Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  Monte Cristo concealed himself behind a large tomb and awaited the arrival of Morrel, who by degrees approached the tomb now abandoned by spectators and workmen. Morrel threw a glance around, but before it reached the spot occupied by Monte Cristo the latter had advanced yet nearer, still unperceived. The young man knelt down. The count, with outstretched neck and glaring eyes, stood in an attitude ready to pounce upon Morrel upon the first occasion. Morrel bent his head till it touched the stone, then clutching the grating with both hands, he murmured,—”Oh, Valentine!” The count’s heart was pierced by the utterance of these two words; he stepped forward, and touching the young man’s shoulder, said,—”I was looking for you, my friend.” Monte Cristo expected a burst of passion, but he was deceived, for Morrel turning round, said calmly,—

  “You see I was praying.” The scrutinizing glance of the count searched the young man from head to foot. He then seemed more easy.

  “Shall I drive you back to Paris?” he asked.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Do you wish anything?”

  “Leave me to pray.” The count withdrew without opposition, but it was only to place himself in a situation where he could watch every movement of Morrel.

  “Dearest Valentine, I did not know that I could put into words my soul, my heart, and my feelings so I wrote them for you in a letter.

  Dearest Valentine, my love, my life, my all. We knew only the brief passion of a season and I always wanted more of you. I asked too much and you, being so gracious, gave me everything and more, even when you felt you shouldn’t. I won’t forget that.

  I’d like to share with you some of the happiest moments of my life, not strangely, involving you.

  The count stood in the shadow of the tomb, his heart breaking for his friend, his one true friend, as he bid farewell to his love.

  Valentine, when you allowed me that first caress and I felt the beat of your heart in your wrist I knew I was lost forever. I could and would never return for my life before you allowed me such liberties.

  You have a way of moving my heart with a simple caress, a simple word, or a voiced wish. When you bid me show you some of what love making can be I thought I would die with longing for it and at the exact same moment the shame that I could not show you as it should have been, in a bed, in our bed.

  The first time I brought you to completion in my arms beneath our tree was the first time I knew true happiness and what it could mean to be a husband and you a wife. I applied much pressure in our friendship to take it another way, to become lovers, and much more and you have my sincerest apologies, my dearest Valentine.

  I only regret I did not tell you of my love every single day, every single second we were together. Every moment of our meetings play through my head on a neverending cycle. A portion of me wishes they may never cease so you will be with me for the time I have left.

  I shall come to the next occurrence at which you shared your passion with me. Only a short time ago you begged my permission to pleasure me as I had you. The feel of your mouth on me was an ecstacy I will never know again. You were exquisite in that moment, in that act, and nothing had ever or will ever compare.

  Finally, my dearest Valentine, I shall speak of the night we made love. My heart breaks just saying the words. To call what we shared an act of love is truth but the rushed and hurried circumstances in which we found ourselves was shameful on my part. Do not mistake me, my love, I would not trade that memory for the entire treasure of Atlantis, but I should have treated you with the care and respect you deserved. I would have spent a night, a day, possibly a fortnight worshipping you with my lips, my tongue, my teeth, and my body. There would have been no part of me held back from you and I regret you did not get the experience you deserved.

  A single tear slid down Morrel’s cheek in a glistening trail. The count felt the prickling behind his own eyes as he waiting for his friend.

  My love, looking down from heaven, as you are most assuredly a beautiful angel, you might wonder why I speak of such intimate things in your tomb. I mean no disrespect of you or of the dead I only wish to impart these memories before I take my next journey in the event we do not meet again in this life of any other.

  I will repeat, the night we made love, was the happiest I have known next to the moment you uttered you would be my bride. These memories I hold in my heart, safe inside the broken pieces I hold close since you also remain there.

  My love, I am almost finished and then I will leave you for now.

  You were my life, my reason for living, the light in my heart. There will never be another like you nor will I ever love another.

