第 五十三 章 · Pyramus and Thisbe

About two-thirds of the way along the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, and in the

rear of one of the most imposing mansions in this rich neighborhood,

where the various houses vie with each other for elegance of design and

magnificence of construction, extended a large garden, where the

wide-spreading chestnut-trees raised their heads high above the walls

in a solid rampart, and with the coming of every spring scattered a

shower of delicate pink and white blossoms into the large stone vases

that stood upon the two square pilasters of a curiously wrought iron

gate, that dated from the time of Louis XIII.

This noble entrance, however, in spite of its striking appearance and

the graceful effect of the geraniums planted in the two vases, as they

waved their variegated leaves in the wind and charmed the eye with

their scarlet bloom, had fallen into utter disuse. The proprietors of

the mansion had many years before thought it best to confine themselves

to the possession of the house itself, with its thickly planted

courtyard, opening into the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, and to the garden

shut in by this gate, which formerly communicated with a fine

kitchen-garden of about an acre. For the demon of speculation drew a

line, or in other words projected a street, at the farther side of the

kitchen-garden. The street was laid out, a name was chosen and posted

up on an iron plate, but before construction was begun, it occurred to

the possessor of the property that a handsome sum might be obtained for

the ground then devoted to fruits and vegetables, by building along the

line of the proposed street, and so making it a branch of communication

with the Faubourg Saint-Honoré itself, one of the most important

thoroughfares in the city of Paris.

In matters of speculation, however, though “man proposes,” yet “money

disposes.” From some such difficulty the newly named street died almost

in birth, and the purchaser of the kitchen-garden, having paid a high

price for it, and being quite unable to find anyone willing to take his

bargain off his hands without a considerable loss, yet still clinging

to the belief that at some future day he should obtain a sum for it

that would repay him, not only for his past outlay, but also the

interest upon the capital locked up in his new acquisition, contented

himself with letting the ground temporarily to some market-gardeners,

at a yearly rental of 500 francs.

And so, as we have said, the iron gate leading into the kitchen-garden

had been closed up and left to the rust, which bade fair before long to

eat off its hinges, while to prevent the ignoble glances of the diggers

and delvers of the ground from presuming to sully the aristocratic

enclosure belonging to the mansion, the gate had been boarded up to a

height of six feet. True, the planks were not so closely adjusted but

that a hasty peep might be obtained through their interstices; but the

strict decorum and rigid propriety of the inhabitants of the house left

no grounds for apprehending that advantage would be taken of that

circumstance.

Horticulture seemed, however, to have been abandoned in the deserted

kitchen-garden; and where cabbages, carrots, radishes, peas, and melons

had once flourished, a scanty crop of lucern alone bore evidence of its

being deemed worthy of cultivation. A small, low door gave egress from

the walled space we have been describing into the projected street, the

ground having been abandoned as unproductive by its various renters,

and had now fallen so completely in general estimation as to return not

even the one-half per cent it had originally paid. Towards the house

the chestnut-trees we have before mentioned rose high above the wall,

without in any way affecting the growth of other luxuriant shrubs and

flowers that eagerly dressed forward to fill up the vacant spaces, as

though asserting their right to enjoy the boon of light and air. At one

corner, where the foliage became so thick as almost to shut out day, a

large stone bench and sundry rustic seats indicated that this sheltered

spot was either in general favor or particular use by some inhabitant

of the house, which was faintly discernible through the dense mass of

verdure that partially concealed it, though situated but a hundred

paces off.

