About two-thirds of the way along the Faubourg Saint-Honore, and in the
rear of one of the most imposing mansions in this rich neighborhood,
where the various houses vie with each other for elegance of design
and magnificence of construction, extended a large garden, where the
wide-spreading chestnut-trees raised their heads high above the walls in
a solid rampart, and with the coming of every spring scattered a shower
of delicate pink and white blossoms into the large stone vases that
stood upon the two square pilasters of a curiously wrought iron gate,
that dated from the time of Louis XII. This noble entrance, however,
in spite of its striking appearance and the graceful effect of the
geraniums planted in the two vases, as they waved their variegated
leaves in the wind and charmed the eye with their scarlet bloom, had
fallen into utter disuse. The proprietors of the mansion had many years
before thought it best to confine themselves to the possession of the
house itself, with its thickly planted court-yard, opening into the
Faubourg Saint-Honore, and to the garden shut in by this gate, which
formerly communicated with a fine kitchen-garden of about an acre. For
the demon of speculation drew a line, or in other words projected a
street, at the farther side of the kitchen-garden. The street was
laid out, a name was chosen and posted up on an iron plate, but before
construction was begun, it occurred to the possessor of the property
that a handsome sum might be obtained for the ground then devoted
to fruits and vegetables, by building along the line of the proposed
street, and so making it a branch of communication with the Faubourg
Saint-Honore itself, one of the most important thoroughfares in the city
of Paris.
In matters of speculation, however, though "man proposes," "money
disposes." From some such difficulty the newly named street died almost
in birth, and the purchaser of the kitchen-garden, having paid a high
price for it, and being quite unable to find any one willing to take his
bargain off his hands without a considerable loss, yet still clinging
to the belief that at some future day he should obtain a sum for it that
would repay him, not only for his past outlay, but also the interest
upon the capital locked up in his new acquisition, contented himself
with letting the ground temporarily to some market-gardeners, at a
yearly rental of 500 francs. And so, as we have said, the iron gate
leading into the kitchen-garden had been closed up and left to the rust,
which bade fair before long to eat off its hinges, while to prevent the
ignoble glances of the diggers and delvers of the ground from presuming
to sully the aristocratic enclosure belonging to the mansion, the gate
had been boarded up to a height of six feet. True, the planks were not
so closely adjusted but that a hasty peep might be obtained through
their interstices; but the strict decorum and rigid propriety of the
inhabitants of the house left no grounds for apprehending that advantage
would be taken of that circumstance.
Horticulture seemed, however, to have been abandoned in the deserted
kitchen-garden; and where cabbages, carrots, radishes, pease, and melons
had once flourished, a scanty crop of lucerne alone bore evidence of its
being deemed worthy of cultivation. A small, low door gave egress from
the walled space we have been describing into the projected street, the
ground having been abandoned as unproductive by its various renters, and
had now fallen so completely in general estimation as to return not
even the one-half per cent it had originally paid. Towards the house
the chestnut-trees we have before mentioned rose high above the wall,
without in any way affecting the growth of other luxuriant shrubs and
flowers that eagerly dressed forward to fill up the vacant spaces, as
though asserting their right to enjoy the boon of light and air. At one
corner, where the foliage became so thick as almost to shut out day, a
large stone bench and sundry rustic seats indicated that this sheltered
spot was either in general favor or particular use by some inhabitant
of the house, which was faintly discernible through the dense mass of
verdure that partially concealed it, though situated but a hundred paces
off.
Whoever had selected this retired portion of the grounds as the boundary
of a walk, or as a place for meditation, was abundantly justified in
the choice by the absence of all glare, the cool, refreshing shade, the
screen it afforded from the scorching rays of the sun, that found no
entrance there even during the burning days of hottest summer, the
incessant and melodious warbling of birds, and the entire removal from
either the noise of the street or the bustle of the mansion. On the
evening of one of the warmest days spring had yet bestowed on the
inhabitants of Paris, might be seen negligently thrown upon the stone
bench, a book, a parasol, and a work-basket, from which hung a partly
embroidered cambric handkerchief, while at a little distance from these
articles was a young woman, standing close to the iron gate, endeavoring
to discern something on the other side by means of the openings in the
planks,--the earnestness of her attitude and the fixed gaze with which
she seemed to seek the object of her wishes, proving how much her
feelings were interested in the matter. At that instant the little
side-gate leading from the waste ground to the street was noiselessly
opened, and a tall, powerful young man appeared. He was dressed in a
common gray blouse and velvet cap, but his carefully arranged hair,
beard and mustache, all of the richest and glossiest black, ill accorded
with his plebeian attire. After casting a rapid glance around him, in
order to assure himself that he was unobserved, he entered by the small
gate, and, carefully closing and securing it after him, proceeded with a
hurried step towards the barrier.
