‘Ah!’ said d’Avrigny, with the horror of a judge learning the truth and, at the same time, the joy of the scientist who elucidates a problem.
For a moment Mme de Villefort staggered, her eyes at first darting fire then becoming dull. She reached unsteadily for the door-handle and went out. A moment later, there was the distant sound of a body falling to the ground. But nobody took any notice of it. The nurse was examining the chemical sample, while Villefort was still insensible. Only d’Avrigny had watched Mme de Villefort and noticed her hurried exit.
He raised the curtain in front of the door to Valentine’s room and, looking through that of Edouard, he could see into Mme de Villefort’s apartment. He saw her stretched, motionless, on the floor.
‘Go and see to Madame de Villefort,’ he said to the nurse. ‘She is unwell.’
‘But what about Mademoiselle Valentine?’ she asked.
‘Mademoiselle Valentine has no further need of help,’ d’Avrigny said. ‘Mademoiselle Valentine is dead.’
‘Dead! Dead!’ Villefort exclaimed in a paroxysm of suffering all the more acute for being quite new, unknown and unexpected in this heart of bronze.
‘Dead, you say?’ cried a third voice. ‘Who said that Valentine was dead?’
The two men turned around and, at the door, saw Morrel standing, pale, frightful, devastated with horror.
This is what had happened. Morrel had arrived, at his usual time, through the little door leading to Noirtier’s. Unusually, he found the door open and, not needing to ring, came in. In the hall, he waited for a moment, calling for a servant who would show him up to old Noirtier’s rooms. But no one replied: as we know, the servants had deserted the house.
That day, Morrel had no particular reason for anxiety. He had Monte Cristo’s promise that Valentine would live, and up to now that promise had been faithfully kept. Every evening the count had given him good news, which was confirmed the next day by Noirtier himself.
However, on this morning the silence seemed odd. He called a second, then a third time, but there was no reply, so he decided to go up.
Noirtier’s door was open, like the rest.
The first thing he saw was the old man in his armchair. His dilated pupils seemed to express an inner terror that was confirmed by the strange pallor that had spread across his face.
‘How are you, Monsieur?’ the young man said, not without some sinking in his heart.
‘Well!’ the old man replied with a wink. ‘Well!’ But the anxiety on his face seemed to increase.
‘You are worried,’ Morrel went on. ‘Do you need something? Shall I call one of your people?’
‘Yes,’ Noirtier went.
Morrel hung on the bell-pull but, even though he tugged it to breaking point, no one came. So he turned back to Noirtier. The pallor and anguish had increased on the old man’s face.
‘My God!’ said Morrel. ‘Why does no one come? Is someone sick in the house?’
Noirtier’s eyes seemed to be bulging out of their sockets.
‘But what is wrong?’ Morrel went on. ‘You are frightening me… Valentine, Valentine!’
‘Yes, yes!’ Noirtier indicated.
Maximilien opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue could not form any sound. He staggered and held on to the panelling to support himself. Then he reached out towards the door.
‘Yes, yes, yes!’ the old man continued.
Maximilien plunged down the little staircase, covering it in two leaps, while Noirtier’s eyes seemed to shout at him: ‘Faster, faster!’
It took the young man only a minute to cross through several rooms, empty like the rest of the house, and reach Valentine’s apartments. He did not need to push the door to her room, which was already wide open. The first sound that he heard was a sob. As if through a cloud, he saw a black shape kneeling and buried in a confused mass of white linen. Fear, a dreadful fear, kept him frozen at the door.
It was then that he heard a voice say: ‘Valentine is dead!’ and a second voice, like an echo, reply: ‘Dead! Dead!’
CIII
MAXIMILIEN
Villefort got up, almost ashamed at being discovered in this extremity of grief. The awful profession he had exercised for the past twenty-five years had made him more, or less, than a man.
His eyes, after wandering for a moment, settled on Morrel.
‘Who are you, Monsieur?’ he asked. ‘Have you forgotten that one does not enter a house that is occupied by death? Begone, Monsieur! Begone!’
But Morrel remained motionless, unable to take his eyes off the frightful spectacle of the rumpled bed with the figure lying on top of it.
