Kabanata Kabanata 104 · Valentine

The night-light continued to burn on the chimney-piece, exhausting the

last drops of oil which floated on the surface of the water. The globe

of the lamp appeared of a reddish hue, and the flame, brightening

before it expired, threw out the last flickerings which in an inanimate

object have been so often compared with the convulsions of a human

creature in its final agonies. A dull and dismal light was shed over

the bedclothes and curtains surrounding the young girl. All noise in

the streets had ceased, and the silence was frightful.

It was then that the door of Edward’s room opened, and a head we have

before noticed appeared in the glass opposite; it was Madame de

Villefort, who came to witness the effects of the drink she had

prepared. She stopped in the doorway, listened for a moment to the

flickering of the lamp, the only sound in that deserted room, and then

advanced to the table to see if Valentine’s glass were empty. It was

still about a quarter full, as we before stated. Madame de Villefort

emptied the contents into the ashes, which she disturbed that they

might the more readily absorb the liquid; then she carefully rinsed the

glass, and wiping it with her handkerchief replaced it on the table.

If anyone could have looked into the room just then he would have

noticed the hesitation with which Madame de Villefort approached the

bed and looked fixedly on Valentine. The dim light, the profound

silence, and the gloomy thoughts inspired by the hour, and still more

by her own conscience, all combined to produce a sensation of fear; the

poisoner was terrified at the contemplation of her own work.

At length she rallied, drew aside the curtain, and leaning over the

pillow gazed intently on Valentine. The young girl no longer breathed,

no breath issued through the half-closed teeth; the white lips no

longer quivered—the eyes were suffused with a bluish vapor, and the

long black lashes rested on a cheek white as wax. Madame de Villefort

gazed upon the face so expressive even in its stillness; then she

ventured to raise the coverlet and press her hand upon the young girl’s

heart. It was cold and motionless. She only felt the pulsation in her

own fingers, and withdrew her hand with a shudder. One arm was hanging

out of the bed; from shoulder to elbow it was moulded after the arms of

Germain Pillon’s “Graces,”23 but the fore-arm seemed to be slightly

distorted by convulsion, and the hand, so delicately formed, was

resting with stiff outstretched fingers on the framework of the bed.

The nails, too, were turning blue.

Madame de Villefort had no longer any doubt; all was over—she had

consummated the last terrible work she had to accomplish. There was no

more to do in the room, so the poisoner retired stealthily, as though

fearing to hear the sound of her own footsteps; but as she withdrew she

still held aside the curtain, absorbed in the irresistible attraction

always exerted by the picture of death, so long as it is merely

mysterious and does not excite disgust.

The minutes passed; Madame de Villefort could not drop the curtain

which she held like a funeral pall over the head of Valentine. She was

lost in reverie, and the reverie of crime is remorse.

Just then the lamp again flickered; the noise startled Madame de

Villefort, who shuddered and dropped the curtain. Immediately

afterwards the light expired, and the room was plunged in frightful

obscurity, while the clock at that minute struck half-past four.

Overpowered with agitation, the poisoner succeeded in groping her way

to the door, and reached her room in an agony of fear. The darkness

lasted two hours longer; then by degrees a cold light crept through the

Venetian blinds, until at length it revealed the objects in the room.

About this time the nurse’s cough was heard on the stairs and the woman

entered the room with a cup in her hand. To the tender eye of a father

or a lover, the first glance would have sufficed to reveal Valentine’s

condition; but to this hireling, Valentine only appeared to sleep.

“Good,” she exclaimed, approaching the table, “she has taken part of

her draught; the glass is three-quarters empty.”

Then she went to the fireplace and lit the fire, and although she had

just left her bed, she could not resist the temptation offered by

Valentine’s sleep, so she threw herself into an armchair to snatch a

little more rest. The clock striking eight awoke her. Astonished at the

prolonged slumber of the patient, and frightened to see that the arm

was still hanging out of the bed, she advanced towards Valentine, and

for the first time noticed the white lips. She tried to replace the

arm, but it moved with a frightful rigidity which could not deceive a

sick-nurse. She screamed aloud; then running to the door exclaimed:

“Help, help!”

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“What is the matter?” asked M. d’Avrigny, at the foot of the stairs, it

being the hour he usually visited her.

“What is it?” asked Villefort, rushing from his room. “Doctor, do you

hear them call for help?”

“Yes, yes; let us hasten up; it was in Valentine’s room.”

But before the doctor and the father could reach the room, the servants

who were on the same floor had entered, and seeing Valentine pale and

motionless on her bed, they lifted up their hands towards heaven and

stood transfixed, as though struck by lightening.

“Call Madame de Villefort!—Wake Madame de Villefort!” cried the

procureur from the door of his chamber, which apparently he scarcely

dared to leave. But instead of obeying him, the servants stood watching

M. d’Avrigny, who ran to Valentine, and raised her in his arms.

“What?—this one, too?” he exclaimed. “Oh, where will be the end?”

Villefort rushed into the room.

“What are you saying, doctor?” he exclaimed, raising his hands to

heaven.

“I say that Valentine is dead!” replied d’Avrigny, in a voice terrible

in its solemn calmness.

