‘Oh, I’m sure they are very unjust, even without knowing for certain what they are. When you men judge us poor women, we cannot expect much sympathy from you.’
‘Meaning that you are very fair among yourselves when you criticize each other!’
‘Because there is almost always passion in our judgments. But come back to your question.’
‘Is it because Mademoiselle Danglars loves someone else that she does not want to marry Monsieur de Morcerf?’
‘I told you, Maximilien: I am not a friend of Eugénie’s.’
‘Pah! Young ladies confide in one another, whether they are friends or not. Admit that you did probe her on it. There! I can see a smile.’
‘In that case, Maximilien, there’s no sense in our having this fence between us.’
‘Come, now: what did she tell you?’
‘She told me that she was not in love with anyone,’ said Valentine. ‘That she detested marriage; that her greatest joy would be to lead a free and independent life; and that she almost wished her father would lose his fortune so that she could become an artist like her friend, Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly.’
‘You see!’
‘What does that prove?’ asked Valentine.
‘Nothing,’ Maximilien replied, smiling.
‘So why are you smiling now?’
‘There!’ said Maximilien. ‘See! You’re looking too, Valentine.’
‘Would you like me to go away?’
‘Oh, no! No, no. But let’s get back to you.’
‘Yes, certainly, because we have barely ten minutes together.’
‘Heavens!’ said Maximilien in dismay.
‘Yes, Maximilien, you are right,’ Valentine said sadly. ‘What a poor friend you have in me. What a life I lead you, when otherwise you possess everything needed for happiness. Believe me, I do bitterly reproach myself.’
‘Why does it matter to you, Valentine, if I am happy as I am, if my eternal waiting seems to me fully compensated for by five minutes with you, by two words from your lips and by the deep, enduring conviction that God has not created any two hearts as well suited as ours, and has certainly not almost miraculously brought them together, only to separate them again.’
‘Very well. And thank you, Maximilien. Hope for both of us. I am half-happy if you can hope.’
‘So what has happened this time, Valentine, to make you hurry away from me again?’
‘I don’t know. Madame de Villefort sent a message for me to go and see her so that she could tell me something, they said, on which part of my fortune depends. Oh, God! Let them take my fortune! I am too rich. When they have it, then let them leave me in peace and free. You would love me as much if I were poor, wouldn’t you, Morrel?’
‘I shall always love you. What would riches or poverty matter to me if my Valentine was by my side and I was sure that no one could take her away! But aren’t you afraid that this news she has for you may be something to do with your marriage?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Listen to me, Valentine, and don’t be scared, because as long as I live I shall not belong to anyone else.’
‘Do you think that reassures me, Maximilien?’
‘Forgive me! You are right, I am too blunt. Well, I meant to tell you that the other day I met Monsieur de Morcerf.’
‘So?’
‘Monsieur Franz is his friend, as you know.’
‘Yes. What of it?’
‘So, he has had a letter from Franz, announcing that he will soon be back.’
Valentine went pale and leant against the gate.
‘Oh, my God!’ she said. ‘Suppose that were it! But, no, it would not be Madame de Villefort who told me.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because… I don’t know… I just feel that Madame de Villefort, while not openly opposed to the match, does not favour it either.’
‘Do you know, Valentine, I think I may like this Madame de Villefort.’
‘Don’t be in too much of a hurry, Maximilien,’ said Valentine with a melancholy smile.
‘Well, if she is opposed to this match, if only enough to prevent it going ahead, she might be open to other suggestions.’
‘Don’t think that, Maximilien. It is not husbands that Madame de Villefort rejects, but marriage itself.’
‘What? Marriage! But if she hates marriage so much, why did she herself marry?’
