Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  “Dear Valentine, you are a perfect angel, and I am sure I do not know what I—sabring right and left among the Bedouins—can have done to merit your being revealed to me, unless, indeed, heaven took into consideration the fact that the victims of my sword were infidels. But tell me what interest Madame de Villefort can have in your remaining unmarried?”

  “Did I not tell you just now that I was rich, Maximilian—too rich? I possess nearly 50,000 livres in right of my mother; my grandfather and my grandmother, the Marquis and Marquise de Saint-Meran, will leave me as much, and M. Noirtier evidently intends making me his heir. My brother Edward, who inherits nothing from his mother, will, therefore, be poor in comparison with me. Now, if I had taken the veil, all this fortune would have descended to my father, and, in reversion, to his son.”

  “Ah, how strange it seems that such a young and beautiful woman should be so avaricious.”

  “It is not for herself that she is so, but for her son, and what you regard as a vice becomes almost a virtue when looked at in the light of maternal love.”

  “But could you not compromise matters, and give up a portion of your fortune to her son?”

  “How could I make such a proposition, especially to a woman who always professes to be so entirely disinterested?”

  “Valentine, I have always regarded our love in the light of something sacred; consequently, I have covered it with the veil of respect, and hid it in the innermost recesses of my soul. No human being, not even my sister, is aware of its existence. Valentine, will you permit me to make a confidant of a friend and reveal to him the love I bear you?”

  Valentine started. “A friend, Maximilian; and who is this friend? I tremble to give my permission.”

  “Listen, Valentine. Have you never experienced for any one that sudden and irresistible sympathy, which made you feel as if the object of it had been your old and familiar friend, though, in reality, it was the first time you had ever met? Nay, further, have you never endeavored to recall the time, place, and circumstances of your former intercourse, and failing in this attempt, have almost believed that your spirits must have held converse with each other in some state of being anterior to the present, and that you are only now occupied in a reminiscence of the past?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that is precisely the feeling which I experienced when I first saw that extraordinary man.”

  “Extraordinary, did you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have known him for some time, then?”

  “Scarcely longer than eight or ten days.”

  “And do you call a man your friend whom you have only known for eight or ten days? Ah, Maximilian, I had hoped you set a higher value on the title of friend.”

  “Your logic is most powerful, Valentine, but say what you will, I can never renounce the sentiment which has instinctively taken possession of my mind. I feel as if it were ordained that this man should be associated with all the good which the future may have in store for me, and sometimes it really seems as if his eye was able to see what was to come, and his hand endowed with the power of directing events according to his own will.”

  “He must be a prophet, then,” said Valentine, smiling.

  “Indeed,” said Maximilian, “I have often been almost tempted to attribute to him the gift of prophecy; at all events, he has a wonderful power of foretelling any future good.”

  “Ah,” said Valentine in a mournful tone, “do let me see this man, Maximilian; he may tell me whether I shall ever be loved sufficiently to make amends for all I have suffered.”

  “My poor girl, you know him already.”

  “I know him?”

  “Yes; it was he who saved the life of your stepmother and her son.”

  “The Count of Monte Cristo?”

  “The same.”

  “Ah,” cried Valentine, “he is too much the friend of Madame de Villefort ever to be mine.”

  “The friend of Madame de Villefort! It cannot be; surely, Valentine, you are mistaken?”

  “No, indeed, I am not; for I assure you, his power over our household is almost unlimited. Courted by my stepmother, who regards him as the epitome of human wisdom; admired by my father, who says he has never before heard such sublime ideas so eloquently expressed; idolized by Edward, who, notwithstanding his fear of the Count’s large black eyes, runs to meet him the moment he arrives, and opens his hand, in which he is sure to find some delightful present,—M. de Monte Cristo appears to exert a mysterious and almost uncontrollable influence over all the members of our family.”

  “If such be the case, my dear Valentine, you must yourself have felt, or at all events will soon feel, the effects of his presence. He meets Albert de Morcerf in Italy—it is to rescue him from the hands of the banditti; he introduces himself to Madame Danglars—it is that he may give her a royal present; your stepmother and her son pass before his door—it is that his Nubian may save them from destruction. This man evidently possesses the power of influencing events, both as regards men and things. I never saw more simple tastes united to greater magnificence. His smile is so sweet when he addresses me, that I forget it ever can be bitter to others. Ah, Valentine, tell me, if he ever looked on you with one of those sweet smiles? if so, depend on it, you will be happy.”

  “Me?” said the young girl; “he never even glances at me; on the contrary, if I accidentally cross his path, he appears rather to avoid me. Ah, he is not generous, neither does he possess that supernatural penetration which you attribute to him, for if he did, he would have perceived that I was unhappy; and if he had been generous, seeing me sad and solitary, he would have used his influence to my advantage, and since, as you say, he resembles the sun, he would have warmed my heart with one of his life-giving rays. You say he loves you, Maximilian; how do you know that he does? All would pay deference to an officer like you, with a fierce mustache and a long sabre, but they think they may crush a poor weeping girl with impunity.”

  “Ah, Valentine, I assure you that you are mistaken.”

