and Villefort the night of Madame de Saint-Meran's death, recurred to
him; these symptoms, to a less alarming extent, were the same which had
preceded the death of Barrois. At the same time Monte Cristo's voice
seemed to resound in his ear with the words he had heard only two hours
before, "Whatever you want, Morrel, come to me; I have great power."
More rapidly than thought, he darted down the Rue Matignon, and thence
to the Avenue des Champs Elysees.
Meanwhile M. de Villefort arrived in a hired cabriolet at M. d'Avrigny's
door. He rang so violently that the porter was alarmed. Villefort ran
up-stairs without saying a word. The porter knew him, and let him pass,
only calling to him, "In his study, Monsieur Procureur--in his study!"
Villefort pushed, or rather forced, the door open. "Ah," said the
doctor, "is it you?"
"Yes," said Villefort, closing the door after him, "it is I, who am
come in my turn to ask you if we are quite alone. Doctor, my house is
accursed!"
"What?" said the latter with apparent coolness, but with deep emotion,
"have you another invalid?"
"Yes, doctor," cried Villefort, clutching his hair, "yes!"
D'Avrigny's look implied, "I told you it would be so." Then he slowly
uttered these words, "Who is now dying in your house? What new victim is
going to accuse you of weakness before God?" A mournful sob burst
from Villefort's heart; he approached the doctor, and seizing his
arm,--"Valentine," said he, "it is Valentine's turn!"
"Your daughter?" cried d'Avrigny with grief and surprise.
"You see you were deceived," murmured the magistrate; "come and see her,
and on her bed of agony entreat her pardon for having suspected her."
"Each time you have applied to me," said the doctor, "it has been too
late; still I will go. But let us make haste, sir; with the enemies you
have to do with there is no time to be lost."
"Oh, this time, doctor, you shall not have to reproach me with weakness.
This time I will know the assassin, and will pursue him."
"Let us try first to save the victim before we think of revenging her,"
said d'Avrigny. "Come." The same cabriolet which had brought Villefort
took them back at full speed, and at this moment Morrel rapped at Monte
Cristo's door. The count was in his study and was reading with an angry
look something which Bertuccio had brought in haste. Hearing the name
of Morrel, who had left him only two hours before, the count raised his
head, arose, and sprang to meet him. "What is the matter, Maximilian?"
asked he; "you are pale, and the perspiration rolls from your forehead."
Morrel fell into a chair. "Yes," said he, "I came quickly; I wanted to
speak to you."
"Are all your family well?" asked the count, with an affectionate
benevolence, whose sincerity no one could for a moment doubt.
"Thank you, count--thank you," said the young man, evidently embarrassed
how to begin the conversation; "yes, every one in my family is well."
"So much the better; yet you have something to tell me?" replied the
count with increased anxiety.
"Yes," said Morrel, "it is true; I have but now left a house where death
has just entered, to run to you."
"Are you then come from M. de Morcerf's?" asked Monte Cristo.
"No," said Morrel; "is some one dead in his house?"
"The general has just blown his brains out," replied Monte Cristo with
great coolness.
"Oh, what a dreadful event!" cried Maximilian.
"Not for the countess, or for Albert," said Monte Cristo; "a dead father
or husband is better than a dishonored one,--blood washes out shame."
"Poor countess," said Maximilian, "I pity her very much; she is so noble
a woman!"
"Pity Albert also, Maximilian; for believe me he is the worthy son
of the countess. But let us return to yourself. You have hastened to
me--can I have the happiness of being useful to you?"
"Yes, I need your help: that is I thought like a madman that you could
lend me your assistance in a case where God alone can succor me."
"Tell me what it is," replied Monte Cristo.
"Oh," said Morrel, "I know not, indeed, if I may reveal this secret
to mortal ears, but fatality impels me, necessity constrains me,
count"--Morrel hesitated. "Do you think I love you?" said Monte Cristo,
taking the young man's hand affectionately in his.
