As the procureur had told Madame
Danglars, Valentine was not yet recovered. Bowed
down with fatigue, she was indeed confined to her bed;
and it was in her own room, and from the lips of Madame
de Villefort, that she heard all the strange events
we have related, we mean the flight of
Eugenie and the arrest of Andrea Cavalcanti, or rather
Benedetto, together with the accusation of murder pronounced
against him. But Valentine was so weak that this
recital scarcely produced the same effect it would
have done had she been in her usual state of health.
Indeed, her brain was only the seat of vague ideas,
and confused forms, mingled with strange fancies,
alone presented themselves before her eyes.
During the daytime Valentine’s
perceptions remained tolerably clear, owing to the
constant presence of M. Noirtier, who caused himself
to be carried to his granddaughter’s room, and
watched her with his paternal tenderness; Villefort
also, on his return from the law courts, frequently
passed an hour or two with his father and child.
At six o’clock Villefort retired to his study,
at eight M. d’Avrigny himself arrived, bringing
the night draught prepared for the young girl, and
then M. Noirtier was carried away. A nurse of
the doctor’s choice succeeded them, and never
left till about ten or eleven o’clock, when
Valentine was asleep. As she went down-stairs
she gave the keys of Valentine’s room to M.
de Villefort, so that no one could reach the sick-room
excepting through that of Madame de Villefort and little
Edward.
Every morning Morrel called on Noirtier
to receive news of Valentine, and, extraordinary as
it seemed, each day found him less uneasy. Certainly,
though Valentine still labored under dreadful nervous
excitement, she was better; and moreover, Monte Cristo
had told him when, half distracted, he had rushed
to the count’s house, that if she were not dead
in two hours she would be saved. Now four days
had elapsed, and Valentine still lived.
The nervous excitement of which we
speak pursued Valentine even in her sleep, or rather
in that state of somnolence which succeeded her waking
hours; it was then, in the silence of night, in the
dim light shed from the alabaster lamp on the chimney-piece,
that she saw the shadows pass and repass which hover
over the bed of sickness, and fan the fever with their
trembling wings. First she fancied she saw her
stepmother threatening her, then Morrel stretched
his arms towards her; sometimes mere strangers, like
the Count of Monte Cristo came to visit her; even
the very furniture, in these moments of delirium, seemed
to move, and this state lasted till about three o’clock
in the morning, when a deep, heavy slumber overcame
the young girl, from which she did not awake till
daylight. On the evening of the day on which Valentine
had learned of the flight of Eugenie and the arrest
of Benedetto, Villefort having retired
as well as Noirtier and d’Avrigny, her
thoughts wandered in a confused maze, alternately
reviewing her own situation and the events she had
just heard.
Eleven o’clock had struck.
The nurse, having placed the beverage prepared by
the doctor within reach of the patient, and locked
the door, was listening with terror to the comments
of the servants in the kitchen, and storing her memory
with all the horrible stories which had for some months
past amused the occupants of the ante-chambers in the
house of the king’s attorney. Meanwhile
an unexpected scene was passing in the room which
had been so carefully locked. Ten minutes had
elapsed since the nurse had left; Valentine, who for
the last hour had been suffering from the fever which
returned nightly, incapable of controlling her ideas,
was forced to yield to the excitement which exhausted
itself in producing and reproducing a succession and
recurrence of the same fancies and images. The
night-lamp threw out countless rays, each resolving
itself into some strange form to her disordered imagination,
when suddenly by its flickering light Valentine thought
she saw the door of her library, which was in the recess
by the chimney-piece, open slowly, though she in vain
listened for the sound of the hinges on which it turned.
At any other time Valentine would
have seized the silken bell-pull and summoned assistance,
but nothing astonished her in her present situation.
Her reason told her that all the visions she beheld
were but the children of her imagination, and the
conviction was strengthened by the fact that in the
morning no traces remained of the nocturnal phantoms,
who disappeared with the coming of daylight. From
behind the door a human figure appeared, but the girl
was too familiar with such apparitions to be alarmed,
and therefore only stared, hoping to recognize Morrel.
