know, in the midst of your hundred names, that I may pronounce it
when we meet to fight, at the moment when I plunge my sword through
your heart."
The Count of Monte Cristo turned dreadfully pale; his eye seemed
to burn with a devouring fire. He leaped towards a dressing-room
near his bedroom, and in less than a moment, tearing off his
cravat, his coat and waistcoat, he put on a sailor's jacket and
hat, from beneath which rolled his long black hair. He returned
thus, formidable and implacable, advancing with his arms crossed on
his breast, towards the general, who could not understand why he
had disappeared, but who on seeing him again, and feeling his teeth
chatter and his legs sink under him, drew back, and only stopped
when he found a table to support his clinched hand. "Fernand,"
cried he, "of my hundred names I need only tell you one, to
overwhelm you! But you guess it now, do you not? — or, rather, you
remember it? For, notwithstanding all my sorrows and my tortures, I
show you to-day a face which the happiness of revenge makes young
again — a face you must often have seen in your dreams since your
marriage with Mercedes, my betrothed!"
The general, with his head thrown back, hands extended, gaze
fixed, looked silently at this dreadful apparition; then seeking
the wall to support him, he glided along close to it until he
reached the door, through which he went out backwards, uttering
this single mournful, lamentable, distressing cry, — "Edmond
Dantes!" Then, with sighs which were unlike any human sound, he
dragged himself to the door, reeled across the court-yard, and
falling into the arms of his valet, he said in a voice scarcely
intelligible, — "Home, home." The fresh air and the shame he felt
at having exposed himself before his servants, partly recalled his
senses, but the ride was short, and as he drew near his house all
his wretchedness revived. He stopped at a short distance from the
house and alighted.
The door was wide open, a hackney-coach was standing in thehouse and alighted.
The door was wide open, a hackney-coach was standing in the
middle of the yard — a strange sight before so noble a mansion; the
count looked at it with terror, but without daring to inquire its
meaning, he rushed towards his apartment. Two persons were coming
down the stairs; he had only time to creep into an alcove to avoid
them. It was Mercedes leaning on her son's arm and leaving the
house. They passed close by the unhappy being, who, concealed
behind the damask curtain, almost felt Mercedes dress brush past
him, and his son's warm breath, pronouncing these words, —
"Courage, mother! Come, this is no longer our home!" The words died
away, the steps were lost in the distance. The general drew himself
up, clinging to the curtain; he uttered the most dreadful sob which
ever escaped from the bosom of a father abandoned at the same time
by his wife and son. He soon heard the clatter of the iron step of
the hackney-coach, then the coachman's voice, and then the rolling
of the heavy vehicle shook the windows. He darted to his bedroom to
see once more all he had loved in the world; but the hackney-coach
drove on and the head of neither Mercedes nor her son appeared at
the window to take a last look at the house or the deserted father
and husband. And at the very moment when the wheels of that coach
crossed the gateway a report was heard, and a thick smoke escaped
through one of the panes of the window, which was broken by the
explosion.We may easily conceive where Morrel's appointment was. On
leaving Monte Cristo he walked slowly towards Villefort's; we say
slowly, for Morrel had more than half an hour to spare to go five
hundred steps, but he had hastened to take leave of Monte Cristo
because he wished to be alone with his thoughts. He knew his time
well — the hour when Valentine was giving Noirtier his breakfast,
and was sure not to be disturbed in the performance of this pious
duty. Noirtier and Valentine had given him leave to go twice a
week, and he was now availing himself of that permission. He had
arrived; Valentine was expecting him. Uneasy and almost crazed, she
seized his hand and led him to her grandfather. This uneasiness,
amounting almost to frenzy, arose from the report Morcerf's
adventure had made in the world, for the affair at the opera was
generally known. No one at Villefort's doubted that a duel would
ensue from it. Valentine, with her woman's instinct, guessed that
Morrel would be Monte Cristo's second, and from the young man's
well-known courage and his great affection for the count, she
feared that he would not content himself with the passive part
assigned to him. We may easily understand how eagerly the
particulars were asked for, given, and received; and Morrel could
read an indescribable joy in the eyes of his beloved, when she knew
that the termination of this affair was as happy as it was
unexpected.
"Now," said Valentine, motioning to Morrel to sit down near her
grandfather, while she took her seat on his footstool, — "now let
us talk about our own affairs. You know, Maximilian, grandpapa once
thought of leaving this house, and taking an apartment away from M.
de Villefort's."
"Yes," said Maximilian, "I recollect the project, of which I
highly approved."
"Well," said Valentine, "you may approve again, for grandpapa is
again thinking of it."
"Bravo," said Maximilian.
"And do you know," said Valentine, "what reason grandpapa gives
for leaving this house." Noirtier looked at Valentine to imposefor leaving this house." Noirtier looked at Valentine to impose
silence, but she did not notice him; her looks, her eyes, her
smile, were all for Morrel.
"Oh, whatever may be M. Noirtier's reason," answered Morrel, "I
can readily believe it to be a good one."
"An excellent one," said Valentine. "He pretends the air of the
Faubourg St. Honore is not good for me."
"Indeed?" said Morrel; "in that M. Noirtier may be right; you
have not seemed to be well for the last fortnight."
"Not very," said Valentine. "And grandpapa has become my
physician, and I have the greatest confidence in him, because he
knows everything."
"Do you then really suffer?" asked Morrel quickly.
"Oh, it must not be called suffering; I feel a general
uneasiness, that is all. I have lost my appetite, and my stomach
feels as if it were struggling to get accustomed to something."
Noirtier did not lose a word of what Valentine said. "And what
treatment do you adopt for this singular complaint?"
"A very simple one," said Valentine. "I swallow every morning a
spoonful of the mixture prepared for my grandfather. When I say one
spoonful, I began by one — now I take four. Grandpapa says it is a
panacea." Valentine smiled, but it was evident that she
suffered.
Maximilian, in his devotedness, gazed silently at her. She was
very beautiful, but her usual pallor had increased; her eyes were
more brilliant than ever, and her hands, which were generally white
like mother-of-pearl, now more resembled wax, to which time was
adding a yellowish hue. From Valentine the young man looked towards
Noirtier. The latter watched with strange and deep interest the
young girl, absorbed by her affection, and he also, like Morrel,
followed those traces of inward suffering which was so little
perceptible to a common observer that they escaped the notice of
every one but the grandfather and the lover.
"But," said Morrel, "I thought this mixture, of which you now
take four spoonfuls, was prepared for M. Noirtier?"
"I know it is very bitter," said Valentine; "so bitter, that all