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

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 tonight.”

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-Méran, Madame de Saint-Méran, 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 anyone 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 tonight, 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.”

“Goodbye, 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.

CI Locusta

Valentine was alone; two other clocks, slower than that of Saint-Philippe-du-Roule, struck the hour