Whoever had selected this retired portion of the grounds as the

boundary of a walk, or as a place for meditation, was abundantly

justified in the choice by the absence of all glare, the cool,

refreshing shade, the screen it afforded from the scorching rays of the

sun, that found no entrance there even during the burning days of

hottest summer, the incessant and melodious warbling of birds, and the

entire removal from either the noise of the street or the bustle of the

mansion. On the evening of one of the warmest days spring had yet

bestowed on the inhabitants of Paris, might be seen negligently thrown

upon the stone bench, a book, a parasol, and a work-basket, from which

hung a partly embroidered cambric handkerchief, while at a little

distance from these articles was a young woman, standing close to the

iron gate, endeavoring to discern something on the other side by means

of the openings in the planks,—the earnestness of her attitude and the

fixed gaze with which she seemed to seek the object of her wishes,

proving how much her feelings were interested in the matter.

At that instant the little side-gate leading from the waste ground to

the street was noiselessly opened, and a tall, powerful young man

appeared. He was dressed in a common gray blouse and velvet cap, but

his carefully arranged hair, beard and moustache, all of the richest

and glossiest black, ill accorded with his plebeian attire. After

casting a rapid glance around him, in order to assure himself that he

was unobserved, he entered by the small gate, and, carefully closing

and securing it after him, proceeded with a hurried step towards the

barrier.

At the sight of him she expected, though probably not in such a

costume, the young woman started in terror, and was about to make a

hasty retreat. But the eye of love had already seen, even through the

narrow chinks of the wooden palisades, the movement of the white robe,

and observed the fluttering of the blue sash. Pressing his lips close

to the planks, he exclaimed:

“Don’t be alarmed, Valentine—it is I!”

Again the timid girl found courage to return to the gate, saying, as

she did so:

“And why do you come so late today? It is almost dinner-time, and I had

to use no little diplomacy to get rid of my watchful stepmother, my

too-devoted maid, and my troublesome brother, who is always teasing me

about coming to work at my embroidery, which I am in a fair way never

to get done. So pray excuse yourself as well as you can for having made

me wait, and, after that, tell me why I see you in a dress so singular

that at first I did not recognize you.”

“Dearest Valentine,” said the young man, “the difference between our

respective stations makes me fear to offend you by speaking of my love,

but yet I cannot find myself in your presence without longing to pour

forth my soul, and tell you how fondly I adore you. If it be but to

carry away with me the recollection of such sweet moments, I could even

thank you for chiding me, for it leaves me a gleam of hope, that if you

did not expect me (and that indeed would be worse than vanity to

suppose), at least I was in your thoughts. You asked me the cause of my

being late, and why I come disguised. I will candidly explain the

reason of both, and I trust to your goodness to pardon me. I have

chosen a trade.”

“A trade? Oh, Maximilian, how can you jest at a time when we have such

deep cause for uneasiness?”

“Heaven keep me from jesting with that which is far dearer to me than

life itself! But listen to me, Valentine, and I will tell you all about

it. I became weary of ranging fields and scaling walls, and seriously

alarmed at the idea suggested by you, that if caught hovering about

here your father would very likely have me sent to prison as a thief.

That would compromise the honor of the French army, to say nothing of

the fact that the continual presence of a captain of Spahis in a place

where no warlike projects could be supposed to account for it might

well create surprise; so I have become a gardener, and, consequently,

adopted the costume of my calling.”

“What excessive nonsense you talk, Maximilian!”

“Nonsense? Pray do not call what I consider the wisest action of my

life by such a name. Consider, by becoming a gardener I effectually

screen our meetings from all suspicion or danger.”

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“I beseech of you, Maximilian, to cease trifling, and tell me what you

really mean.”

“Simply, that having ascertained that the piece of ground on which I

stand was to let, I made application for it, was readily accepted by

the proprietor, and am now master of this fine crop of lucern. Think of

that, Valentine! There is nothing now to prevent my building myself a

little hut on my plantation, and residing not twenty yards from you.

