The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) (132 page)

‘Oh, grandmother,’ Valentine murmured, pressing her lips to the old woman’s burning brow. ‘Do you want me to die? You are feverish. It’s not a lawyer you need, but a doctor.’

‘A doctor?’ she said, shrugging her shoulders. ‘I am not in pain; a little thirsty, that’s all.’

‘What would you like to drink?’

‘You know what I like: my orange juice. The glass is on that table. Please give it to me, Valentine.’

Valentine poured out the orange juice from the carafe into the glass and forced herself to pick it up and give it to her grandmother: this was the same glass that the ghost was supposed to have touched. The marquise emptied it at a single gulp, then lay back on her pillow, saying: ‘A lawyer, a lawyer!’

M. de Villefort went out. Valentine sat down near her grandmother’s bed. The poor child herself seemed much in need of the doctor whom she had suggested calling. Her cheeks burned red, her breathing was short and panting, and her pulse was beating as if she had a high temperature. She was thinking of Maximilien’s despair when he learned that Mme de Saint-Méran, instead of being an ally, was unconsciously acting as though she were his enemy.

More than once, Valentine had thought of telling her grandmother everything, and she would not have hesitated for a moment if Maximilien Morrel had been called Albert de Morcerf or Raoul de Château-Renaud; but Morrel came from a lower-class family and Valentine knew how much the proud Marquise de Saint-Méran despised everyone who was not well bred. Consequently, whenever her secret had been on the point of coming out, it had been driven back into her heart by the sad assurance that she would reveal it in vain and that, once her father and grandmother shared that secret, all would be lost.

About two hours passed. Mme de Saint-Méran slept fitfully and feverishly. The lawyer was announced.

Even though the servant had spoken very softly, Mme de Saint-Méran sat up in bed. ‘The lawyer?’ she said. ‘Have him brought here!’

He had been standing outside, and came in.

‘Go away, Valentine,’ Mme de Saint-Méran said, ‘and leave me with this gentleman.’

‘But, grandmother…’

‘Go, go.’

The girl kissed her grandmother’s forehead and went out, holding a handkerchief to her eyes. At the door she found the
valet de chambre
, who told her that the doctor was waiting in the drawing-room.

Valentine quickly went down. The doctor was a family friend and at the same time one of the most skilled of his profession. He
was very fond of Valentine, whom he had seen being born. He had a daughter of roughly Mlle de Villefort’s age but whose mother was a consumptive. His life was spent in continual fear for her child.

‘Oh, dear Monsieur d’Avrigny,’ said Valentine. ‘We have been waiting for you. But, first of all, how are Madeleine and Antoinette?’

Madeleine was M. d’Avrigny’s daughter, Antoinette his niece.

‘Antoinette, very well,’ he answered, with a sad smile, ‘Madeleine, quite well. But you called for me, my dear child. I hope it is not your father or Madame de Villefort who is ill? As for us, although clearly we have trouble overcoming our nerves, I suppose you have no need of me except to recommend that you don’t let your imagination run away with you?’

Valentine blushed. M. d’Avrigny had almost miraculous powers of divination: he was one of those doctors who always treat physical ills through the mind.

‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s my poor grandmother. I suppose you know the misfortune that we have suffered?’

‘I don’t know anything,’ said d’Avrigny.

‘Alas,’ Valentine said, repressing a sob. ‘My grandfather is dead.’

‘Monsieur de Saint-Méran? Was it sudden?’

‘An attack of apoplexy.’

‘Apoplexy?’ the doctor repeated.

‘Yes, and the result is that my poor grandmother has the idea that her husband, whose side she never left, is calling for her and she is going to join him. Oh, Monsieur d’Avrigny! Please go and look at her!’

‘Where is she?’

‘In her room, with the lawyer.’

‘And Monsieur Noirtier?’

‘Always the same: perfectly clear in his mind, but still immobile and speechless.’

‘And still as affectionate towards you, I imagine, my dear child?’

