with dreadful secrets? What does the angel of light or the angel of
darkness say to that mind, at once implacable and generous? God only
knows.
Monte Cristo raised his head once more, and this time he was calm as
a child awaking from its sleep. "Maximilian," said he, "return home. I
command you not to stir--attempt nothing, not to let your countenance
betray a thought, and I will send you tidings. Go."
"Oh, count, you overwhelm me with that coolness. Have you, then, power
against death? Are you superhuman? Are you an angel?" And the young
man, who had never shrunk from danger, shrank before Monte Cristo with
indescribable terror. But Monte Cristo looked at him with so melancholy
and sweet a smile, that Maximilian felt the tears filling his eyes.
"I can do much for you, my friend," replied the count. "Go; I must be
alone." Morrel, subdued by the extraordinary ascendancy Monte Cristo
exercised over everything around him, did not endeavor to resist it. He
pressed the count's hand and left. He stopped one moment at the door for
Baptistin, whom he saw in the Rue Matignon, and who was running.
Meanwhile, Villefort and d'Avrigny had made all possible haste,
Valentine had not revived from her fainting fit on their arrival, and
the doctor examined the invalid with all the care the circumstances
demanded, and with an interest which the knowledge of the secret
intensified twofold. Villefort, closely watching his countenance and his
lips, awaited the result of the examination. Noirtier, paler than even
the young girl, more eager than Villefort for the decision, was watching
also intently and affectionately. At last d'Avrigny slowly uttered these
words:--"she is still alive!"
"Still?" cried Villefort; "oh, doctor, what a dreadful word is that."
"Yes," said the physician, "I repeat it; she is still alive, and I am
astonished at it."
"But is she safe?" asked the father.
"Yes, since she lives." At that moment d'Avrigny's glance met Noirtier's
eye. It glistened with such extraordinary joy, so rich and full of
thought, that the physician was struck. He placed the young girl again
on the chair,--her lips were scarcely discernible, they were so pale and
white, as well as her whole face,--and remained motionless, looking at
Noirtier, who appeared to anticipate and commend all he did. "Sir,"
said d'Avrigny to Villefort, "call Mademoiselle Valentine's maid, if you
please." Villefort went himself to find her; and d'Avrigny approached
Noirtier. "Have you something to tell me?" asked he. The old man
winked his eyes expressively, which we may remember was his only way of
expressing his approval.
"Privately?"
"Yes."
"Well, I will remain with you." At this moment Villefort returned,
followed by the lady's maid; and after her came Madame de Villefort.
"What is the matter, then, with this dear child? she has just left me,
and she complained of being indisposed, but I did not think seriously of
it." The young woman with tears in her eyes and every mark of affection
of a true mother, approached Valentine and took her hand. D'Avrigny
continued to look at Noirtier; he saw the eyes of the old man dilate and
become round, his cheeks turn pale and tremble; the perspiration stood
in drops upon his forehead. "Ah," said he, involuntarily following
Noirtier's eyes, which were fixed on Madame de Villefort, who
repeated,--"This poor child would be better in bed. Come, Fanny, we
will put her to bed." M. d'Avrigny, who saw that would be a means of
his remaining alone with Noirtier, expressed his opinion that it was the
best thing that could be done; but he forbade that anything should be
given to her except what he ordered.
They carried Valentine away; she had revived, but could scarcely move
or speak, so shaken was her frame by the attack. She had, however, just
power to give one parting look to her grandfather, who in losing her
seemed to be resigning his very soul. D'Avrigny followed the invalid,
wrote a prescription, ordered Villefort to take a cabriolet, go in
person to a chemist's to get the prescribed medicine, bring it himself,
and wait for him in his daughter's room. Then, having renewed his
injunction not to give Valentine anything, he went down again to
Noirtier, shut the doors carefully, and after convincing himself that
no one was listening,--"Do you," said he, "know anything of this young
lady's illness?"
