"But," said Valentine, timidly, "does all the father's shame
revert upon the son? Monsieur Albert appears to me quite innocent
of the treason charged against the general."
"Excuse me," said the implacable young girl, "Monsieur Albert
claims and well deserves his share. It appears that after having
challenged M. de Monte Cristo at the Opera yesterday, he apologized
on the ground to-day."
"Impossible," said Madame de Villefort.
"Ah, my dear friend," said Madame Danglars, with the same
simplicity we before noticed, "it is a fact. I heard it from M.
Debray, who was present at the explanation." Valentine also knew
the truth, but she did not answer. A single word had reminded her
that Morrel was expecting her in M. Noirtier's room. Deeply engaged
with a sort of inward contemplation, Valentine had ceased for a
moment to join in the conversation. She would, indeed, have found
it impossible to repeat what had been said the last few minutes,
when suddenly Madame Danglars' hand, pressed on her arm, aroused
her from her lethargy.
"What is it?" said she, starting at Madame Danglars' touch as
she would have done from an electric shock. "It is, my dear
Valentine," said the baroness, "that you are, doubtless,
suffering."
"I?" said the young girl, passing her hand across her burning
forehead.
"Yes, look at yourself in that glass; you have turned pale and
then red successively, three or four times in one minute."
"Indeed," cried Eugenie, "you are very pale!"
"Oh, do not be alarmed; I have been so for many days." Artless
as she was, the young girl knew that this was an opportunity to
leave, and besides, Madame de Villefort came to her assistance.
"Retire, Valentine," said she; "you are really suffering, and these
ladies will excuse you; drink a glass of pure water, it will
restore you." Valentine kissed Eugenie, bowed to Madame Danglars,
who had already risen to take her leave, and went out. "That poor
child," said Madame de Villefort when Valentine was gone, "she
makes me very uneasy, and I should not be astonished if she hadmakes me very uneasy, and I should not be astonished if she had
some serious illness."
Meanwhile, Valentine, in a sort of excitement which she could
not quite understand, had crossed Edward's room without noticing
some trick of the child, and through her own had reached the little
staircase. She was within three steps of the bottom; she already
heard Morrel's voice, when suddenly a cloud passed over her eyes,
her stiffened foot missed the step, her hands had no power to hold
the baluster, and falling against the wall she lost her balance
wholly and toppled to the floor. Morrel bounded to the door, opened
it, and found Valentine stretched out at the bottom of the stairs.
Quick as a flash, he raised her in his arms and placed her in a
chair. Valentine opened her eyes.
"Oh, what a clumsy thing I am," said she with feverish
volubility; "I don't know my way. I forgot there were three more
steps before the landing."
"You have hurt yourself, perhaps," said Morrel. "What can I do
for you, Valentine?" Valentine looked around her; she saw the
deepest terror depicted in Noirtier's eyes. "Don't worry, dear
grandpapa," said she, endeavoring to smile; "it is nothing — it is
nothing; I was giddy, that is all."
"Another attack of giddiness," said Morrel, clasping his hands.
"Oh, attend to it, Valentine, I entreat you."
"But no," said Valentine, — "no, I tell you it is all past, and
it was nothing. Now, let me tell you some news; Eugenie is to be
married in a week, and in three days there is to be a grand feast,
a betrothal festival. We are all invited, my father, Madame de
Villefort, and I — at least, I understood it so."
"When will it be our turn to think of these things? Oh,
Valentine, you who have so much influence over your grandpapa, try
to make him answer — Soon."
"And do you," said Valentine, "depend on me to stimulate the
tardiness and arouse the memory of grandpapa?"
"Yes," cried Morrel, "make haste. So long as you are not mine,
Valentine, I shall always think I may lose you."Valentine, I shall always think I may lose you."
"Oh," replied Valentine with a convulsive movement, "oh, indeed,
Maximilian, you are too timid for an officer, for a soldier who,
they say, never knows fear. Ah, ha, ha!" she burst into a forced
and melancholy laugh, her arms stiffened and twisted, her head fell
back on her chair, and she remained motionless. The cry of terror
which was stopped on Noirtier's lips, seemed to start from his
eyes. Morrel understood it; he knew he must call assistance. The
young man rang the bell violently; the housemaid who had been in
Mademoiselle Valentine's room, and the servant who had replaced
Barrois, ran in at the same moment. Valentine was so pale, so cold,
so inanimate that without listening to what was said to them they
were seized with the fear which pervaded that house, and they flew
into the passage crying for help. Madame Danglars and Eugenie were
going out at that moment; they heard the cause of the disturbance.
"I told you so!" exclaimed Madame de Villefort. "Poor child!"We saw in a preceding chapter how Madame Danglars went formally
to announce to Madame de Villefort the approaching marriage of
Eugenie Danglars and M. Andrea Cavalcanti. This announcement, which
implied or appeared to imply, the approval of all the persons
concerned in this momentous affair, had been preceded by a scene to
which our readers must be admitted. We beg them to take one step
backward, and to transport themselves, the morning of that day of
great catastrophes, into the showy, gilded salon we have before
shown them, and which was the pride of its owner, Baron Danglars.
In this room, at about ten o'clock in the morning, the banker
himself had been walking to and fro for some minutes thoughtfully
and in evident uneasiness, watching both doors, and listening to
every sound. When his patience was exhausted, he called his valet.
"Etienne," said he, "see why Mademoiselle Eugenie has asked me to
meet her in the drawing-room, and why she makes me wait so
long."
Having given this vent to his ill-humor, the baron became more
calm; Mademoiselle Danglars had that morning requested an interview
with her father, and had fixed on the gilded drawing-room as the
spot. The singularity of this step, and above all its formality,
had not a little surprised the banker, who had immediately obeyed
his daughter by repairing first to the drawing-room. Etienne soon
returned from his errand. "Mademoiselle's lady's maid says, sir,
that mademoiselle is finishing her toilette, and will be here
shortly."
Danglars nodded, to signify that he was satisfied. To the world
and to his servants Danglars assumed the character of the
good-natured man and the indulgent father. This was one of his
parts in the popular comedy he was performing, — a make-up he had
adopted and which suited him about as well as the masks worn on the
classic stage by paternal actors, who seen from one side, were the
image of geniality, and from the other showed lips drawn down in
chronic ill-temper. Let us hasten to say that in private the genial