, that
you cannot understand, Valentine?"
"No, I have never injured her."you cannot understand, Valentine?"
"No, I have never injured her."
"But you are rich, Valentine; you have 200,000 livres a year,
and you prevent her son from enjoying these 200,000 livres."
"How so? The fortune is not her gift, but is inherited from my
relations."
"Certainly; and that is why M. and Madame de Saint-Meran have
died; that is why M. Noirtier was sentenced the day he made you his
heir; that is why you, in your turn, are to die — it is because
your father would inherit your property, and your brother, his only
son, succeed to his."
"Edward? Poor child! Are all these crimes committed on his
account?"
"Ah, then you at length understand?"
"Heaven grant that this may not be visited upon him!"
"Valentine, you are an angel!"
"But why is my grandfather allowed to live?"
"It was considered, that you dead, the fortune would naturally
revert to your brother, unless he were disinherited; and besides,
the crime appearing useless, it would be folly to commit it."
"And is it possible that this frightful combination of crimes
has been invented by a woman?"
"Do you recollect in the arbor of the Hotel des Postes, at
Perugia, seeing a man in a brown cloak, whom your stepmother was
questioning upon aqua tofana? Well, ever since then, the infernal
project has been ripening in her brain."
"Ah, then, indeed, sir," said the sweet girl, bathed in tears,
"I see that I am condemned to die!"
"No, Valentine, for I have foreseen all their plots; no, your
enemy is conquered since we know her, and you will live, Valentine
— live to be happy yourself, and to confer happiness upon a noble
heart; but to insure this you must rely on me."
"Command me, sir — what am I to do?"
"You must blindly take what I give you."
"Alas, were it only for my own sake, I should prefer to
die!"
"You must not confide in any one — not even in your father."
"My father is not engaged in this fearful plot, is he, sir?"
asked Valentine, clasping her hands.
"No; and yet your father, a man accustomed to judicialasked Valentine, clasping her hands.
"No; and yet your father, a man accustomed to judicial
accusations, ought to have known that all these deaths have not
happened naturally; it is he who should have watched over you — he
should have occupied my place — he should have emptied that glass —
he should have risen against the assassin. Spectre against
spectre!" he murmured in a low voice, as he concluded his
sentence.
"Sir," said Valentine, "I will do all I can to live. for there
are two beings whose existence depends upon mine — my grandfather
and Maximilian."
"I will watch over them as I have over you."
"Well, sir, do as you will with me;" and then she added, in a
low voice, "oh, heavens, what will befall me?"
"Whatever may happen, Valentine, do not be alarmed; though you
suffer; though you lose sight, hearing, consciousness, fear
nothing; though you should awake and be ignorant where you are,
still do not fear; even though you should find yourself in a
sepulchral vault or coffin. Reassure yourself, then, and say to
yourself: `At this moment, a friend, a father, who lives for my
happiness and that of Maximilian, watches over me!'"
"Alas, alas, what a fearful extremity!"
"Valentine, would you rather denounce your stepmother?"
"I would rather die a hundred times — oh, yes, die!"
"No, you will not die; but will you promise me, whatever
happens, that you will not complain, but hope?"
"I will think of Maximilian!"
"You are my own darling child, Valentine! I alone can save you,
and I will." Valentine in the extremity of her terror joined her
hands, — for she felt that the moment had arrived to ask for
courage, — and began to pray, and while uttering little more than
incoherent words, she forgot that her white shoulders had no other
covering than her long hair, and that the pulsations of her heart
could he seen through the lace of her nightdress. Monte Cristo
gently laid his hand on the young girl's arm, drew the velvet
coverlet close to her throat, and said with a paternal smile, — "Mycoverlet close to her throat, and said with a paternal smile, — "My
child, believe in my devotion to you as you believe in the goodness
of providence and the love of Maximilian."
Then he drew from his waistcoat-pocket the little emerald box,
raised the golden lid, and took from it a pastille about the size
of a pea, which he placed in her hand. She took it, and looked
attentively on the count; there was an expression on the face of
her intrepid protector which commanded her veneration. She
evidently interrogated him by her look. "Yes," said he. Valentine
carried the pastille to her mouth, and swallowed it. "And now, my
dear child, adieu for the present. I will try and gain a little
sleep, for you are saved."
"Go," said Valentine, "whatever happens, I promise you not to
fear."
Monte Cristo for some time kept his eyes fixed on the young
girl, who gradually fell asleep, yielding to the effects of the
narcotic the count had given her. Then he took the glass, emptied
three parts of the contents in the fireplace, that it might be
supposed Valentine had taken it, and replaced it on the table; then
he disappeared, after throwing a farewell glance on Valentine, who
slept with the confidence and innocence of an angel.


The night-light continued to burn on the chimney-piece,
exhausting the last drops of oil which floated on the surface of
the water. The globe of the lamp appeared of a reddish hue, and the
flame, brightening before it expired, threw out the last
flickerings which in an inanimate object have been so often
compared with the convulsions of a human creature in its final
agonies. A dull and dismal light was shed over the bedclothes and
curtains surrounding the young girl. All noise in the streets had
ceased, and the silence was frightful. It was then that the door of
Edward's room opened, and a head we have before noticed appeared in
the glass opposite; it was Madame de Villefort, who came to witness
the effects of the drink she had prepared. She stopped in the
doorway, listened for a moment to the flickering of the lamp, the
only sound in that deserted room, and then advanced to the table to
see if Valentine's glass were empty. It was still about a quarter
full, as we before stated. Madame de Villefort emptied the contents
into the ashes, which she disturbed that they might the more
readily absorb the liquid; then she carefully rinsed the glass, and
wiping it with her handkerchief replaced it on the table.
If any one could have looked into the room just then he would
have noticed the hesitation with which Madame de Villefort
approached the bed and looked fixedly on Valentine. The dim light,
the profound silence, and the gloomy thoughts inspired by the hour,
and still more by her own conscience, all combined to produce a
sensation of fear; the poisoner was terrified at the contemplation
of her own work. At length she rallied, drew aside the curtain, and
leaning over the pillow gazed intently on Valentine. The young girl
no longer breathed, no breath issued through the half-closed teeth;
the white lips no longer quivered — the eyes were suffused with a
bluish vapor, and the long black lashes rested on a cheek white as
wax. Madame de Villefort gazed upon the face so expressive even inwax. Madame de Villefort gazed upon the face so expressive even in
its stillness; then she ventured to raise the coverlet and press
her hand upon the young girl's heart. It was cold and motionless.
She only felt the pulsation in her own fingers, and withdrew her
hand with a shudder. One arm was hanging out of the bed; from
shoulder to elbow it was moulded after the arms of Germain Pillon's
"Graces,"* but the fore-arm seemed to be slightly distorted by
convulsion, and the hand, so delicately formed, was resting with
stiff outstretched fingers on the framework of the bed. The nails,
too, were turning blue.
(* Germain Pillon was a famous French sculptor (1535-1598). His
best known work is "The Three Graces," now in the Louvre.)
Madame de Villefort had no longer any doubt; all was over — she
had consummated the last terrible work she had to accomplish. There
was no more to do in the room, so the poisoner retired stealthily,
as though fearing to hear the sound of her own footsteps; but as
she withdrew she still held aside the curtain, absorbed in the
irresistible attraction always exerted by the picture of death, so
long as it is merely mysterious and does not excite disgust. Just
then the lamp again flickered; the noise startled Madame de
Villefort, who shuddered and dropped the curtain. Immediately
afterwards the light expired, and the room was plunged in frightful
obscurity, while the clock at that minute struck half-past four.
Overpowered with agitation, the poisoner succeeded in groping her
way to the door, and reached her room in an agony of fear.
The darkness lasted two hours longer; then by degrees a cold
light crept through the Venetian blinds, until at length it
revealed the objects in the room. About this time the nurse's cough
was heard on the stairs and the woman entered the room with a cup
in her hand. To the tender eye of a father or a lover, the first
glance would have sufficed to reveal Valentine's condition; but to
this hireling, Valentine only appeared to sleep. "Good," shethis hireling, Valentine only appeared to sleep. "Good," she
exclaimed, approaching the table, "she has taken part of her
draught; the glass is three-quarters empty."
Then she went to the fireplace and lit the fire, and although
she had just left her bed, she could not resist the temptation
offered by Valentine's sleep, so she threw herself into an
arm-chair to snatch a little more rest. The clock striking eight
awoke her. Astonished at the prolonged slumber of the patient, and
frightened to see that the arm was still hanging out of the bed,
she advanced towards Valentine, and for the first time noticed the
white lips. She tried to replace the arm, but it moved with a
frightful rigidity which could not deceive a sick-nurse. She
screamed aloud; then running to the door exclaimed, — "Help,
help!"
"What is the matter?" asked M. d'Avrigny, at the foot of the
stairs, it being the hour he usually visited her.
"What is it?" asked Villefort, rushing from his room. "Doctor,
do you hear them call for help?"
"Yes, yes; let us hasten up; it was in Valentine's room." But
before the doctor and the father could reach the room, the servants
who were on the same floor had entered, and seeing Valentine pale
and motionless on her bed, they lifted up their hands towards
heaven and stood transfixed, as though struck by lightening. "Call
Madame de Villefort! — wake Madame de Villefort!" cried the
procureur from the door of his chamber, which apparently he
scarcely dared to leave. But instead of obeying him, the servants
stood watching M. d'Avrigny, who ran to Valentine, and raised her
in his arms. "What? — this one, too?" he exclaimed. "Oh, where will
be the end?" Villefort rushed into the room. "What are you saying,
doctor?" he exclaimed, raising his hands to heaven.
