cold and motionless. She only felt the pulsation in her own fingers, and
withdrew her hand with a shudder. One arm was hanging out of the bed;
from shoulder to elbow it was moulded after the arms of Germain
Pillon's "Graces," [*] but the fore-arm seemed to be slightly distorted
by convulsion, and the hand, so delicately formed, was resting with
stiff outstretched fingers on the framework of the bed. The nails, too,
were turning blue.
* Germain Pillon was a famous French sculptor (1535-1598).
His best known work is "The Three Graces," now in the
Louvre.
Madame de Villefort had no longer any doubt; all was over--she had
consummated the last terrible work she had to accomplish. There was no
more to do in the room, so the poisoner retired stealthily, as though
fearing to hear the sound of her own footsteps; but as she withdrew she
still held aside the curtain, absorbed in the irresistible attraction
always exerted by the picture of death, so long as it is merely
mysterious and does not excite disgust. Just then the lamp again
flickered; the noise startled Madame de Villefort, who shuddered and
dropped the curtain. Immediately afterwards the light expired, and the
room was plunged in frightful obscurity, while the clock at that
minute struck half-past four. Overpowered with agitation, the poisoner
succeeded in groping her way to the door, and reached her room in an
agony of fear.
The darkness lasted two hours longer; then by degrees a cold light crept
through the Venetian blinds, until at length it revealed the objects in
the room. About this time the nurse's cough was heard on the stairs and
the woman entered the room with a cup in her hand. To the tender eye
of a father or a lover, the first glance would have sufficed to reveal
Valentine's condition; but to this hireling, Valentine only appeared to
sleep. "Good," she exclaimed, approaching the table, "she has taken part
of her draught; the glass is three-quarters empty."
Then she went to the fireplace and lit the fire, and although she
had just left her bed, she could not resist the temptation offered by
Valentine's sleep, so she threw herself into an arm-chair to snatch a
little more rest. The clock striking eight awoke her. Astonished at the
prolonged slumber of the patient, and frightened to see that the arm was
still hanging out of the bed, she advanced towards Valentine, and for
the first time noticed the white lips. She tried to replace the arm, but
it moved with a frightful rigidity which could not deceive a sick-nurse.
She screamed aloud; then running to the door exclaimed,--"Help, help!"
"What is the matter?" asked M. d'Avrigny, at the foot of the stairs, it
being the hour he usually visited her.
"What is it?" asked Villefort, rushing from his room. "Doctor, do you
hear them call for help?"
"Yes, yes; let us hasten up; it was in Valentine's room." But before the
doctor and the father could reach the room, the servants who were on the
same floor had entered, and seeing Valentine pale and motionless on her
bed, they lifted up their hands towards heaven and stood transfixed, as
though struck by lightening. "Call Madame de Villefort!--Wake Madame
de Villefort!" cried the procureur from the door of his chamber, which
apparently he scarcely dared to leave. But instead of obeying him, the
servants stood watching M. d'Avrigny, who ran to Valentine, and raised
her in his arms. "What?--this one, too?" he exclaimed. "Oh, where will
be the end?" Villefort rushed into the room. "What are you saying,
doctor?" he exclaimed, raising his hands to heaven.
"I say that Valentine is dead!" replied d'Avrigny, in a voice terrible
in its solemn calm.
M. de Villefort staggered and buried his head in the bed. On the
exclamation of the doctor and the cry of the father, the servants all
fled with muttered imprecations; they were heard running down the stairs
and through the long passages, then there was a rush in the court,
afterwards all was still; they had, one and all, deserted the accursed
house. Just then, Madame de Villefort, in the act of slipping on
her dressing-gown, threw aside the drapery and for a moment stood
motionless, as though interrogating the occupants of the room, while she
endeavored to call up some rebellious tears. On a sudden she stepped,
or rather bounded, with outstretched arms, towards the table. She saw
d'Avrigny curiously examining the glass, which she felt certain of
having emptied during the night. It was now a third full, just as it
was when she threw the contents into the ashes. The spectre of Valentine
rising before the poisoner would have alarmed her less. It was, indeed,
the same color as the draught she had poured into the glass, and which
Valentine had drunk}; it was indeed the poison, which could not deceive
M. d'Avrigny, which he now examined so closely; it was doubtless a
miracle from heaven, that, notwithstanding her precautions, there should
be some trace, some proof remaining to reveal the crime. While Madame
de Villefort remained rooted to the spot like a statue of terror, and
Villefort, with his head hidden in the bedclothes, saw nothing around
him, d'Avrigny approached the window, that he might the better examine
the contents of the glass, and dipping the tip of his finger in, tasted
it. "Ah," he exclaimed, "it is no longer brucine that is used; let me
see what it is!"
