The night-light continued to burn on the chimney-piece,
exhausting the last drops of oil which floated on the surface of
the water. The globe of the lamp appeared of a reddish hue, and the
flame, brightening before it expired, threw out the last
flickerings which in an inanimate object have been so often
compared with the convulsions of a human creature in its final
agonies. A dull and dismal light was shed over the bedclothes and
curtains surrounding the young girl. All noise in the streets had
ceased, and the silence was frightful. It was then that the door of
Edward's room opened, and a head we have before noticed appeared in
the glass opposite; it was Madame de Villefort, who came to witness
the effects of the drink she had prepared. She stopped in the
doorway, listened for a moment to the flickering of the lamp, the
only sound in that deserted room, and then advanced to the table to
see if Valentine's glass were empty. It was still about a quarter
full, as we before stated. Madame de Villefort emptied the contents
into the ashes, which she disturbed that they might the more
readily absorb the liquid; then she carefully rinsed the glass, and
wiping it with her handkerchief replaced it on the table.
If any one could have looked into the room just then he would
have noticed the hesitation with which Madame de Villefort
approached the bed and looked fixedly on Valentine. The dim light,
the profound silence, and the gloomy thoughts inspired by the hour,
and still more by her own conscience, all combined to produce a
sensation of fear; the poisoner was terrified at the contemplation
of her own work. At length she rallied, drew aside the curtain, and
leaning over the pillow gazed intently on Valentine. The young girl
no longer breathed, no breath issued through the half-closed teeth;
the white lips no longer quivered — the eyes were suffused with a
bluish vapor, and the long black lashes rested on a cheek white as
wax. Madame de Villefort gazed upon the face so expressive even inwax. Madame de Villefort gazed upon the face so expressive even in
its stillness; then she ventured to raise the coverlet and press
her hand upon the young girl's heart. It was 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," shethis 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