"I say that Valentine is dead!" replied d'Avrigny, in a voice
terrible in its solemn calm.
M. de Villefort staggered and buried his head in the bed. On the
exclamation of the doctor and the cry of the father, the servants


exclamation of the doctor and the cry of the father, the servants
all fled with muttered imprecations; they were heard running down
the stairs and through the long passages, then there was a rush in
the court, afterwards all was still; they had, one and all,
deserted the accursed house. Just then, Madame de Villefort, in the
act of slipping on her dressing-gown, threw aside the drapery and
for a moment stood motionless, as though interrogating the
occupants of the room, while she endeavored to call up some
rebellious tears. On a sudden she stepped, or rather bounded, with
outstretched arms, towards the table. She saw d'Avrigny curiously
examining the glass, which she felt certain of having emptied
during the night. It was now a third full, just as it was when she
threw the contents into the ashes. The spectre of Valentine rising
before the poisoner would have alarmed her less. It was, indeed,
the same color as the draught she had poured into the glass, and
which Valentine had drank; it was indeed the poison, which could
not deceive M. d'Avrigny, which he now examined so closely; it was
doubtless a miracle from heaven, that, notwithstanding her
precautions, there should be some trace, some proof remaining to
reveal the crime. While Madame de Villefort remained rooted to the
spot like a statue of terror, and Villefort, with his head hidden
in the bedclothes, saw nothing around him, d'Avrigny approached the
window, that he might the better examine the contents of the glass,
and dipping the tip of his finger in, tasted it. "Ah," he
exclaimed, "it is no longer brucine that is used; let me see what
it is!"
Then he ran to one of the cupboards in Valentine's room, which
had been transformed into a medicine closet, and taking from its
silver case a small bottle of nitric acid, dropped a little of it
into the liquor, which immediately changed to a blood-red color.
"Ah," exclaimed d'Avrigny, in a voice in which the horror of a
judge unveiling the truth was mingled with the delight of a studentjudge unveiling the truth was mingled with the delight of a student
making a discovery. Madame de Villefort was overpowered, her eyes
first flashed and then swam, she staggered towards the door and
disappeared. Directly afterwards the distant sound of a heavy
weight falling on the ground was heard, but no one paid any
attention to it; the nurse was engaged in watching the chemical
analysis, and Villefort was still absorbed in grief. M. d'Avrigny
alone had followed Madame de Villefort with his eyes, and watched
her hurried retreat. He lifted up the drapery over the entrance to
Edward's room, and his eye reaching as far as Madame de Villefort's
apartment, he beheld her extended lifeless on the floor. "Go to the
assistance of Madame de Villefort," he said to the nurse. "Madame
de Villefort is ill."
"But Mademoiselle de Villefort" — stammered the nurse.
"Mademoiselle de Villefort no longer requires help," said
d'Avrigny, "since she is dead."
"Dead, — dead!" groaned forth Villefort, in a paroxysm of grief,
which was the more terrible from the novelty of the sensation in
the iron heart of that man.
"Dead!" repeated a third voice. "Who said Valentine was
dead?"
The two men turned round, and saw Morrel standing at the door,
pale and terror-stricken. This is what had happened. At the usual
time, Morrel had presented himself at the little door leading to
Noirtier's room. Contrary to custom, the door was open, and having
no occasion to ring he entered. He waited for a moment in the hall
and called for a servant to conduct him to M. Noirtier; but no one
answered, the servants having, as we know, deserted the house.
Morrel had no particular reason for uneasiness; Monte Cristo had
promised him that Valentine should live, and so far he had always
fulfilled his word. Every night the count had given him news, which
was the next morning confirmed by Noirtier. Still this
extraordinary silence appeared strange to him, and he called a
second and third time; still no answer. Then he determined to gosecond and third time; still no answer. Then he determined to go
up. Noirtier's room was opened, like all the rest. The first thing
he saw was the old man sitting in his arm-chair in his usual place,
but his eyes expressed alarm, which was confirmed by the pallor
which overspread his features.
"How are you, sir?" asked Morrel, with a sickness of heart.
"Well," answered the old man, by closing his eyes; but his
appearance manifested increasing uneasiness.
"You are thoughtful, sir," continued Morrel; "you want
something; shall I call one of the servants?"
"Yes," replied Noirtier.
Morrel pulled the bell, but though he nearly broke the cord no
one answered. He turned towards Noirtier; the pallor and anguish
expressed on his countenance momentarily increased.
"Oh," exclaimed Morrel, "why do they not come? Is any one ill in
the house?" The eyes of Noirtier seemed as though they would start
from their sockets. "What is the matter? You alarm me. Valentine?
Valentine?"
"Yes, yes," signed Noirtier. Maximilian tried to speak, but he
could articulate nothing; he staggered, and supported himself
against the wainscot. Then he pointed to the door.
"Yes, yes, yes!" continued the old man. Maximilian rushed up the
little staircase, while Noirtier's eyes seemed to say, — "Quicker,
quicker!"
In a minute the young man darted through several rooms, till at
length he reached Valentine's. There was no occasion to push the
door, it was wide open. A sob was the only sound he heard. He saw
as though in a mist, a black figure kneeling and buried in a
confused mass of white drapery. A terrible fear transfixed him. It
was then he heard a voice exclaim "Valentine is dead!" and another
voice which, like an echo repeated, — "Dead, — dead!"


Villefort rose, half ashamed of being surprised in such a
paroxysm of grief. The terrible office he had held for twenty-five
years had succeeded in making him more or less than man. His
glance, at first wandering, fixed itself upon Morrel. "Who are you,
sir," he asked, "that forget that this is not the manner to enter a
house stricken with death? Go, sir, go!" But Morrel remained
motionless; he could not detach his eyes from that disordered bed,
and the pale corpse of the young girl who was lying on it. "Go! —
do you hear?" said Villefort, while d'Avrigny advanced to lead
Morrel out. Maximilian stared for a moment at the corpse, gazed all
around the room, then upon the two men; he opened his mouth to
speak, but finding it impossible to give utterance to the
innumerable ideas that occupied his brain, he went out, thrusting
his hands through his hair in such a manner that Villefort and
d'Avrigny, for a moment diverted from the engrossing topic,
exchanged glances, which seemed to say, — "He is mad!"
But in less than five minutes the staircase groaned beneath an
extraordinary weight. Morrel was seen carrying, with superhuman
strength, the arm-chair containing Noirtier up-stairs. When he
reached the landing he placed the arm-chair on the floor and
rapidly rolled it into Valentine's room. This could only have been
accomplished by means of unnatural strength supplied by powerful
excitement. But the most fearful spectacle was Noirtier being
pushed towards the bed, his face expressing all his meaning, and
his eyes supplying the want of every other faculty. That pale face
and flaming glance appeared to Villefort like a frightful
apparition. Each time he had been brought into contact with his
father, something terrible had happened. "See what they have done!"
cried Morrel, with one hand leaning on the back of the chair, and
the other extended towards Valentine. "See, my father, see!"
Villefort drew back and looked with astonishment on the young
man, who, almost a stranger to him, called Noirtier his father. Atman, who, almost a stranger to him, called Noirtier his father. At
this moment the whole soul of the old man seemed centred in his
eyes which became bloodshot; the veins of the throat swelled; his
cheeks and temples became purple, as though he was struck with
epilepsy; nothing was wanting to complete this but the utterance of
a cry. And the cry issued from his pores, if we may thus speak — a
cry frightful in its silence. D'Avrigny rushed towards the old man
and made him inhale a powerful restorative.
"Sir," cried Morrel, seizing the moist hand of the paralytic,
"they ask me who I am, and what right I have to be here. Oh, you
know it, tell them, tell them!" And the young man's voice was
choked by sobs. As for the old man, his chest heaved with his
panting respiration. One could have thought that he was undergoing
the agonies preceding death. At length, happier than the young man,
who sobbed without weeping, tears glistened in the eyes of
Noirtier. "Tell them," said Morrel in a hoarse voice, "tell them
that I am her betrothed. Tell them she was my beloved, my noble
girl, my only blessing in the world. Tell them — oh, tell them,
that corpse belongs to me!"
The young man overwhelmed by the weight of his anguish, fell
heavily on his knees before the bed, which his fingers grasped with
convulsive energy. D'Avrigny, unable to bear the sight of this
touching emotion, turned away; and Villefort, without seeking any
further explanation, and attracted towards him by the irresistible
magnetism which draws us towards those who have loved the people
for whom we mourn, extended his hand towards the young man. But
Morrel saw nothing; he had grasped the hand of Valentine, and
unable to weep vented his agony in groans as he bit the sheets. For
some time nothing was heard in that chamber but sobs, exclamations,
and prayers. At length Villefort, the most composed of all, spoke:
"Sir," said he to Maximilian, "you say you loved Valentine, that
you were betrothed to her. I knew nothing of this engagement, ofyou were betrothed to her. I knew nothing of this engagement, of
this love, yet I, her father, forgive you, for I see that your
grief is real and deep; and besides my own sorrow is too great for
anger to find a place in my heart. But you see that the angel whom
you hoped for has left this earth — she has nothing more to do with
the adoration of men. Take a last farewell, sir, of her sad
remains; take the hand you expected to possess once more within
your own, and then separate yourself from her forever. Valentine
now requires only the ministrations of the priest."
