Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  “Yes; you are now on the right path,” said the count, crossing his arms over his broad chest; “search—search!”

  “But what have I done to you?” exclaimed Villefort, whose mind was balancing between reason and insanity, in that cloud which is neither a dream nor reality; “what have I done to you? Tell me, then! Speak!”

  “You condemned me to a horrible, tedious death; you killed my father; you deprived me of liberty, of love, and happiness.”

  “Who are you, then? Who are you?”

  “I am the spectre of a wretch you buried in the dungeons of the Chateau d’If. God gave that spectre the form of the Count of Monte Cristo when he at length issued from his tomb, enriched him with gold and diamonds, and led him to you!”

  “Ah, I recognize you—I recognize you!” exclaimed the king’s attorney; “you are”—

  “I am Edmond Dantes!”

  “You are Edmond Dantes,” cried Villefort, seizing the count by the wrist; “then come here!” And up the stairs he dragged Monte Cristo; who, ignorant of what had happened, followed him in astonishment, foreseeing some new catastrophe. “There, Edmond Dantes!” he said, pointing to the bodies of his wife and child, “see, are you well avenged?” Monte Cristo became pale at this horrible sight; he felt that he had passed beyond the bounds of vengeance, and that he could no longer say, “God is for and with me.” With an expression of indescribable anguish he threw himself upon the body of the child, reopened its eyes, felt its pulse, and then rushed with him into Valentine’s room, of which he double-locked the door. “My child,” cried Villefort, “he carries away the body of my child! Oh, curses, woe, death to you!” and he tried to follow Monte Cristo; but as though in a dream he was transfixed to the spot,—his eyes glared as though they were starting through the sockets; he griped the flesh on his chest until his nails were stained with blood; the veins of his temples swelled and boiled as though they would burst their narrow boundary, and deluge his brain with living fire. This lasted several minutes, until the frightful overturn of reason was accomplished; then uttering a loud cry followed by a burst of laughter, he rushed down the stairs.

  A quarter of an hour afterwards the door of Valentine’s room opened, and Monte Cristo reappeared. Pale, with a dull eye and heavy heart, all the noble features of that face, usually so calm and serene, were overcast by grief. In his arms he held the child, whom no skill had been able to recall to life. Bending on one knee, he placed it reverently by the side of its mother, with its head upon her breast. Then, rising, he went out, and meeting a servant on the stairs, he asked, “Where is M. de Villefort?”

  The servant, instead of answering, pointed to the garden. Monte Cristo ran down the steps, and advancing towards the spot designated beheld Villefort, encircled by his servants, with a spade in his hand, and digging the earth with fury. “It is not here!” he cried. “It is not here!” And then he moved farther on, and began again to dig.

  Monte Cristo approached him, and said in a low voice, with an expression almost humble, “Sir, you have indeed lost a son; but”—

  Villefort interrupted him; he had neither listened nor heard. “Oh, I will find it,” he cried; “you may pretend he is not here, but I will find him, though I dig forever!” Monte Cristo drew back in horror. “Oh,” he said, “he is mad!” And as though he feared that the walls of the accursed house would crumble around him, he rushed into the street, for the first time doubting whether he had the right to do as he had done. “Oh, enough of this,—enough of this,” he cried; “let me save the last.”

  On entering his house, he met Morrel, who wandered about like a ghost awaiting the heavenly mandate for return to the tomb. “Prepare yourself, Maximilian,” he said with a smile; “we leave Paris tomorrow.”

  “Have you nothing more to do there?” asked Morrel.

  “No,” replied Monte Cristo; “God grant I may not have done too much already.”

  The next day they indeed left, accompanied only by Baptistin. Haidee had taken away Ali, and Bertuccio remained with Noirtier.

  Chapter 24. The Departure.