"Oh, you encourage me, and something tells me there," placing his hand
on his heart, "that I ought to have no secret from you."
"You are right, Morrel; God is speaking to your heart, and your heart
speaks to you. Tell me what it says."
"Count, will you allow me to send Baptistin to inquire after some one
you know?"
"I am at your service, and still more my servants."
"Oh, I cannot live if she is not better."
"Shall I ring for Baptistin?"
"No, I will go and speak to him myself." Morrel went out, called
Baptistin, and whispered a few words to him. The valet ran directly.
"Well, have you sent?" asked Monte Cristo, seeing Morrel return.
"Yes, and now I shall be more calm."
"You know I am waiting," said Monte Cristo, smiling.
"Yes, and I will tell you. One evening I was in a garden; a clump of
trees concealed me; no one suspected I was there. Two persons passed
near me--allow me to conceal their names for the present; they were
speaking in an undertone, and yet I was so interested in what they said
that I did not lose a single word."
"This is a gloomy introduction, if I may judge from your pallor and
shuddering, Morrel."
"Oh, yes, very gloomy, my friend. Some one had just died in the house
to which that garden belonged. One of the persons whose conversation
I overheard was the master of the house; the other, the physician. The
former was confiding to the latter his grief and fear, for it was the
second time within a month that death had suddenly and unexpectedly
entered that house which was apparently destined to destruction by some
exterminating angel, as an object of God's anger."
"Ah, indeed?" said Monte Cristo, looking earnestly at the young man, and
by an imperceptible movement turning his chair, so that he remained
in the shade while the light fell full on Maximilian's face. "Yes,"
continued Morrel, "death had entered that house twice within one month."
"And what did the doctor answer?" asked Monte Cristo.
"He replied--he replied, that the death was not a natural one, and must
be attributed"--
"To what?"
"To poison."
"Indeed?" said Monte Cristo with a slight cough which in moments of
extreme emotion helped him to disguise a blush, or his pallor, or the
intense interest with which he listened; "indeed, Maximilian, did you
hear that?"
"Yes, my dear count, I heard it; and the doctor added that if another
death occurred in a similar way he must appeal to justice." Monte Cristo
listened, or appeared to do so, with the greatest calmness. "Well,"
said Maximilian, "death came a third time, and neither the master of
the house nor the doctor said a word. Death is now, perhaps, striking a
fourth blow. Count, what am I bound to do, being in possession of this
secret?"
"My dear friend," said Monte Cristo, "you appear to be relating an
adventure which we all know by heart. I know the house where you heard
it, or one very similar to it; a house with a garden, a master, a
physician, and where there have been three unexpected and sudden deaths.
Well, I have not intercepted your confidence, and yet I know all that
as well as you, and I have no conscientious scruples. No, it does not
concern me. You say an exterminating angel appears to have devoted that
house to God's anger--well, who says your supposition is not reality?
Do not notice things which those whose interest it is to see them pass
over. If it is God's justice, instead of his anger, which is walking
through that house, Maximilian, turn away your face and let his justice
accomplish its purpose." Morrel shuddered. There was something mournful,
solemn, and terrible in the count's manner. "Besides," continued he, in
so changed a tone that no one would have supposed it was the same person
speaking--"besides, who says that it will begin again?"
"It has returned, count," exclaimed Morrel; "that is why I hastened to
you."
"Well, what do you wish me to do? Do you wish me, for instance, to give
information to the procureur?" Monte Cristo uttered the last words with
so much meaning that Morrel, starting up, cried out, "You know of whom I
speak, count, do you not?"
