“Sir,” said Valentine, at the height of her terror, “you say you endured tortures when you saw the deadly poison poured into my glass; but if you saw this, you must also have seen the person who poured it?”
“Yes.” Valentine raised herself in bed, and drew over her chest, which appeared whiter than snow, the embroidered cambric, still moist with the cold dews of delirium, to which were now added those of terror. “You saw the person?” repeated the young girl. “Yes,” repeated the count.
“What you tell me is horrible, sir. You wish to make me believe something too dreadful. What? — attempt to murder me in my father’s house, in my room, on my bed of sickness? Oh, leave me, sir; you are tempting me — you make me doubt the goodness of providence — it is impossible, it cannot be!”
“Are you the first that this hand has stricken? Have you not seen M. de Saint-Meran, Madame de Saint-Meran, Barrois, all fall? would not M. Noirtier also have fallen a victim, had not the treatment he has been pursuing for the last three years neutralized the effects of the poison?”
“Oh, heaven,” said Valentine; “is this the reason why grandpapa has made me share all his beverages during the last month?”
“And have they all tasted of a slightly bitter flavor, like that of dried orange-peel?”
“Oh, yes, yes!”
“Then that explains all,” said Monte Cristo. “Your grandfather knows, then, that a poisoner lives here; perhaps he even suspects the person. He has been fortifying you, his beloved child, against the fatal effects of the poison, which has failed because your system was already impregnated with it. But even this would have availed little against a more deadly medium of death employed four days ago, which is generally but too fatal.”
“But who, then, is this assassin, this murderer?”
“Let me also ask you a question. Have you never seen any one enter your room at night?”
“Oh, yes; I have frequently seen shadows pass close to me, approach, and disappear; but I took them for visions raised by my feverish imagination, and indeed when you entered I thought I was under the influence of delirium.”
“Then you do not know who it is that attempts your life?”
“No,” said Valentine; “who could desire my death?”
“You shall know it now, then,” said Monte Cristo, listening.
“How do you mean?” said Valentine, looking anxiously around.
“Because you are not feverish or delirious to-night, but thoroughly awake; midnight is striking, which is the hour murderers choose.”
“Oh, heavens,” exclaimed Valentine, wiping off the drops which ran down her forehead. Midnight struck slowly and sadly; every hour seemed to strike with leaden weight upon the heart of the poor girl. “Valentine,” said the count, “summon up all your courage; still the beatings of your heart; do not let a sound escape you, and feign to be asleep; then you will see.” Valentine seized the count’s hand. “I think I hear a noise,” she said; “leave me.”
“Good-by, for the present,” replied the count, walking upon tiptoe towards the library door, and smiling with an expression so sad and paternal that the young girl’s heart was filled with gratitude. Before closing the door he turned around once more, and said, “Not a movement — not a word; let them think you asleep, or perhaps you may be killed before I have the power of helping you.” And with this fearful injunction the count disappeared through the door, which noiselessly closed after him.
Chapter 101
* * *
Locusta.
Valentine was alone; two other clocks, slower than that of Saint-Philippe du Roule, struck the hour of midnight from different directions, and excepting the rumbling of a few carriages all was silent. Then Valentine’s attention was engrossed by the clock in her room, which marked the seconds. She began counting them, remarking that they were much slower than the beatings of her heart; and still she doubted, — the inoffensive Valentine could not imagine that any one should desire her death. Why should they? To what end? What had she done to excite the malice of an enemy? There was no fear of her falling asleep. One terrible idea pressed upon her mind, — that some one existed in the world who had attempted to assassinate her, and who was about to endeavor to do so again. Supposing this person, wearied at the inefficacy of the poison, should, as Monte Cristo intimated, have recourse to steel! — What if the count should have no time to run to her rescue! — What if her last moments were approaching, and she should never again see Morrel! When this terrible chain of ideas presented itself, Valentine was nearly persuaded to ring the bell, and call for help. But through the door she fancied she saw the luminous eye of the count — that eye which lived in her memory, and the recollection overwhelmed her with so much shame that she asked herself whether any amount of gratitude could ever repay his adventurous and devoted friendship.