Then he ran to one of the cupboards in Valentine's room, which had been
transformed into a medicine closet, and taking from its silver case a
small bottle of nitric acid, dropped a little of it into the liquor,
which immediately changed to a blood-red color. "Ah," exclaimed
d'Avrigny, in a voice in which the horror of a judge unveiling the truth
was mingled with the delight of a student making a discovery. Madame
de Villefort was overpowered, her eyes first flashed and then swam,
she staggered towards the door and disappeared. Directly afterwards the
distant sound of a heavy weight falling on the ground was heard, but
no one paid any attention to it; the nurse was engaged in watching
the chemical analysis, and Villefort was still absorbed in grief. M.
d'Avrigny alone had followed Madame de Villefort with his eyes, and
watched her hurried retreat. He lifted up the drapery over the entrance
to Edward's room, and his eye reaching as far as Madame de Villefort's
apartment, he beheld her extended lifeless on the floor. "Go to the
assistance of Madame de Villefort," he said to the nurse. "Madame de
Villefort is ill."
"But Mademoiselle de Villefort"--stammered the nurse.
"Mademoiselle de Villefort no longer requires help," said d'Avrigny,
"since she is dead."
"Dead,--dead!" groaned forth Villefort, in a paroxysm of grief, which
was the more terrible from the novelty of the sensation in the iron
heart of that man.
"Dead!" repeated a third voice. "Who said Valentine was dead?"
The two men turned round, and saw Morrel standing at the door, pale and
terror-stricken. This is what had happened. At the usual time, Morrel
had presented himself at the little door leading to Noirtier's room.
Contrary to custom, the door was open, and having no occasion to ring he
entered. He waited for a moment in the hall and called for a servant to
conduct him to M. Noirtier; but no one answered, the servants having,
as we know, deserted the house. Morrel had no particular reason for
uneasiness; Monte Cristo had promised him that Valentine should live,
and so far he had always fulfilled his word. Every night the count had
given him news, which was the next morning confirmed by Noirtier. Still
this extraordinary silence appeared strange to him, and he called a
second and third time; still no answer. Then he determined to go up.
Noirtier's room was opened, like all the rest. The first thing he saw
was the old man sitting in his arm-chair in his usual place, but his
eyes expressed alarm, which was confirmed by the pallor which overspread
his features.
"How are you, sir?" asked Morrel, with a sickness of heart.
"Well," answered the old man, by closing his eyes; but his appearance
manifested increasing uneasiness.
"You are thoughtful, sir," continued Morrel; "you want something; shall
I call one of the servants?"
"Yes," replied Noirtier.
Morrel pulled the bell, but though he nearly broke the cord no one
answered. He turned towards Noirtier; the pallor and anguish expressed
on his countenance momentarily increased.
"Oh," exclaimed Morrel, "why do they not come? Is any one ill in the
house?" The eyes of Noirtier seemed as though they would start from
their sockets. "What is the matter? You alarm me. Valentine? Valentine?"
"Yes, yes," signed Noirtier. Maximilian tried to speak, but he could
articulate nothing; he staggered, and supported himself against the
wainscot. Then he pointed to the door.
"Yes, yes, yes!" continued the old man. Maximilian rushed up the little
staircase, while Noirtier's eyes seemed to say,--"Quicker, quicker!"