"You are mistaken, sir," exclaimed Morrel, raising himself on
one knee, his heart pierced by a more acute pang than any he had
yet felt — "you are mistaken; Valentine, dying as she has, not only
requires a priest, but an avenger. You, M. de Villefort, send for
the priest; I will be the avenger."
"What do you mean, sir?" asked Villefort, trembling at the new
idea inspired by the delirium of Morrel.
"I tell you, sir, that two persons exist in you; the father has
mourned sufficiently, now let the procureur fulfil his office."
The eyes of Noirtier glistened, and d'Avrigny approached.
"Gentlemen," said Morrel, reading all that passed through the
minds of the witnesses to the scene, "I know what I am saying, and
you know as well as I do what I am about to say — Valentine has
been assassinated!" Villefort hung his head, d'Avrigny approached
nearer, and Noirtier said "Yes" with his eyes. "Now, sir,"
continued Morrel, "in these days no one can disappear by violent
means without some inquiries being made as to the cause of her
disappearance, even were she not a young, beautiful, and adorable
creature like Valentine. Mr. Procureur," said Morrel with
increasing vehemence, "no mercy is allowed; I denounce the crime;
it is your place to seek the assassin." The young man's implacable
eyes interrogated Villefort, who, on his side, glanced from
Noirtier to d'Avrigny. But instead of finding sympathy in the eyes
of the doctor and his father, he only saw an expression as


of the doctor and his father, he only saw an expression as
inflexible as that of Maximilian. "Yes," indicated the old man.
"Assuredly," said d'Avrigny.
"Sir," said Villefort, striving to struggle against this triple
force and his own emotion, — "sir, you are deceived; no one commits
crimes here. I am stricken by fate. It is horrible, indeed, but no
one assassinates."
The eyes of Noirtier lighted up with rage, and d'Avrigny
prepared to speak. Morrel, however, extended his arm, and commanded
silence. "And I say that murders are committed here," said Morrel,
whose voice, though lower in tone, lost none of its terrible
distinctness: "I tell you that this is the fourth victim within the
last four months. I tell you, Valentine's life was attempted by
poison four days ago, though she escaped, owing to the precautions
of M. Noirtier. I tell you that the dose has been double, the
poison changed, and that this time it has succeeded. I tell you
that you know these things as well as I do, since this gentleman
has forewarned you, both as a doctor and as a friend."
"Oh, you rave, sir," exclaimed Villefort, in vain endeavoring to
escape the net in which he was taken.
"I rave?" said Morrel; "well, then, I appeal to M. d'Avrigny
himself. Ask him, sir, if he recollects the words he uttered in the
garden of this house on the night of Madame de Saint-Meran's death.
You thought yourselves alone, and talked about that tragical death,
and the fatality you mentioned then is the same which has caused
the murder of Valentine." Villefort and d'Avrigny exchanged looks.
"Yes, yes," continued Morrel; "recall the scene, for the words you
thought were only given to silence and solitude fell into my ears.
Certainly, after witnessing the culpable indolence manifested by M.
de Villefort towards his own relations, I ought to have denounced
him to the authorities; then I should not have been an accomplice
to thy death, as I now am, sweet, beloved Valentine; but the
accomplice shall become the avenger. This fourth murder is apparentaccomplice shall become the avenger. This fourth murder is apparent
to all, and if thy father abandon thee, Valentine, it is I, and I
swear it, that shall pursue the assassin." And this time, as though
nature had at least taken compassion on the vigorous frame, nearly
bursting with its own strength, the words of Morrel were stifled in
his throat; his breast heaved; the tears, so long rebellious,
gushed from his eyes; and he threw himself weeping on his knees by
the side of the bed.
Then d'Avrigny spoke. "And I, too," he exclaimed in a low voice,
"I unite with M. Morrel in demanding justice for crime; my blood
boils at the idea of having encouraged a murderer by my cowardly
concession."
"Oh, merciful heavens!" murmured Villefort. Morrel raised his
head, and reading the eyes of the old man, which gleamed with
unnatural lustre, — "Stay," he said, "M. Noirtier wishes to
speak."
"Yes," indicated Noirtier, with an expression the more terrible,
from all his faculties being centred in his glance.
"Do you know the assassin?" asked Morrel.
"Yes," replied Noirtier.
"And will you direct us?" exclaimed the young man. "Listen, M.
d'Avrigny, listen!" Noirtier looked upon Morrel with one of those
melancholy smiles which had so often made Valentine happy, and thus
fixed his attention. Then, having riveted the eyes of his
interlocutor on his own, he glanced towards the door.
"Do you wish me to leave?" said Morrel, sadly.
"Yes," replied Noirtier.
"Alas, alas, sir, have pity on me!"
The old man's eyes remained fixed on the door.
"May I, at least, return?" asked Morrel.
"Yes."
"Must I leave alone?"
"No."
"Whom am I to take with me? The procureur?"
"No."
"The doctor?"
"Yes."
"You wish to remain alone with M. de Villefort?"
"Yes."
"But can he understand you?"
"Yes."
"Oh," said Villefort, inexpressibly delighted to think that the
inquiries were to be made by him alone, — "oh, be satisfied, I can
understand my father." D'Avrigny took the young man's arm, and led
him out of the room. A more than deathlike silence then reigned inhim out of the room. A more than deathlike silence then reigned in
the house. At the end of a quarter of an hour a faltering footstep
was heard, and Villefort appeared at the door of the apartment
where d'Avrigny and Morrel had been staying, one absorbed in
meditation, the other in grief. "You can come," he said, and led
them back to Noirtier. Morrel looked attentively on Villefort. His
face was livid, large drops rolled down his face, and in his
fingers he held the fragments of a quill pen which he had torn to
atoms.
"Gentlemen," he said in a hoarse voice, "give me your word of
honor that this horrible secret shall forever remain buried amongst
ourselves!" The two men drew back.
"I entreat you." — continued Villefort.
"But," said Morrel, "the culprit — the murderer — the
assassin."
"Do not alarm yourself, sir; justice will be done," said
Villefort. "My father has revealed the culprit's name; my father
thirsts for revenge as much as you do, yet even he conjures you as
I do to keep this secret. Do you not, father?"
"Yes," resolutely replied Noirtier. Morrel suffered an
exclamation of horror and surprise to escape him. "Oh, sir," said
Villefort, arresting Maximilian by the arm, "if my father, the
inflexible man, makes this request, it is because he knows, be
assured, that Valentine will be terribly revenged. Is it not so,
father?" The old man made a sign in the affirmative. Villefort
continued: "He knows me, and I have pledged my word to him. Rest
assured, gentlemen, that within three days, in a less time than
justice would demand, the revenge I shall have taken for the murder
of my child will be such as to make the boldest heart tremble;" and
as he spoke these words he ground his teeth, and grasped the old
man's senseless hand.
"Will this promise be fulfilled, M. Noirtier?" asked Morrel,
while d'Avrigny looked inquiringly.
"Yes," replied Noirtier with an expression of sinister joy.
"Swear, then," said Villefort, joining the hands of Morrel and
d'Avrigny, "swear that you will spare the honor of my house, and


d'Avrigny, "swear that you will spare the honor of my house, and
leave me to avenge my child." D'Avrigny turned round and uttered a
very feeble "Yes," but Morrel, disengaging his hand, rushed to the
bed, and after having pressed the cold lips of Valentine with his
own, hurriedly left, uttering a long, deep groan of despair and
anguish. We have before stated that all the servants had fled. M.
de Villefort was therefore obliged to request M. d'Avrigny to
superintend all the arrangements consequent upon a death in a large
city, more especially a death under such suspicious
circumstances.
It was something terrible to witness the silent agony, the mute
despair of Noirtier, whose tears silently rolled down his cheeks.
Villefort retired to his study, and d'Avrigny left to summon the
doctor of the mayoralty, whose office it is to examine bodies after
decease, and who is expressly named "the doctor of the dead." M.
Noirtier could not be persuaded to quit his grandchild. At the end
of a quarter of an hour M. d'Avrigny returned with his associate;
they found the outer gate closed, and not a servant remaining in
the house; Villefort himself was obliged to open to them. But he
stopped on the landing; he had not the courage to again visit the
death chamber. The two doctors, therefore, entered the room alone.
Noirtier was near the bed, pale, motionless, and silent as the
corpse. The district doctor approached with the indifference of a
man accustomed to spend half his time amongst the dead; he then
lifted the sheet which was placed over the face, and just unclosed
the lips.
"Alas," said d'Avrigny, "she is indeed dead, poor child!"
"Yes," answered the doctor laconically, dropping the sheet he
had raised. Noirtier uttered a kind of hoarse, rattling sound; the
old man's eyes sparkled, and the good doctor understood that he
wished to behold his child. He therefore approached the bed, and
while his companion was dipping the fingers with which he had
touched the lips of the corpse in chloride of lime, he uncoveredtouched the lips of the corpse in chloride of lime, he uncovered
the calm and pale face, which looked like that of a sleeping angel.