  “If it were otherwise—if he treated me diplomatically—that is to say, like a man who wishes, by some means or other, to obtain a footing in the house, so that he may ultimately gain the power of dictating to its occupants—he would, if it had been but once, have honored me with the smile which you extol so loudly; but no, he saw that I was unhappy, he understood that I could be of no use to him, and therefore paid no attention to me whatever. Who knows but that, in order to please Madame de Villefort and my father, he may not persecute me by every means in his power? It is not just that he should despise me so, without any reason. Ah, forgive me,” said Valentine, perceiving the effect which her words were producing on Maximilian: “I have done wrong, for I have given utterance to thoughts concerning that man which I did not even know existed in my heart. I do not deny the influence of which you speak, or that I have not myself experienced it, but with me it has been productive of evil rather than good.”

  “Well, Valentine,” said Morrel with a sigh, “we will not discuss the matter further. I will not make a confidant of him.”

  “Alas,” said Valentine, “I see that I have given you pain. I can only say how sincerely I ask pardon for having grieved you. But, indeed, I am not prejudiced beyond the power of conviction. Tell me what this Count of Monte Cristo has done for you.”

  “I own that your question embarrasses me, Valentine, for I cannot say that the Count has rendered me any ostensible service. Still, as I have already told you I have an instinctive affection for him, the source of which I cannot explain to you. Has the sun done anything for me? No; he warms me with his rays, and it is by his light that I see you—nothing more. Has such and such a perfume done anything for me? No; its odor charms one of my senses—that is all I can say when I am asked why I praise it. My friendship for him is as strange and unaccountable as his for me. A secret voice seems to whisper to me that there must be something more than chance in this unexpected reciprocity of friendship
. In his most simple actions, as well as in his most secret thoughts, I find a relation to my own. You will perhaps smile at me when I tell you that, ever since I have known this man, I have involuntarily entertained the idea that all the good fortune, which has befallen me originated from him. However, I have managed to live thirty years without this protection, you will say; but I will endeavor a little to illustrate my meaning. He invited me to dine with him on Saturday, which was a very natural thing for him to do. Well, what have I learned since? That your mother and M. de Villefort are both coming to this dinner. I shall meet them there, and who knows what future advantages may result from the interview? This may appear to you to be no unusual combination of circumstances; nevertheless, I perceive some hidden plot in the arrangement—something, in fact, more than is apparent on a casual view of the subject. I believe that this singular man, who appears to fathom the motives of every one, has purposely arranged for me to meet M. and Madame de Villefort, and sometimes, I confess, I have gone so far as to try to read in his eyes whether he was in possession of the secret of our love.”

  “My good friend,” said Valentine, “I should take you for a visionary, and should tremble for your reason, if I were always to hear you talk in a strain similar to this. Is it possible that you can see anything more than the merest chance in this meeting? Pray reflect a little. My father, who never goes out, has several times been on the point of refusing this invitation; Madame de Villefort, on the contrary, is burning with the desire of seeing this extraordinary nabob in his own house, therefore, she has with great difficulty prevailed on my father to accompany her. No, no; it is as I have said, Maximilian,—there is no one in the world of whom I can ask help but yourself and my grandfather, who is little better than a corpse.”

  “I see that you are right, logically speaking,” said Maximilian; “but the gentle voice which usually has such power over me fails to convince me to-day.”

  “I feel the same as regards yourself.,” said Valentine; “and I own that, if you have no stronger proof to give me”—

  “I have another,” replied Maximilian; “but I fear you will deem it even more absurd than the first.”

  “So much the worse,” said Valentine, smiling.

  “It is, nevertheless, conclusive to my mind. My ten years of service have also confirmed my ideas on the subject of sudden inspirations, for I have several times owed my life to a mysterious impulse which directed me to move at once either to the right or to the left, in order to escape the ball which killed the comrade fighting by my side, while it left me unharmed.”

  “Dear Maximilian, why not attribute your escape to my constant prayers for your safety? When you are away, I no longer pray for myself, but for you.”

  “Yes, since you have known me,” said Morrel, smiling; “but that cannot apply to the time previous to our acquaintance, Valentine.”

  “You are very provoking, and will not give me credit for anything; but let me hear this second proof, which you yourself own to be absurd.”

  “Well, look through this opening, and you will see the beautiful new horse which I rode here.”

  “Ah, what a beautiful creature!” cried Valentine; “why did you not bring him close to the gate, so that I could talk to him and pat him?”

  “He is, as you see, a very valuable animal,” said Maximilian. “You know that my means are limited, and that I am what would be designated a man of moderate pretensions. Well, I went to a horse dealer’s, where I saw this magnificent horse, which I have named Medeah. I asked the price; they told me it was 4,500 francs. I was, therefore, obliged to give it up, as you may imagine, but I own I went away with rather a heavy heart, for the horse had looked at me affectionately, had rubbed his head against me and, when I mounted him, had pranced in the most delightful way imaginable, so that I was altogether fascinated with him. The same evening some friends of mine visited me,—M. de Chateau-Renaud, M. Debray, and five or six other choice spirits, whom you do not know, even by name. They proposed a game of bouillotte. I never play, for I am not rich enough to afford to lose, or sufficiently poor to desire to gain. But I was at my own house, you understand, so there was nothing to be done but to send for the cards, which I did.

