The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas (best book club books .TXT) 📕

and, on my honor, without at all wishing to depreciate the beauty of Mademoiselle Danglars, I cannot understand how any man can really love her.”

“The fact is, Maximilian, that I was there, and my presence had the effect of rendering you unjust in your comparison.”

“No; but tell me⁠—it is a question of simple curiosity, and which was suggested by certain ideas passing in my mind relative to Mademoiselle Danglars⁠—”

“I dare say it is something disparaging which you are going to say. It only proves how little indulgence we may expect from your sex,” interrupted Valentine.

“You cannot, at least, deny that you are very harsh judges of each other.”

“If we are so, it is because we generally judge under the influence of excitement. But return to your question.”

“Does Mademoiselle Danglars object to this marriage with M. de Morcerf on account of loving another?”

“I told you I was not on terms of strict intimacy with Eugénie.”

“Yes, but girls tell each other secrets without being particularly intimate; own, now, that you did question her on the subject. Ah, I see you are smiling.”

“If you are already aware of the conversation that passed, the wooden partition which interposed between us and you has proved but a slight security.”

“Come, what did she say?”

“She told me that she loved no one,” said Valentine; “that she disliked the idea of being married; that she would infinitely prefer leading an independent and unfettered life; and that she almost wished her father might lose his fortune, that she might become an artist, like her friend, Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly.”

“Ah, you see⁠—”

“Well, what does that prove?” asked Valentine.

“Nothing,” replied Maximilian.

“Then why did you smile?”

“Why, you know very well that you are reflecting on yourself, Valentine.”

“Do you want me to go away?”

“Ah, no, no. But do not let us lose time; you are the subject on which I wish to speak.”

“True, we must be quick, for we have scarcely ten minutes more to pass together.”

“Ma foi!” said Maximilian, in consternation.

“Yes, you are right; I am but a poor friend to you. What a life I cause you to lead, poor Maximilian, you who are formed for happiness! I bitterly reproach myself, I assure you.”

“Well, what does it signify, Valentine, so long as I am satisfied, and feel that even this long and painful suspense is amply repaid by five minutes of your society, or two words from your lips? And I have also a deep conviction that heaven would not have created two hearts, harmonizing as ours do, and almost miraculously brought us together, to separate us at last.”

“Those are kind and cheering words. You must hope for us both, Maximilian; that will make me at least partly happy.”

“But why must you leave me so soon?”

“I do not know particulars. I can only tell you that Madame de Villefort sent to request my presence, as she had a communication to make on which a part of my fortune depended. Let them take my fortune, I am already too rich; and, perhaps, when they have taken it, they will leave me in peace and quietness. You would love me as much if I were poor, would you not, Maximilian?”

“Oh, I shall always love you. What should I care for either riches or poverty, if my Valentine was near me, and I felt certain that no one could deprive me of her? But do you not fear that this communication may relate to your marriage?”

“I do not think that is the case.”

“However it may be, Valentine, you must not be alarmed. I assure you that, as long as I live, I shall never love anyone else!”

“Do you think to reassure me when you say that, Maximilian?”

“Pardon me, you are right. I am a brute. But I was going to tell you that I met M. de Morcerf the other day.”

“Well?”

“Monsieur Franz is his friend, you know.”

“What then?”

“Monsieur de Morcerf has received a letter from Franz, announcing his immediate return.” Valentine turned pale, and leaned her hand against the gate.

“Ah heavens, if it were that! But no, the communication would not come through Madame de Villefort.”

“Why not?”

“Because⁠—I scarcely know why⁠—but it has appeared as if Madame de Villefort secretly objected to the marriage, although she did not choose openly to oppose it.”

“Is it so? Then I feel as if I could adore Madame de Villefort.”

“Do not be in such a hurry to do that,” said Valentine, with a sad smile.

“If she objects to your marrying M. d’Épinay, she would be all the more likely to listen to any other proposition.”

“No, Maximilian, it is not suitors to which Madame de Villefort objects, it is marriage itself.”

“Marriage? If she dislikes that so much, why did she ever marry herself?”

“You do not understand me, Maximilian. About a year ago, I talked of retiring to a convent. Madame de Villefort, in spite of all the remarks which she considered it her duty to make, secretly approved of the proposition, my father consented to it at her instigation, and it was only on account of my poor grandfather that I finally abandoned the project. You can form no idea of the expression of that old man’s eye when he looks at me, the only person in the world whom he loves, and, I had almost said, by whom he is beloved in return. When he learned my resolution, I shall never forget the reproachful look which he cast on me, and the tears of utter despair which chased each other down his lifeless cheeks. Ah, Maximilian, I experienced, at that moment, such remorse for my intention, that, throwing myself at his feet, I exclaimed⁠—‘Forgive me, pray forgive me, my dear grandfather; they may do what they will with me, I will never leave you.’ When I had ceased speaking, he thankfully raised his eyes to heaven, but without uttering a word. Ah, Maximilian, I may have much to suffer, but I feel as if my grandfather’s look at that moment would more than compensate for all.”

“Dear Valentine, you are a