A tear, which appeared in the old man's eye, expressed his thanks
to the doctor. The doctor of the dead then laid his permit on the
corner of the table, and having fulfilled his duty, was conducted
out by d'Avrigny. Villefort met them at the door of his study;
having in a few words thanked the district doctor, he turned to
d'Avrigny, and said, — "And now the priest."
"Is there any particular priest you wish to pray with
Valentine?" asked d'Avrigny.
"No." said Villefort; "fetch the nearest."
"The nearest," said the district doctor, "is a good Italian
abbe, who lives next door to you. Shall I call on him as I
pass?"
"D'Avrigny," said Villefort, "be so kind, I beseech you, as to
accompany this gentleman. Here is the key of the door, so that you
can go in and out as you please; you will bring the priest with
you, and will oblige me by introducing him into my child's
room."
"Do you wish to see him?"
"I only wish to be alone. You will excuse me, will you not? A
priest can understand a father's grief." And M. de Villefort,
giving the key to d'Avrigny, again bade farewell to the strange
doctor, and retired to his study, where he began to work. For some
temperaments work is a remedy for all afflictions. As the doctors
entered the street, they saw a man in a cassock standing on the
threshold of the next door. "This is the abbe of whom I spoke,"
said the doctor to d'Avrigny. D'Avrigny accosted the priest. "Sir,"
he said, "are you disposed to confer a great obligation on an
unhappy father who has just lost his daughter? I mean M. de
Villefort, the king's attorney."
"Ah," said the priest, in a marked Italian accent; "yes, I have
heard that death is in that house."
"Then I need not tell you what kind of service he requires of
you."
"I was about to offer myself, sir," said the priest; "it is our
mission to forestall our duties."
"It is a young girl."mission to forestall our duties."
"It is a young girl."
"I know it, sir; the servants who fled from the house informed
me. I also know that her name is Valentine, and I have already
prayed for her."
"Thank you, sir," said d'Avrigny; "since you have commenced your
sacred office, deign to continue it. Come and watch by the dead,
and all the wretched family will be grateful to you."
"I am going, sir; and I do not hesitate to say that no prayers
will be more fervent than mine." D'Avrigny took the priest's hand,
and without meeting Villefort, who was engaged in his study, they
reached Valentine's room, which on the following night was to be
occupied by the undertakers. On entering the room, Noirtier's eyes
met those of the abbe, and no doubt he read some particular
expression in them, for he remained in the room. D'Avrigny
recommended the attention of the priest to the living as well as to
the dead, and the abbe promised to devote his prayers to Valentine
and his attentions to Noirtier. In order, doubtless, that he might
not be disturbed while fulfilling his sacred mission, the priest
rose as soon as d'Avrigny departed, and not only bolted the door
through which the doctor had just left, but also that leading to
Madame de Villefort's room.M. de Boville had indeed met the funeral procession which was
taking Valentine to her last home on earth. The weather was dull
and stormy, a cold wind shook the few remaining yellow leaves from
the boughs of the trees, and scattered them among the crowd which
filled the boulevards. M. de Villefort, a true Parisian, considered
the cemetery of Pere-la-Chaise alone worthy of receiving the mortal
remains of a Parisian family; there alone the corpses belonging to
him would be surrounded by worthy associates. He had therefore
purchased a vault, which was quickly occupied by members of his
family. On the front of the monument was inscribed: "The families
of Saint-Meran and Villefort," for such had been the last wish
expressed by poor Renee, Valentine's mother. The pompous procession
therefore wended its way towards Pere-la-Chaise from the Faubourg
Saint-Honore. Having crossed Paris, it passed through the Faubourg
du Temple, then leaving the exterior boulevards, it reached the
cemetery. More than fifty private carriages followed the twenty
mourning-coaches, and behind them more than five hundred persons
joined in the procession on foot.
These last consisted of all the young people whom Valentine's
death had struck like a thunderbolt, and who, notwithstanding the
raw chilliness of the season, could not refrain from paying a last
tribute to the memory of the beautiful, chaste, and adorable girl,
thus cut off in the flower of her youth. As they left Paris, an
equipage with four horses, at full speed, was seen to draw up
suddenly; it contained Monte Cristo. The count left the carriage
and mingled in the crowd who followed on foot. Chateau-Renaud
perceived him and immediately alighting from his coupe, joined
him.
The count looked attentively through every opening in the crowd;
he was evidently watching for some one, but his search ended in
disappointment. "Where is Morrel?" he asked; "do either of these
gentlemen know where he is?"
"We have already asked that question," said Chateau-Renaud, "for


gentlemen know where he is?"
"We have already asked that question," said Chateau-Renaud, "for
none of us has seen him." The count was silent, but continued to
gaze around him. At length they arrived at the cemetery. The
piercing eye of Monte Cristo glanced through clusters of bushes and
trees, and was soon relieved from all anxiety, for seeing a shadow
glide between the yew-trees, Monte Cristo recognized him whom he
sought. One funeral is generally very much like another in this
magnificent metropolis. Black figures are seen scattered over the
long white avenues; the silence of earth and heaven is alone broken
by the noise made by the crackling branches of hedges planted
around the monuments; then follows the melancholy chant of the
priests, mingled now and then with a sob of anguish, escaping from
some woman concealed behind a mass of flowers.
The shadow Monte Cristo had noticed passed rapidly behind the
tomb of Abelard and Heloise, placed itself close to the heads of
the horses belonging to the hearse, and following the undertaker's
men, arrived with them at the spot appointed for the burial. Each
person's attention was occupied. Monte Cristo saw nothing but the
shadow, which no one else observed. Twice the count left the ranks
to see whether the object of his interest had any concealed weapon
beneath his clothes. When the procession stopped, this shadow was
recognized as Morrel, who, with his coat buttoned up to his throat,
his face livid, and convulsively crushing his hat between his
fingers, leaned against a tree, situated on an elevation commanding
the mausoleum, so that none of the funeral details could escape his
observation. Everything was conducted in the usual manner. A few
men, the least impressed of all by the scene, pronounced a
discourse, some deploring this premature death, others expatiating
on the grief of the father, and one very ingenious person quoting
the fact that Valentine had solicited pardon of her father for
criminals on whom the arm of justice was ready to fall — until atcriminals on whom the arm of justice was ready to fall — until at
length they exhausted their stores of metaphor and mournful
speeches.
Monte Cristo heard and saw nothing, or rather he only saw
Morrel, whose calmness had a frightful effect on those who knew
what was passing in his heart. "See," said Beauchamp, pointing out
Morrel to Debray. "What is he doing up there?" And they called
Chateau-Renaud's attention to him.
"How pale he is!" said Chateau-Renaud, shuddering.
"He is cold," said Debray.
"Not at all," said Chateau-Renaud, slowly; "I think he is
violently agitated. He is very susceptible."
"Bah," said Debray; "he scarcely knew Mademoiselle de Villefort;
you said so yourself."
"True. Still I remember he danced three times with her at Madame
de Morcerf's. Do you recollect that ball, count, where you produced
such an effect?"
"No, I do not," replied Monte Cristo, without even knowing of
what or to whom he was speaking, so much was he occupied in
watching Morrel, who was holding his breath with emotion. "The
discourse is over; farewell, gentlemen," said the count. And he
disappeared without anyone seeing whither he went. The funeral
being over, the guests returned to Paris. Chateau-Renaud looked for
a moment for Morrel; but while they were watching the departure of
the count, Morrel had quitted his post, and Chateau-Renaud, failing
in his search, joined Debray and Beauchamp.
Monte Cristo concealed himself behind a large tomb and awaited
the arrival of Morrel, who by degrees approached the tomb now
abandoned by spectators and workmen. Morrel threw a glance around,
but before it reached the spot occupied by Monte Cristo the latter
had advanced yet nearer, still unperceived. The young man knelt
down. The count, with outstretched neck and glaring eyes, stood in
an attitude ready to pounce upon Morrel upon the first occasion.
Morrel bent his head till it touched the stone, then clutching the
grating with both hands, he murmured, — "Oh, Valentine!" Thegrating with both hands, he murmured, — "Oh, Valentine!" The
count's heart was pierced by the utterance of these two words; he
stepped forward, and touching the young man's shoulder, said, — "I
was looking for you, my friend." Monte Cristo expected a burst of
passion, but he was deceived, for Morrel turning round, said
calmly, —
"You see I was praying." The scrutinizing glance of the count
searched the young man from head to foot. He then seemed more
easy.
"Shall I drive you back to Paris?" he asked.
"No, thank you."
"Do you wish anything?"
"Leave me to pray." The count withdrew without opposition, but
it was only to place himself in a situation where he could watch
every movement of Morrel, who at length arose, brushed the dust
from his knees, and turned towards Paris, without once looking
back. He walked slowly down the Rue de la Roquette. The count,
dismissing his carriage, followed him about a hundred paces behind.
Maximilian crossed the canal and entered the Rue Meslay by the
boulevards. Five minutes after the door had been closed on Morrel's
entrance, it was again opened for the count. Julie was at the
entrance of the garden, where she was attentively watching Penelon,
who, entering with zeal into his profession of gardener, was very
busy grafting some Bengal roses. "Ah, count," she exclaimed, with
the delight manifested by every member of the family whenever he
visited the Rue Meslay.