Only imagine what happiness that would afford me. I can scarcely

contain myself at the bare idea. Such felicity seems above all price—as

a thing impossible and unattainable. But would you believe that I

purchase all this delight, joy, and happiness, for which I would

cheerfully have surrendered ten years of my life, at the small cost of

500 francs per annum, paid quarterly? Henceforth we have nothing to

fear. I am on my own ground, and have an undoubted right to place a

ladder against the wall, and to look over when I please, without having

any apprehensions of being taken off by the police as a suspicious

character. I may also enjoy the precious privilege of assuring you of

my fond, faithful, and unalterable affection, whenever you visit your

favorite bower, unless, indeed, it offends your pride to listen to

professions of love from the lips of a poor workingman, clad in a

blouse and cap.”

A faint cry of mingled pleasure and surprise escaped from the lips of

Valentine, who almost instantly said, in a saddened tone, as though

some envious cloud darkened the joy which illumined her heart:

“Alas, no, Maximilian, this must not be, for many reasons. We should

presume too much on our own strength, and, like others, perhaps, be led

astray by our blind confidence in each other’s prudence.”

“How can you for an instant entertain so unworthy a thought, dear

Valentine? Have I not, from the first blessed hour of our acquaintance,

schooled all my words and actions to your sentiments and ideas? And you

have, I am sure, the fullest confidence in my honor. When you spoke to

me of experiencing a vague and indefinite sense of coming danger, I

placed myself blindly and devotedly at your service, asking no other

reward than the pleasure of being useful to you; and have I ever since,

by word or look, given you cause of regret for having selected me from

the numbers that would willingly have sacrificed their lives for you?

You told me, my dear Valentine, that you were engaged to M. d’Épinay,

and that your father was resolved upon completing the match, and that

from his will there was no appeal, as M. de Villefort was never known

to change a determination once formed. I kept in the background, as you

wished, and waited, not for the decision of your heart or my own, but

hoping that Providence would graciously interpose in our behalf, and

order events in our favor. But what cared I for delays or difficulties,

Valentine, as long as you confessed that you loved me, and took pity on

me? If you will only repeat that avowal now and then, I can endure

anything.”

“Ah, Maximilian, that is the very thing that makes you so bold, and

which renders me at once so happy and unhappy, that I frequently ask

myself whether it is better for me to endure the harshness of my

stepmother, and her blind preference for her own child, or to be, as I

now am, insensible to any pleasure save such as I find in these

meetings, so fraught with danger to both.”

“I will not admit that word,” returned the young man; “it is at once

cruel and unjust. Is it possible to find a more submissive slave than

myself? You have permitted me to converse with you from time to time,

Valentine, but forbidden my ever following you in your walks or

elsewhere—have I not obeyed? And since I found means to enter this

enclosure to exchange a few words with you through this gate—to be

close to you without really seeing you—have I ever asked so much as to

touch the hem of your gown or tried to pass this barrier which is but a

trifle to one of my youth and strength? Never has a complaint or a

murmur escaped me. I have been bound by my promises as rigidly as any

knight of olden times. Come, come, dearest Valentine, confess that what

I say is true, lest I be tempted to call you unjust.”

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“It is true,” said Valentine, as she passed the end of her slender

fingers through a small opening in the planks, and permitted Maximilian

to press his lips to them, “and you are a true and faithful friend; but

still you acted from motives of self-interest, my dear Maximilian, for

you well knew that from the moment in which you had manifested an

opposite spirit all would have been ended between us. You promised to

bestow on me the friendly affection of a brother. For I have no friend

but yourself upon earth, who am neglected and forgotten by my father,

harassed and persecuted by my stepmother, and left to the sole

companionship of a paralyzed and speechless old man, whose withered

hand can no longer press mine, and who can speak to me with the eye

alone, although there still lingers in his heart the warmest tenderness

for his poor grandchild. Oh, how bitter a fate is mine, to serve either

as a victim or an enemy to all who are stronger than myself, while my

only friend and supporter is a living corpse! Indeed, indeed,

Maximilian, I am very miserable, and if you love me it must be out of

pity.”

