Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  “Oh, I have often heard whispers of things that seem to me most strange—the father a Bonapartist, the son a Royalist; what can have been the reason of so singular a difference in parties and politics? But to resume my story; I turned towards my grandfather, as though to question him as to the cause of his emotion; he looked expressively at the newspaper I had been reading. ‘What is the matter, dear grandfather?’ said I, ‘are you pleased?’ He gave me a sign in the affirmative. ‘With what my father said just now?’ He returned a sign in the negative. ‘Perhaps you liked what M. Danglars said?’ Another sign in the negative. ‘Oh, then, you were glad to hear that M. Morrel (I didn’t dare to say Maximilian) had been made an officer of the Legion of Honor?’ He signified assent; only think of the poor old man’s being so pleased to think that you, who were a perfect stranger to him, had been made an officer of the Legion of Honor! Perhaps it was a mere whim on his part, for he is falling, they say, into second childhood, but I love him for showing so much interest in you.”

  “How singular,” murmured Maximilian; “your father hates me, while your grandfather, on the contrary—What strange feelings are aroused by politics. Nevertheless, it might be time enough to cause our fortunes to change, dear Valentine. Hope is all I ask of you.

  Maximilian angled so he could see his beloved and witness the tears run a lonely path down her lovely face.

  “Please, might I have the honor of touching your hand one more time, Valentine, it is all I dream about each night and all I wish for every day.”

  Valentine, craving the comfort of her friend but not the responsibility of encouraging his affections anymore than was proper, hesitated.

  “My dearest love, in no other hands will you be safer than mine.”

  Decidedly, she thrust her hand through the gate. The young man seized upon it but planted feather-light kisses in the center of her palm and flamed out to her fingertips.

  “Maximilian,” Valentine gasped his name. The heat from his soft lips fairly sizzled at each touch of them to her vulnerable flesh and it awakened her in a way she had never known possible. The unattainable affliction known as desire was something Valentine had never even entertained for herself. In the hands of Maximilian she knew it now, the very thing spoke about in whispered tones or in the pages of novels, come to life.

  The young woman pulled her arm away and he gently let it slide through his hands. Valentine parted some of the brush as to be closer to the gate and now she could look into her beloved’s eyes and touch him herself.

  “I require your hand now, Maximilian.”

  The expression he took at her words was marvelous; a mix of shock and awe but he said nothing as he slid an overly large hand between the small openings. The entirety of his appendage would not fit but she could touch his fingertips well enough and took to planting small kisses at the end of each digit.

  “Oh Valentine, my love, you are my undoing.”

  She continued her ministrations intent on providing for him that hungry desire he built in her at only such a small touch.

  “Maximilian, I have sensations I dared not have before. This is the thing we are warned about as children, as women, to beware, and yet I feel like heaven itself has descended under my skin.”

  “Give me your hand in return and we can both share in the joy.”

  She slid her hand back through the narrow slits and he cupped it in his free hand. This was all more than he even dared think about but if he ignited something in Valentine he wanted to keep it aflame just for him. Gently, he separated her dominant finger and pressed it to his lips, just a small kiss, until he opened them only a fraction of space pulled the peak into his mouth.

  Valentine gasped at the heat encasing her finger. There seemed to be a thread running from that tiny spot he held against his tongue to the core of her. Never had she felt such an overwhelming sensation as the crushing need that enveloped her in one tiny movement.

  “If I do the same to you, Maximilian, is the effect the same?”

  “The effect is magnified, my love, because of the differences in our anatomy, but enjoyable still.”

  Valentine followed his lead and softly kissed his fingers before pulling the center digit into her mouth. He tasted like blackberries from the bush he must have parted to see her, and she licked the juice from his skin and reveled in the heavy breathing emanating form the other side of the gate.

  “I wish I could show you the joy of this, young Valentine, of a man and a woman together, in love, in desire.”

  A blush clearly flushed her cheeks at his words.

  “Is it always like this?’ The innocent Valentine asked.

  “Not always, my love, but it can be if the man and woman know how to play one another in the right way.”

