In the meanwhile M. de Villefort had arrived, in his hired cab, at M. d’Avrigny’s door. He rang so violently that the concierge ran to open with a look of terror. Villefort rushed up the stairs without being able to say anything. The concierge knew him and let him go by, merely shouting after him: ‘In his consulting-room, Monsieur, in his consulting-room!’
Villefort was already opening – or, rather, crashing through – the door of the room.
‘Ah, it’s you!’ the doctor said.
‘Yes, doctor,’ Villefort said, closing the door behind him. ‘Now it’s my turn to ask you if we are quite alone. Doctor, my house is accursed!’
‘What!’ the doctor said, disguising the welter of feelings inside him under an appearance of calm. ‘Has someone else been taken ill?’
‘Yes, doctor,’ Villefort cried, plunging his hands with a convulsive movement into his hair. ‘Yes!’
D’Avrigny’s look said: ‘I warned you.’
Then his lips slowly spoke these words: ‘So who is going to die in your house, and what new victim will accuse us of weakness before God?’
Villefort gave a painful sob. He went over to the doctor and clasped his arm. ‘Valentine,’ he said. ‘It’s the turn of Valentine!’
‘Your daughter!’ d’Avrigny exclaimed, overcome with distress and surprise.
‘You see: you were wrong,’ the lawyer muttered. ‘Come and see her, on her bed of pain, ask her forgiveness for suspecting her.’
‘Every time you have called me in, it has been too late,’ said M. d’Avrigny. ‘No matter, I’m on my way. But, Monsieur, we must hurry. With the enemies who strike at your family, there is no time to be lost.’
‘Ah, this time, doctor, you will not reproach me for my weakness. This time I shall find the murderer and strike.’
‘Let us try to save the victim before we think about revenge,’ said d’Avrigny. ‘Come on!’ And the cab that had brought Villefort took him and d’Avrigny back at full speed, at the very moment when Morrel, for his part, was knocking at Monte Cristo’s door.
The count was in his study. Bertuccio had just sent him a note and he was reading it with some anxiety. When the valet announced Morrel, who had left him barely two hours earlier, the count looked up.
Clearly a good deal had happened to him, as it had to the count, in those two hours, because the young man, who had left with a smile on his lips, was returning in a state of visible disarray. The count got up and hurried to meet him.
‘What is wrong, Maximilien?’ he asked. ‘You are quite pale and your forehead is bathed in sweat.’
Morrel fell rather than sat down in a chair. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I have been hurrying. I needed to speak to you urgently.’
‘Is everyone well in your family?’ the count asked with an unmistakably sincere note of affectionate goodwill.
‘Yes, thank you, Count, thank you,’ the young man replied, clearly at a loss to know how to open the conversation. ‘Yes, in my family everyone is well.’
‘Good. But you have something to tell me?’ the count asked, more and more anxious.
‘Yes, and it’s true I have just hurried to see you from a house which has been touched by the arrival of death.’
‘Have you been to Monsieur de Morcerf’s, then?’ Monte Cristo asked.
‘No,’ Morrel said. ‘Has someone died at Monsieur de Morcerf’s?’
‘The general has just blown his brains out.’
‘Oh, what a terrible thing!’ Maximilien exclaimed.
‘Not for the countess or for Albert,’ Monte Cristo said. ‘Better a husband and father dead than a husband and father dishonoured. The blood will wash away the shame.’
‘Poor countess! She is the one I pity most: such a noble woman!’
‘Pity Albert as well, Maximilien. Believe me, he is a worthy son of his mother. But let’s return to you. You have hurried round to see me, you say. Might I have the happiness of being able to help you?’
‘Yes, I need you; that is to say, like a madman, I believed that you could help me in a case where in fact only God can do so.’
‘Tell me, even so,’ said Monte Cristo.
‘I don’t know if I am entitled to reveal such a secret to human ears,’ said Morrel. ‘But fate drives me to it and necessity obliges me, Count…’ He hesitated.
‘Do you believe in my affection for you?’ Monte Cristo said, clasping the young man’s hand in his.