"Maximilian has just returned, has he not, madame?" asked the
count.
"Yes, I think I saw him pass; but pray, call Emmanuel."
"Excuse me, madame, but I must go up to Maximilian's room this
instant," replied Monte Cristo, "I have something of the greatest
importance to tell him."
"Go, then," she said with a charming smile, which accompanied
him until he had disappeared. Monte Cristo soon ran up the
staircase conducting from the ground-floor to Maximilian's room;
when he reached the landing he listened attentively, but all was
still. Like many old houses occupied by a single family, the room


still. Like many old houses occupied by a single family, the room
door was panelled with glass; but it was locked, Maximilian was
shut in, and it was impossible to see what was passing in the room,
because a red curtain was drawn before the glass. The count's
anxiety was manifested by a bright color which seldom appeared on
the face of that imperturbable man.
"What shall I do!" he uttered, and reflected for a moment;
"shall I ring? No, the sound of a bell, announcing a visitor, will
but accelerate the resolution of one in Maximilian's situation, and
then the bell would be followed by a louder noise." Monte Cristo
trembled from head to foot and as if his determination had been
taken with the rapidity of lightning, he struck one of the panes of
glass with his elbow; the glass was shivered to atoms, then
withdrawing the curtain he saw Morrel, who had been writing at his
desk, bound from his seat at the noise of the broken window.
"I beg a thousand pardons," said the count, "there is nothing
the matter, but I slipped down and broke one of your panes of glass
with my elbow. Since it is opened, I will take advantage of it to
enter your room; do not disturb yourself — do not disturb
yourself!" And passing his hand through the broken glass, the count
opened the door. Morrel, evidently discomposed, came to meet Monte
Cristo less with the intention of receiving him than to exclude his
entry. "Ma foi," said Monte Cristo, rubbing his elbow, "it's all
your servant's fault; your stairs are so polished, it is like
walking on glass."
"Are you hurt, sir?" coldly asked Morrel.
"I believe not. But what are you about there? You were
writing."
"I?"
"Your fingers are stained with ink."
"Ah, true, I was writing. I do sometimes, soldier though I
am."
Monte Cristo advanced into the room; Maximilian was obliged to
let him pass, but he followed him. "You were writing?" said Monte
Cristo with a searching look.
"I have already had the honor of telling you I was," said
Morrel.
The count looked around him. "Your pistols are beside yourMorrel.
The count looked around him. "Your pistols are beside your
desk," said Monte Cristo, pointing with his finger to the pistols
on the table.
"I am on the point of starting on a journey," replied Morrel
disdainfully.
"My friend," exclaimed Monte Cristo in a tone of exquisite
sweetness.
"Sir?"
"My friend, my dear Maximilian, do not make a hasty resolution,
I entreat you."
"I make a hasty resolution?" said Morrel, shrugging his
shoulders; "is there anything extraordinary in a journey?"
"Maximilian," said the count, "let us both lay aside the mask we
have assumed. You no more deceive me with that false calmness than
I impose upon you with my frivolous solicitude. You can understand,
can you not, that to have acted as I have done, to have broken that
glass, to have intruded on the solitude of a friend — you can
understand that, to have done all this, I must have been actuated
by real uneasiness, or rather by a terrible conviction. Morrel, you
are going to destroy yourself!"
"Indeed, count," said Morrel, shuddering; "what has put this
into your head?"
"I tell you that you are about to destroy yourself," continued
the count, "and here is proof of what I say;" and, approaching the
desk, he removed the sheet of paper which Morrel had placed over
the letter he had begun, and took the latter in his hands.
Morrel rushed forward to tear it from him, but Monte Cristo
perceiving his intention, seized his wrist with his iron grasp.
"You wish to destroy yourself," said the count; "you have written
it."
"Well," said Morrel, changing his expression of calmness for one
of violence — "well, and if I do intend to turn this pistol against
myself, who shall prevent me — who will dare prevent me? All my
hopes are blighted, my heart is broken, my life a burden,
everything around me is sad and mournful; earth has become
distasteful to me, and human voices distract me. It is a mercy to
let me die, for if I live I shall lose my reason and become mad.
When, sir, I tell you all this with tears of heartfelt anguish, canWhen, sir, I tell you all this with tears of heartfelt anguish, can
you reply that I am wrong, can you prevent my putting an end to my
miserable existence? Tell me, sir, could you have the courage to do
so?"
"Yes, Morrel," said Monte Cristo, with a calmness which
contrasted strangely with the young man's excitement; "yes, I would
do so."
"You?" exclaimed Morrel, with increasing anger and reproach —
"you, who have deceived me with false hopes, who have cheered and
soothed me with vain promises, when I might, if not have saved her,
at least have seen her die in my arms! You, who pretend to
understand everything, even the hidden sources of knowledge, — and
who enact the part of a guardian angel upon earth, and could not
even find an antidote to a poison administered to a young girl! Ah,
sir, indeed you would inspire me with pity, were you not hateful in
my eyes."
"Morrel" —
"Yes; you tell me to lay aside the mask, and I will do so, be
satisfied! When you spoke to me at the cemetery, I answered you —
my heart was softened; when you arrived here, I allowed you to
enter. But since you abuse my confidence, since you have devised a
new torture after I thought I had exhausted them all, then, Count
of Monte Cristo my pretended benefactor — then, Count of Monte
Cristo, the universal guardian, be satisfied, you shall witness the
death of your friend;" and Morrel, with a maniacal laugh, again
rushed towards the pistols.
"And I again repeat, you shall not commit suicide."
"Prevent me, then!" replied Morrel, with another struggle,
which, like the first, failed in releasing him from the count's
iron grasp.
"I will prevent you."
"And who are you, then, that arrogate to yourself this
tyrannical right over free and rational beings?"
"Who am I?" repeated Monte Cristo. "Listen; I am the only man in
the world having the right to say to you, `Morrel, your father's
son shall not die to-day;'" and Monte Cristo, with an expression of
majesty and sublimity, advanced with arms folded toward the young


majesty and sublimity, advanced with arms folded toward the young
man, who, involuntarily overcome by the commanding manner of this
man, recoiled a step.
"Why do you mention my father?" stammered he; "why do you mingle
a recollection of him with the affairs of today?"
"Because I am he who saved your father's life when he wished to
destroy himself, as you do to-day — because I am the man who sent
the purse to your young sister, and the Pharaon to old Morrel —
because I am the Edmond Dantes who nursed you, a child, on my
knees." Morrel made another step back, staggering, breathless,
crushed; then all his strength give way, and he fell prostrate at
the feet of Monte Cristo. Then his admirable nature underwent a
complete and sudden revulsion; he arose, rushed out of the room and
to the stairs, exclaiming energetically, "Julie, Julie — Emmanuel,
Emmanuel!"
Monte Cristo endeavored also to leave, but Maximilian would have
died rather than relax his hold of the handle of the door, which he
closed upon the count. Julie, Emmanuel, and some of the servants,
ran up in alarm on hearing the cries of Maximilian. Morrel seized
their hands, and opening the door exclaimed in a voice choked with
sobs, "On your knees — on your knees — he is our benefactor — the
saviour of our father! He is" —
He would have added "Edmond Dantes," but the count seized his
arm and prevented him. Julie threw herself into the arms of the
count; Emmanuel embraced him as a guardian angel; Morrel again fell
on his knees, and struck the ground with his forehead. Then the
iron-hearted man felt his heart swell in his breast; a flame seemed
to rush from his throat to his eyes, he bent his head and wept. For
a while nothing was heard in the room but a succession of sobs,
while the incense from their grateful hearts mounted to heaven.
Julie had scarcely recovered from her deep emotion when she rushed
out of the room, descended to the next floor, ran into the
drawing-room with childlike joy and raised the crystal globe whichdrawing-room with childlike joy and raised the crystal globe which
covered the purse given by the unknown of the Allees de Meillan.
Meanwhile, Emmanuel in a broken voice said to the count, "Oh,
count, how could you, hearing us so often speak of our unknown
benefactor, seeing us pay such homage of gratitude and adoration to
his memory, — how could you continue so long without discovering
yourself to us? Oh, it was cruel to us, and — dare I say it? — to
you also."
"Listen, my friends," said the count — "I may call you so since
we have really been friends for the last eleven years — the
discovery of this secret has been occasioned by a great event which
you must never know. I wish to bury it during my whole life in my
own bosom, but your brother Maximilian wrested it from me by a
violence he repents of now, I am sure." Then turning around, and
seeing that Morrel, still on his knees, had thrown himself into an
arm-chair, be added in a low voice, pressing Emmanuel's hand
significantly, "Watch over him."
"Why so?" asked the young man, surprised.
"I cannot explain myself; but watch over him." Emmanuel looked
around the room and caught sight of the pistols; his eyes rested on
the weapons, and he pointed to them. Monte Cristo bent his head.
Emmanuel went towards the pistols. "Leave them," said Monte Cristo.
Then walking towards Morrel, he took his hand; the tumultuous
agitation of the young man was succeeded by a profound stupor.
Julie returned, holding the silken purse in her hands, while tears
of joy rolled down her cheeks, like dewdrops on the rose.
"Here is the relic," she said; "do not think it will be less
dear to us now we are acquainted with our benefactor!"