‘You don’t understand, Maximilien. When, a year ago, I spoke of retiring to a convent, despite some remarks that she felt she should make, she welcomed the proposal. Even my father agreed, though at her insistence, I’m sure. Only my poor grandfather restrained me. You cannot imagine, Maximilien, the expression in the eyes of that poor old man, who loves only me in the world and who – God forgive me if this is blasphemy – is loved only by me. If you knew how he looked at me when he learned what I had decided, how reproachful that look was and how desperate were the tears that coursed down his motionless cheeks, unaccompanied by any moan or sigh! Oh, Maximilien! I felt something close to remorse. I fell at his feet, begging him: “My father, my father, forgive me! Let them do what they will to me, I shall never leave you!” At that, he raised his eyes to heaven. Maximilien, I may suffer a great deal, but that look on my grandfather’s face has already compensated me for whatever I have to suffer.’
‘Dear Valentine! You are an angel and I really don’t know what I have done to merit your unburdening yourself to me, unless it is by cutting down a few Bedouin whom God considered as infidels. But, Valentine, I ask you, what interest can Madame de Villefort have in your not getting married?’
‘Didn’t you hear me tell you a moment ago that I am rich – too rich, Maximilien? From my mother, I have an income of nearly fifty thousand livres; my grandmother and grandfather, the Marquis and Marquise de Saint-Méran, should leave me the same amount; and Monsieur Noirtier clearly intends to make me his sole heir. The result is that my brother Edouard, who can expect no fortune from Madame de Villefort’s side, is poor in comparison with me. Yet Madame de Villefort loves that child to distraction and if I were to have taken the veil, all my fortune, concentrated on my father who would then inherit from the marquis, the marquise and me, would eventually revert to her son.’1
‘How strange, such cupidity in a beautiful young woman!’
‘You must admit, it is not for herself, but for her son; and what you blame as a defect in her is, from the point of view of maternal love, almost a virtue.’
‘But what if you were to cede part of your inheritance to her son, Valentine?’
‘How can one suggest such a thing, especially to a woman who is constantly talking about disinterestedness?’
‘Valentine, my love has always been sacred to me and, like anything sacred, I have shrouded it in the veil of respect and locked it in my heart. No one in the world, not even my sister, suspects my feelings, because I haven’t confided them to anyone. Valentine, would you allow me to mention them to a friend?’
Valentine started back. ‘To a friend?’ she said. ‘Oh, heaven, Maximilien, I shudder to hear you say that! A friend? Who is this friend?’
‘Tell me, Valentine, have you ever experienced an irresistible liking for someone which means that, although you are seeing this person for the very first time, you feel that you have known him for a long time and wonder where and when you may have seen him; so much so that, unable to recall either the place or the time, you come to think that it must have been in a world before our own and that the attraction is a reawakened memory?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that is what I felt the first time I met this extraordinary man.’
‘An extraordinary man?’
‘Yes.’
‘Whom you have known for a long time, then?’
‘For barely a week or ten days.’
‘And you call this man your friend, when you have known him for a week? Oh, Maximilien! I thought you less generous in attributing such a title.’
‘Is he a fortune-teller, then?’ Valentine asked, smiling.
‘In truth, I often believe that he does tell… good fortunes, above all.’
‘Oh,’ Valentine said sadly, ‘let me know who this man is, Maximilien, and I can ask him if I am well enough loved to compensate me for all that I have suffered.’
‘My poor love! But you know him!’
‘I do?’
‘Yes. He’s the man who saved your stepmother’s life and that of her son.’
‘The Count of Monte Cristo?’
‘The very same.’
‘Oh, no!’ Valentine exclaimed. ‘He can never be my friend, he is too much a friend of my stepmother’s.’
‘The count is a friend of your stepmother’s? Valentine, my instincts cannot be so unreliable. I am sure you are wrong.’
‘If only you knew, Maximilien! It is no longer Edouard who rules in that house, it is the count. The count – sought out by Madame de Villefort, who sees him as an encyclopedia of human wisdom; admired – do you hear? – admired by my father, who says he has never heard such lofty ideas expressed so eloquently; and worshipped by Edouard who, despite his fear of the count’s great black eyes, runs to him as soon as he comes in and opens his hand, where he always finds some admirable toy. When Monsieur le Comte de Monte Cristo is here, he is not in my father’s house; when Monsieur le Comte is here, he is not in Madame de Villefort’s; the Count of Monte Cristo is at home.’