At the sight of him she expected, though probably not in such a costume,
the young woman started in terror, and was about to make a hasty
retreat. But the eye of love had already seen, even through the narrow
chinks of the wooden palisades, the movement of the white robe, and
observed the fluttering of the blue sash. Pressing his lips close to the
planks, he exclaimed, "Don't be alarmed, Valentine--it is I!" Again the
timid girl found courage to return to the gate, saying, as she did so,
"And why do you come so late to-day? It is almost dinner-time, and I had
to use no little diplomacy to get rid of my watchful mother-in-law, my
too-devoted maid, and my troublesome brother, who is always teasing me
about coming to work at my embroidery, which I am in a fair way never to
get done. So pray excuse yourself as well as you can for having made me
wait, and, after that, tell me why I see you in a dress so singular that
at first I did not recognize you."
"Dearest Valentine," said the young man, "the difference between our
respective stations makes me fear to offend you by speaking of my love,
but yet I cannot find myself in your presence without longing to pour
forth my soul, and tell you how fondly I adore you. If it be but to
carry away with me the recollection of such sweet moments, I could even
thank you for chiding me, for it leaves me a gleam of hope, that if
you did not expect me (and that indeed would be worse than vanity to
suppose), at least I was in your thoughts. You asked me the cause of my
being late, and why I come disguised. I will candidly explain the reason
of both, and I trust to your goodness to pardon me. I have chosen a
trade."
"A trade? Oh, Maximilian, how can you jest at a time when we have such
deep cause for uneasiness?"
"Heaven keep me from jesting with that which is far dearer to me than
life itself! But listen to me, Valentine, and I will tell you all about
it. I became weary of ranging fields and scaling walls, and seriously
alarmed at the idea suggested by you, that if caught hovering about here
your father would very likely have me sent to prison as a thief. That
would compromise the honor of the French army, to say nothing of the
fact that the continual presence of a captain of Spahis in a place
where no warlike projects could be supposed to account for it might well
create surprise; so I have become a gardener, and, consequently, adopted
the costume of my calling."
"What excessive nonsense you talk, Maximilian!"
"Nonsense? Pray do not call what I consider the wisest action of my life
by such a name. Consider, by becoming a gardener I effectually screen
our meetings from all suspicion or danger."
"I beseech of you, Maximilian, to cease trifling, and tell me what you
really mean."
"Simply, that having ascertained that the piece of ground on which I
stand was to let, I made application for it, was readily accepted by
the proprietor, and am now master of this fine crop of lucerne. Think
of that, Valentine! There is nothing now to prevent my building myself
a little hut on my plantation, and residing not twenty yards from you.
Only imagine what happiness that would afford me. I can scarcely contain
myself at the bare idea. Such felicity seems above all price--as a thing
impossible and unattainable. But would you believe that I purchase all
this delight, joy, and happiness, for which I would cheerfully have
surrendered ten years of my life, at the small cost of 500 francs per
annum, paid quarterly? Henceforth we have nothing to fear. I am on my
own ground, and have an undoubted right to place a ladder against the
wall, and to look over when I please, without having any apprehensions
of being taken off by the police as a suspicious character. I may also
enjoy the precious privilege of assuring you of my fond, faithful, and
unalterable affection, whenever you visit your favorite bower, unless,
indeed, it offends your pride to listen to professions of love from the
lips of a poor workingman, clad in a blouse and cap." A faint cry of
mingled pleasure and surprise escaped from the lips of Valentine, who
almost instantly said, in a saddened tone, as though some envious cloud
darkened the joy which illumined her heart, "Alas, no, Maximilian, this
must not be, for many reasons. We should presume too much on our
own strength, and, like others, perhaps, be led astray by our blind
confidence in each other's prudence."
"How can you for an instant entertain so unworthy a thought, dear
Valentine? Have I not, from the first blessed hour of our acquaintance,
schooled all my words and actions to your sentiments and ideas? And you
have, I am sure, the fullest confidence in my honor. When you spoke
to me of experiencing a vague and indefinite sense of coming danger,
I placed myself blindly and devotedly at your service, asking no other
reward than the pleasure of being useful to you; and have I ever since,
by word or look, given you cause of regret for having selected me from
the numbers that would willingly have sacrificed their lives for you?