‘Oh, you are encouraging me. And something here’ (Morrel put his hand on his heart) ‘tells me that I should have no secrets from you.’
‘You are right, Morrel, God speaks to your heart and your heart to you. Tell me what your heart is telling you.’
‘Count, will you let me send Baptistin to ask, on your behalf, for news of someone you know?’
‘I have put myself at your disposal, so my servants are all the more yours to command.’
‘I shall not live until I am certain that she is recovering.’
‘Shall I ring for Baptistin?’
‘No, let me talk to him myself.’ Morrel went out, called Baptistin and whispered a few words to him. The valet left at the double.
‘Well, is that done, then?’ Monte Cristo asked when he returned.
‘Yes, and I can breathe a little easier.’
‘You know I am waiting,’ Monte Cristo said with a smile.
‘Yes, and I will tell you. Listen: one evening I was in a garden, hidden by a clump of trees so that no one guessed I was there. Two people walked close to me – please allow me not to tell you their names for the time being. They were talking very quietly together, but I was so interested to hear what they were saying that I did not miss a word.’
‘This is not going to be a happy tale, to judge by the colour of your cheeks and the shudder you gave.’
‘No, it is a dismal one, my friend. Someone had just died in the house of the man who owned the garden where I was hiding. The owner was one of the two people whose conversation I heard, the other was the doctor. The former was telling the latter about his anxieties and his fears, because this was the second time in a month that death had struck, speedily and unexpectedly, in this family. You might think it had been singled out by an exterminating angel to suffer the wrath of God.’
‘Ah, ha!’ said Monte Cristo, staring at the young man and imperceptibly turning his chair so that he was in shadow, while the light shone full on Maximilien’s face.
‘Yes,’ the latter went on. ‘Death had struck this family twice within a month.’
‘And what was the doctor’s reply?’ Monte Cristo asked.
‘He replied… he replied that the death was not natural… that it was attributable to…’
‘To what?’
‘To poison!’
‘Really!’ said Monte Cristo, with a little cough that, at times when he was profoundly moved by something, allowed him to disguise a blush, a loss of colour, or even the attention with which he was listening. ‘Really, Maximilien. Did you hear that?’
‘Yes, my dear Count, I did hear it; and the doctor added that, if such a thing should occur again, he would feel himself obliged to call in the law.’
Monte Cristo listened (or appeared to do so) with the greatest calm.
‘Then,’ said Maximilien, ‘death struck a third time, and neither the master of the house nor the doctor said anything. Death may strike a fourth time, perhaps. Count, what obligation do you think knowing this secret imposes on me?’
‘My dear friend,’ Monte Cristo answered, ‘you seem to be telling a story that each of us knows by heart. I know the house where you overheard that conversation, or at least one very similar: a house with a garden, a father and a doctor, a house in which there have been three peculiar and unexpected deaths. Well, consider me. I have not overheard any confidences, yet I know all of this as well as you do; do I have any scruples of conscience? No, it doesn’t concern me. You say that an exterminating angel seems to have designated this family for the wrath of Go
d; well, who tells you that what seems to be is not the case? You should not see things that those who have good reason to see them fail to see. If it is justice and not God’s wrath that hovers about that house, Maximilien, turn away and let divine justice proceed.’
Morrel shuddered. There was something at once dismal, solemn and fearsome in the count’s voice.
‘In any case,’ he said, with such a sudden change in his tone that one would not have thought the words came from the same man’s lips, ‘who tells you that it will occur again?’
‘It has, Count!’ Morrel cried. ‘That is why I have come to see you.’
