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. Atman, 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, ofyou 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
anger to find a place in my heart. But you see that the angel whom
you hoped for has left this earth — she has nothing more to do with
the adoration of men. Take a last farewell, sir, of her sad
remains; take the hand you expected to possess once more within
your own, and then separate yourself from her forever. Valentine
now requires only the ministrations of the priest."
"You are mistaken, sir," exclaimed Morrel, raising himself on
one knee, his heart pierced by a more acute pang than any he had
yet felt — "you are mistaken; Valentine, dying as she has, not only
requires a priest, but an avenger. You, M. de Villefort, send for
the priest; I will be the avenger."
"What do you mean, sir?" asked Villefort, trembling at the new
idea inspired by the delirium of Morrel.
"I tell you, sir, that two persons exist in you; the father has
mourned sufficiently, now let the procureur fulfil his office."
The eyes of Noirtier glistened, and d'Avrigny approached.
"Gentlemen," said Morrel, reading all that passed through the
minds of the witnesses to the scene, "I know what I am saying, and
you know as well as I do what I am about to say — Valentine has
been assassinated!" Villefort hung his head, d'Avrigny approached
nearer, and Noirtier said "Yes" with his eyes. "Now, sir,"
continued Morrel, "in these days no one can disappear by violent
means without some inquiries being made as to the cause of her
disappearance, even were she not a young, beautiful, and adorable
creature like Valentine. Mr. Procureur," said Morrel with
increasing vehemence, "no mercy is allowed; I denounce the crime;
it is your place to seek the assassin." The young man's implacable
eyes interrogated Villefort, who, on his side, glanced from
Noirtier to d'Avrigny. But instead of finding sympathy in the eyes
of the doctor and his father, he only saw an expression as