“Valentine,” replied the young man, deeply affected, “I will not say

you are all I love in the world, for I dearly prize my sister and

brother-in-law; but my affection for them is calm and tranquil, in no

manner resembling what I feel for you. When I think of you my heart

beats fast, the blood burns in my veins, and I can hardly breathe; but

I solemnly promise you to restrain all this ardor, this fervor and

intensity of feeling, until you yourself shall require me to render

them available in serving or assisting you. M. Franz is not expected to

return home for a year to come, I am told; in that time many favorable

and unforeseen chances may befriend us. Let us, then, hope for the

best; hope is so sweet a comforter. Meanwhile, Valentine, while

reproaching me with selfishness, think a little what you have been to

me—the beautiful but cold resemblance of a marble Venus. What promise

of future reward have you made me for all the submission and obedience

I have evinced?—none whatever. What granted me?—scarcely more. You tell

me of M. Franz d’Épinay, your betrothed lover, and you shrink from the

idea of being his wife; but tell me, Valentine, is there no other

sorrow in your heart? You see me devoted to you, body and soul, my life

and each warm drop that circles round my heart are consecrated to your

service; you know full well that my existence is bound up in yours—that

were I to lose you I would not outlive the hour of such crushing

misery; yet you speak with calmness of the prospect of your being the

wife of another! Oh, Valentine, were I in your place, and did I feel

conscious, as you do, of being worshipped, adored, with such a love as

mine, a hundred times at least should I have passed my hand between

these iron bars, and said, ‘Take this hand, dearest Maximilian, and

believe that, living or dead, I am yours—yours only, and forever!’”

The poor girl made no reply, but her lover could plainly hear her sobs

and tears. A rapid change took place in the young man’s feelings.

“Dearest, dearest Valentine,” exclaimed he, “forgive me if I have

offended you, and forget the words I spoke if they have unwittingly

caused you pain.”

“No, Maximilian, I am not offended,” answered she, “but do you not see

what a poor, helpless being I am, almost a stranger and an outcast in

my father’s house, where even he is seldom seen; whose will has been

thwarted, and spirits broken, from the age of ten years, beneath the

iron rod so sternly held over me; oppressed, mortified, and persecuted,

day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, no person has cared for,

even observed my sufferings, nor have I ever breathed one word on the

subject save to yourself. Outwardly and in the eyes of the world, I am

surrounded by kindness and affection; but the reverse is the case. The

general remark is, ‘Oh, it cannot be expected that one of so stern a

character as M. Villefort could lavish the tenderness some fathers do

on their daughters. What though she has lost her own mother at a tender

age, she has had the happiness to find a second mother in Madame de

Villefort.’ The world, however, is mistaken; my father abandons me from

utter indifference, while my stepmother detests me with a hatred so

much the more terrible because it is veiled beneath a continual smile.”

“Hate you, sweet Valentine,” exclaimed the young man; “how is it

possible for anyone to do that?”

“Alas,” replied the weeping girl, “I am obliged to own that my

stepmother’s aversion to me arises from a very natural source—her

overweening love for her own child, my brother Edward.”

“But why should it?”

“I do not know; but, though unwilling to introduce money matters into

our present conversation, I will just say this much—that her extreme

dislike to me has its origin there; and I much fear she envies me the

fortune I enjoy in right of my mother, and which will be more than

doubled at the death of M. and Mme. de Saint-Méran, whose sole heiress

I am. Madame de Villefort has nothing of her own, and hates me for

being so richly endowed. Alas, how gladly would I exchange the half of

this wealth for the happiness of at least sharing my father’s love. God

knows, I would prefer sacrificing the whole, so that it would obtain me

a happy and affectionate home.”

“Poor Valentine!”

“I seem to myself as though living a life of bondage, yet at the same

time am so conscious of my own weakness that I fear to break the

restraint in which I am held, lest I fall utterly helpless. Then, too,

my father is not a person whose orders may be infringed with impunity;

protected as he is by his high position and firmly established

reputation for talent and unswerving integrity, no one could oppose

him; he is all-powerful even with the king; he would crush you at a

word. Dear Maximilian, believe me when I assure you that if I do not

attempt to resist my father’s commands it is more on your account than

my own.”