  “You say, like an instrument?”

  “In a similar fashion; I will teach you.”

  Maximilian drew the digit into his mouth but this time added a suction that pulled that very thread he had already drawn taunt in her body.

  Each breath she drew in was like pulling air while running on a hot day. She was overwhelmed, comforted, and craving something she could not name.

  Maximilian moved to the next digit, this time biting down softly. It did not hurt but it added a sharper edge to the need clamoring through Valentine’s body, and she began to understand the complex art of love from the one man in the world she might wish to learn it.

  “Please, stop,” she whispered.

  He released her hand completely, drawing his own back to the far side of the opening.

  “Have I injured you, my love?”

  “Not at all, I just do not have a way to reconcile this new knowledge with my feelings for you and my resignation at becoming someone else’s wife.”

  “As I said, Valentine, we have time, and we have hope. Do not dismiss them both so swiftly. Everything can change in the course of one hour, one minute, or one day. All I ask of you is to not lose hope.”

  “It is difficult; I know not how I should think now with the touch of your mouth on my fingers. I would have that mouth on mine if it were possible.”

  “Fear not, Valentine, the next time we meet I shall fulfill that wish and some others you do not even know you own yet.”

  She drew her hand down the planks, imagining him closer than he was, imagining she could touch him somewhere other than his hand.

  “I will hold you to that promise, Maximilian.”

  The young man gave a noble and deep bow to his lady and her girlish giggle warmed the evening air between them.

  “I never break a promise, my lady.”

  She smiled and began to reach through the fence once more when she heard her name shouted as if far away.

  “Hush,” cried Valentine, suddenly; “someone is coming!” Maximilian leaped at one bound into his crop of lucerne, which he began to pull up in the most ruthless way, under the pretext of being occupied in weeding it.

  “Mademoiselle, mademoiselle!” exclaimed a voice from behind the trees. “Madame is searching for you everywhere; there is a visitor in the drawing-room.”

  “A visitor?” inquired Valentine, much agitated; “who is it?”

  “Some grand personage—a prince I believe they said—the Count of Monte Cristo.”

  “I will come directly,” cried Valentine aloud. The name of Monte Cristo sent an electric shock through the young man on the other side of the iron gate, to whom Valentine’s “I am coming” was the customary signal of farewell. “Now, then,” said Maximilian, leaning on the handle of his spade, “I would give a good deal to know how it comes about that the Count of Monte Cristo is acquainted with M. de Villefort.”

  Chapter 9. Toxicology.

  It was really the Count of Monte Cristo who had just arrived at Madame de Villefort’s for the purpose of returning the procureur’s visit, and at his name, as may be easily imagined, the whole house was in confusion. Madame de Villefort, who was alone in her drawing-room when the Count was announced, desired that her son
might be brought thither instantly to renew his thanks to the Count; and Edward, who heard this great personage talked of for two whole days, made all possible haste to come to him, not from obedience to his mother, or out of any feeling of gratitude to the Count, but from sheer curiosity, and that some chance remark might give him the opportunity for making one of the impertinent speeches which made his mother say,—“Oh, that naughty child! But I can’t be severe with him, he is really so bright.”

  After the usual civilities, the Count inquired after M. de Villefort. “My husband dines with the chancellor,” replied the young lady; “he has just gone, and I am sure he’ll be exceedingly sorry not to have had the pleasure of seeing you before he went.” Two visitors who were there when the Count arrived, having gazed at him with all their eyes, retired after that reasonable delay which politeness admits and curiosity requires. “What is your sister Valentine doing?” inquired Madame de Villefort of Edward; “tell someone to bid her come here, that I may have the honor of introducing her to the Count.”

  “You have a daughter, then, madame?” inquired the Count; “very young, I presume?”

  “The daughter of M. de Villefort by his first marriage,” replied the young wife, “a fine well-grown girl.”