  “Just as they were sitting down to table, M. de Monte Cristo arrived. He took his seat amongst them; they played, and I won. I am almost ashamed to say that my gains amounted to 5,000 francs. We separated at midnight. I could not defer my pleasure, so I took a cabriolet and drove to the horse dealer’s. Feverish and excited, I rang at the door. The person who opened it must have taken me for a madman, for I rushed at once to the stable. Medeah was standing at the rack, eating his hay. I immediately put on the saddle and bridle, to which operation he lent himself with the best grace possible; then, putting the 4,500 francs into the hands of the astonished dealer, I proceeded to fulfill my intention of passing the night in riding in the Champs Elysees. As I rode by the Count’s house I perceived a light in one of the windows, and fancied I saw the shadow of his figure moving behind the curtain. Now, Valentine, I firmly believe that he knew of my wish to possess this horse, and that he lost expressly to give me the means of procuring him.”

  “My dear Maximilian, you are really too fanciful; you will not love even me long. A man who accustoms himself to live in such a world of poetry and imagination must find far too little excitement in a common, everyday sort of attachment such as ours. But they are calling me. Do you hear?”

  “Ah, Valentine,” said Maximilian, “give me but one finger through this opening in the grating, one finger, the littlest finger of all, that I may have the happiness of kissing it.”

  “Maximilian, we said we would be to each other as two voices, two shadows.”

  “As you will, Valentine.”

  “Shall you be happy if I do what you wish?”

  “Oh, yes!” Valentine mounted on a bench, and passed not only her finger but her whole hand through the opening. Maximilian uttered a cry of delight, and, springing forwards, seized the hand extended towards him, and imprinted on it a fervent and impassioned kiss.

  That impassioned kiss caused young Valentine to recall the fervor in which he kissed her hands and her fingers the last time they met in that very spot.

  “Maximilian, two shadows can become one, if the light is cast in the right way, correct?”

  He raised his head from her hand and met her eyes through the slats. “Valentine, you can not suggest such a thing. My heart may stop from the very thought. You know well my opinion, which I have harbored for some time, and yet, I shall repeat it as often as you request it.”

  They approached one another between the gate, bodies aligned and would have met if it weren’t for the impediment of the iron.

  “Then tell me,” Valentine whispered softly. The wind carried her words and they pounded inside the mind of Maximilian. “Tell me how you love me.”

  Valentine pulled her hand from his and inserted her fingertips so he might wrap his own fingers in hers.

  “Valentine, my heart beats for you. I wish no one to ever share the life, which I have built save you. If you asked me I would give up everything and leave this place, if you but spoke the word, I would make you my wife.”

  Valentine’s eyes held a sheen of tears.

  “I can not leave my grandfather yet, he has no one to care for him, and love him in the way he needs. My family does not understand; he is still listening, still conversing with them, even if they choose not to listen.”

  “Then I wait for the day you call my name through the gate and ask me to take you away. Is there anything you might wish from me now, my love?” Maximilian asked, caressing her small fingers with his own larger ones.

  “Might you remove this gate for us to converse properly?” The young woman chuckled at her jest but Maximilian pulled his fingers and left the fence. In a few moments he called her name softly to join him behind a bush down from where they previously stood.

  Somehow Maximilian removed a portion of the fence
residing behind the bush. It was wide enough for the frame of the small statured Valentine to slip through, as ever it was her choice.

  Valentine stared at the opening and Maximilian allowed her all the time she might need to come to the decision he knew she would always make. The young women slithered ungracefully through the hole and threw herself into the arms of her friend.

  “I have dreamt this dream,” he whispered delving his fingers into the fall of her hair.

  “May I kiss you, Valentine? I have longed to touch those beautiful lips since the day we met.”

  The fear in Valentine’s eyes was evident to Maximilian but he halted, simply holding her, indifferent to other thoughts urging him to push her for more than she might give him. After a few moments passed, Valentine leaned back in his arms and offered her face to his for a kiss. He pressed the briefest of caresses on her full lips, simply allowing her the space and comfort to accustom her body for which he might bestow upon it.

  When she sagged in the circle of his embrace, Maximilian pulled her close so her breasts pressed against his chest. He imagined the outline of each mound under her dress and needed to shift in order to accommodate his growing erection. Not wanting to frighten her too early, he ensured the lady did not notice.

  “Maximilian, I want you to kiss me again, this time like a hero in a romance novel. I imagine more passion in that sort of kiss than the gentle kiss which you bestowed upon me,” the young lady announced, resolution etched across her features.

  He did not need the words to be uttered again. Leaning in so her luscious scent surrounded him, he seized her lips in a fiery kiss. She shocked him with her boldness when he felt the tip of her tongue meet the seam separating his from hers. The taste of her was nothing compared to the feel, she tasted richer than the finest concoction any chef in France might create. He grew drunk just from the brief interlude between them.

  Once she pulled away he felt bereft of her, a sentiment he did not care for.