You told me, my dear Valentine, that you were engaged to M. d'Epinay,
and that your father was resolved upon completing the match, and that
from his will there was no appeal, as M. de Villefort was never known
to change a determination once formed. I kept in the background, as you
wished, and waited, not for the decision of your heart or my own, but
hoping that providence would graciously interpose in our behalf, and
order events in our favor. But what cared I for delays or difficulties,
Valentine, as long as you confessed that you loved me, and took pity
on me? If you will only repeat that avowal now and then, I can endure
anything."
"Ah, Maximilian, that is the very thing that makes you so bold, and
which renders me at once so happy and unhappy, that I frequently
ask myself whether it is better for me to endure the harshness of my
mother-in-law, and her blind preference for her own child, or to be,
as I now am, insensible to any pleasure save such as I find in these
meetings, so fraught with danger to both."
"I will not admit that word," returned the young man; "it is at once
cruel and unjust. Is it possible to find a more submissive slave than
myself? You have permitted me to converse with you from time to
time, Valentine, but forbidden my ever following you in your walks or
elsewhere--have I not obeyed? And since I found means to enter this
enclosure to exchange a few words with you through this gate--to be
close to you without really seeing you--have I ever asked so much as to
touch the hem of your gown or tried to pass this barrier which is but
a trifle to one of my youth and strength? Never has a complaint or a
murmur escaped me. I have been bound by my promises as rigidly as any
knight of olden times. Come, come, dearest Valentine, confess that what
I say is true, lest I be tempted to call you unjust."
"It is true," said Valentine, as she passed the end of her slender
fingers through a small opening in the planks, and permitted Maximilian
to press his lips to them, "and you are a true and faithful friend; but
still you acted from motives of self-interest, my dear Maximilian,
for you well knew that from the moment in which you had manifested an
opposite spirit all would have been ended between us. You promised to
bestow on me the friendly affection of a brother. For I have no friend
but yourself upon earth, who am neglected and forgotten by my father,
harassed and persecuted by my mother-in-law, and left to the sole
companionship of a paralyzed and speechless old man, whose withered hand
can no longer press mine, and who can speak to me with the eye alone,
although there still lingers in his heart the warmest tenderness for
his poor grandchild. Oh, how bitter a fate is mine, to serve either as
a victim or an enemy to all who are stronger than myself, while my only
friend and supporter is a living corpse! Indeed, indeed, Maximilian, I
am very miserable, and if you love me it must be out of pity."
"Valentine," replied the young man, deeply affected, "I will not say
you are all I love in the world, for I dearly prize my sister and
brother-in-law; but my affection for them is calm and tranquil, in no
manner resembling what I feel for you. When I think of you my heart
beats fast, the blood burns in my veins, and I can hardly breathe; but
I solemnly promise you to restrain all this ardor, this fervor and
intensity of feeling, until you yourself shall require me to render
them available in serving or assisting you. M. Franz is not expected to
return home for a year to come, I am told; in that time many favorable
and unforeseen chances may befriend us. Let us, then, hope for the best;
hope is so sweet a comforter. Meanwhile, Valentine, while reproaching me
with selfishness, think a little what you have been to me--the beautiful
but cold resemblance of a marble Venus. What promise of future
reward have you made me for all the submission and obedience I have
evinced?--none whatever. What granted me?--scarcely more. You tell me of
M. Franz d'Epinay, your betrothed lover, and you shrink from the idea of
being his wife; but tell me, Valentine, is there no other sorrow in your
heart? You see me devoted to you, body and soul, my life and each warm
drop that circles round my heart are consecrated to your service; you
know full well that my existence is bound up in yours--that were I to
lose you I would not outlive the hour of such crushing misery; yet you
speak with calmness of the prospect of your being the wife of another!
Oh, Valentine, were I in your place, and did I feel conscious, as you
do, of being worshipped, adored, with such a love as mine, a hundred
times at least should I have passed my hand between these iron bars, and
said, 'Take this hand, dearest Maximilian, and believe that, living
or dead, I am yours--yours only, and forever!'" The poor girl made no
reply, but her lover could plainly hear her sobs and tears. A rapid
change took place in the young man's feelings. "Dearest, dearest
Valentine," exclaimed he, "forgive me if I have offended you, and forget
the words I spoke if they have unwittingly caused you pain."
"No, Maximilian, I am not offended," answered she, "but do you not see
what a poor, helpless being I am, almost a stranger and an outcast in
my father's house, where even he is seldom seen; whose will has been
thwarted, and spirits broken, from the age of ten years, beneath the
iron rod so sternly held over me; oppressed, mortified, and persecuted,
day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, no person has cared for,
even observed my sufferings, nor have I ever breathed one word on the
subject save to yourself. Outwardly and in the eyes of the world, I am
surrounded by kindness and affection; but the reverse is the case. The
general remark is, 'Oh, it cannot be expected that one of so stern a
character as M. Villefort could lavish the tenderness some fathers do
on their daughters. What though she has lost her own mother at a tender
age, she has had the happiness to find a second mother in Madame de
Villefort.' The world, however, is mistaken; my father abandons me from
utter indifference, while my mother-in-law detests me with a hatred so
much the more terrible because it is veiled beneath a continual smile."