  “But melancholy,” interrupted Master Edward, snatching the feathers out of the tail of a splendid parroquet that was screaming on its gilded perch, in order to make a plume for his hat. Madame de Villefort merely cried,—“Be still, Edward!” She then added,—“This young madcap is, however, very nearly right, and merely re-echoes what he has heard me say with pain a hundred times; for Mademoiselle de Villefort is, in spite of all we can do to rouse her, of a melancholy disposition and taciturn habit, which frequently injure the effect of her beauty. But what detains her? Go, Edward, and see.”

  “Because they are looking for her where she is not to be found.”

  “And where are they looking for her?”

  “With grandpapa Noirtier.”

  “And do you think she is not there?”

  “No, no, no, no, no, she is not there,” replied Edward, singing his words.

  “And where is she, then? If you know, why don’t you tell?”

  “She is under the big chestnut-tree,” replied the spoiled brat, as he gave, in spite of his mother’s commands, live flies to the parrot, which seemed keenly to relish such fare. Madame de Villefort stretched out her hand to ring, intending to direct her waiting-maid to the spot where she would find Valentine, when the young lady herself entered the apartment. She appeared much dejected; and any person who considered her attentively might have observed the traces of recent tears in her eyes.

  Valentine, whom we have in the rapid march of our narrative presented to our readers without formally introducing her, was a tall and graceful girl of nineteen, with bright chestnut hair, deep blue eyes, and that reposeful air of quiet distinction which characterized her mother. Her white and slender fingers, her pearly neck, her cheeks tinted with varying hues reminded one of the lovely Englishwomen who have been so poetically compared in their manner to the gracefulness of a swan. She entered the apartment, and seeing near her stepmother the stranger of whom she had already heard so much, saluted him without any girlish awkwardness, or even lowering her eyes, and with an elegance that redoubled the Count’s attention. He rose to return the salutation. “Mademoiselle de Villefort, my daughter-in-law,” said Madame de Villefort to Monte Cristo, leaning back on her sofa and motioning towards Valentine with her hand. “And M. de Monte Cristo, King of China, Emperor of Cochin-China,” said the young imp, looking slyly towards his sister.

  Madame de Villefort at this really did turn pale, and was very nearly angry with this household plague, who answered to the name of Edward; but the Count, on the contrary, smiled, and appeared to look at the boy complacently, which caused the maternal heart to bound again with joy and enthusiasm.

  “But, madame,” replied the Count, continuing the conversation, and looking by turns at Madame de Villefort and Valentine, “have I not already had the honor of meeting yourself and mademoiselle before? I could not help thinking so just now; the idea came over my mind, and as mademoiselle entered the sight of her was an additional ray of light thrown on a confused remembrance; excuse the remark.”

  “I do not think it likely, sir; Mademoiselle de Villefort is not very fond of society, and we very seldom go out,” said the young lady.

  “Then it was not in society that I met with mademoiselle or yourself, madame, or this charming little merry boy. Besides, the Parisian world is entirely unknown to me, for, as I believe I told you, I have been in Paris but very few days. No,—but, perhaps, you will permit me to call to mind—stay!” The Count placed his hand on his brow as if to collect his thoughts. “No—it was somewhere—away from here—it was—I do not know—but it appears that this recollection is connected with a lovely sky and some religious fete; mademoiselle was holding flowers in her hand, the interesting boy was chasing a beautiful peacock in a garden, and you, madame, were under the trellis of some arbor. Pray come to my aid, madame; do not these circumstances appeal to your memory?”

  “No, indeed,” replied Madame de Villefort; “and yet it appears to me, sir, that if I had met you anywhere, the recollection of you must have been imprinted on my memory.”

  “Perhaps the Count saw us in Italy,” said Valentine timidly.

  “Yes, in Italy; it was in Italy most probably,” replied Monte Cristo; “you have travelled then in Italy, mademoiselle?”

  “Yes; madame and I were there two years ago. The doctors, anxious for my lungs, had prescribed the air of Naples. We went by Bologna, Perugia, and Rome.”