"Yes," said the old man.
"We have no time to lose; I will question, and do you answer me."
Noirtier made a sign that he was ready to answer. "Did you anticipate
the accident which has happened to your granddaughter?"
"Yes." D'Avrigny reflected a moment; then approaching Noirtier,--"Pardon
what I am going to say," added he, "but no indication should be
neglected in this terrible situation. Did you see poor Barrois die?"
Noirtier raised his eyes to heaven. "Do you know of what he died!" asked
d'Avrigny, placing his hand on Noirtier's shoulder.
"Yes," replied the old man.
"Do you think he died a natural death?" A sort of smile was discernible
on the motionless lips of Noirtier.
"Then you have thought that Barrois was poisoned?"
"Yes."
"Do you think the poison he fell a victim to was intended for him?"
"No."
"Do you think the same hand which unintentionally struck Barrois has now
attacked Valentine?"
"Yes."
"Then will she die too?" asked d'Avrigny, fixing his penetrating gaze on
Noirtier. He watched the effect of this question on the old man. "No,"
replied he with an air of triumph which would have puzzled the most
clever diviner. "Then you hope?" said d'Avrigny, with surprise.
"Yes."
"What do you hope?" The old man made him understand with his eyes that
he could not answer. "Ah, yes, it is true," murmured d'Avrigny. Then,
turning to Noirtier,--"Do you hope the assassin will be tried?"
"No."
"Then you hope the poison will take no effect on Valentine?"
"Yes."
"It is no news to you," added d'Avrigny, "to tell you that an
attempt has been made to poison her?" The old man made a sign that he
entertained no doubt upon the subject. "Then how do you hope Valentine
will escape?" Noirtier kept his eyes steadfastly fixed on the same
spot. D'Avrigny followed the direction and saw that they were fixed on a
bottle containing the mixture which he took every morning. "Ah, indeed?"
said d'Avrigny, struck with a sudden thought, "has it occurred to
you"--Noirtier did not let him finish. "Yes," said he. "To prepare her
system to resist poison?"
"Yes."
"By accustoming her by degrees"--
"Yes, yes, yes," said Noirtier, delighted to be understood.
"Of course. I had told you that there was brucine in the mixture I give
you."
"Yes."
"And by accustoming her to that poison, you have endeavored to
neutralize the effect of a similar poison?" Noirtier's joy continued.
"And you have succeeded," exclaimed d'Avrigny. "Without that precaution
Valentine would have died before assistance could have been procured.
The dose has been excessive, but she has only been shaken by it; and
this time, at any rate, Valentine will not die." A superhuman joy
expanded the old man's eyes, which were raised towards heaven with an
expression of infinite gratitude. At this moment Villefort returned.
"Here, doctor," said he, "is what you sent me for."
"Was this prepared in your presence?"
"Yes," replied the procureur.
"Have you not let it go out of your hands?"
"No." D'Avrigny took the bottle, poured some drops of the mixture it
contained in the hollow of his hand, and swallowed them. "Well," said
he, "let us go to Valentine; I will give instructions to every one, and
you, M. de Villefort, will yourself see that no one deviates from them."
At the moment when d'Avrigny was returning to Valentine's room,
accompanied by Villefort, an Italian priest, of serious demeanor and
calm and firm tone, hired for his use the house adjoining the hotel of
M. de Villefort. No one knew how the three former tenants of that house
left it. About two hours afterwards its foundation was reported to be
unsafe; but the report did not prevent the new occupant establishing
himself there with his modest furniture the same day at five o'clock.
The lease was drawn up for three, six, or nine years by the new tenant,
who, according to the rule of the proprietor, paid six months in
advance. This new tenant, who, as we have said, was an Italian, was
called Il Signor Giacomo Busoni. Workmen were immediately called in,
and that same night the passengers at the end of the faubourg saw with
surprise that carpenters and masons were occupied in repairing the lower
part of the tottering house.