  The recent event formed the theme of conversation throughout all Paris. Emmanuel and his wife conversed with natural astonishment in their little apartment in the Rue Meslay upon the three successive, sudden, and most unexpected catastrophes of Morcerf, Danglars, and Villefort. Maximilian, who was paying them a visit, listened to their conversation, or rather was present at it, plunged in his accustomed state of apathy. “Indeed,” said Julie, “might we not almost fancy, Emmanuel, that those people, so rich, so happy but yesterday, had forgotten in their prosperity that an evil genius—like the wicked fairies in Perrault’s stories who present themselves unbidden at a wedding or baptism—hovered over them, and appeared all at once to revenge himself for their fatal neglect?”

  “What a dire misfortune!” said Emmanuel, thinking of Morcerf and Danglars.

  “What dreadful sufferings!” said Julie, remembering Valentine, but whom, with a delicacy natural to women, she did not name before her brother.

  “If the Supreme Being has directed the fatal blow,” said Emmanuel, “it must be that he in his great goodness has perceived nothing in the past lives of these people to merit mitigation of their awful punishment.”

  “Do you not form a very rash judgment, Emmanuel?” said Julie. “When my father, with a pistol in his hand, was once on the point of committing suicide, had any one then said, ‘This man deserves his misery,’ would not that person have been deceived?”

  “Yes; but your father was not allowed to fall. A being was commissioned to arrest the fatal hand of death about to descend on him.”

  Emmanuel had scarcely uttered these words when the sound of the bell was heard, the well-known signal given by the porter that a visitor had arrived. Nearly at the same instant the door was opened and the Count of Monte Cristo appeared on the threshold. The young people uttered a cry of joy, while Maximilian raised his head, but let it fall again immediately. “Maximilian,” said the count, without appearing to notice the different impressions which his presence produced on the little circle, “I come to seek you.”

  “To seek me?” repeated Morrel, as if awakening from a dream.

  “Yes,” said Monte Cristo; “has it not been agreed that I should take you with me, and did I not tell you yesterday to prepare for departure?”

  “I am ready,” said Maximilian; “I came expressly to wish them farewell.”

  “Whither are you going, count?” asked Julie.

  “In the first instance to Marseilles, madame.”

  “To Marseilles!” exclaimed the young couple.

  “Yes, and I take your brother with me.”

  “Oh, count.” said Julie, “will you restore him to us cured of his melancholy?”—Morrel turned away to conceal the confusion of his countenance.

  “You perceive, then, that he is not happy?” said the count. “Yes,” replied the young woman; “and fear much that he finds our home but a dull one.”

  “I will undertake to divert him,” replied the count.

  “I am ready to accompany you, sir,” said Maximilian. “Adieu, my kind friends! Emmanuel—Julie—farewell!”

  “How farewell?” exclaimed Julie; “do you leave us thus, so suddenly, without any preparations for your journey, without even a passport?”

  “Needless delays but increase the grief of parting,” said Monte Cristo, “and Maximilian has doubtless provided himself with everything requisite; at least, I advised him to do so.”

  “I have a passport, and my clothes are ready packed,” said Morrel in his tranquil but mournful manner.

  “Good,” said Monte Cristo, smiling; “in these prompt arrangements we recognize the order of a well-disciplined soldier.”

  “And you leave us,” said Julie, “at a moment’s warning? you do not give us a day—no, not even an hour before your departure?”

  “My carriage is at the door, madame, and I must be in Rome in five days.”

  �
�But does Maximilian go to Rome?” exclaimed Emmanuel.

  “I am going wherever it may please the count to take me,” said Morrel, with a smile full of grief; “I am under his orders for the next month.”

  “Oh, heavens, how strangely he expresses himself, count!” said Julie.

  “Maximilian goes with me,” said the count, in his kindest and most persuasive manner; “therefore do not make yourself uneasy on your brother’s account.”

  “Once more farewell, my dear sister; Emmanuel, adieu!” Morrel repeated.

  “His carelessness and indifference touch me to the heart,” said Julie. “Oh, Maximilian, Maximilian, you are certainly concealing something from us.”

  “Pshaw!” said Monte Cristo, “you will see him return to you gay, smiling, and joyful.