"Hate you, sweet Valentine," exclaimed the young man; "how is it
possible for any one to do that?"
"Alas," replied the weeping girl, "I am obliged to own that my
mother-in-law's aversion to me arises from a very natural source--her
overweening love for her own child, my brother Edward."
"But why should it?"
"I do not know; but, though unwilling to introduce money matters into
our present conversation, I will just say this much--that her extreme
dislike to me has its origin there; and I much fear she envies me the
fortune I enjoy in right of my mother, and which will be more than
doubled at the death of M. and Mme. de Saint-Meran, whose sole heiress
I am. Madame de Villefort has nothing of her own, and hates me for being
so richly endowed. Alas, how gladly would I exchange the half of this
wealth for the happiness of at least sharing my father's love. God
knows, I would prefer sacrificing the whole, so that it would obtain me
a happy and affectionate home."
"Poor Valentine!"
"I seem to myself as though living a life of bondage, yet at the
same time am so conscious of my own weakness that I fear to break the
restraint in which I am held, lest I fall utterly helpless. Then, too,
my father is not a person whose orders may be infringed with impunity;
protected as he is by his high position and firmly established
reputation for talent and unswerving integrity, no one could oppose him;
he is all-powerful even with the king; he would crush you at a word.
Dear Maximilian, believe me when I assure you that if I do not attempt
to resist my father's commands it is more on your account than my own."
"But why, Valentine, do you persist in anticipating the worst,--why
picture so gloomy a future?"
"Because I judge it from the past."
"Still, consider that although I may not be, strictly speaking, what
is termed an illustrious match for you, I am, for many reasons,
not altogether so much beneath your alliance. The days when such
distinctions were so nicely weighed and considered no longer exist in
France, and the first families of the monarchy have intermarried with
those of the empire. The aristocracy of the lance has allied itself with
the nobility of the cannon. Now I belong to this last-named class; and
certainly my prospects of military preferment are most encouraging as
well as certain. My fortune, though small, is free and unfettered, and
the memory of my late father is respected in our country, Valentine, as
that of the most upright and honorable merchant of the city; I say our
country, because you were born not far from Marseilles."
"Don't speak of Marseilles, I beg of you, Maximilian; that one word
brings back my mother to my recollection--my angel mother, who died too
soon for myself and all who knew her; but who, after watching over her
child during the brief period allotted to her in this world, now, I
fondly hope, watches from her home in heaven. Oh, if my mother were
still living, there would be nothing to fear, Maximilian, for I would
tell her that I loved you, and she would protect us."
"I fear, Valentine," replied the lover, "that were she living I should
never have had the happiness of knowing you; you would then have been
too happy to have stooped from your grandeur to bestow a thought on me."
"Now it is you who are unjust, Maximilian," cried Valentine; "but there
is one thing I wish to know."
"And what is that?" inquired the young man, perceiving that Valentine
hesitated.
"Tell me truly, Maximilian, whether in former days, when our fathers
dwelt at Marseilles, there was ever any misunderstanding between them?"
"Not that I am aware of," replied the young man, "unless, indeed, any
ill-feeling might have arisen from their being of opposite parties--your
father was, as you know, a zealous partisan of the Bourbons, while mine
was wholly devoted to the emperor; there could not possibly be any other
difference between them. But why do you ask?"
"I will tell you," replied the young girl, "for it is but right you
should know. Well, on the day when your appointment as an officer of the
Legion of honor was announced in the papers, we were all sitting with my
grandfather, M. Noirtier; M. Danglars was there also--you recollect M.
Danglars, do you not, Maximilian, the banker, whose horses ran away with
my mother-in-law and little brother, and very nearly killed them? While
the rest of the company were discussing the approaching marriage of
Mademoiselle Danglars, I was reading the paper to my grandfather; but
when I came to the paragraph about you, although I had done nothing else
but read it over to myself all the morning (you know you had told me all
about it the previous evening), I felt so happy, and yet so nervous, at
the idea of speaking your name aloud, and before so many people, that
I really think I should have passed it over, but for the fear that my
doing so might create suspicions as to the cause of my silence; so I
summoned up all my courage, and read it as firmly and as steadily as I
could."
"Dear Valentine!"
