The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) (100 page)

‘She is Monsieur de Villefort’s daughter,’ the young woman replied, ‘by his first marriage, a tall, handsome girl.’

‘But melancholic,’ little Edouard interrupted, pulling the tail-feathers out of a splendid macaw to make a plume for his hat while the bird, on its gilded perch, cried out in pain. Mme de Villefort said only: ‘Be quiet, Edouard!’, before continuing: ‘The young rascal is almost right: he is repeating what he has often heard me say, regretfully, because Mademoiselle de Villefort, despite all our efforts to amuse her, has a sad nature and taciturn character, which
often contradict the impression given by her beauty. But where is she? Edouard, go and see why she is not coming.’

‘I know: because they are looking in the wrong place.’

‘Where are they looking?’

‘With Grandpa Noirtier.’

‘And you don’t think she’s there?’

‘No, no, no, no, no, she’s not there,’ Edouard chanted.

‘Where is she then? If you know, tell us.’

‘She is under the chestnut,’ the naughty child said, offering the parrot (despite his mother’s protests) some living flies, a species of game which the bird seemed to appreciate very much.

Mme de Villefort was reaching out for the bell, to let the chambermaid know where she could find Valentine, when the latter came in. She did, indeed, appear sad and if one examined her closely one could even see traces of tears in her eyes.

Carried forward by the rapidity of the narrative, we have merely introduced Valentine to the reader without making her better known. She was a tall, slim girl of nineteen, with light-chestnut hair, dark-blue eyes and a languid manner, marked by that exquisite distinction that had been characteristic of her mother. Her slender, white hands, her pearl-white neck and her cheeks, marbled with transient patches of colour, gave her at first sight the appearance of one of those beautiful English girls whose walk has been somewhat poetically compared to the progress of a swan mirrored in a lake.

She came in and, seeing the stranger about whom she had already heard so much at her stepmother’s side, she greeted him with none of the simpering of a young girl and without lowering her eyes, with a grace that made the count take even more notice of her. He got up.

‘Mademoiselle de Villefort, my stepdaughter,’ Mme de Villefort told him, leaning across her sofa and pointing at Valentine.

‘And Monsieur le Comte de Monte Cristo, King of China, Emperor of Cochin China,’ the juvenile wit said, giving his sister a sly look.

This time, Mme de Villefort went pale and was on the point of losing her temper with this domestic pest answering to the name of Edouard; but the count, on the contrary, smiled and seemed to regard the child with such indulgence that the mother’s joy and enthusiasm were full to overflowing.

‘But Madame,’ the count continued, picking up the conversation and looking from Mme de Villefort to Valentine, ‘have I not already had the honour of seeing you somewhere, you and mademoiselle? It already occurred to me a moment ago and, when mademoiselle came in, it cast a further light on a memory which – you must forgive me – is confused.’

‘It seems hardly likely, Monsieur. Mademoiselle de Villefort does not like being in company and we seldom go out,’ the young mother said.

‘So perhaps it was not in company that I saw the young lady, and yourself, Madame, and this delightful young scamp. In any case, I am entirely unacquainted with Parisian society for, as I think I had the honour to inform you, I have only been in Paris for a few days. No, if you would allow me to search my memory… Wait…’

The count put a hand to his forehead, as if to concentrate his memory.

‘No, it was outside… It was… I don’t know… but I think the memory involves some kind of religious ceremony… Mademoiselle had a bunch of flowers in her hand, the boy was running after a fine peacock in a garden and you, Madame, were sitting under an arbour… Do help me, please: does what I am saying not remind you of anything?’

‘No, I must confess it does not,’ Mme de Villefort replied. ‘Yet I am sure, Monsieur, that if I had met you somewhere, I should not have forgotten the occasion.’

‘Perhaps the count saw us in Italy,’ Valentine suggested timidly.

‘There you are: in Italy… It could be,’ Monte Cristo said. ‘You have travelled in Italy, Mademoiselle?’