"My child," said Monte Cristo, coloring, "allow me to take back
that purse? Since you now know my face, I wish to be remembered
alone through the affection I hope you will grant me.
"Oh," said Julie, pressing the purse to her heart, "no, no, I
beseech you do not take it, for some unhappy day you will leave us,
will you not?"beseech you do not take it, for some unhappy day you will leave us,
will you not?"
"You have guessed rightly, madame," replied Monte Cristo,
smiling; "in a week I shall have left this country, where so many
persons who merit the vengeance of heaven lived happily, while my
father perished of hunger and grief." While announcing his
departure, the count fixed his eyes on Morrel, and remarked that
the words, "I shall have left this country," had failed to rouse
him from his lethargy. He then saw that he must make another
struggle against the grief of his friend, and taking the hands of
Emmanuel and Julie, which he pressed within his own, he said with
the mild authority of a father, "My kind friends, leave me alone
with Maximilian." Julie saw the means offered of carrying off her
precious relic, which Monte Cristo had forgotten. She drew her
husband to the door. "Let us leave them," she said. The count was
alone with Morrel, who remained motionless as a statue.
"Come," said Monte-Cristo, touching his shoulder with his
finger, "are you a man again, Maximilian?"
"Yes; for I begin to suffer again."
The count frowned, apparently in gloomy hesitation.
"Maximilian, Maximilian," he said, "the ideas you yield to are
unworthy of a Christian."
"Oh, do not fear, my friend," said Morrel, raising his head, and
smiling with a sweet expression on the count; "I shall no longer
attempt my life."
"Then we are to have no more pistols — no more despair?"
"No; I have found a better remedy for my grief than either a
bullet or a knife."
"Poor fellow, what is it?"
"My grief will kill me of itself."
"My friend," said Monte Cristo, with an expression of melancholy
equal to his own, "listen to me. One day, in a moment of despair
like yours, since it led to a similar resolution, I also wished to
kill myself; one day your father, equally desperate, wished to kill
himself too. If any one had said to your father, at the moment he
raised the pistol to his head — if any one had told me, when in my


raised the pistol to his head — if any one had told me, when in my
prison I pushed back the food I had not tasted for three days — if
anyone had said to either of us then, `Live — the day will come
when you will be happy, and will bless life!' — no matter whose
voice had spoken, we should have heard him with the smile of doubt,
or the anguish of incredulity, — and yet how many times has your
father blessed life while embracing you — how often have I myself"
—
"Ah," exclaimed Morrel, interrupting the count, "you had only
lost your liberty, my father had only lost his fortune, but I have
lost Valentine."
"Look at me," said Monte Cristo, with that expression which
sometimes made him so eloquent and persuasive — "look at me. There
are no tears in my eyes, nor is there fever in my veins, yet I see
you suffer — you, Maximilian, whom I love as my own son. Well, does
not this tell you that in grief, as in life, there is always
something to look forward to beyond? Now, if I entreat, if I order
you to live, Morrel, it is in the conviction that one day you will
thank me for having preserved your life."
"Oh, heavens," said the young man, "oh, heavens — what are you
saying, count? Take care. But perhaps you have never loved!"
"Child!" replied the count.
"I mean, as I love. You see, I have been a soldier ever since I
attained manhood. I reached the age of twenty-nine without loving,
for none of the feelings I before then experienced merit the
appellation of love. Well, at twenty-nine I saw Valentine; for two
years I have loved her, for two years I have seen written in her
heart, as in a book, all the virtues of a daughter and wife. Count,
to possess Valentine would have been a happiness too infinite, too
ecstatic, too complete, too divine for this world, since it has
been denied me; but without Valentine the earth is desolate."
"I have told you to hope," said the count.
"Then have a care, I repeat, for you seek to persuade me, and if
you succeed I should lose my reason, for I should hope that I couldyou succeed I should lose my reason, for I should hope that I could
again behold Valentine." The count smiled. "My friend, my father,"
said Morrel with excitement, "have a care, I again repeat, for the
power you wield over me alarms me. Weigh your words before you
speak, for my eyes have already become brighter, and my heart beats
strongly; be cautious, or you will make me believe in supernatural
agencies. I must obey you, though you bade me call forth the dead
or walk upon the water."
"Hope, my friend," repeated the count.
"Ah," said Morrel, falling from the height of excitement to the
abyss of despair — "ah, you are playing with me, like those good,
or rather selfish mothers who soothe their children with honeyed
words, because their screams annoy them. No, my friend, I was wrong
to caution you; do not fear, I will bury my grief so deep in my
heart, I will disguise it so, that you shall not even care to
sympathize with me. Adieu, my friend, adieu!"
"On the contrary," said the count, "after this time you must
live with me — you must not leave me, and in a week we shall have
left France behind us."
"And you still bid me hope?"
"I tell you to hope, because I have a method of curing you."
"Count, you render me sadder than before, if it be possible. You
think the result of this blow has been to produce an ordinary
grief, and you would cure it by an ordinary remedy — change of
scene." And Morrel dropped his head with disdainful incredulity.
"What can I say more?" asked Monte Cristo. "I have confidence in
the remedy I propose, and only ask you to permit me to assure you
of its efficacy."
"Count, you prolong my agony."
"Then," said the count, "your feeble spirit will not even grant
me the trial I request? Come — do you know of what the Count of
Monte Cristo is capable? do you know that he holds terrestrial
beings under his control? nay, that he can almost work a miracle?
Well, wait for the miracle I hope to accomplish, or" —
"Or?" repeated Morrel.
"Or, take care, Morrel, lest I call you ungrateful.""Or?" repeated Morrel.
"Or, take care, Morrel, lest I call you ungrateful."
"Have pity on me, count!"
"I feel so much pity towards you, Maximilian, that — listen to
me attentively — if I do not cure you in a month, to the day, to
the very hour, mark my words, Morrel, I will place loaded pistols
before you, and a cup of the deadliest Italian poison — a poison
more sure and prompt than that which has killed Valentine."
"Will you promise me?"
"Yes; for I am a man, and have suffered like yourself, and also
contemplated suicide; indeed, often since misfortune has left me I
have longed for the delights of an eternal sleep."
"But you are sure you will promise me this?" said Morrel,
intoxicated. "I not only promise, but swear it!" said Monte Cristo
extending his hand.
"In a month, then, on your honor, if I am not consoled, you will
let me take my life into my own hands, and whatever may happen you
will not call me ungrateful?"
"In a month, to the day, the very hour and the date are sacred,
Maximilian. I do not know whether you remember that this is the 5th
of September; it is ten years to-day since I saved your father's
life, who wished to die." Morrel seized the count's hand and kissed
it; the count allowed him to pay the homage he felt due to him. "In
a month you will find on the table, at which we shall be then
sitting, good pistols and a delicious draught; but, on the other
hand, you must promise me not to attempt your life before that
time."
"Oh, I also swear it!" Monte Cristo drew the young man towards
him, and pressed him for some time to his heart. "And now," he
said, "after to-day, you will come and live with me; you can occupy
Haidee's apartment, and my daughter will at least be replaced by my
son."
"Haidee?" said Morrel, "what has become of her?"
"She departed last night."
"To leave you?"
"To wait for me. Hold yourself ready then to join me at the
Champs Elysees, and lead me out of this house without any one
seeing my departure." Maximilian hung his head, and obeyed with
childlike reverence.


The apartment on the second floor of the house in the Rue
Saint-Germain-des-Pres, where Albert de Morcerf had selected a home
for his mother, was let to a very mysterious person. This was a man
whose face the concierge himself had never seen, for in the winter
his chin was buried in one of the large red handkerchiefs worn by
gentlemen's coachmen on a cold night, and in the summer he made a
point of always blowing his nose just as he approached the door.
Contrary to custom, this gentleman had not been watched, for as the
report ran that he was a person of high rank, and one who would
allow no impertinent interference, his incognito was strictly
respected.
His visits were tolerably regular, though occasionally he
appeared a little before or after his time, but generally, both in
summer and winter, he took possession of his apartment about four
o'clock, though he never spent the night there. At half-past three
in the winter the fire was lighted by the discreet servant, who had
the superintendence of the little apartment, and in the summer ices
were placed on the table at the same hour. At four o'clock, as we
have already stated, the mysterious personage arrived. Twenty
minutes afterwards a carriage stopped at the house, a lady alighted
in a black or dark blue dress, and always thickly veiled; she
passed like a shadow through the lodge, and ran up-stairs without a
sound escaping under the touch of her light foot. No one ever asked
her where she was going. Her face, therefore, like that of the
gentleman, was perfectly unknown to the two concierges, who were
perhaps unequalled throughout the capital for discretion. We need
not say she stopped at the second floor. Then she tapped in a
peculiar manner at a door, which after being opened to admit her
was again fastened, and curiosity penetrated no farther. They used
the same precautions in leaving as in entering the house. The lady
always left first, and as soon as she had stepped into her
carriage, it drove away, sometimes towards the right hand,carriage, it drove away, sometimes towards the right hand,
sometimes to the left; then about twenty minutes afterwards the
gentleman would also leave, buried in his cravat or concealed by
his handkerchief.