"Well, would you believe it? directly my father caught the sound of your
name he turned round quite hastily, and, like a poor silly thing, I was
so persuaded that every one must be as much affected as myself by the
utterance of your name, that I was not surprised to see my father start,
and almost tremble; but I even thought (though that surely must have
been a mistake) that M. Danglars trembled too."
"'Morrel, Morrel,' cried my father, 'stop a bit;' then knitting his
brows into a deep frown, he added, 'surely this cannot be one of the
Morrel family who lived at Marseilles, and gave us so much trouble from
their violent Bonapartism--I mean about the year 1815.'--'Yes,' replied
M. Danglars, 'I believe he is the son of the old shipowner.'"
"Indeed," answered Maximilian; "and what did your father say then,
Valentine?"
"Oh, such a dreadful thing, that I don't dare to tell you."
"Always tell me everything," said Maximilian with a smile.
"'Ah,' continued my father, still frowning, 'their idolized emperor
treated these madmen as they deserved; he called them 'food for powder,'
which was precisely all they were good for; and I am delighted to see
that the present government have adopted this salutary principle with
all its pristine vigor; if Algiers were good for nothing but to furnish
the means of carrying so admirable an idea into practice, it would be
an acquisition well worthy of struggling to obtain. Though it certainly
does cost France somewhat dear to assert her rights in that uncivilized
country.'"
"Brutal politics, I must confess." said Maximilian; "but don't attach
any serious importance, dear, to what your father said. My father was
not a bit behind yours in that sort of talk. 'Why,' said he, 'does
not the emperor, who has devised so many clever and efficient modes of
improving the art of war, organize a regiment of lawyers, judges and
legal practitioners, sending them in the hottest fire the enemy could
maintain, and using them to save better men?' You see, my dear, that
for picturesque expression and generosity of spirit there is not much
to choose between the language of either party. But what did M. Danglars
say to this outburst on the part of the procureur?"
"Oh, he laughed, and in that singular manner so peculiar to
himself--half-malicious, half-ferocious; he almost immediately got up
and took his leave; then, for the first time, I observed the agitation
of my grandfather, and I must tell you, Maximilian, that I am the only
person capable of discerning emotion in his paralyzed frame. And I
suspected that the conversation that had been carried on in his presence
(for they always say and do what they like before the dear old man,
without the smallest regard for his feelings) had made a strong
impression on his mind; for, naturally enough, it must have pained him
to hear the emperor he so devotedly loved and served spoken of in that
depreciating manner."
"The name of M. Noirtier," interposed Maximilian, "is celebrated
throughout Europe; he was a statesman of high standing, and you may
or may not know, Valentine, that he took a leading part in every
Bonapartist conspiracy set on foot during the restoration of the
Bourbons."
"Oh, I have often heard whispers of things that seem to me most
strange--the father a Bonapartist, the son a Royalist; what can have
been the reason of so singular a difference in parties and politics?
But to resume my story; I turned towards my grandfather, as though to
question him as to the cause of his emotion; he looked expressively
at the newspaper I had been reading. 'What is the matter, dear
grandfather?' said I, 'are you pleased?' He gave me a sign in the
affirmative. 'With what my father said just now?' He returned a sign in
the negative. 'Perhaps you liked what M. Danglars said?' Another sign in
the negative. 'Oh, then, you were glad to hear that M. Morrel (I didn't
dare to say Maximilian) had been made an officer of the Legion of
Honor?' He signified assent; only think of the poor old man's being so
pleased to think that you, who were a perfect stranger to him, had been
made an officer of the Legion of Honor! Perhaps it was a mere whim on
his part, for he is falling, they say, into second childhood, but I love
him for showing so much interest in you."
"How singular," murmured Maximilian; "your father hates me, while your
grandfather, on the contrary--What strange feelings are aroused by
politics."
"Hush," cried Valentine, suddenly; "some one is coming!" Maximilian
leaped at one bound into his crop of lucerne, which he began to pull up
in the most ruthless way, under the pretext of being occupied in weeding
it.
"Mademoiselle, mademoiselle!" exclaimed a voice from behind the trees.
"Madame is searching for you everywhere; there is a visitor in the
drawing-room."
"A visitor?" inquired Valentine, much agitated; "who is it?"
"Some grand personage--a prince I believe they said--the Count of Monte
Cristo."
"I will come directly," cried Valentine aloud. The name of Monte Cristo
sent an electric shock through the young man on the other side of the
iron gate, to whom Valentine's "I am coming" was the customary signal
of farewell. "Now, then," said Maximilian, leaning on the handle of his
spade, "I would give a good deal to know how it comes about that the
Count of Monte Cristo is acquainted with M. de Villefort."
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