‘Go, do you hear!’ Villefort cried, while d’Avrigny came forward to oblige Morrel to leave.
Morrel looked in distraction at the body, the two men, the whole room… He seemed to hesitate for a moment and opened his mouth. Then, finding no word to say, despite the vast swarm of deadly thoughts swirling in his brain, he retreated, plunging his fingers through his hair, so that Villefort and d’Avrigny, momentarily distracted from the matter uppermost in their minds, looked after him with an expression that meant: ‘He is mad!’
However, in less than five minutes they heard the staircase creak beneath some considerable weight and saw Morrel who, with superhuman strength, was lifting Noirtier’s chair in his arms, bringing the old man up to the first floor of the house.
When he got to the top of the stairs, Morrel put the chair down and pushed it quickly into Valentine’s room. The whole of this operation was carried out with a strength increased ten times by the young man’s frenzied hysteria. But the most terrifying thing was Noirtier’s face as it advanced towards Valentine’s bed, pushed by Morrel: Noirtier’s face in which the intellect exerted every means within its power and the eyes concentrated all their strength to compensate for the loss of the other faculties. This pale face with its blazing look was a terrifying apparition to Villefort.
Each time that he found himself in contact with his father, something dreadful happened.
‘See what they have done!’ Morrel cried, one hand still resting on the back of the chair which he had just pushed up to the bed, and the other outstretched towards Valentine. ‘Look, father, look!’
Villefort shrank back a step and stared with amazement at this young man, who was almost unknown to him, yet who called Noirtier his father.
At that moment the old man’s whole soul seemed to rise into his eyes, which were shot with blood. Then the veins on his neck swelled and a bluish tint, like that which suffuses the skin of an epileptic, spread across his neck, his cheeks and his temples. The only thing that was missing from this internal explosion of the whole being was a cry.
But that cry seemed to emerge as it were from every pore, terrifying in its dumbness, heart-rending in its silence.
D’Avrigny rushed over to the old man and made him sniff a powerful revulsive.
‘Monsieur,’ Morrel exclaimed, grasping the paralysed man’s inert hand. ‘They ask me what I am and what right I have to be here. You know the answer. Tell them! Tell them…’ And his voice was drowned in sobs.
As for the old man, his chest heaved as he gasped for breath. One might have imagined that he was prey to the convulsions that precede the death agony. Finally, tears poured from his eyes: he was more fortunate than the young man, who could only sob without weeping. His head could not bow, so he closed his eyes.
‘Tell them,’ he said, in a strangled voice. ‘Tell them I was her fiancé. Tell them that she was my noble friend, my only love on this earth! Tell them… Tell them that this body belongs to me!’
The young man, presenting the awful spectacle of some great force breaking, fell heavily to his knees beside the bed while his fingers clasped it convulsively.
His grief was so touching that d’Avrigny turned away to hide his emotion and Villefort, asking for no further explanation, drawn by the magnetism that drives us towards those who have loved those for whom we grieve, offered
the young man his hand.
But Morrel could see nothing. He had grasped Valentine’s ice-cold hand and, unable to weep, was groaning and biting the bedclothes.
For some time nothing could be heard in the room other than this conflict of sobs, oaths and prayers. Yet one noise rose above all, and that was the harsh, harrowing sound of breathing which, at each gulp of air, seemed to break one of the springs of life in Noirtier’s chest.
Finally, Villefort, the most self-possessed of all, after having as it were ceded his place for some time to Maximilien, began to speak.
‘Monsieur,’ he told Maximilien, ‘you loved Valentine, you say. You were her fiancé. I must admit I was unaware of this love and of the engagement. Yet, as her father, I forgive you for it, since I can see that your grief is great, true and real.
‘Moreover my own grief is too great to leave room in my heart for anger.
‘But, as you see, the angel for whom you longed has left this earth. She no longer needs the adoration of men – she, who, at this moment, is adoring the Lord. So say your farewells, Monsieur, to these sad remains that she has left behind among us. Once more take the hand that you were expecting to take in other circumstances and part from her for ever. Valentine no longer has need of anyone except the priest who will bless her.’