“But why, Valentine, do you persist in anticipating the worst,—why

picture so gloomy a future?”

“Because I judge it from the past.”

“Still, consider that although I may not be, strictly speaking, what is

termed an illustrious match for you, I am, for many reasons, not

altogether so much beneath your alliance. The days when such

distinctions were so nicely weighed and considered no longer exist in

France, and the first families of the monarchy have intermarried with

those of the empire. The aristocracy of the lance has allied itself

with the nobility of the cannon. Now I belong to this last-named class;

and certainly my prospects of military preferment are most encouraging

as well as certain. My fortune, though small, is free and unfettered,

and the memory of my late father is respected in our country,

Valentine, as that of the most upright and honorable merchant of the

city; I say our country, because you were born not far from

Marseilles.”

“Don’t speak of Marseilles, I beg of you, Maximilian; that one word

brings back my mother to my recollection—my angel mother, who died too

soon for myself and all who knew her; but who, after watching over her

child during the brief period allotted to her in this world, now, I

fondly hope, watches from her home in heaven. Oh, if my mother were

still living, there would be nothing to fear, Maximilian, for I would

tell her that I loved you, and she would protect us.”

“I fear, Valentine,” replied the lover, “that were she living I should

never have had the happiness of knowing you; you would then have been

too happy to have stooped from your grandeur to bestow a thought on

me.”

“Now it is you who are unjust, Maximilian,” cried Valentine; “but there

is one thing I wish to know.”

“And what is that?” inquired the young man, perceiving that Valentine

hesitated.

“Tell me truly, Maximilian, whether in former days, when our fathers

dwelt at Marseilles, there was ever any misunderstanding between them?”

“Not that I am aware of,” replied the young man, “unless, indeed, any

ill-feeling might have arisen from their being of opposite parties—your

father was, as you know, a zealous partisan of the Bourbons, while mine

was wholly devoted to the emperor; there could not possibly be any

other difference between them. But why do you ask?”

“I will tell you,” replied the young girl, “for it is but right you

should know. Well, on the day when your appointment as an officer of

the Legion of Honor was announced in the papers, we were all sitting

with my grandfather, M. Noirtier; M. Danglars was there also—you

recollect M. Danglars, do you not, Maximilian, the banker, whose horses

ran away with my stepmother and little brother, and very nearly killed

them? While the rest of the company were discussing the approaching

marriage of Mademoiselle Danglars, I was reading the paper to my

grandfather; but when I came to the paragraph about you, although I had

done nothing else but read it over to myself all the morning (you know

you had told me all about it the previous evening), I felt so happy,

and yet so nervous, at the idea of speaking your name aloud, and before

so many people, that I really think I should have passed it over, but

for the fear that my doing so might create suspicions as to the cause

of my silence; so I summoned up all my courage, and read it as firmly

and as steadily as I could.”

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“Dear Valentine!”

“Well, would you believe it? directly my father caught the sound of

your name he turned round quite hastily, and, like a poor silly thing,

I was so persuaded that everyone must be as much affected as myself by

the utterance of your name, that I was not surprised to see my father

start, and almost tremble; but I even thought (though that surely must

have been a mistake) that M. Danglars trembled too.”

“‘Morrel, Morrel,’ cried my father, ‘stop a bit;’ then knitting his

brows into a deep frown, he added, ‘surely this cannot be one of the

Morrel family who lived at Marseilles, and gave us so much trouble from

their violent Bonapartism—I mean about the year 1815.’

“‘Yes,’ replied M. Danglars, ‘I believe he is the son of the old

shipowner.’”

“Indeed,” answered Maximilian; “and what did your father say then,

Valentine?”

“Oh, such a dreadful thing, that I don’t dare to tell you.”

“Always tell me everything,” said Maximilian with a smile.