The day after Monte Cristo had called upon Danglars, the
mysterious lodger entered at ten o'clock in the morning instead of
four in the afternoon. Almost directly afterwards, without the
usual interval of time, a cab arrived, and the veiled lady ran
hastily up-stairs. The door opened, but before it could be closed,
the lady exclaimed: "Oh, Lucien — oh, my friend!" The concierge
therefore heard for the first time that the lodger's name was
Lucien; still, as he was the very perfection of a door-keeper, he
made up his mind not to tell his wife. "Well, what is the matter,
my dear?" asked the gentleman whose name the lady's agitation
revealed; "tell me what is the matter."
"Oh, Lucien, can I confide in you?"
"Of course, you know you can do so. But what can be the matter?
Your note of this morning has completely bewildered me. This
precipitation — this unusual appointment. Come, ease me of my
anxiety, or else frighten me at once."
"Lucien, a great event has happened!" said the lady, glancing
inquiringly at Lucien, — "M. Danglars left last night!"
"Left? — M. Danglars left? Where has he gone?"
"I do not know."
"What do you mean? Has he gone intending not to return?"
"Undoubtedly; — at ten o'clock at night his horses took him to
the barrier of Charenton; there a post-chaise was waiting for him —
he entered it with his valet de chambre, saying that he was going
to Fontainebleau."
"Then what did you mean" —
"Stay — he left a letter for me."
"A letter?"
"Yes; read it." And the baroness took from her pocket a letter
which she gave to Debray. Debray paused a moment before reading, as
if trying to guess its contents, or perhaps while making up his
mind how to act, whatever it might contain. No doubt his ideas were
arranged in a few minutes, for he began reading the letter whicharranged in a few minutes, for he began reading the letter which
caused so much uneasiness in the heart of the baroness, and which
ran as follows: —
"Madame and most faithful wife."
Debray mechanically stopped and looked at the baroness, whose
face became covered with blushes. "Read," she said.
Debray continued: —
"When you receive this, you will no longer have a husband. Oh,
you need not be alarmed, you will only have lost him as you have
lost your daughter; I mean that I shall be travelling on one of the
thirty or forty roads leading out of France. I owe you some
explanations for my conduct, and as you are a woman that can
perfectly understand me, I will give them. Listen, then. I received
this morning five millions which I paid away; almost directly
afterwards another demand for the same sum was presented to me; I
put this creditor off till to-morrow and I intend leaving to-day,
to escape that to-morrow, which would be rather too unpleasant for
me to endure. You understand this, do you not, my most precious
wife? I say you understand this, because you are as conversant with
my affairs as I am; indeed, I think you understand them better,
since I am ignorant of what has become of a considerable portion of
my fortune, once very tolerable, while I am sure, madame, that you
know perfectly well. For women have infallible instincts; they can
even explain the marvellous by an algebraic calculation they have
invented; but I, who only understand my own figures, know nothing
more than that one day these figures deceived me. Have you admired
the rapidity of my fall? Have you been slightly dazzled at the
sudden fusion of my ingots? I confess I have seen nothing but the
fire; let us hope you have found some gold among the ashes. With
this consoling idea, I leave you, madame, and most prudent wife,
without any conscientious reproach for abandoning you; you have
friends left, and the ashes I have already mentioned, and above all
the liberty I hasten to restore to you. And here, madame, I must


the liberty I hasten to restore to you. And here, madame, I must
add another word of explanation. So long as I hoped you were
working for the good of our house and for the fortune of our
daughter, I philosophically closed my eyes; but as you have
transformed that house into a vast ruin I will not be the
foundation of another man's fortune. You were rich when I married
you, but little respected. Excuse me for speaking so very candidly,
but as this is intended only for ourselves, I do not see why I
should weigh my words. I have augmented our fortune, and it has
continued to increase during the last fifteen years, till
extraordinary and unexpected catastrophes have suddenly overturned
it, — without any fault of mine, I can honestly declare. You,
madame, have only sought to increase your own, and I am convinced
that you have succeeded. I leave you, therefore, as I took you, —
rich, but little respected. Adieu! I also intend from this time to
work on my own account. Accept my acknowledgments for the example
you have set me, and which I intend following.
"Your very devoted husband,
"Baron Danglars."
The baroness had watched Debray while he read this long and
painful letter, and saw him, notwithstanding his self-control,
change color once or twice. When he had ended the perusal, he
folded the letter and resumed his pensive attitude. "Well?" asked
Madame Danglars, with an anxiety easy to be understood.
"Well, madame?" unhesitatingly repeated Debray.
"With what ideas does that letter inspire you?"
"Oh, it is simple enough, madame; it inspires me with the idea
that M. Danglars has left suspiciously."
"Certainly; but is this all you have to say to me?"
"I do not understand you," said Debray with freezing
coldness.
"He is gone! Gone, never to return!"
"Oh, madame, do not think that!"
"I tell you he will never return. I know his character; he is
inflexible in any resolutions formed for his own interests. If he
could have made any use of me, he would have taken me with him; hecould have made any use of me, he would have taken me with him; he
leaves me in Paris, as our separation will conduce to his benefit;
— therefore he has gone, and I am free forever," added Madame
Danglars, in the same supplicating tone. Debray, instead of
answering, allowed her to remain in an attitude of nervous inquiry.
"Well?" she said at length, "do you not answer me?"
"I have but one question to ask you, — what do you intend to
do?"
"I was going to ask you," replied the baroness with a beating
heart.
"Ah, then, you wish to ask advice of me?"
"Yes; I do wish to ask your advice," said Madame Danglars with
anxious expectation.
"Then if you wish to take my advice," said the young man coldly,
"I would recommend you to travel."
"To travel!" she murmured.
"Certainly; as M. Danglars says, you are rich, and perfectly
free. In my opinion, a withdrawal from Paris is absolutely
necessary after the double catastrophe of Mademoiselle Danglars'
broken contract and M. Danglars' disappearance. The world will
think you abandoned and poor, for the wife of a bankrupt would
never be forgiven, were she to keep up an appearance of opulence.
You have only to remain in Paris for about a fortnight, telling the
world you are abandoned, and relating the details of this desertion
to your best friends, who will soon spread the report. Then you can
quit your house, leaving your jewels and giving up your jointure,
and every one's mouth will be filled with praises of your
disinterestedness. They will know you are deserted, and think you
also poor, for I alone know your real financial position, and am
quite ready to give up my accounts as an honest partner." The dread
with which the pale and motionless baroness listened to this, was
equalled by the calm indifference with which Debray had spoken.
"Deserted?" she repeated; "ah, yes, I am, indeed, deserted! You are
right, sir, and no one can doubt my position." These were the only
words that this proud and violently enamoured woman could utter in
response to Debray.words that this proud and violently enamoured woman could utter in
response to Debray.
"But then you are rich, — very rich, indeed," continued Debray,
taking out some papers from his pocket-book, which he spread upon
the table. Madame Danglars did not see them; she was engaged in
stilling the beatings of her heart, and restraining the tears which
were ready to gush forth. At length a sense of dignity prevailed,
and if she did not entirely master her agitation, she at least
succeeded in preventing the fall of a single tear. "Madame," said
Debray, "it is nearly six months since we have been associated. You
furnished a principal of 100,000 francs. Our partnership began in
the month of April. In May we commenced operations, and in the
course of the month gained 450,000 francs. In June the profit
amounted to 900,000. In July we added 1,700,000 francs, — it was,
you know, the month of the Spanish bonds. In August we lost 300,000
francs at the beginning of the month, but on the 13th we made up
for it, and we now find that our accounts, reckoning from the first
day of partnership up to yesterday, when I closed them, showed a
capital of 2,400,000 francs, that is, 1,200,000 for each of us.
Now, madame," said Debray, delivering up his accounts in the
methodical manner of a stockbroker, "there are still 80,000 francs,
the interest of this money, in my hands."
"But," said the baroness, "I thought you never put the money out
to interest."
"Excuse me, madame," said Debray coldly, "I had your permission
to do so, and I have made use of it. There are, then, 40,000 francs
for your share, besides the 100,000 you furnished me to begin with,
making in all 1,340,000 francs for your portion. Now, madame, I
took the precaution of drawing out your money the day before
yesterday; it is not long ago, you see, and I was in continual
expectation of being called on to deliver up my accounts. There is
your money, — half in bank-notes, the other half in checks payable
to bearer. I say there, for as I did not consider my house safe


to bearer. I say there, for as I did not consider my house safe
enough, or lawyers sufficiently discreet, and as landed property
carries evidence with it, and moreover since you have no right to
possess anything independent of your husband, I have kept this sum,
now your whole fortune, in a chest concealed under that closet, and
for greater security I myself concealed it there.
"Now, madame," continued Debray, first opening the closet, then
the chest; — "now, madame, here are 800 notes of 1,000 francs each,
resembling, as you see, a large book bound in iron; to this I add a
certificate in the funds of 25,000 francs; then, for the odd cash,
making I think about 110,000 francs, here is a check upon my
banker, who, not being M. Danglars, will pay you the amount, you
may rest assured." Madame Danglars mechanically took the check, the
bond, and the heap of bank-notes. This enormous fortune made no
great appearance on the table. Madame Danglars, with tearless eyes,
but with her breast heaving with concealed emotion, placed the
bank-notes in her bag, put the certificate and check into her
pocket-book, and then, standing pale and mute, awaited one kind
word of consolation. But she waited in vain.