"Perfectly well, my good friend; and I will prove it to you by putting
the dots to the 'i,' or rather by naming the persons. You were walking
one evening in M. de Villefort's garden; from what you relate, I suppose
it to have been the evening of Madame de Saint-Meran's death. You
heard M. de Villefort talking to M. d'Avrigny about the death of M. de
Saint-Meran, and that no less surprising, of the countess. M. d'Avrigny
said he believed they both proceeded from poison; and you, honest man,
have ever since been asking your heart and sounding your conscience to
know if you ought to expose or conceal this secret. Why do you torment
them? 'Conscience, what hast thou to do with me?' as Sterne said. My
dear fellow, let them sleep on, if they are asleep; let them grow pale
in their drowsiness, if they are disposed to do so, and pray do you
remain in peace, who have no remorse to disturb you." Deep grief was
depicted on Morrel's features; he seized Monte Cristo's hand. "But it is
beginning again, I say!"
"Well," said the Count, astonished at his perseverance, which he could
not understand, and looking still more earnestly at Maximilian, "let it
begin again,--it is like the house of the Atreidae; [*] God has condemned
them, and they must submit to their punishment. They will all disappear,
like the fabrics children build with cards, and which fall, one by one,
under the breath of their builder, even if there are two hundred of
them. Three months since it was M. de Saint-Meran; Madame de Saint-Meran
two months since; the other day it was Barrois; to-day, the old
Noirtier, or young Valentine."
* In the old Greek legend the Atreidae, or children of
Atreus, were doomed to punishment because of the abominable
crime of their father. The Agamemnon of Aeschylus is based
on this legend.
"You knew it?" cried Morrel, in such a paroxysm of terror that Monte
Cristo started,--he whom the falling heavens would have found unmoved;
"you knew it, and said nothing?"
"And what is it to me?" replied Monte Cristo, shrugging his shoulders;
"do I know those people? and must I lose the one to save the other?
Faith, no, for between the culprit and the victim I have no choice."
"But I," cried Morrel, groaning with sorrow, "I love her!"
"You love?--whom?" cried Monte Cristo, starting to his feet, and seizing
the two hands which Morrel was raising towards heaven.
"I love most fondly--I love madly--I love as a man who would give his
life-blood to spare her a tear--I love Valentine de Villefort, who is
being murdered at this moment! Do you understand me? I love her; and I
ask God and you how I can save her?" Monte Cristo uttered a cry which
those only can conceive who have heard the roar of a wounded lion.
"Unhappy man," cried he, wringing his hands in his turn; "you love
Valentine,--that daughter of an accursed race!" Never had Morrel
witnessed such an expression--never had so terrible an eye flashed
before his face--never had the genius of terror he had so often seen,
either on the battle-field or in the murderous nights of Algeria, shaken
around him more dreadful fire. He drew back terrified.
As for Monte Cristo, after this ebullition he closed his eyes as
if dazzled by internal light. In a moment he restrained himself so
powerfully that the tempestuous heaving of his breast subsided, as
turbulent and foaming waves yield to the sun's genial influence when the
cloud has passed. This silence, self-control, and struggle lasted about
twenty seconds, then the count raised his pallid face. "See," said he,
"my dear friend, how God punishes the most thoughtless and unfeeling men
for their indifference, by presenting dreadful scenes to their view. I,
who was looking on, an eager and curious spectator,--I, who was watching
the working of this mournful tragedy,--I, who like a wicked angel was
laughing at the evil men committed protected by secrecy (a secret is
easily kept by the rich and powerful), I am in my turn bitten by the
serpent whose tortuous course I was watching, and bitten to the heart!"
Morrel groaned. "Come, come," continued the count, "complaints are
unavailing, be a man, be strong, be full of hope, for I am here and will
watch over you." Morrel shook his head sorrowfully. "I tell you to
hope. Do you understand me?" cried Monte Cristo. "Remember that I
never uttered a falsehood and am never deceived. It is twelve o'clock,
Maximilian; thank heaven that you came at noon rather than in the
evening, or to-morrow morning. Listen, Morrel--it is noon; if Valentine
is not now dead, she will not die."
"How so?" cried Morrel, "when I left her dying?" Monte Cristo pressed
his hands to his forehead. What was passing in that brain, so loaded
