The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) (111 page)

‘I expect you are right, Valentine, and that reason is on your side. But today your sweet voice, which usually has such power over me, has not convinced me.’

‘Any more than yours has convinced me,’ said Valentine. ‘I must say that if you have no more evidence to offer…’

‘I do have some,’ Maximilien said hesitantly, ‘but I must say, I am forced to admit it myself, this piece of evidence is even more absurd than the last.’

‘Too bad,’ said Valentine, smiling.

‘Yet I find it no less convincing, being a man of inspiration and feeling who has sometimes, in his ten years’ service, owed his life to one of those inner flashes that tell you to move forward or back, so that the bullet that should have struck you flies harmlessly past.’

‘Dear Maximilien, why don’t you attribute some of the warding off of those bullets to my prayers? When you are over there, I no longer pray to God for myself or my mother, but for you.’

‘Yes, since I have known you,’ Morrel said, smiling in his turn. ‘But what about before, Valentine?’

‘Huh! Since you do not wish to be indebted to me for anything, you scoundrel, give me this evidence which you yourself admit to be absurd.’

‘Well, then, look through the barrier and you will see the new horse on which I rode here, over there, by the tree.’

‘Oh, what a splendid creature!’ Valentine exclaimed. ‘Why didn’t you bring him close up to the gate? I could have spoken to him and he would have heard me.’

‘He is indeed, as you can see, quite a valuable animal. And, as you know, my income is limited and I am what is called a “reasonable” man. Well, I saw this splendid Médéah, as I call him, at a
place where they sell horses. I asked the price and was told four thousand five hundred francs, so, as you may well imagine, I was obliged to abstain from admiring him much longer; though I must admit that I left with a heavy heart, because he had looked at me tenderly, nuzzled me with his head and pranced about under me in the most captivating and lively way. That same evening, I had some friends at my house: Monsieur de Château-Renaud, Monsieur Debray, and five or six other ne’er-do-wells with whom it is your good fortune to be unacquainted, even by name. Someone suggested bouillotte. I never play, because I am not rich enough to afford to lose or poor enough to want to win. But being the host, you understand, I was obliged to send for some cards, which I did.

‘As we were sitting down, the count arrived. He took his place, we played and I won. I hardly dare to tell you this, Valentine, but I won five thousand francs. We separated at midnight. I could wait no longer; I took a cab and ordered it to drive me to the stables. Feverish and shivering, I rang the bell. The man who came to open up must have thought I was mad. I dashed through the door, as soon as it was open, and into the stable, where I looked in the stall. Happiness! Médéah was munching his oats. I grabbed a saddle, put it on his back myself and slipped the bridle over his head. Médéah accepted all this with the best grace in the world! Then, pressing the four thousand five hundred francs into the hands of the astonished merchant, I came back – or, rather, I spent the night riding along the Champs-Elysées. And I saw a light at the count’s window; I even thought I saw his shadow behind the curtains. Now, Valentine, I would swear that the count knew I wanted that horse and lost deliberately so that I could have it.’

‘My dear Maximilien,’ Valentine said, ‘your imagination really is running away with you… You will not love me for very long. A man who makes such poetry will never be happy, languishing in such a banal passion as ours… But, can you hear? They are calling me!’

‘Oh, Valentine!’ Maximilien said through the little gap in the barrier. ‘Your smallest finger… let me kiss it.’

‘Maximilien, we said that we would be only two voices and two shadows for one another, nothing more!’

‘As you wish, Valentine.’

‘Will you be happy if I do as you ask?’

‘Yes! Oh, yes!’

Valentine got up on a bench and put, not her little finger but her whole hand through the opening in the fence.

Maximilien gave a cry and, rushing to the spot, grasped the adored hand and covered it with burning kisses; but at once the little hand slipped between his and the young man heard Valentine run off, perhaps alarmed by her own feelings!

Here is what had happened in the crown prosecutor’s house after the departure of Mme Danglars and her daughter, and during the conversation that we have just recorded.

M. de Villefort had gone to see his father, followed by Mme de Villefort (as for Valentine, we know where she was). Both of them greeted the old man and, after sending away Barrois, his servant for more than twenty-five years, sat down beside him.

M. Noirtier was sitting in a large wheelchair where they put him from morning till evening, in front of a mirror which reflected the whole apartment and allowed him to see who was coming in or going out, and what was happening around him, without attempting any movement: this was something that had become impossible for him. Motionless as a corpse, he greeted his children with bright, intelligent eyes, their ceremonious bows telling him that they had come unexpectedly on some official business.

Sight and hearing were the only two senses which, like two sparks, still lit up this human matter, already three-quarters remoulded for the tomb. Moreover, only one of these two senses could reveal to the outside world the inner life which animated this statue, and the look which disclosed that inner life was like one of those distant lights which shine at night, to tell a traveller in the desert that another being watches in the silence and the darkness.

Consequently, in old Noirtier’s black eyes, under their black brows – black, while all the rest of the hair, which he wore long and resting on his shoulders, was white – in his black eyes (as usually happens with any human organ which has been exercised at the expense of the others) were concentrated all the activity, all
the skill, all the strength and all the intelligence once distributed around this body and this mind. The gesture of the hand, the sound of the voice and the attitude of the body may indeed have gone, but these powerful eyes made up for all: he commanded with them and thanked with them. He was a corpse with living eyes and, at times, nothing could be more terrifying than this marble face out of which anger burned or joy shone. Only three people could read the poor man’s language: Villefort, Valentine and the old servant whom we mentioned. But Villefort rarely saw his father (indeed, only when it was unavoidable) and, when he did see him, made no effort to please him by understanding, so all the old man’s happiness derived from his granddaughter: Valentine had succeeded, by devoted effort, love and patience, in understanding all Noirtier’s thoughts in his looks. She replied to this language, incomprehensible to anyone else, with all her voice, all her expression and all her soul, setting up lively dialogues between the girl and this apparently dead clay, almost returned to dust; and which, despite that, was still a man of immense learning, unparalleled perception and a will as powerful as any can be when the soul is trapped in a body that no longer obeys its commands.

