Kabanata Kabanata 95 · Valentine

We may easily conceive where Morrel’s appointment was. On leaving Monte

Cristo he walked slowly towards Villefort’s; we say slowly, for Morrel

had more than half an hour to spare to go five hundred steps, but he

had hastened to take leave of Monte Cristo because he wished to be

alone with his thoughts. He knew his time well—the hour when Valentine

was giving Noirtier his breakfast, and was sure not to be disturbed in

the performance of this pious duty. Noirtier and Valentine had given

him leave to go twice a week, and he was now availing himself of that

permission.

He arrived; Valentine was expecting him. Uneasy and almost crazed, she

seized his hand and led him to her grandfather. This uneasiness,

amounting almost to frenzy, arose from the report Morcerf’s adventure

had made in the world, for the affair at the Opera was generally known.

No one at Villefort’s doubted that a duel would ensue from it.

Valentine, with her woman’s instinct, guessed that Morrel would be

Monte Cristo’s second, and from the young man’s well-known courage and

his great affection for the count, she feared that he would not content

himself with the passive part assigned to him. We may easily understand

how eagerly the particulars were asked for, given, and received; and

Morrel could read an indescribable joy in the eyes of his beloved, when

she knew that the termination of this affair was as happy as it was

unexpected.

“Now,” said Valentine, motioning to Morrel to sit down near her

grandfather, while she took her seat on his footstool,—“now let us talk

about our own affairs. You know, Maximilian, grandpapa once thought of

leaving this house, and taking an apartment away from M. de

Villefort’s.”

“Yes,” said Maximilian, “I recollect the project, of which I highly

approved.”

“Well,” said Valentine, “you may approve again, for grandpapa is again

thinking of it.”

“Bravo,” said Maximilian.

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“And do you know,” said Valentine, “what reason grandpapa gives for

leaving this house.” Noirtier looked at Valentine to impose silence,

but she did not notice him; her looks, her eyes, her smile, were all

for Morrel.

“Oh, whatever may be M. Noirtier’s reason,” answered Morrel, “I can

readily believe it to be a good one.”

“An excellent one,” said Valentine. “He pretends the air of the

Faubourg Saint-Honoré is not good for me.”

“Indeed?” said Morrel; “in that M. Noirtier may be right; you have not

seemed to be well for the last fortnight.”

“Not very,” said Valentine. “And grandpapa has become my physician, and

I have the greatest confidence in him, because he knows everything.”

“Do you then really suffer?” asked Morrel quickly.

“Oh, it must not be called suffering; I feel a general uneasiness, that

is all. I have lost my appetite, and my stomach feels as if it were

struggling to get accustomed to something.” Noirtier did not lose a

word of what Valentine said.

“And what treatment do you adopt for this singular complaint?”

“A very simple one,” said Valentine. “I swallow every morning a

spoonful of the mixture prepared for my grandfather. When I say one

spoonful, I began by one—now I take four. Grandpapa says it is a

panacea.” Valentine smiled, but it was evident that she suffered.

Maximilian, in his devotedness, gazed silently at her. She was very

beautiful, but her usual pallor had increased; her eyes were more

brilliant than ever, and her hands, which were generally white like

mother-of-pearl, now more resembled wax, to which time was adding a

yellowish hue.

From Valentine the young man looked towards Noirtier. The latter

watched with strange and deep interest the young girl, absorbed by her

affection, and he also, like Morrel, followed those traces of inward

suffering which was so little perceptible to a common observer that

they escaped the notice of everyone but the grandfather and the lover.

“But,” said Morrel, “I thought this mixture, of which you now take four

spoonfuls, was prepared for M. Noirtier?”

“I know it is very bitter,” said Valentine; “so bitter, that all I

drink afterwards appears to have the same taste.” Noirtier looked

inquiringly at his granddaughter. “Yes, grandpapa,” said Valentine; “it

is so. Just now, before I came down to you, I drank a glass of sugared

water; I left half, because it seemed so bitter.” Noirtier turned pale,

and made a sign that he wished to speak.

Valentine rose to fetch the dictionary. Noirtier watched her with

evident anguish. In fact, the blood was rushing to the young girl’s

head already, her cheeks were becoming red.

“Oh,” cried she, without losing any of her cheerfulness, “this is

singular! I can’t see! Did the sun shine in my eyes?” And she leaned

against the window.

“The sun is not shining,” said Morrel, more alarmed by Noirtier’s

expression than by Valentine’s indisposition. He ran towards her. The

young girl smiled.