  Maximilian cast a look of disdain, almost of anger, on the count.

  “We must leave you,” said Monte Cristo.

  “Before you quit us, count,” said Julie, “will you permit us to express to you all that the other day”—

  “Madame,” interrupted the count, taking her two hands in his, “all that you could say in words would never express what I read in your eyes; the thoughts of your heart are fully understood by mine. Like benefactors in romances, I should have left you without seeing you again, but that would have been a virtue beyond my strength, because I am a weak and vain man, fond of the tender, kind, and thankful glances of my fellow-creatures. On the eve of departure I carry my egotism so far as to say, ‘Do not forget me, my kind friends, for probably you will never see me again.’”

  “Never see you again?” exclaimed Emmanuel, while two large tears rolled down Julie’s cheeks, “never behold you again? It is not a man, then, but some angel that leaves us, and this angel is on the point of returning to heaven after having appeared on earth to do good.”

  “Say not so,” quickly returned Monte Cristo—”say not so, my friends; angels never err, celestial beings remain where they wish to be. Fate is not more powerful than they; it is they who, on the contrary, overcome fate. No, Emmanuel, I am but a man, and your admiration is as unmerited as your words are sacrilegious.” And pressing his lips on the hand of Julie, who rushed into his arms, he extended his other hand to Emmanuel; then tearing himself from this abode of peace and happiness, he made a sign to Maximilian, who followed him passively, with the indifference which had been perceptible in him ever since the death of Valentine had so stunned him. “Restore my brother to peace and happiness,” whispered Julie to Monte Cristo. And the count pressed her hand in reply, as he had done eleven years before on the staircase leading to Morrel’s study.

  “You still confide, then, in Sinbad the Sailor?” asked he, smiling.

  “Oh, yes,” was the ready answer.

  “Well, then, sleep in peace, and put your trust in heaven.” As we have before said, the postchaise was waiting; four powerful horses were already pawing the ground with impatience, while Ali, apparently just arrived from a long walk, was standing at the foot of the steps, his face bathed in perspiration. “Well,” asked the count in Arabic, “have you been to see the old man?” Ali made a sign in the affirmative.

  “And have you placed the letter before him, as I ordered you to do?”

  The slave respectfully signalized that he had. “And what did he say, or rather do?” Ali placed himself in the light, so that his master might see him distinctly, and then imitating in his intelligent manner the countenance of the old man, he closed his eyes, as Noirtier was in the custom of doing when saying “Yes.”

  “Good; he accepts,” said Monte Cristo. “Now let us go.”

  These words had scarcely escaped him, when the carriage was on its way, and the feet of the horses struck a shower of sparks from the pavement. Maximilian settled himself in his corner without uttering a word. Half an hour had passed when the carriage stopped suddenly; the count had just pulled the silken check-string, which was fastened to Ali’s finger. The Nubian immediately descended and opened the carriage door. It was a lovely starlight night—they had just reached the top of the hill Villejuif, from whence Paris appears like a sombre sea tossing its millions of phosphoric waves into light—waves indeed more noisy, more passionate, more changeable, more furious, more greedy, than those of the tempestuous ocean,—waves which never rest as those of the sea sometimes do,—waves ever dashing, ever foaming, ever ingulfing what falls within their grasp. The count stood alone, and at a sign from his hand, the carriage went on for a short distance. With folded arms, he gazed for some time upon the great city. When he had fixed his piercing look on this modern Babylon, which equally engages the contemplation of the religious enthusiast, the materialist, and the scoffer,—”Great city,” murmured he, inclining his head, and joining his hands as if in prayer, “less than six months have elapsed since first I entered thy gates. I believe that the Spirit of God led my steps to thee and that he also enables me to quit thee in triumph; the secret cause of my presence within thy walls I have confided alone to him who only has had the power to read my heart. God only knows that I retire from thee without pride or hatred, but not without many regrets; he only knows that the power confided to me has never been made subservient to my personal good or to any useless cause. Oh, great city, it is in thy palpitating bosom that I have found that which I sought; like a patient miner, I have dug deep into thy very entrails to root out evil thence. Now my work is accomplished, my mission is terminated, now thou canst neither afford me pain nor pleasure. Adieu, Paris, adieu!”

