says —
`Foul deeds will rise, Tho' all the earth o'erwhelm them to
men's eyes;'
but, like a phosphoric light, they rise but to mislead. The
story has been told by the Corsican to some priest, who in his turn
has repeated it. M. de Monte Cristo may have heard it, and to
enlighten himself — but why should he wish to enlighten himself
upon the subject?" asked Villefort, after a moment's reflection,
"what interest can this M. de Monte Cristo or M. Zaccone, — son of
a shipowner of Malta, discoverer of a mine in Thessaly, now
visiting Paris for the first time, — what interest, I say, can he
take in discovering a gloomy, mysterious, and useless fact like
this? However, among all the incoherent details given to me by the
Abbe Busoni and by Lord Wilmore, by that friend and that enemy, one
thing appears certain and clear in my opinion — that in no period,
in no case, in no circumstance, could there have been any contact
between him and me."
But Villefort uttered words which even he himself did not
believe. He dreaded not so much the revelation, for he could reply
to or deny its truth; — he cared little for that mene, tekel,
upharsin, which appeared suddenly in letters of blood upon the
wall; — but what he was really anxious for was to discover whose
hand had traced them. While he was endeavoring to calm his fears, —
and instead of dwelling upon the political future that had so often
been the subject of his ambitious dreams, was imagining a future
limited to the enjoyments of home, in fear of awakening the enemy
that had so long slept, — the noise of a carriage sounded in the
yard, then he heard the steps of an aged person ascending the
stairs, followed by tears and lamentations, such as servants always
give vent to when they wish to appear interested in their master's
grief. He drew back the bolt of his door, and almost directly an
old lady entered, unannounced, carrying her shawl on her arm, and
her bonnet in her hand. The white hair was thrown back from her
yellow forehead, and her eyes, already sunken by the furrows ofyellow forehead, and her eyes, already sunken by the furrows of
age, now almost disappeared beneath the eyelids swollen with grief.
"Oh, sir," she said; "oh, sir, what a misfortune! I shall die of
it; oh, yes, I shall certainly die of it!"
And then, falling upon the chair nearest the door, she burst
into a paroxysm of sobs. The servants, standing in the doorway, not
daring to approach nearer, were looking at Noirtier's old servant,
who had heard the noise from his master's room, and run there also,
remaining behind the others. Villefort rose, and ran towards his
mother-in-law, for it was she.
"Why, what can have happened?" he exclaimed, "what has thus
disturbed you? Is M. de Saint-Meran with you?"
"M. de Saint-Meran is dead," answered the old marchioness,
without preface and without expression; she appeared to be
stupefied. Villefort drew back, and clasping his hands together,
exclaimed — "Dead! — so suddenly?"
"A week ago," continued Madame de Saint-Meran, "we went out
together in the carriage after dinner. M. de Saint-Meran had been
unwell for some days; still, the idea of seeing our dear Valentine
again inspired him with courage, and notwithstanding his illness he
would leave. At six leagues from Marseilles, after having eaten
some of the lozenges he is accustomed to take, he fell into such a
deep sleep, that it appeared to me unnatural; still I hesitated to
wake him, although I fancied that his face was flushed, and that
the veins of his temples throbbed more violently than usual.
However, as it became dark, and I could no longer see, I fell
asleep; I was soon aroused by a piercing shriek, as from a person
suffering in his dreams, and he suddenly threw his head back
violently. I called the valet, I stopped the postilion, I spoke to
M. de Saint-Meran, I applied my smelling-salts; but all was over,
and I arrived at Aix by the side of a corpse." Villefort stood with
his mouth half open, quite stupefied.
"Of course you sent for a doctor?"
"Immediately; but, as I have told you, it was too late.""Of course you sent for a doctor?"
"Immediately; but, as I have told you, it was too late."
"Yes; but then he could tell of what complaint the poor marquis
had died."
"Oh, yes, sir, he told me; it appears to have been an apoplectic
stroke."
"And what did you do then?"
"M. de Saint-Meran had always expressed a desire, in case his
death happened during his absence from Paris, that his body might
be brought to the family vault. I had him put into a leaden coffin,
and I am preceding him by a few days."
"Oh, my poor mother," said Villefort, "to have such duties to
perform at your age after such a blow!"
"God has supported me through all; and then, my dear marquis, he
would certainly have done everything for me that I performed for
him. It is true that since I left him, I seem to have lost my
senses. I cannot cry; at my age they say that we have no more
tears, — still I think that when one is in trouble one should have
the power of weeping. Where is Valentine, sir? It is on her account
I am here; I wish to see Valentine." Villefort thought it would be
terrible to reply that Valentine was at a ball; so he only said
that she had gone out with her step-mother, and that she should be
fetched. "This instant, sir — this instant, I beseech you!" said
the old lady. Villefort placed the arm of Madame de Saint-Meran
within his own, and conducted her to his apartment. "Rest yourself,
mother," he said.
The marchioness raised her head at this word, and beholding the
man who so forcibly reminded her of her deeply-regretted child, who
still lived for her in Valentine, she felt touched at the name of
mother, and bursting into tears, she fell on her knees before an
arm-chair, where she buried her venerable head. Villefort left her
to the care of the women, while old Barrois ran, half-scared, to
his master; for nothing frightens old people so much as when death
relaxes its vigilance over them for a moment in order to strike
some other old person. Then, while Madame de Saint-Meran remained