“Cheer up,” said she to Noirtier. “Do not be alarmed, Maximilian; it is

nothing, and has already passed away. But listen! Do I not hear a

carriage in the courtyard?” She opened Noirtier’s door, ran to a window

in the passage, and returned hastily. “Yes,” said she, “it is Madame

Danglars and her daughter, who have come to call on us. Good-bye;—I

must run away, for they would send here for me, or, rather, farewell

till I see you again. Stay with grandpapa, Maximilian; I promise you

not to persuade them to stay.”

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Morrel watched her as she left the room; he heard her ascend the little

staircase which led both to Madame de Villefort’s apartments and to

hers. As soon as she was gone, Noirtier made a sign to Morrel to take

the dictionary. Morrel obeyed; guided by Valentine, he had learned how

to understand the old man quickly. Accustomed, however, as he was to

the work, he had to repeat most of the letters of the alphabet and to

find every word in the dictionary, so that it was ten minutes before

the thought of the old man was translated by these words,

“Fetch the glass of water and the decanter from Valentine’s room.”

Morrel rang immediately for the servant who had taken Barrois’s

situation, and in Noirtier’s name gave that order. The servant soon

returned. The decanter and the glass were completely empty. Noirtier

made a sign that he wished to speak.

“Why are the glass and decanter empty?” asked he; “Valentine said she

only drank half the glassful.”

The translation of this new question occupied another five minutes.

“I do not know,” said the servant, “but the housemaid is in

Mademoiselle Valentine’s room: perhaps she has emptied them.”

“Ask her,” said Morrel, translating Noirtier’s thought this time by his

look. The servant went out, but returned almost immediately.

“Mademoiselle Valentine passed through the room to go to Madame de

Villefort’s,” said he; “and in passing, as she was thirsty, she drank

what remained in the glass; as for the decanter, Master Edward had

emptied that to make a pond for his ducks.”

Noirtier raised his eyes to heaven, as a gambler does who stakes his

all on one stroke. From that moment the old man’s eyes were fixed on

the door, and did not quit it.

It was indeed Madame Danglars and her daughter whom Valentine had seen;

they had been ushered into Madame de Villefort’s room, who had said she

would receive them there. That is why Valentine passed through her

room, which was on a level with Valentine’s, and only separated from it

by Edward’s. The two ladies entered the drawing-room with that sort of

official stiffness which preludes a formal communication. Among worldly

people manner is contagious. Madame de Villefort received them with

equal solemnity. Valentine entered at this moment, and the formalities

were resumed.

“My dear friend,” said the baroness, while the two young people were

shaking hands, “I and Eugénie are come to be the first to announce to

you the approaching marriage of my daughter with Prince Cavalcanti.”

Danglars kept up the title of prince. The popular banker found that it

answered better than count.

“Allow me to present you my sincere congratulations,” replied Madame de

Villefort. “Prince Cavalcanti appears to be a young man of rare

qualities.”

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“Listen,” said the baroness, smiling; “speaking to you as a friend I

can say that the prince does not yet appear all he will be. He has

about him a little of that foreign manner by which French persons

recognize, at first sight, the Italian or German nobleman. Besides, he

gives evidence of great kindness of disposition, much keenness of wit,

and as to suitability, M. Danglars assures me that his fortune is

majestic—that is his word.”

“And then,” said Eugénie, while turning over the leaves of Madame de

Villefort’s album, “add that you have taken a great fancy to the young

man.”

“And,” said Madame de Villefort, “I need not ask you if you share that

fancy.”

“I?” replied Eugénie with her usual candor. “Oh, not the least in the

world, madame! My wish was not to confine myself to domestic cares, or

the caprices of any man, but to be an artist, and consequently free in

heart, in person, and in thought.”

Eugénie pronounced these words with so firm a tone that the color

mounted to Valentine’s cheeks. The timid girl could not understand that

vigorous nature which appeared to have none of the timidities of woman.

“At any rate,” said she, “since I am to be married whether I will or

not, I ought to be thankful to Providence for having released me from

my engagement with M. Albert de Morcerf, or I should this day have been

the wife of a dishonored man.”

“It is true,” said the baroness, with that strange simplicity sometimes

met with among fashionable ladies, and of which plebeian intercourse

can never entirely deprive them,—“it is very true that had not the

Morcerfs hesitated, my daughter would have married Monsieur Albert. The

general depended much on it; he even came to force M. Danglars. We have

had a narrow escape.”

“But,” said Valentine, timidly, “does all the father’s shame revert

upon the son? Monsieur Albert appears to me quite innocent of the

treason charged against the general.”