‘Madame and I went there two years ago. The doctors feared for my chest and suggested that the Neapolitan air might be beneficial. We went via Bologna, Perugia and Rome.’

‘But there we are, Mademoiselle!’ Monte Cristo exclaimed, as though this simple hint had been enough to clarify his memory. ‘It was in Perugia, on the day of Corpus Christi, in the garden of the hostelry of the Post, that chance brought us together – you, Mademoiselle, your son and I. I remember having been fortunate enough to see you.’

‘I remember Perugia perfectly well, Monsieur, and the hostelry and the festival that you mention,’ said Mme de Villefort. ‘But,
though I am racking my brains and feel ashamed at my poor memory, I do not remember having had the honour of seeing you.’

‘That’s strange! Neither do I,’ Valentine said, turning her lovely eyes on Monte Cristo.

‘I remember though!’ said Edouard.

‘Let me help you, Madame,’ said the count. ‘It had been a burning hot day and you were waiting for some horses that had not arrived because of the religious festival. Mademoiselle went away into the furthest part of the garden and your son ran off after the bird.’

‘I caught it, Mama, you know,’ said Edouard. ‘I pulled three feathers out of its tail.’

‘You, Madame, remained under the arbour. Do you not recall, while you were sitting on a stone bench and, as I say, Mademoiselle de Villefort and your son were absent, you spoke for quite a long time with someone?’

‘Yes, indeed, I do,’ the young woman said, blushing. ‘I remember. It was a man wrapped in a long woollen cloak, a doctor, I believe.’

‘Precisely, Madame. I was that man. I had been living in that hostelry for a fortnight; I cured my valet of a fever and the innkeeper of jaundice, so I was regarded as a great doctor. We spoke for a long time, Madame, of various things – of Perugino, of Raphael, of the manners and customs of the place, and about that celebrated
aqua tofana
, the secret of which, I believe you had been told, was still kept by some people in Perugia.’

‘That’s true!’ Mme de Villefort said, energetically but with some signs of unease. ‘I do recall.’

‘I am not sure of precisely everything that you told me, Madame,’ the count continued, in a perfectly calm voice, ‘but I do remember that, making the same mistake as others about me, you consulted me on the health of Mademoiselle de Villefort.’

‘But, Monsieur, you really were a doctor,’ said Mme de Villefort, ‘since you cured the sick.’

‘Madame, Molière or Beaumarchais would reply that it was precisely because I am no doctor that my patients were cured – not meaning that I cured them. I shall simply say that I have made a profound study of chemistry and natural science, but only as an amateur… you understand…’

At this point, the clock chimed six.

‘It’s six o’clock,’ Mme de Villefort said, visibly agitated. ‘Won’t
you go, Valentine, and see if your grandfather is ready to have dinner?’

Valentine got up, took her leave of the count and went out of the room without uttering a word.

‘Oh, dear! Is it because of me, Madame, that you sent Mademoiselle de Villefort away?’ the count said when she had gone.

‘Not at all,’ the young woman replied emphatically. ‘This is the time when we give Monsieur Noirtier the sad meal that sustains his sad existence. You know, Monsieur, of the unhappy state to which my husband’s father is reduced?’

‘Yes, Madame, Monsieur de Villefort did mention it to me. A paralysis, I believe?’

‘Alas, yes! The poor old man is quite incapable of moving; his soul alone remains alive in that human mechanism, and even that is pale and quivering, like a lamp about to go out. But forgive me, Monsieur, for telling you of our family misfortunes. I interrupted you just as you were saying that you are a skilled chemist.’

‘Oh, no, I didn’t say that, Madame,’ the count replied, smiling. ‘On the contrary, I studied chemistry because, having made up my mind to live mainly in the East, I wanted to follow the example of King Mithridates.’

‘Mithridates, rex Ponticus,’
¹
said the little pestilence, cutting the illustrations out of a splendid album. ‘The one who breakfasted every morning on a cup of poison
à la crème
.’

‘Edouard! You wicked child!’ Mme de Villefort exclaimed, seizing the mutilated book from her son’s hands. ‘You are unbearable, you’re driving us mad. Leave us alone; go to your sister Valentine and dear Grandpa Noirtier.’

