The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) (145 page)

‘ “What do we want? We want to inform you of His Highness’s wishes. Do you see this
firman
?”

‘ “I do,” said my father.

‘ “Read it, then; it calls for your head.”

‘My father gave a shout of laughter more terrifying than any threat. It had not ended before two pistol-shots erupted from each of the pistols in his hands and he had killed two men. At this, the Palicares, who were lying all around my father, face down on the floor, leapt to their feet and began firing. The room filled with noise, flames and smoke. At the same moment, firing began from the other side and shots whistled through the wooden planks all around us.

‘Oh, how handsome he was and how great he was, my father, the vizier Ali Tebelin, in the midst of this gunfire, his scimitar in his hand and his face black with gunpowder! How his enemies fled before him!

‘ “Selim, Selim!” he cried. “Keeper of the fire, do your duty!”

‘ “Selim is dead,” replied a voice which seemed to come from the depths of the pavilion. “And you, my lord Ali, you are lost!”

‘At the same moment there was a dull thud and the floor burst into pieces around my father’s feet. The Tchodoars were firing upwards through it. Three or four Palicares fell, rent from head to foot by wounds that traversed their whole bodies.

‘My father roared, plunged his fingers into the bullet-holes and
pulled up an entire floorboard. But at that moment, through the hole he had made, twenty shots rang out and a sheet of flame, rising as though from the crater of a volcano, lit the hangings and devoured them.

‘In the midst of all this dreadful noise, in the midst of all these fearful cries, two shots rang clearer than any of the rest and two cries more heart-rending than any around them. The two shots had delivered a mortal wound to my father and it was he who had cried out. Yet he still remained standing, clasping on to a window-frame. My mother beat on the door, wanting to enter and die with him, but the door was locked from the inside.

‘Around him the Palicares were writhing in their death-throes. Two or three who were unharmed or only lightly wounded dived out of the windows. At the same time the whole floor cracked open, shattered from below. My father fell to one knee and, as he did so, twenty arms reached up, holding sabres, pistols and daggers; twenty blows struck that one man simultaneously; and my father vanished in a maelstrom of fire, fanned into life by these roaring demons, as if hell itself had opened beneath his feet. I felt myself pulled to the ground: my mother had fainted.’

Haydée let fall her arms, groaning and looking at the count as though to ask if he was satisfied with her obedience. He got up, came across to her, took her hand and said to her in Romaic: ‘Rest, my dear child, and console yourself with the thought that there is a God to punish traitors.’

‘This was a dreadful story, Count,’ Albert said, alarmed at Haydée’s pallor. ‘I reproach myself now for having been so indiscreet.’

‘You have no need to,’ Monte Cristo replied. Then, putting his hand on her head, he continued: ‘Haydée is a brave woman and she has sometimes found relief in describing her misfortunes.’

‘Because, my Lord,’ the young woman exclaimed, ‘the tale of my sufferings reminds me of your goodness towards me.’

Albert looked at her curiously. She had not yet told him what he most wanted to know: how she had become the count’s slave. Haydée saw the same wish in his eyes and the count’s, so she went on:

‘When my mother came to herself, we were both in front of the
seraskier
. “Kill me,” my mother said, “but spare the honour of Ali’s widow.”

‘ “It is not I with whom you should plead,” said Kurchid.

‘ “With whom, then?”

‘ “With your new master.”

‘ “And who is that?”

‘Kurchid showed us one of the men who had most contributed to my father’s death,’ the young woman said, with brooding anger.

‘So did you become this man’s property?’ Albert asked.

‘No,’ Haydée replied. ‘He did not dare keep us, but sold us to some slave-dealers on their way to Constantinople. We crossed through Greece and were almost dead on arriving at the imperial gate, which was crowded with onlookers who stepped aside to let us pass, when suddenly my mother follows their eyes, cries out and falls to the ground, showing me a head impaled above the gate. Beneath it were the words: “This is the head of Ali Tebelin, Pasha of Janina.”

‘Weeping, I tried to raise my mother to her feet; but she was dead!