  I hope you can forgive the ill treatment I have given and forgive me for being a man in love with the women who would have been his bride. In my heart we were one and that was enough for me to want you in every way that I did, right or wrong.

  In a moment our heartbroken lover fell forward to both knees and elbows before his dearest love’s tomb clutching the crumpled paper in which he poured his soul. The count still remaining hidden in the shadows felt the anger and the loss for his dear friend and waited. He did not have many true friends and for those he did have, such as Haidee, such as Maximilian he would wait forever.

  Maximilian shook from head to toe as if from weeping. It took the will the count never knew himself capable to allow his friend to suffer alone amidst the deafening silence of the Villefort tombs.

  Another length of time passed and Maximilian stood again, not even attempting to clean the dust from his breaches. His face was streaked with tears and his eyes swollen from the effort and grief at his dear lost love.

  He spoke once more and the count flinched from the wounded voice that Maximilian produced.

  My dearest, I have only one thing left to say to you. I do not wish to remain on this Earth without you here beside me. As I told you once before if I should have to live without you then I choose not to live.

  You are my soul mate, Valentine, and without it’s match I fear my soul will wither and die within me.

  Sour high, my love, and think of me whilst you are among the angels.

  Maximilian kissed the crumpled and tear-streaked paper before laying it on the tomb his love.

  Morrel finally at length arose, brushed the dust from his knees, and turned towards Paris, without once looking back. He walked slowly down the Rue de la Roquette. The count, dismissing his carriage, followed him about a hundred paces behind. Maximilian crossed the canal and entered the Rue Meslay by the boulevards. Five minutes after the door had been closed on Morrel’s entrance, it was again opened for the count. Julie was at the entrance of the garden, where she was attentively watching Penelon, who, entering with zeal into his profession of gardener, was very busy grafting some Bengal roses. “Ah, count,” she exclaimed, with the delight manifested by every member of the family whenever he visited the Rue Meslay.

  “Maximilian has just returned, has he not, madame?” asked the count.

  “Yes, I think I saw him pass; but pray, call Emmanuel.”

  “Excuse me, madame, but I must go up to Maximilian’s room this instant,” replied Monte Cristo, “I have something of the greatest importance to tell him.”

  “Go, then,” she said with a charming smile, which accompanied him until he had disappeared. Monte Cristo soon ran up the staircase conducting from the ground-floor to Maximilian’s room; when he reached the landing he listened attentively, but all was still. Like many old houses occupied by a single family, the room door was panelled with glass; but it was locked, Maximilian was shut in, and it was impossible to see what was passing in the room, because a red curtain was drawn before the glass. The count’s anxiety was manifested by a bright color which seldom appeared on the face of that imperturbable man.

  “What shall I do!” he uttered, and reflected for a moment; “shall I ring? No, the sound of a bell, announcing a visitor, will but accelerate the resolution of one in Maximilian’s situation, and then the bell would be fo
llowed by a louder noise.” Monte Cristo trembled from head to foot and as if his determination had been taken with the rapidity of lightning, he struck one of the panes of glass with his elbow; the glass was shivered to atoms, then withdrawing the curtain he saw Morrel, who had been writing at his desk, bound from his seat at the noise of the broken window.

  “I beg a thousand pardons,” said the count, “there is nothing the matter, but I slipped down and broke one of your panes of glass with my elbow. Since it is opened, I will take advantage of it to enter your room; do not disturb yourself—do not disturb yourself!” And passing his hand through the broken glass, the count opened the door. Morrel, evidently discomposed, came to meet Monte Cristo less with the intention of receiving him than to exclude his entry. “Ma foi,” said Monte Cristo, rubbing his elbow, “it’s all your servant’s fault; your stairs are so polished, it is like walking on glass.”

  “Are you hurt, sir?” coldly asked Morrel.

  “I believe not. But what are you about there? You were writing.”

  “I?”

  “Your fingers are stained with ink.”

  “Ah, true, I was writing. I do sometimes, soldier though I am.”