  “Ah, yes—true, mademoiselle,” exclaimed Monte Cristo as if this simple explanation was sufficient to revive the recollection he sought. “It was at Perugia on Corpus Christi Day, in the garden of the Hotel des Postes, when chance brought us together; you, Madame de Villefort, and her son; I now remember having had the honor of meeting you.”

  “I perfectly well remember Perugia, sir, and the Hotel des Postes, and the festival of which you speak,” said Madame de Villefort, “but in vain do I tax my memory, of whose treachery I am ashamed, for I really do not recall to mind that I ever had the pleasure of seeing you before.”

  “It is strange, but neither do I recollect meeting with you,” observed Valentine, raising her beautiful eyes to the Count.

  “But I remember it perfectly,” interposed the darling Edward.

  “I will assist your memory, madame,” continued the Count; “the day had been burning hot; you were waiting for horses, which were delayed in consequence of the festival. Mademoiselle was walking in the shade of the garden, and your son disappeared in pursuit of the peacock.”

  “And I caught it, mamma, don’t you remember?” interposed Edward, “and I pulled three such beautiful feathers out of his tail.”

  “You, madame, remained under the arbor; do you not remember, that while you were seated on a stone bench, and while, as I told you, Mademoiselle de Villefort and your young son were absent, you conversed for a considerable time with somebody?”

  “Yes, in truth, yes,” answered the young lady, turning very red, “I do remember conversing with a person wrapped in a long woollen mantle; he was a medical man, I think.”

  “Precisely so, madame; this man was myself; for a fortnight I had been at that hotel, during which period I had cured my valet de chambre of a fever, and my landlord of the jaundice, so that I really acquired a reputation as a skilful physician. We discoursed a long time, madame, on different subjects; of Perugino, of Raffaelle, of manners, customs, of the famous aquatofana, of which they had told you, I think you said, that certain individuals in Perugia had preserved the secret.”

  “Yes, true,” replied Madame de Villefort, somewhat uneasily, “I remember now.”

  “I do not recollect now all the various subjects of which we discoursed, madame,” continued the Count with perfect calmness; “but I perfectly reme
mber that, falling into the error which others had entertained respecting me, you consulted me as to the health of Mademoiselle de Villefort.”

  “Yes, really, sir, you were in fact a medical man,” said Madame de Villefort, “since you had cured the sick.”

  “Moliere or Beaumarchais would reply to you, madame, that it was precisely because I was not, that I had cured my patients; for myself, I am content to say to you that I have studied chemistry and the natural sciences somewhat deeply, but still only as an amateur, you understand.”—At this moment the clock struck six. “It is six o’clock,” said Madame de Villefort, evidently agitated. “Valentine, will you not go and see if your grandpapa will have his dinner?” Valentine rose, and saluting the Count, left the apartment without speaking.

  “Oh, madame,” said the Count, when Valentine had left the room, “was it on my account that you sent Mademoiselle de Villefort away?”

  “By no means,” replied the young lady quickly; “but this is the hour when we usually give M. Noirtier the unwelcome meal that sustains his pitiful existence. You are aware, sir, of the deplorable condition of my husband’s father?”

  “Yes, madame, M. de Villefort spoke of it to me—a paralysis, I think.”

  “Alas, yes; the poor old gentleman is entirely helpless; the mind alone is still active in this human machine, and that is faint and flickering, like the light of a lamp about to expire. But excuse me, sir, for talking of our domestic misfortunes; I interrupted you at the moment when you were telling me that you were a skilful chemist.”

  “No, madame, I did not say as much as that,” replied the Count with a smile; “quite the contrary. I have studied chemistry because, having determined to live in eastern climates I have been desirous of following the example of King Mithridates.”

  “Mithridates rex Ponticus,” said the young scamp, as he tore some beautiful portraits out of a splendid album, “the individual who took cream in his cup of poison every morning at breakfast.”

  “Edward, you naughty boy,” exclaimed Madame de Villefort, snatching the mutilated book from the urchin’s grasp, “you are positively past bearing; you really disturb the conversation; go, leave us, and join your sister Valentine in dear grandpapa Noirtier’s room.”