‘I was taken to the bazaar. A rich Armenian bought me, educated me, gave me teachers and, when I was thirteen, sold me to Sultan Mahmoud.’

‘And from him,’ Monte Cristo said, ‘I bought her, as I told you, Albert, for that stone equal to the one in which I keep my lozenges of hashish.’

‘Oh, my lord, how good and great you are,’ said Haydée, kissing Monte Cristo’s hand. ‘How fortunate I am to belong to you!’

Albert was dumbstruck at what he had heard.

‘Finish your coffee,’ the count said to him. ‘The story is over.’

Franz had staggered out of Noirtier’s room in such a confused state that even Valentine felt sorry for him. Villefort merely muttered some incoherent phrases and fled to his study where, two hours later, he received the following letter:

After what was revealed this morning, Monsieur Noirtier de Villefort cannot imagine any alliance to be possible between his family and that of
Monsieur Franz d’Epinay. Monsieur Franz d’Epinay is appalled when he considers that Monsieur Villefort, who appeared to know about the events that were described this morning, did not anticipate his reaction.

Anyone who could have seen the magistrate at that moment, stricken as he was, would not have believed that he had foreseen it. Indeed, he would never have thought that his father would be so frank – or so brutal – as to recount such a story. True, M. Noirtier, contemptuous of his son’s opinion, had never taken the trouble to elucidate the matter for Villefort and the latter had always assumed that General Quesnel – or Baron d’Epinay, according to whether one prefers to call him by the name he made for himself or the one that was made for him – had been assassinated, rather than honourably killed in a duel.

This harsh letter, from a young man who until then had been so respectful, was devastating to the pride of someone like Villefort. Hardly had he entered his study than his wife followed. Franz’s disappearance, at M. Noirtier’s summons, had so astonished everyone that the position of Mme de Villefort, who had remained alone with the notary and the witnesses, had become more and more embarrassing. Eventually she made up her mind and left, announcing that she was going to find out what had happened.

Villefort told her only that, after a dispute between himself, M. Noirtier and M. d’Epinay, Franz’s engagement to Valentine had been broken off. This was not easy to relay to the people who were still waiting, so Mme de Villefort went back and said simply that M. Noirtier had suffered some kind of apoplectic seizure at the start of the meeting, so the signature of the contract had naturally been postponed for a few days. This news, false though it was, made such a singular impression, coming after two other misfortunes of the same kind, that all of them looked at one another in astonishment, then left without a word.

Meanwhile Valentine, at once happy and appalled, after embracing and thanking the weak old man who had with just a single blow shattered a bond that she had already come to consider indissoluble, asked if she could retire so that she could recover, and Noirtier, with a look, gave her permission to do so. However, instead of going up to her room, Valentine went out and down the corridor, then, leaving by the little door, ran into the garden. In the midst of all the events that had taken place, one after the other, her mind
had been constantly tormented by a vague apprehension: from one moment to the next, she expected to see Morrel burst in, pale and threatening like the Laird of Ravenswood at the betrothal of Lucy of Lammermoor.
¹

As it happened, she reached the gate just in time. Maximilien, guessing what was about to take place when he saw Franz leave the cemetery with M. de Villefort, had followed him. Then, after seeing him enter, he saw him come out again, then return with Château-Renaud. He could no longer have any doubt. He hurried to his field, ready for anything, sure that Valentine would come there to him as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

He had been right. His eye pressed to the fence, he saw the young woman run towards the gate, without taking any of her usual precautions. At first glance, Maximilien was reassured, and at her first word he leapt with joy.

‘Saved!’ Valentine said.

‘Saved!’ Morrel repeated, unable to believe such good fortune. ‘By whom are we saved?’

‘By my grandfather. Oh, Morrel! Love him dearly!’

Morrel swore to love the old man with all his soul; and the oath cost him nothing, for at that moment he did not merely love him like a friend or a father: he adored him as a god.

‘But how did it happen?’ Morrel asked. ‘What strange means did he employ?’