‘Well, what can I do, Morrel? Do you by any chance want me to inform the crown prosecutor?’ These last words were spoken with such clarity and emphasis that Morrel leapt to his feet and exclaimed: ‘Count! You know whom I mean, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do, my dear friend, and I will prove it to you by dotting the i’s and giving names to the people. You were walking one evening in Monsieur de Villefort’s garden. According to your account, I suppose it must have been on the evening when Madame de Saint-Méran died. You heard Monsieur de Villefort speaking to Monsieur d’Avrigny about Monsieur de Saint-Méran’s death and the no less unexpected death of the marquise. Monsieur d’Avrigny said that he believed one, or even both of them, had been poisoned; and you, the most law-abiding of men, have been wondering ever since, searching your heart and sounding your conscience to decide whether you should reveal the secret or not. We are no longer in the Middle Ages, my dear fellow, and there is no longer any holy Vehme or francs-juges.1 What the devil are you going to ask those people? “Conscience, what do you want of me?” as Sterne says. No, my friend, let them sleep if they are sleeping, let them go grey with insomnia, and you, for the love of God, sleep, since you have no pangs of conscience to keep you awake.’
A look of unspeakable anguish appeared on Morrel’s face. He grasped Monte Cristo’s hand. ‘But it has started again, I tell you!’
‘So?’ said the count, astonished at this insistence, which he could not understand, and looking closely at Maximilien. ‘Let it start again. It’s a family of Atreides.2 God has condemned them and they will suffer their fate. They will disappear like the houses of cards that children set up, which fall one by one when their builders blow on them – and would do so even if there were two hundred of them. Three months ago it was Monsieur de Saint-Méran; two months ago, Madame de Saint-Méran; the other day it was Barrois, and today it will be old Noirtier or young Valentine.’
‘You knew?’ Morrel cried in such a paroxysm of terror that even Monte Cristo, who would have watched the sky fall without blanching, shuddered. ‘You knew and said nothing!’
‘Why? What does it matter to me?’ the count said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Do I know those people? Must I destroy one to save another? Good Lord no, because between the guilty party and the victim I have absolutely no preference.’
‘But I do!’ Morrel shouted in agony. ‘I do! I love her!’
‘Whom do you love?’ cried Monte Cristo, leaping to his feet and clasping the two hands which Morrel was lifting, entwined, to heaven.
‘I love passionately, I love madly, I love like a man who would give his life’s blood to spare her a tear, I love Valentine de Villefort who is being murdered at this moment, do you understand? I love her and I beg God and you to tell me how I can save her.’
Monte Cristo gave a savage cry which can only be imagined by those who have heard the roar of a wounded lion.
‘Wretch!’ he cried, wringing his hands in his turn. ‘Wretch! You love Valentine! You love that daughter of an accursed race!’
Morrel had never seen such an expression. Never had such a fearful eye blazed up before his face and never had the spirit of terror which he had so often seen appear, either on the battlefield or in the murderous Algerian night, fanned such sinister flames around him. He shrank back in horror.
As for Monte Cristo, after this outburst he closed his eyes for a moment as if dazzled by some inner lightning. During that moment he collected himself with such force that one could gradually see his chest cease to heave with the inner storms that shook it, as the raging and foaming of the sea is appeased when the clouds disperse and the sun shines out again.
This silence, this inner struggle, lasted for some twenty seconds. Then the count raised his pale face. ‘You see,’ he said in a strained voice. ‘See how, my dear friend, how God punishes the most boastful and the most detached of men for their indifference to the frightful scenes that He displays before them. I, who was watching the unfolding of this dreadful tragedy as an impassive and curious spectator; I, who, like the fallen angel, laughed at the evil that men do when they are sheltered by secrecy – and secrecy is easy to preserve for the rich and powerful – now I myself am bitten by that serpent whose progress I was observing – bitten to the heart!’
Morrel gave a dull moan.
‘Come now,’ the count said. ‘No more sighs. Be a man, be strong, be full of hope, for I am here, watching over you.’
Morrel sadly shook his head.
‘Don’t you understand: I told you to hope!’ cried Monte Cristo. ‘Learn this: I never lie, I am never wrong. It is mid-day, Maximilien. Give thanks to heaven that you came at mid-day and not this evening or tomorrow morning. Listen to what I am about to tell you, Morrel: it is mid-day and, if Valentine is not dead now, she will not die.’
‘Oh my God! My God!’ Morrel cried. ‘And I left her dying!’
