The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) (148 page)

‘Precisely, my dear sir.’

‘And we shall meet this evening, if you wish, or at the latest tomorrow.’

‘No, no, not so fast! I shall be here when the time comes, and in my opinion – which I have the right to give, since I am the one who has been provoked – in my opinion, as I say, the time is not yet. I know that you are a good swordsman, and I am a fair one. I know that you can hit three bull’s-eyes out of six, which is roughly my own score. I know that a duel between us will be a serious matter, because you are a brave fellow and… well, I am too. Consequently I do not want to risk killing you or being killed by you for no reason. Now, I shall in turn ask you the question, and quite cat-eg-or-ic-al-ly: are you so set on this retraction that you will kill me if I do not make it, even though I have told you, and repeat to you, and swear on my honour, that I was not aware of this report; and even though it would be impossible for anyone except a Don Japhet like yourself to guess that Monsieur le Comte de Morcerf might be referred to under that name, Fernand?’

‘I am absolutely set on it.’

‘Very well, my good sir, I agree to cut my throat with you, but I want three weeks. In three weeks, come back and I shall either tell you: yes, the report is false, I shall annul it; or else, yes, the report is true, and I get the swords out of their scabbards, or the pistols from their cases, as you wish.’

‘Three weeks!’ Albert cried. ‘But three weeks are three centuries in which I shall be dishonoured!’

‘If you had remained my friend, I should say to you: Patience,
friend. You have made yourself my enemy and I say to you: What do I care, Monsieur!’

‘Very well, in three weeks, agreed,’ said Morcerf. ‘But consider this: in three weeks, there will be no more delays and no subterfuge that you can use to avoid…’

‘Monsieur Albert de Morcerf,’ Beauchamp said, getting up in his turn, ‘I cannot throw you out of the window for another three weeks, that is to say, twenty-four days, and you will only have the right to assault me at that time. It is now August the twenty-ninth, so on the twenty-first of September… Until then – and this is a piece of advice from a gentleman – please let us spare one another the barking of bulldogs who cannot reach each other because they are chained.’ And, bowing to the young man, he turned his back on him and went through into the printing works.

Albert took out his feelings on a pile of newspapers which he spread across the room with sweeping blows from his stick. After that he left, but not without two or three backward glances towards the door of the printing works.

After crossing the boulevard, Albert began whipping the front of his carriage, just as he had whipped the innocent papers, black with ink, which could do nothing to ease his frustration. At that moment he noticed Morrel who, head held high, with sparkling eyes and freely swinging arms, was walking along in front of the Chinese Baths from the direction of the Porte Saint-Martin and going towards the Madeleine.

‘Ah,’ Albert thought, with a sigh, ‘there is a contented man!’

As it happens, he was not wrong.

Morrel was indeed very contented. M. Noirtier had just sent for him, and he was in such a hurry to know why that he had not taken a cab, trusting his own two legs more than those of a hired horse. He had set out at a fair pace from the Rue Meslay and was on his way to the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. He was proceeding at a jog, while poor Barrois followed on as best he could. Morrel was
thirty-one, Barrois sixty; Morrel was drunk with love, Barrois faint with heat. The two men, so different in age and interests, were like two sides of a triangle: separated at the base, meeting at the apex; the apex was Noirtier.

He had told Morrel to make haste, and Morrel, much to the despair of Barrois, was following this instruction precisely. When they arrived, Morrel was not even out of breath – love gives wings – but Barrois, who had not been in love for a long time, was pouring with sweat.

The old servant showed Morrel in by the side entrance and closed the study door. Soon the sound of a dress brushing against the floor announced the arrival of Valentine. She was ravishingly beautiful in her mourning clothes. The dream was becoming so sweet that Morrel would almost have done without talking to Noirtier; but the old man’s wheelchair could soon be heard outside, and he came in.

With a benevolent smile Noirtier accepted the thanks which Morrel heaped upon him for the miraculous intervention that had saved Valentine and himself from despair. Then Morrel’s look turned towards the young woman, enquiring of her the reason why he was newly in favour. She, shyly sitting at some distance from Morrel, was waiting to speak until she was obliged to. Noirtier looked at her in turn.