The figure advanced towards the bed and appeared to
listen with profound attention. At this moment
a ray of light glanced across the face of the midnight
visitor.
“It is not he,” she murmured,
and waited, in the assurance that this was but a dream,
for the man to disappear or assume some other form.
Still, she felt her pulse, and finding it throb violently
she remembered that the best method of dispelling
such illusions was to drink, for a draught of the
beverage prepared by the doctor to allay her fever
seemed to cause a reaction of the brain, and for a
short time she suffered less. Valentine therefore
reached her hand towards the glass, but as soon as
her trembling arm left the bed the apparition advanced
more quickly towards her, and approached the young
girl so closely that she fancied she heard his breath,
and felt the pressure of his hand.
This time the illusion, or rather
the reality, surpassed anything Valentine had before
experienced; she began to believe herself really alive
and awake, and the belief that her reason was this
time not deceived made her shudder. The pressure
she felt was evidently intended to arrest her arm,
and she slowly withdrew it. Then the figure, from
whom she could not detach her eyes, and who appeared
more protecting than menacing, took the glass, and
walking towards the night-light held it up, as if
to test its transparency. This did not seem sufficient;
the man, or rather the ghost for he trod
so softly that no sound was heard then
poured out about a spoonful into the glass, and drank
it. Valentine witnessed this scene with a sentiment
of stupefaction. Every minute she had expected
that it would vanish and give place to another vision;
but the man, instead of dissolving like a shadow, again
approached her, and said in an agitated voice, “Now
you may drink.”
Valentine shuddered. It was the
first time one of these visions had ever addressed
her in a living voice, and she was about to utter an
exclamation. The man placed his finger on her
lips. “The Count of Monte Cristo!”
she murmured.
It was easy to see that no doubt now
remained in the young girl’s mind as to the
reality of the scene; her eyes started with terror,
her hands trembled, and she rapidly drew the bedclothes
closer to her. Still, the presence of Monte Cristo
at such an hour, his mysterious, fanciful, and extraordinary
entrance into her room through the wall, might well
seem impossibilities to her shattered reason.
“Do not call any one do not be alarmed,”
said the Count; “do not let a shade of suspicion
or uneasiness remain in your breast; the man standing
before you, Valentine (for this time it is no ghost),
is nothing more than the tenderest father and the
most respectful friend you could dream of.”
Valentine could not reply; the voice
which indicated the real presence of a being in the
room, alarmed her so much that she feared to utter
a syllable; still the expression of her eyes seemed
to inquire, “If your intentions are pure, why
are you here?” The count’s marvellous sagacity
understood all that was passing in the young girl’s
mind.
“Listen to me,” he said,
“or, rather, look upon me; look at my face,
paler even than usual, and my eyes, red with weariness for
four days I have not closed them, for I have been
constantly watching you, to protect and preserve you
for Maximilian.” The blood mounted rapidly
to the cheeks of Valentine, for the name just announced
by the count dispelled all the fear with which his
presence had inspired her. “Maximilian!”
she exclaimed, and so sweet did the sound appear to
her, that she repeated it “Maximilian! has
he then owned all to you?”
“Everything. He told me
your life was his, and I have promised him that you
shall live.”
“You have promised him that I shall live?”
“Yes.”
“But, sir, you spoke of vigilance and protection.
Are you a doctor?”
“Yes; the best you could have at the present
time, believe me.”
“But you say you have watched?”
said Valentine uneasily; “where have you been? I
have not seen you.” The count extended his
hand towards the library. “I was hidden
behind that door,” he said, “which leads
into the next house, which I have rented.”
Valentine turned her eyes away, and, with an indignant
expression of pride and modest fear, exclaimed:
“Sir, I think you have been guilty of an unparalleled
intrusion, and that what you call protection is more
like an insult.”
“Valentine,” he answered,
“during my long watch over you, all I have observed
has been what people visited you, what nourishment
was prepared, and what beverage was served; then,
when the latter appeared dangerous to me, I entered,
as I have now done, and substituted, in the place
of the poison, a healthful draught; which, instead
of producing the death intended, caused life to circulate
in your veins.”