"Now, madame," said Debray, "you have a splendid fortune, an
income of about 60,000 livres a year, which is enormous for a woman
who cannot keep an establishment here for a year, at least. You
will be able to indulge all your fancies; besides, should you find
your income insufficient, you can, for the sake of the past,
madame, make use of mine; and I am ready to offer you all I
possess, on loan."
"Thank you, sir — thank you," replied the baroness; "you forget
that what you have just paid me is much more than a poor woman
requires, who intends for some time, at least, to retire from the
world."
Debray was, for a moment, surprised, but immediately recovering
himself, he bowed with an air which seemed to say, "As you please,
madame."
Madame Danglars had until then, perhaps, hoped for something;madame."
Madame Danglars had until then, perhaps, hoped for something;
but when she saw the careless bow of Debray, and the glance by
which it was accompanied, together with his significant silence,
she raised her head, and without passion or violence or even
hesitation, ran down-stairs, disdaining to address a last farewell
to one who could thus part from her. "Bah," said Debray, when she
had left, "these are fine projects! She will remain at home, read
novels, and speculate at cards, since she can no longer do so on
the Bourse." Then taking up his account book, he cancelled with the
greatest care all the entries of the amounts he had just paid away.
"I have 1,060,000 francs remaining," he said. "What a pity
Mademoiselle de Villefort is dead! She suited me in every respect,
and I would have married her." And he calmly waited until the
twenty minutes had elapsed after Madame Danglars' departure before
he left the house. During this time he occupied himself in making
figures, with his watch by his side.
Asmodeus — that diabolical personage, who would have been
created by every fertile imagination if Le Sage had not acquired
the priority in his great masterpiece — would have enjoyed a
singular spectacle, if he had lifted up the roof of the little
house in the Rue Saint-Germain-des-Pres, while Debray was casting
up his figures. Above the room in which Debray had been dividing
two millions and a half with Madame Danglars was another, inhabited
by persons who have played too prominent a part in the incidents we
have related for their appearance not to create some interest.
Mercedes and Albert were in that room. Mercedes was much changed
within the last few days; not that even in her days of fortune she
had ever dressed with the magnificent display which makes us no
longer able to recognize a woman when she appears in a plain and
simple attire; nor indeed, had she fallen into that state of
depression where it is impossible to conceal the garb of misery;depression where it is impossible to conceal the garb of misery;
no, the change in Mercedes was that her eye no longer sparkled, her
lips no longer smiled, and there was now a hesitation in uttering
the words which formerly sprang so fluently from her ready wit.
It was not poverty which had broken her spirit; it was not a
want of courage which rendered her poverty burdensome. Mercedes,
although deposed from the exalted position she had occupied, lost
in the sphere she had now chosen, like a person passing from a room
splendidly lighted into utter darkness, appeared like a queen,
fallen from her palace to a hovel, and who, reduced to strict
necessity, could neither become reconciled to the earthen vessels
she was herself forced to place upon the table, nor to the humble
pallet which had become her bed. The beautiful Catalane and noble
countess had lost both her proud glance and charming smile, because
she saw nothing but misery around her; the walls were hung with one
of the gray papers which economical landlords choose as not likely
to show the dirt; the floor was uncarpeted; the furniture attracted
the attention to the poor attempt at luxury; indeed, everything
offended eyes accustomed to refinement and elegance.
Madame de Morcerf had lived there since leaving her house; the
continual silence of the spot oppressed her; still, seeing that
Albert continually watched her countenance to judge the state of
her feelings, she constrained herself to assume a monotonous smile
of the lips alone, which, contrasted with the sweet and beaming
expression that usually shone from her eyes, seemed like "moonlight
on a statue," — yielding light without warmth. Albert, too, was ill
at ease; the remains of luxury prevented him from sinking into his
actual position. If he wished to go out without gloves, his hands
appeared too white; if he wished to walk through the town, his
boots seemed too highly polished. Yet these two noble and
intelligent creatures, united by the indissoluble ties of maternal


intelligent creatures, united by the indissoluble ties of maternal
and filial love, had succeeded in tacitly understanding one
another, and economizing their stores, and Albert had been able to
tell his mother without extorting a change of countenance, —
"Mother, we have no more money."
Mercedes had never known misery; she had often, in her youth,
spoken of poverty, but between want and necessity, those synonymous
words, there is a wide difference. Amongst the Catalans, Mercedes
wished for a thousand things, but still she never really wanted
any. So long as the nets were good, they caught fish; and so long
as they sold their fish, they were able to buy twine for new nets.
And then, shut out from friendship, having but one affection, which
could not be mixed up with her ordinary pursuits, she thought of
herself — of no one but herself. Upon the little she earned she
lived as well as she could; now there were two to be supported, and
nothing to live upon.
Winter approached. Mercedes had no fire in that cold and naked
room — she, who was accustomed to stoves which heated the house
from the hall to the boudoir; she had not even one little flower —
she whose apartment had been a conservatory of costly exotics. But
she had her son. Hitherto the excitement of fulfilling a duty had
sustained them. Excitement, like enthusiasm, sometimes renders us
unconscious to the things of earth. But the excitement had calmed
down, and they felt themselves obliged to descend from dreams to
reality; after having exhausted the ideal, they found they must
talk of the actual.
"Mother," exclaimed Albert, just as Madame Danglars was
descending the stairs, "let us reckon our riches, if you please; I
want capital to build my plans upon."
"Capital — nothing!" replied Mercedes with a mournful smile.
"No, mother, — capital 3,000 francs. And I have an idea of our
leading a delightful life upon this 3,000 francs."
"Child!" sighed Mercedes.
"Alas, dear mother," said the young man, "I have unhappily spent"Child!" sighed Mercedes.
"Alas, dear mother," said the young man, "I have unhappily spent
too much of your money not to know the value of it. These 3,000
francs are enormous, and I intend building upon this foundation a
miraculous certainty for the future."
"You say this, my dear boy; but do you think we ought to accept
these 3,000 francs?" said Mercedes, coloring.
"I think so," answered Albert in a firm tone. "We will accept
them the more readily, since we have them not here; you know they
are buried in the garden of the little house in the Allees de
Meillan, at Marseilles. With 200 francs we can reach
Marseilles."
"With 200 francs? — are you sure, Albert?"
"Oh, as for that, I have made inquiries respecting the
diligences and steamboats, and my calculations are made. You will
take your place in the coupe to Chalons. You see, mother, I treat
you handsomely for thirty-five francs." Albert then took a pen, and
wrote: —
Frs. Coupe, thirty-five francs … … … … … … … … … . 35 From
Chalons to Lyons you will go on by the steamboat — six
francs … … … … … … … … … … … … … .. 6 From Lyons to Avignon
(still by steamboat), sixteen francs … … … … … … … … … … … … …
16 From Avignon to Marseilles, seven franc… … … … … . 7 Expenses on
the road, about fifty francs … … … … . 50 Total… … … … … … … …
… … … … … … … … 114 frs.
"Let us put down 120," added Albert, smiling. "You see I am
generous, am I not, mother?"
"But you, my poor child?"
"I? do you not see that I reserve eighty francs for myself? A
young man does not require luxuries; besides, I know what
travelling is."
"With a post-chaise and valet de chambre?"
"Any way, mother."
"Well, be it so. But these 200 francs?"
"Here they are, and 200 more besides. See, I have sold my watch
for 100 francs, and the guard and seals for 300. How fortunate that
the ornaments were worth more than the watch. Still the same story
of superfluities! Now I think we are rich, since instead of the 114
francs we require for the journey we find ourselves in possession
of 250."francs we require for the journey we find ourselves in possession
of 250."
"But we owe something in this house?"
"Thirty francs; but I pay that out of my 150 francs, — that is
understood, — and as I require only eighty francs for my journey,
you see I am overwhelmed with luxury. But that is not all. What do
you say to this, mother?"
And Albert took out of a little pocket-book with golden clasps,
a remnant of his old fancies, or perhaps a tender souvenir from one
of the mysterious and veiled ladies who used to knock at his little
door, — Albert took out of this pocket-book a note of 1,000
francs.
"What is this?" asked Mercedes.
"A thousand francs."
"But whence have you obtained them?"
"Listen to me, mother, and do not yield too much to agitation."
And Albert, rising, kissed his mother on both cheeks, then stood
looking at her. "You cannot imagine, mother, how beautiful I think
you!" said the young man, impressed with a profound feeling of
filial love. "You are, indeed, the most beautiful and most noble
woman I ever saw!"
"Dear child!" said Mercedes, endeavoring in vain to restrain a
tear which glistened in the corner of her eye. "Indeed, you only
wanted misfortune to change my love for you to admiration. I am not
unhappy while I possess my son!"
"Ah, just so," said Albert; "here begins the trial. Do you know
the decision we have come to, mother?"
"Have we come to any?"
"Yes; it is decided that you are to live at Marseilles, and that
I am to leave for Africa, where I will earn for myself the right to
use the name I now bear, instead of the one I have thrown aside."
Mercedes sighed. "Well, mother, I yesterday engaged myself as
substitute in the Spahis,"* added the young man, lowering his eyes
with a certain feeling of shame, for even he was unconscious of the
sublimity of his self-abasement. "I thought my body was my own, and
that I might sell it. I yesterday took the place of another. I sold
myself for more than I thought I was worth," he added, attempting
to smile; "I fetched 2,000 francs."