‘The album…’ said Edouard.

‘What about the album?’

‘I want it.’

‘Why did you cut out the pictures?’

‘Because it amuses me.’

‘Go away! Off with you!’

‘I shan’t go unless you give me that album,’ the child said, settling into a large armchair and pursuing his usual policy of never giving way.

‘There you are. Take it and leave us in peace,’ said Mme de Villefort. She gave Edouard the album and walked to the door with him. The count looked after her.

‘Let’s see if she closes the door after him,’ he muttered.

Mme de Villefort closed the door with the utmost care behind the child; the count pretended not to notice. Then, with one final glance around her, the young woman came back to her chair.

‘I hope you will forgive me, Madame,’ said the count in that good-natured way we have already noticed in him, ‘for remarking that you are very strict with that delightful little scamp.’

‘He needs a strong hand, Monsieur,’ Mme de Villefort replied, with what was truly a mother’s imperturbability.

‘Monsieur Edouard was reciting his Cornelius Nepos when he spoke about Mithridites,’ the count said. ‘You interrupted him in a quotation which proves that his tutor has not been wasting his time and that your son is very advanced for his age.’

‘The fact is, Monsieur le Comte,’ the mother replied sweetly, ‘that he is very quick and can learn whatever he wants. He has only one fault: he is very wilful. But, on the subject of what he was saying, do you think, Count, that Mithridates really did take such precautions and that they can be effective?’

‘So much so, Madame, that I myself took the same measures to avoid being poisoned in Naples, in Palermo and in Smyrna, on three occasions when I might otherwise have lost my life.’

‘And you were successful?’

‘Perfectly so.’

‘That’s right: now I remember you telling me something of the sort in Perugia.’

‘Really!’ the count said, admirably feigning surprise. ‘I don’t recall it.’

‘I asked you if poisons acted equally and with similar force on men from the north and those from the south, and you answered that the cold lymphatic temperaments of northerners made them less susceptible than the rich and energetic nature of those from the south.’

‘Quite so,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘I have seen Russians untroubled as they devour substances which would surely have killed a Neapolitan or an Arab.’

‘So you think the method would be even more effective here than in the East, and that, in the midst of our fogs and rains, a man would more easily become accustomed to this gradual absorption of poison than in a warm climate?’

‘Yes, indeed; though of course one would only be protected against the poison to which one had become accustomed.’

‘I understand. And how would you, yourself, obtain this immunity; or, rather, how did you do so?’

‘It is very easy. Suppose you know in advance what poison is to be used against you… Suppose this poison to be, for example… brucine…’

‘Brucine is obtained from the nux vomica, I believe,’ said Mme de Villefort.

‘Precisely, Madame,’ Monte Cristo replied. ‘But I think I have very little to teach you. Let me compliment you: such learning is rare in a woman.’

‘I must confess,’ said Mme de Villefort, ‘that I have an all-consuming passion for the occult sciences, which speak like poetry to the imagination and yet in the end come down to figures like an algebraic equation. But please continue. I am extremely interested in what you tell me.’

‘Well then, suppose this poison to be brucine, for example, and that you take a milligram the first day, two milligrams the second, and so on. After ten days you would have a centigram; and, increasing the daily dose by a further milligram, you would have three centigrams after twenty days; in other words, a dose that you would support with no ill-effects but which would be very dangerous for anyone who had not taken the same precautions. Finally, after a month, you could drink water from the same jug and kill a person who had taken it with you, while feeling no more than a slight discomfort to tell you that the water contained a poisonous substance.’

‘You know of no other antidote?’

‘None.’

‘I often read and re-read that story of Mithridates,’ Mme de Villefort said pensively, ‘and always thought it was a myth.’

‘No, Madame, unlike most things in history, it is true. But what you are telling me, your question, is not just idle curiosity, is it, since you have been considering this matter for two years already and you tell me that the story of Mithridates has been in your mind for a long time?’