Valentine opened her mouth to tell him everything, but then considered that there was a dreadful secret behind all this that did not belong only to her grandfather.

‘Later,’ she said. ‘I shall tell you everything later.’

‘When?’

‘When I am your wife.’

This put the conversation on a plane which made it easy for Morrel to understand anything; so he understood that he must be content with what he knew and that this was enough for one day. However, he agreed to leave only on the promise that he would see Valentine the following evening.

She gave him her promise. Everything had changed in her eyes and it was certainly easier for her now to believe that she would marry Morrel than it had been an hour earlier to believe that she would not marry Franz.

While this was going on, Mme de Villefort had gone up to see
Noirtier. The old man looked at her with the stern, dark eye that he usually turned on her.

‘Monsieur,’ she said, ‘I do not need to tell you that Valentine’s engagement has been broken off, because this is where the breach occurred.’

Noirtier gave no sign of emotion.

‘But,’ Mme de Villefort went on, ‘what you do not know, Monsieur, is that I was always opposed to the match, which was to take place in spite of my objections.’

Noirtier looked enquiringly at his daughter-in-law.

‘Well, now that the engagement is broken off – and I was always aware of your distaste for it – I have come with a request that neither Monsieur de Villefort nor Valentine could make.’

Noirtier’s eyes asked what this could be.

‘I have come, Monsieur,’ Mme de Villefort went on, ‘as the only person who has a right to do so, being the only one who has nothing to gain from it, to beg you to restore to your granddaughter, not your goodwill, since she has always had that, but your fortune.’

Noirtier’s eyes remained unsure for an instant, clearly seeking the motives behind this demand and unable to find them.

‘Am I right to hope, Monsieur,’ Mme de Villefort said, ‘that your intentions were in harmony with the request I have just made?’

‘Yes,’ said Noirtier.

‘In that case, Monsieur,’ she concluded, ‘I shall leave you with both gratitude and contentment.’ And, bowing to him, she went out of the room.

The following day, Noirtier duly called for the notary. The first will was torn up and a new one made under which he left his entire fortune to Valentine, on condition that she was not separated from him. Some people in society therefore calculated that Mlle de Villefort, heiress to the Marquis and Marquise de Saint-Méran and now restored to her grandfather’s favour, would one day have an income of nearly 300,000
livres
.

While the engagement was being broken off at the Villeforts’, the Comte de Morcerf received a visit from Monte Cristo and, to show Danglars how eager he was, he put on his lieutenant-general’s dress uniform – the one he had had decked out with all his decorations – and called for his best horses. In this finery, he trotted round to the Rue de la Chaussée-d’Antin and had himself announced to
Danglars, who was going over his end-of-the-month accounts. In recent weeks this had not been the best time to meet the banker if one wanted to find him in a good mood. So, at the sight of his old friend, Danglars put on his most majestic air and drew himself up in his chair.

Morcerf, contrary to his usual strait-laced manner, was wearing a jolly, affable smile. Since he was more or less certain that his suit would be received favourably, he did not bother with diplomatic niceties, but came straight to the point: ‘Here I am, Baron,’ he said. ‘For a long time we have been beating about the bush over what we said…’

As he began speaking, Morcerf expected the banker’s face to relax, attributing its lowering expression to his silence; but, on the contrary, the face became still more cold and impassive (though one would hardly have deemed this possible). This was why Morcerf had stopped in the middle of his sentence.

‘What did we say, Monsieur le Comte?’ the banker asked, as if searching his memory for an explanation of the general’s meaning.

‘Ah, I see!’ the count said. ‘You are going to respect the formalities, my dear sir, and want to remind me that protocol requires us to follow the proper procedure. Very well, so be it! You must forgive me: I only have one son and this is the first time I have considered marrying him, so I am still a novice in these matters. Right, I’ll do as you wish.’ And, with a forced smile, he got up, made a deep bow to Danglars and said: ‘Baron, I have the honour to ask for the hand of Mademoiselle Eugénie Danglars, your daughter, for my son, Viscount Albert de Morcerf.’