“‘Ah,’ continued my father, still frowning, ‘their idolized emperor

treated these madmen as they deserved; he called them ‘food for

cannon,’ which was precisely all they were good for; and I am delighted

to see that the present government have adopted this salutary principle

with all its pristine vigor; if Algiers were good for nothing but to

furnish the means of carrying so admirable an idea into practice, it

would be an acquisition well worthy of struggling to obtain. Though it

certainly does cost France somewhat dear to assert her rights in that

uncivilized country.’”

“Brutal politics, I must confess.” said Maximilian; “but don’t attach

any serious importance, dear, to what your father said. My father was

not a bit behind yours in that sort of talk. ‘Why,’ said he, ‘does not

the emperor, who has devised so many clever and efficient modes of

improving the art of war, organize a regiment of lawyers, judges and

legal practitioners, sending them in the hottest fire the enemy could

maintain, and using them to save better men?’ You see, my dear, that

for picturesque expression and generosity of spirit there is not much

to choose between the language of either party. But what did M.

Danglars say to this outburst on the part of the procureur?”

“Oh, he laughed, and in that singular manner so peculiar to

himself—half-malicious, half-ferocious; he almost immediately got up

and took his leave; then, for the first time, I observed the agitation

of my grandfather, and I must tell you, Maximilian, that I am the only

person capable of discerning emotion in his paralyzed frame. And I

suspected that the conversation that had been carried on in his

presence (for they always say and do what they like before the dear old

man, without the smallest regard for his feelings) had made a strong

impression on his mind; for, naturally enough, it must have pained him

to hear the emperor he so devotedly loved and served spoken of in that

depreciating manner.”

“The name of M. Noirtier,” interposed Maximilian, “is celebrated

throughout Europe; he was a statesman of high standing, and you may or

may not know, Valentine, that he took a leading part in every

Bonapartist conspiracy set on foot during the restoration of the

Bourbons.”

“Oh, I have often heard whispers of things that seem to me most

strange—the father a Bonapartist, the son a Royalist; what can have

been the reason of so singular a difference in parties and politics?

But to resume my story; I turned towards my grandfather, as though to

question him as to the cause of his emotion; he looked expressively at

the newspaper I had been reading. ‘What is the matter, dear

grandfather?’ said I, ‘are you pleased?’ He gave me a sign in the

affirmative. ‘With what my father said just now?’ He returned a sign in

the negative. ‘Perhaps you liked what M. Danglars said?’ Another sign

in the negative. ‘Oh, then, you were glad to hear that M. Morrel (I

didn’t dare to say Maximilian) had been made an officer of the Legion

of Honor?’ He signified assent; only think of the poor old man’s being

so pleased to think that you, who were a perfect stranger to him, had

been made an officer of the Legion of Honor! Perhaps it was a mere whim

on his part, for he is falling, they say, into second childhood, but I

love him for showing so much interest in you.”

“How singular,” murmured Maximilian; “your father hates me, while your

grandfather, on the contrary—What strange feelings are aroused by

politics.”

“Hush,” cried Valentine, suddenly; “someone is coming!” Maximilian

leaped at one bound into his crop of lucern, which he began to pull up

in the most ruthless way, under the pretext of being occupied in

weeding it.

“Mademoiselle, mademoiselle!” exclaimed a voice from behind the trees.

“Madame is searching for you everywhere; there is a visitor in the

drawing-room.”

“A visitor?” inquired Valentine, much agitated; “who is it?”

“Some grand personage—a prince I believe they said—the Count of Monte

Cristo.”

“I will come directly,” cried Valentine aloud.

The name of Monte Cristo sent an electric shock through the young man

on the other side of the iron gate, to whom Valentine’s _“I am coming”_

was the customary signal of farewell.

“Now, then,” said Maximilian, leaning on the handle of his spade, “I

would give a good deal to know how it comes about that the Count of

Monte Cristo is acquainted with M. de Villefort.”