‘Must I say what you told me to, then?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ Noirtier indicated.

‘Monsieur Morrel,’ Valentine said, addressing the young man who was devouring her with his eyes. ‘My grandpapa Noirtier had a thousand things to tell you, and he has told them to me in the past three days. Today, he has sent for you so that I can repeat them. I shall do so, since he has chosen me as his interpreter, without changing a word of his meaning.’

‘I am impatient to hear,’ the young man replied. ‘Please speak, Mademoiselle, speak.’

Valentine lowered her eyes. This was a sign that seemed to Morrel to augur well: Valentine was weak only when she was happy.

‘My grandfather wants to leave this house,’ she said. ‘Barrois is trying to find him suitable lodgings.’

‘What about you, Mademoiselle,’ said Morrel, ‘you, who are so dear and so essential to Monsieur Noirtier?’

‘I shall not abandon my grandfather,’ the young woman said.
‘This has been agreed between us. My apartment will be near his. Either I shall have Monsieur de Villefort’s consent to go and live with grandpapa Noirtier, or it will be refused. In the first case, I shall leave at once; in the second, I shall await my majority, which falls in eighteen months. Then I shall be free, I shall have independent means and…’

‘And?’ said Morrel.

‘And, with my grandfather’s permission, I shall keep the promise that I made to you.’

Valentine spoke these last words so softly that Morrel would have been unable to hear them, had they not meant as much to him as they did.

‘Isn’t that your opinion, grandpa?’ she added, turning to Noirtier.

‘Yes,’ said the old man.

‘Once I am settled in at my grandfather’s,’ Valentine added, ‘Monsieur Morrel will be able to come and visit me in the presence of this good and worthy protector. Our hearts may be ignorant or capricious; but if the bond that they have started to form seems respectable and gives some guarantees of future happiness to our endeavour – though, alas, they do say that hearts which are fired to overcome obstacles go cold when these are removed – then Monsieur Morrel can ask me for my hand; I shall wait for him.’

‘Oh!’ cried Morrel, tempted to kneel in front of the old man as before God, and in front of Valentine as before an angel. ‘Oh! What have I done in my life to deserve such happiness?’

‘Until then,’ the young woman continued, in her clear, strict voice, ‘we shall respect the conventions, and even the will of our parents, provided that will does not attempt to separate us for ever. In a word, and I repeat it, because it says everything, we shall wait.’

‘I swear to carry out the sacrifices that the word imposes, Monsieur,’ Morrel said, ‘not with resignation, but with joy.’

‘So,’ Valentine went on, with a look that was very dear to Maximilien’s heart, ‘no more rash deeds, my friend. Do not compromise one who, from today onwards, considers herself destined to bear your name with purity and dignity.’

Morrel put his hand to his heart.

During this time, Noirtier was watching them both tenderly. Barrois, who had stayed at the back of the room, as someone from
whom they had nothing to hide, was smiling and wiping the huge beads of sweat that coursed across his bald head.

‘Heavens above, look how hot he is, poor Barrois,’ said Valentine.

‘That’s because I had a good run, Mademoiselle,’ Barrois said. ‘But I must grant him this, Monsieur Morrel ran even faster than I did.’

Noirtier’s eyes turned towards a tray on which were a carafe of lemonade and a glass. Half an hour earlier, Noirtier himself had drunk what was missing from the jug.

‘Go on, my dear Barrois,’ the girl said. ‘Have it: I can see that you are casting envious looks at that half-empty jug.’

‘The fact is,’ he replied, ‘I am dying of thirst and I should dearly like to drink a glass of lemonade to your health.’

‘Go on, then,’ said Valentine. ‘Come back in a moment.’

Barrois took the tray and no sooner was he in the corridor than they saw him, through the door that he had forgotten to close, toss back his head to empty the glass that Valentine had filled.

Valentine and Morrel were exchanging farewells in Noirtier’s presence when they heard the bell ring in Villefort’s staircase. It was the signal that someone was coming to visit. Valentine looked at the clock.