‘Well, then, dearest Valentine, if what you say is true, then you must already be feeling the effects of his presence; or you soon will feel them. When he met Albert de Morcerf in Italy, he rescued him from brigands. When he saw Madame Danglars for the first time, it was to make a regal gift to her. When your stepmother and your brother came past his door, his Nubian servant saved their lives. The man obviously has the power to influence events. I have never seen such simple tastes allied to such magnificence. His smile is so sweet, when he turns it on me, that I forget how bitter others find it. Tell me, Valentine, has he smiled at you in that way? If he does, you will be happy.’
‘Me?’ the girl said. ‘Oh, heavens, Maximilien, he doesn’t even look at me; or, rather, if I happen to go by, he looks away from me. Come, he is not generous, admit it! Or else he does not have that ability to penetrate to the depth of another’s heart, as you wrongly suppose. For otherwise, if he had been generous, seeing me alone and sad in the midst of that household, he would have protected me with the influence he enjoys there; and, since you claim that he plays the role of a sun, he would have warmed my heart with his rays. You say that he likes you, Maximilien. But, in heaven’s name, what do you know? Men show their best side to an officer like you, who is five feet six inches tall, has a long moustache and carries a broad sabre, but they think they can crush a poor weeping girl with impunity.’
‘Valentine, you are wrong, I swear.’
‘If it were otherwise, Maximilien, if he treated me diplomatically, that is to say as a man would who is trying in some way or other to curry favour in the house, admit that he would at least once have honoured me with that smile which you admire so much. But no: he has seen me unhappy, he realizes that I cannot be of any use to him and he doesn’t even notice me. Who knows? Perhaps in his eagerness to ingratiate himself with my father, Madame de Villefort or my brother, he may join them in persecuting me as far as it is within his power. Frankly, you must agree that I am not a woman to be despised for no reason; you said so yourself. Oh, forgive me!’ she went on, seeing the impression that these words produced on Maximilien. ‘I am wicked, and I have told you things about that man that I was not even myself aware of thinking. Come, I don’t deny that he may have the influence that you spoke of, or that he may exercise it over me; but, if so, as you see, it is in a harmful way, which corrupts my good thoughts.’
‘Very well, Valentine,’ Morrel said with a sigh. ‘Let’s say no more about it. I shall tell him nothing.’
‘Alas, my friend! I can see I have upset you. Oh, how I wish I could clasp your hand to ask your forgiveness! But I ask nothing better than to be convinced. Tell me, what has this Count of Monte Cristo done for you?’
‘What has he done for me? I must admit, that is a very difficult question. Nothing tangible, I know. But, as I told you, my affection for him is entirely instinctive, not reasoned. Has the sun done something for me? No. It warms me and by its light I can see you, that’s all. Has this or that scent done anything for me? No. Its smell pleasantly refreshes one of my senses. I can’t say anything other than that when someone asks me why I praise that perfume; my friendship for him is as strange as his for me. A secret voice tells me that there is more than chance behind this reciprocal and unexpected friendship. I find a correlation between his merest action, or his most secret thought, and my actions, my thoughts. You will laugh at me again, Valentine, but since meeting this man I have the absurd idea that everything good that happens to me emanates from him. However, I lived for thirty years without needing this protector, didn’t I? And yet… Let me take an example. He has invited me to dine with him on Saturday, which is natural at this stage in our acquaintance, I think. Well, what have I learned since? Your father has been invited to this dinner and your mother will be coming. I shall meet them – and who knows what might come of that meeting, in the future? The circumstances are apparently very simple, yet I perceive something astonishing in it and it gives me a strange sense of optimism. I feel that the count, that remarkable man who guesses everything, wanted to bring me together with Monsieur and Madame de Villefort; and sometimes, I promise you, I try to read in his eyes to see whether he has guessed our love.’