Thus Valentine had managed to solve the enigma of understanding the old man’s thoughts in order to make him understand her own, to such an extent that it was now very rare, in normal circumstances, for her not to hit precisely on what this living soul desired or the needs of this near-insensible corpse. As for the servant, he had (as we mentioned) been serving his master for twenty-five years and knew all his habits, so it was not often that Noirtier needed to ask him for anything.

However, Villefort did not need the help of either one of them to engage his father in the strange conversation that was to follow. As we said, he was perfectly well acquainted with the old man’s vocabulary; only boredom or indifference prevented him from using it more often. So he let Valentine go out into the garden and he sent Barrois away, taking the servant’s place on his father’s right, while Mme de Villefort sat on his left.

‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘do not be surprised if Valentine has not come up with us and I have sent Barrois away, because the discussion that we are about to have is one that could not take place in front of a young girl or a servant. Madame de Villefort and I have something to tell you.’

Noirtier’s face stayed impassive during these preliminaries, but Villefort’s, on the contrary, might have been trying to penetrate to the depths of the old man’s heart. He continued, in those icy tones that seemed to brook no contradiction: ‘Madame de Villefort and I are sure that what we have to say will be agreeable to you.’

The old man’s eyes remained blank. He was listening, nothing more.

‘Monsieur,’ Villefort continued, ‘we are going to have Valentine married.’

A wax figure could not have remained more indifferent to this news than the old man’s face.

‘The marriage will take place within three months,’ Villefort continued.

The old man’s face still showed no emotion.

Now Mme de Villefort spoke, and she hastened to add: ‘We thought that you would want to know this news, Monsieur. In any case, Valentine has always seemed to enjoy your affection. All that remains is for us to tell you the name of the young man we intend for her. He is one of the finest matches to which Valentine could aspire, bringing her a fortune, a good name and sure guarantees of happiness, given the manners and tastes of the man whom we have chosen for her. His name is not unknown to you. He is Monsieur Franz de Quesnel, Baron d’Epinay.’

While his wife was speaking, Villefort had been concentrating still more closely on the old man’s face. When Mme de Villefort spoke Franz’s name, Noirtier’s eyes, which his son knew so well, fluttered, and their lids, opening as lips might do to allow the voice to pass, let out a flash of light. Knowing the public hostility that had existed between his own father and Franz’s, the crown prosecutor understood this flame and the agitation it betrayed. But he pretended not to have noticed and, continuing where his wife had left off, said: ‘You must accept that it is important for Valentine to be settled, as she is now nearly nineteen. However, we have not forgotten you in these negotiations and we have been assured in advance that Valentine’s husband, while he might not agree to live near us – that could be awkward for a young couple – but that you at least might live with them, since Valentine is so fond of you and you seem to return her affection. In this way, you will not have to change any of your habits, except that you will henceforth have two children instead of one to care for you.’

The light in Noirtier’s eyes was savage. Something frightful must surely be taking place in the old man’s heart; and surely a cry of pain and anger was rising to his throat where, unable to escape, it suffocated him, because his face became purple and his lips turned blue.

Villefort calmly opened the window, remarking as he did so: ‘It is very hot in here and the heat is making Monsieur Noirtier uncomfortable.’ Then he came back but did not sit down.

‘Both Monsieur d’Epinay and his family are pleased with the match,’ Mme de Villefort continued. ‘In any case, his only family is an uncle and an aunt. His mother died giving birth to him, and his father was murdered in 1815, when the child was barely two years old, so he is responsible only to himself.’

‘A mysterious business,’ said Villefort. ‘The murderers have never been identified, although many people were suspected.’

Noirtier made such an effort that his lips almost contracted into a smile.

‘However,’ Villefort went on, ‘the guilty parties, those who know that they committed the crime and who may be subject to human justice in their lives and divine justice when they are dead, would be happy indeed to be in our place, with a daughter whom they could offer to Monsieur Franz d’Epinay, to extinguish even the merest glimmer of suspicion.’

One might have thought it impossible for Noirtier’s broken frame to achieve such self-control. ‘Yes, I understand,’ his eyes replied, with a look that simultaneously expressed both profound contempt and contained rage.

Villefort interpreted the meaning of this look perfectly and answered it with a slight shrug of the shoulders. Then he motioned to his wife to get up.

‘Now, Monsieur,’ Mme de Villefort said, ‘please accept my regards. Would you like Edouard to pay his respects to you?’

It was understood that when the old man meant ‘yes’, he would close his eyes, when he meant ‘no’ he would blink them repeatedly and, when he needed something, he would raise them upwards. If he wanted Valentine, he closed only the right eye; if he wanted Barrois, he closed the left. At Mme de Villefort’s suggestion, he blinked vigorously.

At this blatant refusal, Mme de Villefort pursed her lips.

‘So, shall I send you Valentine?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ the old man said, shutting his eyes tightly.

M. and Mme de Villefort took their leave of the old man and went out, giving orders for Valentine to be called. She already knew that she would have to attend M. Noirtier during the day. She came in behind them, still flushed with emotion. It took only a glance for her to realize how much her grandfather was upset and how much he wanted to speak to her.

‘Oh, grandfather!’ she exclaimed. ‘What is wrong? Someone has upset you, haven’t they? You’re angry?’

‘Yes,’ he said, closing his eyes.

‘Who has made you angry? My father? No. Madame de Villefort, then? No. Are you angry with me?’