“Excuse me,” said the implacable young girl, “Monsieur Albert claims

and well deserves his share. It appears that after having challenged M.

de Monte Cristo at the Opera yesterday, he apologized on the ground

today.”

“Impossible,” said Madame de Villefort.

“Ah, my dear friend,” said Madame Danglars, with the same simplicity we

before noticed, “it is a fact. I heard it from M. Debray, who was

present at the explanation.”

Valentine also knew the truth, but she did not answer. A single word

had reminded her that Morrel was expecting her in M. Noirtier’s room.

Deeply engaged with a sort of inward contemplation, Valentine had

ceased for a moment to join in the conversation. She would, indeed,

have found it impossible to repeat what had been said the last few

minutes, when suddenly Madame Danglars’ hand, pressed on her arm,

aroused her from her lethargy.

“What is it?” said she, starting at Madame Danglars’ touch as she would

have done from an electric shock.

“It is, my dear Valentine,” said the baroness, “that you are,

doubtless, suffering.”

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“I?” said the young girl, passing her hand across her burning forehead.

“Yes, look at yourself in that glass; you have turned pale and then red

successively, three or four times in one minute.”

“Indeed,” cried Eugénie, “you are very pale!”

“Oh, do not be alarmed; I have been so for many days.” Artless as she

was, the young girl knew that this was an opportunity to leave, and

besides, Madame de Villefort came to her assistance.

“Retire, Valentine,” said she; “you are really suffering, and these

ladies will excuse you; drink a glass of pure water, it will restore

you.”

Valentine kissed Eugénie, bowed to Madame Danglars, who had already

risen to take her leave, and went out.

“That poor child,” said Madame de Villefort when Valentine was gone,

“she makes me very uneasy, and I should not be astonished if she had

some serious illness.”

Meanwhile, Valentine, in a sort of excitement which she could not quite

understand, had crossed Edward’s room without noticing some trick of

the child, and through her own had reached the little staircase.

She was within three steps of the bottom; she already heard Morrel’s

voice, when suddenly a cloud passed over her eyes, her stiffened foot

missed the step, her hands had no power to hold the baluster, and

falling against the wall she lost her balance wholly and toppled to the

floor. Morrel bounded to the door, opened it, and found Valentine

stretched out at the bottom of the stairs. Quick as a flash, he raised

her in his arms and placed her in a chair. Valentine opened her eyes.

“Oh, what a clumsy thing I am,” said she with feverish volubility; “I

don’t know my way. I forgot there were three more steps before the

landing.”

“You have hurt yourself, perhaps,” said Morrel. “What can I do for you,

Valentine?”

Valentine looked around her; she saw the deepest terror depicted in

Noirtier’s eyes.

“Don’t worry, dear grandpapa,” said she, endeavoring to smile; “it is

nothing—it is nothing; I was giddy, that is all.”

“Another attack of giddiness,” said Morrel, clasping his hands. “Oh,

attend to it, Valentine, I entreat you.”

“But no,” said Valentine,—“no, I tell you it is all past, and it was

nothing. Now, let me tell you some news; Eugénie is to be married in a

week, and in three days there is to be a grand feast, a betrothal

festival. We are all invited, my father, Madame de Villefort, and I—at

least, I understood it so.”

“When will it be our turn to think of these things? Oh, Valentine, you

who have so much influence over your grandpapa, try to make him

answer—Soon.”

“And do you,” said Valentine, “depend on me to stimulate the tardiness

and arouse the memory of grandpapa?”

“Yes,” cried Morrel, “make haste. So long as you are not mine,

Valentine, I shall always think I may lose you.”

“Oh,” replied Valentine with a convulsive movement, “oh, indeed,

Maximilian, you are too timid for an officer, for a soldier who, they

say, never knows fear. Ha, ha, ha!”

She burst into a forced and melancholy laugh, her arms stiffened and

twisted, her head fell back on her chair, and she remained motionless.

The cry of terror which was stopped on Noirtier’s lips, seemed to start

from his eyes. Morrel understood it; he knew he must call assistance.

The young man rang the bell violently; the housemaid who had been in

Mademoiselle Valentine’s room, and the servant who had replaced

Barrois, ran in at the same moment. Valentine was so pale, so cold, so

inanimate that without listening to what was said to them they were

seized with the fear which pervaded that house, and they flew into the

passage crying for help. Madame Danglars and Eugénie were going out at

that moment; they heard the cause of the disturbance.

“I told you so!” exclaimed Madame de Villefort. “Poor child!”

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