‘It is midday,’ she said. ‘And as today is Saturday, grandpapa, this must be the doctor.’

Noirtier made a sign confirming that he agreed with her.

‘Since he is going to come here, Monsieur Morrel must leave, mustn’t he, grandpapa?’

‘Yes,’ the old man replied.

‘Barrois!’ Valentine called. ‘Barrois, come here!’

They heard the voice of the old servant answer: ‘I’m coming, Mademoiselle.’

‘Barrois will take you to the door,’ Valentine said to Morrel. ‘Now, Captain, remember one thing, which is that my grandfather advises you not to do anything which might threaten out future happiness.’

‘I promised to wait,’ said Morrel, ‘and I shall.’

At this moment, Barrois came in.

‘Who rang?’ Valentine asked.

‘Doctor d’Avrigny,’ Barrois said, staggering.

‘What’s wrong, Barrois?’ Valentine asked. The old man did not reply. He was looking at his master with panic-stricken eyes,
while his hand grasped for something to hold on to, to keep him upright.

‘He’s going to fall!’ Morrel cried.

The trembling in Barrois’ limbs was increasing at an alarming rate and his expression was contorted by the contractions of the muscles, suggesting a violent nervous seizure. Noirtier, seeing Barrois’ distress, gave a succession of looks that clearly and plainly expressed all the emotions that he was feeling. Barrois took a few steps towards his master. ‘Oh, my God! My God!’ he exclaimed. ‘What is wrong with me? I am in such pain. I can no longer see. There are a thousand burning embers in my brain. Oh, don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!’

His eyes began to bulge, distraught, and his head fell backwards, while the rest of his body stiffened. Valentine gave a cry of terror and Morrel took her in his arms, as though to defend her against some unknown danger.

‘Monsieur d’Avrigny! Monsieur d’Avrigny!’ she cried in a strangled voice. ‘Come here! Help!’

Barrois wheeled around, took three steps backwards, staggered and fell at Noirtier’s feet, resting his hand on his knee and gasping: ‘My master! My good master!’

At that moment, M. de Villefort appeared on the threshold of the room, attracted by the commotion.

Morrel let go of the half-unconscious Valentine and leapt back, hiding in a corner of the room where he was partly concealed by a curtain. Pale, as if he had seen a snake rearing up before him, he stared in horror at the dying man.

Noirtier was burning with impatience and terror; his soul flew to the aid of the poor old man – a friend rather than a servant. One could see the life-and-death struggle on his brow by the bulging of the veins and the contraction of the few muscles that were still living around his eyes.

Barrois, with a tortured expression, bloodshot eyes and head thrown back, was lying on the floor, beating it with his hands, while his legs, on the contrary, were so stiff that they seemed liable to break rather than bend. Traces of foam had appeared around his lips and he was gasping painfully.

Villefort, astonished, remained for a moment staring at this scene, which is what had drawn his attention as soon as he entered. He had not seen Morrel. After an instant of mute contemplation,
in which his face paled and his hair stood on end, he cried: ‘Doctor! Doctor! Come quickly!’ as he rushed to the door.

‘Madame! Madame!’ Valentine cried, calling her stepmother and dashing herself against the walls of the stairway. ‘Come! Come quickly, and bring your smelling-salts!’

‘What is the matter?’ asked the self-possessed, metallic voice of Mme de Villefort.

‘Oh, please come! Quickly!’

‘But where is the doctor!’ Villefort cried. ‘Where has he gone?’

Mme de Villefort came slowly down; they could hear the boards creaking under her feet. In one hand she held a handkerchief with which she was wiping her face, in the other a flask of English smelling-salts. Her first glance, as she reached the door, was for Noirtier, whose face showed his condition was unaltered, apart from the anxiety natural in such circumstances. Only then did she turn to look at the dying man.

She went pale and her eyes flashed as it were from the servant to the master.

‘But in heaven’s name, Madame, where is the doctor? He went into your apartments. It’s an apoplexy, as you can see, and if he is bled we can save him.’