‘You are wrong, Monsieur,’ Morrel exclaimed, rising on one knee, his heart smitten by a pain sharper than any he had yet felt. ‘You are wrong. Valentine, having died as she has, needs not only a priest but an avenger. You send for the priest, Monsieur de Villefort; I shall be her avenger.’
‘What do you mean, Monsieur?’ Villefort murmured, quaking at this new product of Morrel’s delirium.
‘What I mean,’ Morrel continued, ‘is that there are two men in you, Monsieur. The father has wept enough; let the crown prosecutor resume his duties.’
Noirtier’s eyes shone, and d’Avrigny came over to them.
‘Monsieur,’ the young man went on, his eyes picking up every feeling that was expressed on the faces of those around him, ‘I know what I am saying and you all know as well as I do what I mean. Valentine was murdered!’
Villefort bent his head. D’Avrigny took another step. Noirtier moved his eyes.
‘So, Monsieur,’ Morrel continued, ‘nowadays when a creature, even one less young, even one less beautiful, even one less adorable than Valentine… such a creature does not disappear violently from the earth without someone asking for a reason. Come, Monsieur,’ Morrel added, with growing vehemence, ‘no pity – Prosecutor! I am reporting the crime to you, find the murderer!’
And his implacable eyes were fixed on Villefort, while he, for his part, looked from Noirtier to d’Avrigny and back.
‘Yes,’ went the old man.
‘Yes, indeed,’ said d’Avrigny.
‘Monsieur,’ Villefort replied, trying to struggle against these three wills and against his own feelings, ‘you are wrong. No crimes are committed in my house. Fate has struck, God is trying me, which is horrible to believe; but no one is being murdered!’
Noirtier’s eyes flashed and d’Avrigny opened his mouth to speak. But Morrel lifted his hand to order silence.
‘I tell you that people are being murdered here!’ he cried, his voice lowered without losing any of its dreadful power. ‘I tell you that this is the fourth victim struck down in four months. I tell you that four days ago someone already tried to poison Valentine and that the attempt only failed because of the precautions taken by Monsieur Noirtier…
‘I tell you that the dose was doubled, or that the type of poison was changed. And this time the attempt succeeded!
‘And, finally, I tell you that you know all this as well as I do, because this gentleman warned you, as a doctor and as a friend.’
‘Oh, you are delirious!’ Villefort cried, vainly trying to escape from the trap that he felt closing in on him.
‘I am delirious?’ Morrel cried. ‘Well, then, I appeal to Monsieur d’Avrigny himself. Ask him, Monsieur, if he still remembers the words he spoke in your garden, the garden of this very house, on the evening when Madame de Saint-Méran died and when the two of you, thinking yourselves alone, were discussing that tragic death – in which the fate you mentioned, and God, whom you unjustly accuse, could only have played one part, that is, in creating Valentine’s murderer.’
Villefort and d’Avrigny looked at one another.
‘Yes, yes, remember,’ said Morrel. ‘Those words, which you thought you entrusted to silence and solitude, reached my ears. Certainly, that very evening, seeing Monsieur de Villefort’s culpable leniency towards his own family, I should have revealed everything to the authorities. I should not then be an accomplice in your death, Valentine! My beloved Valentine! But the accomplice will become the avenger. This fourth murder is flagrant and visible to all; and, Valentine, even if your father abandons you, I swear that I shall pursue your murderer.’
This time, as though nature had finally taken pity on this strong constitution about to be crushed by its own strength, Morrel’s last words were stifled in his throat, his chest heaved with sobs, and tears, which had for so long refused to come, poured from his eyes. He could no longer support himself but fell on his knees, weeping, beside Valentine’s bed.
Now it was the turn of d’Avrigny. ‘I, too, add my voice to that of Monsieur Morrel to demand justice for this crime,’ he said emphatically. ‘My heart rebels at the idea that my cowardly indulgence encouraged the murderer.’
‘Oh, my God!’ Villefort muttered, overwhelmed.
Morrel raised his head and, looking at the old man, whose eyes were blazing with a superhuman light, he said: ‘Monsieur Noirtier has something to say.’