‘Oh, yes, he is very fond of me,’ Valentine said with a sigh.

‘Who would not be?’

She smiled sadly.

‘How does your grandmother’s illness manifest itself?’

‘Unusual nervous excitement and oddly troubled sleep. This morning she claimed that while she was asleep her soul had hovered above her body and she had seen herself sleeping. She is delirious.
She claimed to have seen a ghost come into her room and heard the noise made by this supposed ghost when it touched her glass.’

‘That’s odd,’ the doctor said. ‘I did not know Madame de Saint-Méran was subject to such hallucinations.’

‘This is the first time I have seen her like that,’ said Valentine. ‘This morning she really frightened me, I thought she was going mad. Even my father – and, Monsieur d’Avrigny, you know what a serious-minded man my father is – even my father seemed deeply troubled.’

‘Let’s go and see. What you tell me is odd.’

The lawyer came down and the servant came to tell Valentine that her grandmother was alone.

‘Go up,’ she said to the doctor.

‘What about you?’

‘I dare not. She forbade me to send for you. And then, as you say, I am upset, feverish and unwell. I shall take a walk round the garden to revive myself.’

The doctor shook Valentine’s hand and, while he went up to her grandmother, she went down the steps.

We hardly need say what part of the garden was Valentine’s favourite walk. After walking twice round the path that encircled the house, and plucking a rose to put in her hair or her belt, she set off down the dark path that led to the bench, then from the bench she went across to the grille.

This time, as usual, she walked two or three times round among her flowers, but without picking any. The mourning in her heart, though it had not yet had time to be reflected in her dress, rejected that simple ornament. Then she went over to the path by the gate. As she was going there, she thought she heard a voice speaking her name. She stopped short in astonishment.

The voice seemed more distinct, and she recognized it as Maximilien’s.

It was, indeed, Morrel who had been in a frantic state since the previous evening. With that instinct which only lovers and mothers possess, he had guessed that, following Mme de Saint-Méran’s return and the death of the marquis, something would happen that affected his love for Valentine. As we shall see, his forebodings had been realized and it was not mere anxiety that brought him in fear and trembling to the gate by the chestnut-trees.

However, Valentine had not been warned of his arrival, since this was not the usual time when he came, and pure chance – or, if you prefer, a sympathetic instinct – had brought her to the garden. When she appeared, Morrel called her and she ran to the gate.

‘You! At this time!’ she said.

‘Yes, my poor friend,’ Morrel replied, ‘I have come to look for you, bringing bad news.’

‘This is the house of ill-fortune,’ said Valentine. ‘Tell me, Maximilien, even though our cup of sorrows is more than overflowing.’

‘Dear Valentine,’ Morrel said, trying to master his own feelings and speak calmly. ‘Please listen, because what I have to say is most important. When do they intend for you to marry?’

‘Maximilien,’ said Valentine, ‘I don’t want to hide anything from you. They were discussing my marriage this morning, and my grandmother, on whom I had counted as an unfailing support, not only declared herself to be in favour of my marrying Franz d’Epinay, but wants it so much that she is only waiting for his return: the contract will be signed the very next day.’

The young man gave a painful sigh and for a long time stared sadly at the girl. ‘Alas,’ he said quietly, ‘it is terrible to hear the woman one loves say calmly: “The hour of your torment is fixed, it will take place shortly, but no matter, this must be and I shall not make any objection to it.” Well, since you tell me that they are only waiting for Monsieur d’Epinay to sign the contract, and since you will be his the day after he arrives home, then you will be engaged to Monsieur d’Epinay tomorrow, because he reached Paris this morning.’

Valentine cried out.