‘My dear friend,’ said Valentine, ‘I should take you for a visionary and I should be seriously concerned for your wits, if all I heard from you were ideas of this kind. What! You imagine that this meeting is something other than a coincidence? Seriously, just think about it. My father, who never goes out, was ten times on the point of refusing to let Madame de Villefort go, while she, on the other hand, could not contain her desire to see this extraordinary nabob in his own home; she had great difficulty in getting him to agree to accompany her. No, no, believe me, apart from you, Maximilien, I have no one to turn to except my grandfather, who is a corpse; and no other support except my poor mother, who is a ghost!’
‘I expect you are right, Valentine, and that reason is on your side. But today your sweet voice, which usually has such power over me, has not convinced me.’
‘Any more than yours has convinced me,’ said Valentine. ‘I must say that if you have no more evidence to offer…’
‘I do have some,’ Maximilien said hesitantly, ‘but I must say, I am forced to admit it myself, this piece of evidence is even more absurd than the last.’
‘Too bad,’ said Valentine, smiling.
‘Yet I find it no less convincing, being a man of inspiration and feeling who has sometimes, in his ten years’ service, owed his life to one of those inner flashes that tell you to move forward or back, so that the bullet that should have struck you flies harmlessly past.’
‘Dear Maximilien, why don’t you attribute some of the warding off of those bullets to my prayers? When you are over there, I no longer pray to God for myself or my mother, but for you.’
‘Yes, since I have known you,’ Morrel said, smiling in his turn. ‘But what about before, Valentine?’
‘Huh! Since you do not wish to be indebted to me for anything, you scoundrel, give me this evidence which you yourself admit to be absurd.’
‘Well, then, look through the barrier and you will see the new horse on which I rode here, over there, by the tree.’
‘Oh, what a splendid creature!’ Valentine exc
laimed. ‘Why didn’t you bring him close up to the gate? I could have spoken to him and he would have heard me.’
‘He is indeed, as you can see, quite a valuable animal. And, as you know, my income is limited and I am what is called a “reasonable” man. Well, I saw this splendid Médéah, as I call him, at a place where they sell horses. I asked the price and was told four thousand five hundred francs, so, as you may well imagine, I was obliged to abstain from admiring him much longer; though I must admit that I left with a heavy heart, because he had looked at me tenderly, nuzzled me with his head and pranced about under me in the most captivating and lively way. That same evening, I had some friends at my house: Monsieur de Château-Renaud, Monsieur Debray, and five or six other ne’er-do-wells with whom it is your good fortune to be unacquainted, even by name. Someone suggested bouillotte. I never play, because I am not rich enough to afford to lose or poor enough to want to win. But being the host, you understand, I was obliged to send for some cards, which I did.
‘As we were sitting down, the count arrived. He took his place, we played and I won. I hardly dare to tell you this, Valentine, but I won five thousand francs. We separated at midnight. I could wait no longer; I took a cab and ordered it to drive me to the stables. Feverish and shivering, I rang the bell. The man who came to open up must have thought I was mad. I dashed through the door, as soon as it was open, and into the stable, where I looked in the stall. Happiness! Médéah was munching his oats. I grabbed a saddle, put it on his back myself and slipped the bridle over his head. Médéah accepted all this with the best grace in the world! Then, pressing the four thousand five hundred francs into the hands of the astonished merchant, I came back – or, rather, I spent the night riding along the Champs-Elysées. And I saw a light at the count’s window; I even thought I saw his shadow behind the curtains. Now, Valentine, I would swear that the count knew I wanted that horse and lost deliberately so that I could have it.’
‘My dear Maximilien,’ Valentine said, ‘your imagination really is running away with you… You will not love me for very long. A man who makes such poetry will never be happy, languishing in such a banal passion as ours… But, can you hear? They are calling me!’
The Count of Monte Cristo (Penguin Classics eBook) Page 82