“Poison death!”
exclaimed Valentine, half believing herself under the
influence of some feverish hallucination; “what
are you saying, sir?”
“Hush, my child,” said
Monte Cristo, again placing his finger upon her lips,
“I did say poison and death. But drink some
of this;” and the count took a bottle from his
pocket, containing a red liquid, of which he poured
a few drops into the glass. “Drink this,
and then take nothing more to-night.” Valentine
stretched out her hand, but scarcely had she touched
the glass when she drew back in fear. Monte Cristo
took the glass, drank half its contents, and then
presented it to Valentine, who smiled and swallowed
the rest. “Oh, yes,” she exclaimed,
“I recognize the flavor of my nocturnal beverage
which refreshed me so much, and seemed to ease my
aching brain. Thank you, sir, thank you!”
“This is how you have lived
during the last four nights, Valentine,” said
the count. “But, oh, how I passed that time!
Oh, the wretched hours I have endured the
torture to which I have submitted when I saw the deadly
poison poured into your glass, and how I trembled lest
you should drink it before I could find time to throw
it away!”
“Sir,” said Valentine,
at the height of her terror, “you say you endured
tortures when you saw the deadly poison poured into
my glass; but if you saw this, you must also have
seen the person who poured it?”
“Yes.” Valentine
raised herself in bed, and drew over her chest, which
appeared whiter than snow, the embroidered cambric,
still moist with the cold dews of delirium, to which
were now added those of terror. “You saw
the person?” repeated the young girl. “Yes,”
repeated the count.
“What you tell me is horrible,
sir. You wish to make me believe something too
dreadful. What? attempt to murder me
in my father’s house, in my room, on my bed
of sickness? Oh, leave me, sir; you are tempting
me you make me doubt the goodness of providence it
is impossible, it cannot be!”
“Are you the first that this
hand has stricken? Have you not seen M. de Saint-Meran,
Madame de Saint-Meran, Barrois, all fall? Would
not M. Noirtier also have fallen a victim, had not
the treatment he has been pursuing for the last three
years neutralized the effects of the poison?”
“Oh, heaven,” said Valentine;
“is this the reason why grandpapa has made me
share all his beverages during the last month?”
“And have they all tasted of
a slightly bitter flavor, like that of dried orange-peel?”
“Oh, yes, yes!”
“Then that explains all,”
said Monte Cristo. “Your grandfather knows,
then, that a poisoner lives here; perhaps he even suspects
the person. He has been fortifying you, his beloved
child, against the fatal effects of the poison, which
has failed because your system was already impregnated
with it. But even this would have availed little
against a more deadly medium of death employed four
days ago, which is generally but too fatal.”
“But who, then, is this assassin, this murderer?”
“Let me also ask you a question.
Have you never seen any one enter your room at night?”
“Oh, yes; I have frequently
seen shadows pass close to me, approach, and disappear;
but I took them for visions raised by my feverish
imagination, and indeed when you entered I thought
I was under the influence of delirium.”
“Then you do not know who it is that attempts
your life?”
“No,” said Valentine; “who could
desire my death?”
“You shall know it now, then,” said Monte
Cristo, listening.
“How do you mean?” said Valentine, looking
anxiously around.
“Because you are not feverish
or delirious to-night, but thoroughly awake; midnight
is striking, which is the hour murderers choose.”
“Oh, heavens,” exclaimed
Valentine, wiping off the drops which ran down her
forehead. Midnight struck slowly and sadly; every
hour seemed to strike with leaden weight upon the
heart of the poor girl. “Valentine,”
said the count, “summon up all your courage;
still the beatings of your heart; do not let a sound
escape you, and feign to be asleep; then you will
see.” Valentine seized the count’s
hand. “I think I hear a noise,” she
said; “leave me.”
“Good-by, for the present,”
replied the count, walking upon tiptoe towards the
library door, and smiling with an expression so sad
and paternal that the young girl’s heart was
filled with gratitude. Before closing the door
he turned around once more, and said, “Not a
movement not a word; let them think you
asleep, or perhaps you may be killed before I have
the power of helping you.” And with this
fearful injunction the count disappeared through the
door, which noiselessly closed after him.