  His look wandered over the vast plain like that of some genius of the night; he passed his hand over his brow, got into the carriage, the door was closed on him, and the vehicle quickly disappeared down the other side of the hill in a whirlwind of noise and dust.

  Ten leagues were passed and not a single word was uttered.

  Morrel stared out at the sea. As always his mind remained on his dear lost Valentine. Would she have liked the water, the lulling sway of the yacht? There were questions he would never know answers to and it broke his heart anew.

  He had a dream once about Valentine and one such vessel. It was early in their friendship and she expressed her wish to be aboard a boat of any kind. Like the dutiful friend, he promised he would take her. Her enthusiasm for the wish held him in sway for the remainder of the night and Valentine herself featured in his dreams as well.

  They were together on a yacht, not so different than the one he rode on now with the count. Valentine and he married some time before and he was taking her on a tour of the continent via the water passages. She always did want to travel and see the world.

  When the moon rose above the water he lay blankets and furs down at her feet in order to gaze up at the stars properly. A romantic evening with his one true love has long been a wish of his. The usual sneaking and hiding only remained pleasant when that was the only way to see her. Once she became his wife he intended to fill her life with wonder and love such as she had never known.

  His dreams always brought new adventures especially in the realm of lovemaking. As at the time of the dream he had never known her body he couldn’t have imagined how exquisite she actually was in reality.

  In that dream the young Valentine seduced him under the stars.

  “Maximilian, make love to me.”

  “Here? Now?”

  “Yes,” she replied, already removing her clothing.

  “I want to feel the cool air on my skin and I want you to warm me when I become too chilled.”

  Her smile was radiate and he quickly removed his own clothing to join her amongst the linens and furs.

  Her curiosity of his body aroused him instantly. She trailed her small hands across his chest, shoulders, and arm, always marveling at the concealed strength beneath his jacket and uniforms.

  In juxtaposition her soft satin skin was pale white gleaming in the moonlight and every part of her was smooth soft marble. Her breast specifically held his attention with the light of the moon beating down upon them.


  “I want you now, Maximilian, please,” she whispered, parting her legs for him.

  Their joining in the middle of the sea with the lulling waves below and the effervescent moon above bordered on fairy tale magic.

  She inhaled sharply as he entered her and then curled her ankles around the back of his knees, nullifying any space between them.

  With each of his thrusts she moved with him arching her hips up in order to meet him between their bodies. It added an explicit aspect to their lovemaking.

  When she began to claw at the skin of his back softly Maximilian knew exactly what she needed. He moved up and pushed her legs forward allowing him deeper access to her body.

  “My love, please,” she begged him.

  He reached between them and accessed her little pearl of pleasure, gently massaging it in time with his deep and slow thrusts. As she bit her lip he feared she would draw blood but seeing that small pink tongue dart out to wet those lips after was another kind of arousal.

  The greatest pleasure was not his own but the satisfaction of seeing her heavy lidded with lips swollen. Each nail mark and grasp of the linens in her hands added to his own arousal. He lived to serve her and in her service he lived.

  Small moans spilled forth from her lips and he continued his even pace. Once her breath quickened and she began to arch her hips anew he knew she was almost at her own completion. He began to arch into her more forcefully meeting her end and retreating.

  It didn’t take long before her body spasmed around his and she whispered his name into the open air. He brought her back slowly and then quickly reached his own end inside her body.

  Their hearts beat as one as she bore his weight upon her chest. She clutched him close in her arms waiting for him to come back to his senses, never rushing, always comforting. He lifted his head and planted a singular kiss upon her soft pink lips. She smiled afterward and he rolled off of her. Instantly, she curled up under his arm, his heart beating against her ear.