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M. de Villefort staggered and buried his head in the bed. On the

exclamation of the doctor and the cry of the father, the servants all

fled with muttered imprecations; they were heard running down the

stairs and through the long passages, then there was a rush in the

court, afterwards all was still; they had, one and all, deserted the

accursed house.

Just then, Madame de Villefort, in the act of slipping on her

dressing-gown, threw aside the drapery and for a moment stood

motionless, as though interrogating the occupants of the room, while

she endeavored to call up some rebellious tears. On a sudden she

stepped, or rather bounded, with outstretched arms, towards the table.

She saw d’Avrigny curiously examining the glass, which she felt certain

of having emptied during the night. It was now a third full, just as it

was when she threw the contents into the ashes. The spectre of

Valentine rising before the poisoner would have alarmed her less. It

was, indeed, the same color as the draught she had poured into the

glass, and which Valentine had drunk; it was indeed the poison, which

could not deceive M. d’Avrigny, which he now examined so closely; it

was doubtless a miracle from heaven, that, notwithstanding her

precautions, there should be some trace, some proof remaining to reveal

the crime.

While Madame de Villefort remained rooted to the spot like a statue of

terror, and Villefort, with his head hidden in the bedclothes, saw

nothing around him, d’Avrigny approached the window, that he might the

better examine the contents of the glass, and dipping the tip of his

finger in, tasted it.

“Ah,” he exclaimed, “it is no longer brucine that is used; let me see

what it is!”

Then he ran to one of the cupboards in Valentine’s room, which had been

transformed into a medicine closet, and taking from its silver case a

small bottle of nitric acid, dropped a little of it into the liquor,

which immediately changed to a blood-red color.

“Ah,” exclaimed d’Avrigny, in a voice in which the horror of a judge

unveiling the truth was mingled with the delight of a student making a

discovery.

Madame de Villefort was overpowered; her eyes first flashed and then

swam, she staggered towards the door and disappeared. Directly

afterwards the distant sound of a heavy weight falling on the ground

was heard, but no one paid any attention to it; the nurse was engaged

in watching the chemical analysis, and Villefort was still absorbed in

grief. M. d’Avrigny alone had followed Madame de Villefort with his

eyes, and watched her hurried retreat. He lifted up the drapery over

the entrance to Edward’s room, and his eye reaching as far as Madame de

Villefort’s apartment, he beheld her extended lifeless on the floor.

“Go to the assistance of Madame de Villefort,” he said to the nurse.

“Madame de Villefort is ill.”

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“But Mademoiselle de Villefort——” stammered the nurse.

“Mademoiselle de Villefort no longer requires help,” said d’Avrigny,

“since she is dead.”

“Dead,—dead!” groaned forth Villefort, in a paroxysm of grief, which

was the more terrible from the novelty of the sensation in the iron

heart of that man.

“Dead!” repeated a third voice. “Who said Valentine was dead?”

The two men turned round, and saw Morrel standing at the door, pale and

terror-stricken. This is what had happened. At the usual time, Morrel

had presented himself at the little door leading to Noirtier’s room.

Contrary to custom, the door was open, and having no occasion to ring

he entered. He waited for a moment in the hall and called for a servant

to conduct him to M. Noirtier; but no one answered, the servants

having, as we know, deserted the house. Morrel had no particular reason

for uneasiness; Monte Cristo had promised him that Valentine should

live, and so far he had always fulfilled his word. Every night the

count had given him news, which was the next morning confirmed by

Noirtier. Still this extraordinary silence appeared strange to him, and

he called a second and third time; still no answer. Then he determined

to go up. Noirtier’s room was opened, like all the rest. The first

thing he saw was the old man sitting in his armchair in his usual

place, but his eyes expressed alarm, which was confirmed by the pallor

which overspread his features.

“How are you, sir?” asked Morrel, with a sickness of heart.

“Well,” answered the old man, by closing his eyes; but his appearance

manifested increasing uneasiness.

“You are thoughtful, sir,” continued Morrel; “you want something; shall

I call one of the servants?”

“Yes,” replied Noirtier.

Morrel pulled the bell, but though he nearly broke the cord no one

answered. He turned towards Noirtier; the pallor and anguish expressed

on his countenance momentarily increased.

“Oh,” exclaimed Morrel, “why do they not come? Is anyone ill in the

house?” The eyes of Noirtier seemed as though they would start from

their sockets. “What is the matter? You alarm me. Valentine?

Valentine?”

“Yes, yes,” signed Noirtier.

Maximilian tried to speak, but he could articulate nothing; he

staggered, and supported himself against the wainscot. Then he pointed

to the door.

“Yes, yes, yes!” continued the old man.

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Maximilian rushed up the little staircase, while Noirtier’s eyes seemed

to say,—“Quicker, quicker!”

In a minute the young man darted through several rooms, till at length

he reached Valentine’s.

There was no occasion to push the door, it was wide open. A sob was the

only sound he heard. He saw as though in a mist, a black figure

kneeling and buried in a confused mass of white drapery. A terrible

fear transfixed him. It was then he heard a voice exclaim “Valentine is

dead!” and another voice which, like an echo repeated:

“Dead,—dead!”

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