Chapter 95. Father and Daughter.
We saw in a preceding chapter how Madame Danglars went formally to
announce to Madame de Villefort the approaching marriage of Eugenie
Danglars and M. Andrea Cavalcanti. This announcement, which implied or
appeared to imply, the approval of all the persons concerned in this
momentous affair, had been preceded by a scene to which our readers must
be admitted. We beg them to take one step backward, and to transport
themselves, the morning of that day of great catastrophes, into the
showy, gilded salon we have before shown them, and which was the pride
of its owner, Baron Danglars. In this room, at about ten o'clock in the
morning, the banker himself had been walking to and fro for some
minutes thoughtfully and in evident uneasiness, watching both doors, and
listening to every sound. When his patience was exhausted, he called his
valet. "Etienne," said he, "see why Mademoiselle Eugenie has asked me to
meet her in the drawing-room, and why she makes me wait so long."
Having given this vent to his ill-humor, the baron became more calm;
Mademoiselle Danglars had that morning requested an interview with
her father, and had fixed on the gilded drawing-room as the spot. The
singularity of this step, and above all its formality, had not a
little surprised the banker, who had immediately obeyed his daughter
by repairing first to the drawing-room. Etienne soon returned from his
errand. "Mademoiselle's lady's maid says, sir, that mademoiselle is
finishing her toilette, and will be here shortly."
Danglars nodded, to signify that he was satisfied. To the world and to
his servants Danglars assumed the character of the good-natured man and
the indulgent father. This was one of his parts in the popular comedy he
was performing,--a make-up he had adopted and which suited him about as
well as the masks worn on the classic stage by paternal actors, who seen
from one side, were the image of geniality, and from the other showed
lips drawn down in chronic ill-temper. Let us hasten to say that in
private the genial side descended to the level of the other, so that
generally the indulgent man disappeared to give place to the brutal
husband and domineering father. "Why the devil does that foolish girl,
who pretends to wish to speak to me, not come into my study? and why on
earth does she want to speak to me at all?"
He was turning this thought over in his brain for the twentieth time,
when the door opened and Eugenie appeared, attired in a figured black
satin dress, her hair dressed and gloves on, as if she were going to the
Italian Opera. "Well, Eugenie, what is it you want with me? and why in
this solemn drawing-room when the study is so comfortable?"
"I quite understand why you ask, sir," said Eugenie, making a sign that
her father might be seated, "and in fact your two questions suggest
fully the theme of our conversation. I will answer them both, and
contrary to the usual method, the last first, because it is the least
difficult. I have chosen the drawing-room, sir, as our place of meeting,
in order to avoid the disagreeable impressions and influences of a
banker's study. Those gilded cashbooks, drawers locked like gates of
fortresses, heaps of bank-bills, come from I know not where, and the
quantities of letters from England, Holland, Spain, India, China, and
Peru, have generally a strange influence on a father's mind, and make
him forget that there is in the world an interest greater and more
sacred than the good opinion of his correspondents. I have, therefore,
chosen this drawing-room, where you see, smiling and happy in their
magnificent frames, your portrait, mine, my mother's, and all sorts
of rural landscapes and touching pastorals. I rely much on external
impressions; perhaps, with regard to you, they are immaterial, but I
should be no artist if I had not some fancies."
"Very well," replied M. Danglars, who had listened to all this preamble
with imperturbable coolness, but without understanding a word, since
like every man burdened with thoughts of the past, he was occupied with
seeking the thread of his own ideas in those of the speaker.
"There is, then, the second point cleared up, or nearly so," said
Eugenie, without the least confusion, and with that masculine
pointedness which distinguished her gesture and her language; "and you
appear satisfied with the explanation. Now, let us return to the first.
You ask me why I have requested this interview; I will tell you in two
words, sir; I will not marry count Andrea Cavalcanti."
Danglars leaped from his chair and raised his eyes and arms towards