  Monte Cristo advanced into the room; Maximilian was obliged to let him pass, but he followed him. “You were writing?” said Monte Cristo with a searching look.

  “I have already had the honor of telling you I was,” said Morrel.

  The count looked around him. “Your pistols are beside your desk,” said Monte Cristo, pointing with his finger to the pistols on the table.

  “I am on the point of starting on a journey,” replied Morrel disdainfully.

  “My friend,” exclaimed Monte Cristo in a tone of exquisite sweetness.

  “Sir?”

  “My friend, my dear Maximilian, do not make a hasty resolution, I entreat you.”

  “I make a hasty resolution?” said Morrel, shrugging his shoulders; “is there anything extraordinary in a journey?”

  “Maximilian,” said the count, “let us both lay aside the mask we have assumed. You no more deceive me with that false calmness than I impose upon you with my frivolous solicitude. You can understand, can you not, that to have acted as I have done, to have broken that glass, to have intruded on the solitude of a friend—you can understand that, to have done all this, I must have been actuated by real uneasiness, or rather by a terrible conviction. Morrel, you are going to destroy yourself!”

  “Indeed, count,” said Morrel, shuddering; “what has put this into your head?”

  “I tell you that you are about to destroy yourself,” continued the count, “and here is proof of what I say;” and, approaching the desk, he removed the sheet of paper which Morrel had placed over the letter he had begun, and took the latter in his hands.

  Morrel rushed forward to tear it from him, but Monte Cristo perceiving his intention, seized his wrist with his iron grasp. “You wish to destroy yourself,” said the count; “you have written it.”

  “Well,” said Morrel, changing his expression of calmness for one of violence—”well, and if I do intend to turn this pistol against myself, who shall prevent me—who will dare prevent me? All my hopes are blighted, my heart is broken, my life a burden, everything around me is sad and mournful; earth has become distasteful to me, and human voices distract me. It is a mercy to let me die, for if I live I shall lose my reason and become mad. When, sir, I tell you all this with tears of heartfelt anguish, can you reply that I am wrong, can you prevent my putting an end to my miserable existence? Tell me, sir, could you have the courage to do so?”

  “Yes, Morrel,” said Monte Cristo, with a calmness which contrasted strangely with the young man’s excitement; “yes, I would do so.”

  “You?” exclaimed Morrel, with increasing anger and reproach—”you, who have deceived me with false hopes, who have cheered and soothed me with vain promises, when I might, if not have saved her, at least have seen her die in my arms! You, who pretend to understand everything, even the hidden sources of knowledge,—and who enact the part of a guardian angel upon earth, and could not even find an antidote to a poison administered to a young girl! Ah, sir, indeed you would inspire me with pity, were you not hateful in my eyes.”

  “Morrel”—

  “Yes; you tell me to lay aside the mask, and I will do so, be satisfied! When you spoke to me at the cemetery, I answered you—my heart was softened; when you arrived here, I allowed you to enter. But since you abuse my confidence, since you have devised a new torture after I thought I had exhausted them all, then, Count of Monte Cristo my pretended benefactor—then, Count of Monte Cristo, the universal guardian, be satisfied, you shall witness the death of your friend;” and Morrel, with a maniacal laugh, again rushed towards the pistols.

  “And I again repeat, you shall not commit suicide.”

  “Prevent me, then!” replied Morrel, with another struggle, which, like the first, failed in releasing him from the count’s iron grasp.

  “I will prevent you.”

  “And who are you, then, that arrogate to yourself this tyrannical right over free and rational beings?”

  “Who am I?” repeated Monte Cristo. “Listen; I am the only man in the world having the right to say to you, ‘Morrel, your father’s son shall not die to-day;’” and Monte Cristo, with an expression of majesty and sublimity, advanced with arms folded toward the young man, who, involuntarily overcome by the commanding manner of this man, recoiled a step.

  “Why do you mention my father?” stammered he; “why do you mingle a recollection of him with the affairs of today?”