Monte Cristo put a hand to his forehead. What was going on inside that head, so heavy with its terrible secrets? What were the angel of light and the angel of darkness saying to that mind, at once implacable and humane? Only God knew.
Monte Cristo looked up once more, and this time he was as calm as a child waking from sleep. ‘Maximilien,’ he said, ‘go quietly back home. I order you not to do anything, not to try any approach, not let the shadow of a single worry cloud your face. I shall have news for you. Now go.’
‘My God!’ said Morrel. ‘You terrify me, Count, with your lack of emotion. Have you some remedy for death? Are you more than a man? Are you an angel? A god?’ And the young man, who had never flinched from any danger, shrank away from Monte Cristo, seized with unspeakable terror.
However, Monte Cristo was looking at him with a smile that was at once so melancholy and so tender that Maximilien felt the tears filling his eyes.
‘I can do many things, my friend,’ the count replied. ‘Go now; I need to be alone.’
So Morrel, subjugated by the powerful ascendancy that Monte Cristo exercised over everything around him, did not even try to object. He shook the count’s hand and left. But at the door he stopped to wait for Baptistin, whom he had just seen running round the corner of the Rue Matignon.
In the meantime Villefort and d’Avrigny had hurried home. When they got there, Valentine was still unconscious, and the doctor examined his patient with the care demanded by the circumstances and an attentiveness made all the more minute by his knowledge of the secret. Villefort, hanging on his every look and word, awaited the outcome of the examination. Noirtier, paler than the girl herself, even more eager to find a solution than Villefort, was also waiting, everything about him expressing intelligence and sensitivity.
At last d’Avrigny said slowly: ‘She’s still alive.’
‘Still!’ Villefort exclaimed. ‘Oh, doctor, what a dreadful word that is.’
‘Yes,’ the doctor said, ‘and I repeat: she is still alive and I am very surprised by it.’
‘But is she saved?’ the father asked.
‘Yes, since she is alive.’
At that moment, d’Avrigny’s eye caught that of Noirtier, which shone with such astonishing joy and such a rich abundance of ideas that the doctor was quite struck by it.
He lowered the girl on to the chair. Her lips were so pale and white, like the rest of her face, as to be barely distinguishable. Then he stayed motionless, watching Noirtier, who
was waiting and observing each of the doctor’s movements.
‘Monsieur,’ d’Avrigny said to Villefort, ‘call Mademoiselle Valentine’s chambermaid, if you please.’
Villefort laid down his daughter’s head, which he had been supporting, and went in person to call the chambermaid. As soon as he had closed the door, d’Avrigny went over to Noirtier. ‘Do you have something to tell me?’ he asked.
The old man blinked expressively; it was, as we have said, the only affirmative sign that he had at his disposal.
‘To me alone?’
‘Yes,’ Noirtier affirmed.
‘Very well, I shall remain with you.’
At that moment Villefort returned, followed by the chambermaid. Behind her came Mme de Villefort.
‘But what has happened to this dear child?’ she asked. ‘She has just left me and she did complain that she was not feeling well, but I could not believe it was serious.’ And, with tears in her eyes and with every mark of affection of a true mother, the young woman crossed to Valentine and took her hand.
D’Avrigny was still watching Noirtier. He saw the old man’s eyes dilate and grow round, his cheeks drain of colour and start to tremble. There was sweat on his brow. ‘Ah!’ d’Avrigny said involuntarily, following Noirtier’s eyes towards Mme de Villefort, who was saying: ‘This poor child will be better lying down. Come, Fanny, we must take her to her bed.’
M. d’Avrigny saw in this suggestion a means to stay alone with Noirtier and nodded to show that this was indeed the best thing to do, but forbade them to give the patient anything at all except what he would prescribe for her.
Valentine was taken away, having regained consciousness but still unable to make any movement or virtually to speak, so grave had been the effect of the shock on her limbs. However, she did muster the strength to greet her grandfather with a look; and, as they took her away, it seemed as though they were tearing out his soul.
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