‘I was with the Count of Monte Cristo an hour ago,’ Morrel continued. ‘We were talking, he about the sorrow in your house and I about your sorrow, when suddenly a carriage pulled up in the courtyard. Listen, I have never until now believed in premonitions, Valentine, but henceforth I must. At the sound of that carriage, I began to tremble. Soon I heard footsteps on the stairs. The echoing steps of the Commander did not terrify Don Juan
¹
more than those steps terrified me. At length the door opened. Albert de Morcerf was the first to come in and I was about to doubt my own instincts and decide that I had been mistaken, when another young man approached behind him and the count exclaimed: “Ah, Baron Franz d’Epinay!” I had to summon up all the strength and courage in my heart to contain my feelings. I may have gone pale, I may have shuddered, but I certainly kept a smile on my lips. Five minutes later, however, I left without hearing a single word of what had been said in that time. I was totally prostrate.’

‘Poor Maximilien!’ Valentine muttered.

‘Here I am, Valentine. Now, answer me this, as you would answer a man to whom your words are the difference between life and death: what are you going to do?’

Valentine lowered her head. She was overwhelmed.

‘Listen,’ said Morrel, ‘this is not the first time that you have thought about the situation in which we now find ourselves. It is serious, it is pressing, it is crucial. I do not think this is the moment to give way to sterile misery: that may be enough for those who want to suffer at their ease and have time to drink their own tears. There are people like that, and God will no doubt reward them in heaven for their resignation on earth; but anyone who has the will to fight will not lose precious time, but immediately strike back at that Fate which has dealt a blow. Have you the will to fight against ill-fortune, Valentine? Tell me, because that is what I have come to ask you.’

Valentine shuddered and looked at Morrel wide-eyed in terror. The idea of standing up to her father, her grandfather, in short her whole family, had not even occurred to her.

‘What are you saying, Maximilien?’ she asked. ‘What do you mean by “fight”? Rather call it a sacrilege! Am I to struggle against my father’s orders and the wishes of my dying grandmother! Impossible!’

Morrel shuffled.

‘You are too noble a spirit not to understand me and you do understand me, dear Maximilien, since I have reduced you to silence. I, fight? God forbid! No, no, I must keep all my strength to struggle against myself and drink my own tears, as you say. As for bringing sorrow to my father and disturbing my grandmother’s final hours – never!’

‘You are right,’ said Morrel coolly.

‘My God! The way you say that…’ Valentine cried, wounded.

‘I say it as a man who admires you, mademoiselle.’

‘Mademoiselle!’ Valentine cried. ‘Mademoiselle! Oh, the selfish man! He sees I am in despair and pretends he cannot understand me.’

‘You are mistaken, I understand you perfectly. You do not want to go against Monsieur de Villefort’s wishes, you do not want to disobey the marquise, and tomorrow you will sign the contract binding you to your husband.’

‘But what else can I do, for heaven’s sake?’

‘Don’t ask me, Mademoiselle, I am a poor judge in this case and my selfishness would blind me,’ said Morrel, his blank voice and clenched fists indicating his growing exasperation.

‘What would you have suggested, Morrel, if you had found me ready to accept your proposal? Come, tell me. Instead of telling me that I am doing wrong, advise me.’

‘Are you seriously asking me for advice, Valentine?’

‘Yes, indeed, dear Maximilien. If it is good, I shall take it. You know that I am devoted to you.’

‘Valentine,’ Morrel said, taking away an already loose plank, ‘give me your hand to show that you forgive me my anger. You understand, my head is reeling and in the past hour the maddest ideas have been whirling around my head. Oh, if you were not to take my advice…’

‘Which is?’

‘This, Valentine.’

The girl raised her eyes to heaven and sighed.

‘I am free,’ Maximilien continued. ‘I am rich enough for both of us. I swear to you that you will be my wife even before my lips have touched your brow.’

‘You are making me afraid,’ the girl said.

‘Come with me,’ Morrel said. ‘I will take you to my sister, who
is worthy of being yours. We shall set off for Algiers, for England or for America, unless you would prefer us to find a place together in the country where we can wait until our friends have overcome your family’s objections before we return to Paris.’

Valentine shook her head. ‘I was expecting this, Maximilien,’ she said. ‘This is a mad scheme and I should be madder even than you if I were not to stop you immediately with a single word: impossible, Morrel, it is impossible.’