  “Because I am he who saved your father’s life when he wished to destroy himself, as you do to-day—because I am the man who sent the purse to your young sister, and the Pharaon to old Morrel—because I am the Edmond Dantes who nursed you, a child, on my knees.” Morrel made another step back, staggering, breathless, crushed; then all his strength give way, and he fell prostrate at the feet of Monte Cristo. Then his admirable nature underwent a complete and sudden revulsion; he arose, rushed out of the room and to the stairs, exclaiming energetically, “Julie, Julie—Emmanuel, Emmanuel!”

  Monte Cristo endeavored also to leave, but Maximilian would have died rather than relax his hold of the handle of the door, which he closed upon the count. Julie, Emmanuel, and some of the servants, ran up in alarm on hearing the cries of Maximilian. Morrel seized their hands, and opening the door exclaimed in a voice choked with sobs, “On your knees—on your knees—he is our benefactor—the saviour of our father! He is”—

  He would have added “Edmond Dantes,” but the count seized his arm and prevented him. Julie threw herself into the arms of the count; Emmanuel embraced him as a guardian angel; Morrel again fell on his knees, and struck the ground with his forehead. Then the iron-hearted man felt his heart swell in his breast; a flame seemed to rush from his throat to his eyes, he bent his head and wept. For a while nothing was heard in the room but a succession of sobs, while the incense from their grateful hearts mounted to heaven. Julie had scarcely recovered from her deep emotion when she rushed out of the room, descended to the next floor, ran into the drawing-room with childlike joy and raised the crystal globe which covered the purse given by the unknown of the Allees de Meillan. Meanwhile, Emmanuel in a broken voice said to the count, “Oh, count, how could you, hearing us so often speak of our unknown benefactor, seeing us pay such homage of gratitude and adoration to his memory,—how could you continue so long without discovering yourself to us? Oh, it was cruel to us, and—dare I say it?—to you also.”

  “Listen, my friends,” said the count—”I may call you so since we have really been friends for the last eleven years—the discovery of this secret has been occasioned by a great event which you must never know. I wished to bury it during my whole life in my own bosom, but your brother Maximilian wrested it from me by a violence he repents of now, I am sure.” Then turning around, and seeing that Morrel, still on his knees, had thrown himself into
an armchair, he added in a low voice, pressing Emmanuel’s hand significantly, “Watch over him.”

  “Why so?” asked the young man, surprised.

  “I cannot explain myself; but watch over him.” Emmanuel looked around the room and caught sight of the pistols; his eyes rested on the weapons, and he pointed to them. Monte Cristo bent his head. Emmanuel went towards the pistols. “Leave them,” said Monte Cristo. Then walking towards Morrel, he took his hand; the tumultuous agitation of the young man was succeeded by a profound stupor. Julie returned, holding the silken purse in her hands, while tears of joy rolled down her cheeks, like dewdrops on the rose.

  “Here is the relic,” she said; “do not think it will be less dear to us now we are acquainted with our benefactor!”

  “My child,” said Monte Cristo, coloring, “allow me to take back that purse? Since you now know my face, I wish to be remembered alone through the affection I hope you will grant me.

  “Oh,” said Julie, pressing the purse to her heart, “no, no, I beseech you do not take it, for some unhappy day you will leave us, will you not?”

  “You have guessed rightly, madame,” replied Monte Cristo, smiling; “in a week I shall have left this country, where so many persons who merit the vengeance of heaven lived happily, while my father perished of hunger and grief.” While announcing his departure, the count fixed his eyes on Morrel, and remarked that the words, “I shall have left this country,” had failed to rouse him from his lethargy. He then saw that he must make another struggle against the grief of his friend, and taking the hands of Emmanuel and Julie, which he pressed within his own, he said with the mild authority of a father, “My kind friends, leave me alone with Maximilian.” Julie saw the means offered of carrying off her precious relic, which Monte Cristo had forgotten. She drew her husband to the door. “Let us leave them,” she said. The count was alone with Morrel, who remained motionless as a statue.