In a minute the young man darted through several rooms, till at length
he reached Valentine's. There was no occasion to push the door, it was
wide open. A sob was the only sound he heard. He saw as though in a
mist, a black figure kneeling and buried in a confused mass of white
drapery. A terrible fear transfixed him. It was then he heard a voice
exclaim "Valentine is dead!" and another voice which, like an echo
repeated,--"Dead,--dead!"
Chapter 103. Maximilian.
Villefort rose, half ashamed of being surprised in such a paroxysm
of grief. The terrible office he had held for twenty-five years had
succeeded in making him more or less than man. His glance, at first
wandering, fixed itself upon Morrel. "Who are you, sir," he asked, "that
forget that this is not the manner to enter a house stricken with death?
Go, sir, go!" But Morrel remained motionless; he could not detach his
eyes from that disordered bed, and the pale corpse of the young girl
who was lying on it. "Go!--do you hear?" said Villefort, while d'Avrigny
advanced to lead Morrel out. Maximilian stared for a moment at the
corpse, gazed all around the room, then upon the two men; he opened
his mouth to speak, but finding it impossible to give utterance to the
innumerable ideas that occupied his brain, he went out, thrusting his
hands through his hair in such a manner that Villefort and d'Avrigny,
for a moment diverted from the engrossing topic, exchanged glances,
which seemed to say,--"He is mad!"
But in less than five minutes the staircase groaned beneath an
extraordinary weight. Morrel was seen carrying, with superhuman
strength, the arm-chair containing Noirtier up-stairs. When he reached
the landing he placed the arm-chair on the floor and rapidly rolled it
into Valentine's room. This could only have been accomplished by means
of unnatural strength supplied by powerful excitement. But the most
fearful spectacle was Noirtier being pushed towards the bed, his face
expressing all his meaning, and his eyes supplying the want of every
other faculty. That pale face and flaming glance appeared to Villefort
like a frightful apparition. Each time he had been brought into contact
with his father, something terrible had happened. "See what they have
done!" cried Morrel, with one hand leaning on the back of the chair, and
the other extended towards Valentine. "See, my father, see!"
Villefort drew back and looked with astonishment on the young man, who,
almost a stranger to him, called Noirtier his father. At this moment
the whole soul of the old man seemed centred in his eyes which became
bloodshot; the veins of the throat swelled; his cheeks and temples
became purple, as though he was struck with epilepsy; nothing was
wanting to complete this but the utterance of a cry. And the cry issued
from his pores, if we may thus speak--a cry frightful in its silence.
D'Avrigny rushed towards the old man and made him inhale a powerful
restorative.
"Sir," cried Morrel, seizing the moist hand of the paralytic, "they ask
me who I am, and what right I have to be here. Oh, you know it, tell
them, tell them!" And the young man's voice was choked by sobs. As for
the old man, his chest heaved with his panting respiration. One could
have thought that he was undergoing the agonies preceding death. At
length, happier than the young man, who sobbed without weeping, tears
glistened in the eyes of Noirtier. "Tell them," said Morrel in a hoarse
voice, "tell them that I am her betrothed. Tell them she was my beloved,
my noble girl, my only blessing in the world. Tell them--oh, tell them,
that corpse belongs to me!"
The young man overwhelmed by the weight of his anguish, fell heavily
on his knees before the bed, which his fingers grasped with convulsive
energy. D'Avrigny, unable to bear the sight of this touching emotion,
turned away; and Villefort, without seeking any further explanation,
and attracted towards him by the irresistible magnetism which draws us
towards those who have loved the people for whom we mourn, extended his
hand towards the young man. But Morrel saw nothing; he had grasped the
hand of Valentine, and unable to weep vented his agony in groans as
he bit the sheets. For some time nothing was heard in that chamber but
sobs, exclamations, and prayers. At length Villefort, the most composed
of all, spoke: "Sir," said he to Maximilian, "you say you loved
Valentine, that you were betrothed to her. I knew nothing of this
engagement, of this love, yet I, her father, forgive you, for I see that
your grief is real and deep; and besides my own sorrow is too great for