‘Yes,’ Noirtier went, with an expression all the more dreadful in that all the poor man’s faculties were concentrated in that look.
‘Do you know the murderer?’ Morrel asked.
‘Yes,’ Noirtier replied.
‘And you will direct us to him?’ the young man exclaimed. ‘Listen! Monsieur d’Avrigny, listen!’
Noirtier gave the unhappy Morrel a melancholy smile, one of those sweet smiles in his eyes that had so often made Valentine happy, then he concentrated his attention. Having so to speak fastened the other man’s eyes on his, he then turned them towards the door.
‘Do you wish me to go out, Monsieur?’ Morrel asked, in a pitiful tone of voice.
‘Yes,’ Noirtier said.
‘Alas, Monsieur, have pity on me!’
But the old man’s eyes remained implacably fixed on the door.
‘May I at least return?’ asked Morrel.
‘Yes.’
‘Must I go out by myself?’
‘No.’
‘Whom should I take with me? The crown prosecutor?’
‘No.’
‘The doctor?’
‘Yes.’
‘You wish to remain alone with Monsieur de Villefort?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will he be able to understand you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Villefort said, almost happy now that the investigation was to take place between the two of them. ‘Have no fear, I can understand my father very well.’ But even though he said this with an expression of relief, the crown prosecutor’s teeth were chattering violently.
D’Avrigny took Morrel’s arm and led the young man into the next room. Then the house lapsed into a silence deeper than the silence of death.
Finally, after a quarter of an hour, an unsteady step could be heard and Villefort appeared on the threshold of the drawing-room in which d’Avrigny and Morrel were waiting, one absorbed in his thoughts, the other sunk in grief.
‘Come in,’ Villefort said; and he led them back to where Noirtier was sitting.
Morrel examined Villefort closely. The crown prosecutor’s face was livid. Huge patches of reddish colour had appeared on his forehead while, between his fingers, a quill was falling to pieces after being bent and twisted in a hundred different w
ays.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said to Morrel and d’Avrigny in a strangled voice, ‘your word of honour that this dreadful secret will remain buried among us!’
The two men started.
‘I beg you!’ said Villefort.
‘But the guilty person,’ said Morrel. ‘The murderer! The assassin!’
‘Have no fear, Monsieur, justice shall be done,’ said Villefort. ‘My father has told me the name of the guilty person; he is as thirsty as you are for revenge; yet, like me, he implores you to keep the secret – don’t you, father?’
‘Yes,’ Noirtier went, firmly.
Villefort continued: ‘He knows me, and I have given him my word. Rest assured, gentlemen. Three days: I ask you for three days, which is less than the law would demand, and in three days the revenge that I shall have exacted from the murderer of my child will make the most impassive of men shudder to the depths of his heart. Am I not right, father?’
As he spoke, he ground his teeth and shook the old man’s numbed hand.
‘Will all these promises be kept, Monsieur Noirtier?’ Morrel asked, while d’Avrigny put the same question with a look.
‘Yes,’ Noirtier answered, with a sinister joy in his eyes.
‘So, gentlemen, swear,’ Villefort said, joining d’Avrigny and Morrel’s hands. ‘Swear that you will take pity on the honour of my family and leave me to avenge it?’
D’Avrigny turned away and muttered a barely audible ‘Yes’, but Morrel tore his hand away from the judge, dashed over to the bed, pressed his lips to the icy lips of Valentine, and fled with the long-drawn-out groan of a soul plunged in despair.
We have already mentioned that all the servants had left. As a result, Monsieur de Villefort was obliged to ask d’Avrigny to take care of the proceedings, so delicate and so many, which must follow a death in one of our large towns, especially when it takes place in suspicious circumstances.
As for Noirtier, his motionless grief, his frozen despair and his noiseless tears were something terrible to behold.
Villefort returned to his study. D’Avrigny went to fetch from the town hall the doctor who fulfils the office of coroner and is quite unambiguously designated ‘doctor of the dead’.
The Count of Monte Cristo (Penguin Classics eBook) Page 136
