“Count, I have your word,” said Morrel, coldly; then, taking out his watch, he added: “It is half-past eleven.”
“Morrel, can you intend it in my house, beneath my eyes?”
“Then let me go,” said Maximilian, “or I shall think you did not love me for my own sake, but for yours.” And he rose.
“It is well,” said Monte-Cristo, whose countenance brightened at these words, “you wish it; you are inflexible; yes, as you said, you are indeed wretched, and a miracle alone can cure you; sit down, Morrel, and wait.”
Morrel obeyed; the count rose, and unlocking a closet with a key suspended from his gold chain, took from it a little silver casket, beautifully carved and chased, the corners of which represented four bending figures, similar to the Caryatides, the forms of women, symbols of angels aspiring to heaven.
He placed the casket on the table; then opening it, took out a little golden box, the top of which flew open when touched by a secret spring. This box contained an unctuous substance, partly solid, of which it was impossible to discover the color, owing to the reflection of the polished gold, sapphires, rubies, emeralds which ornamented the box. It was a dazzling blaze of blue, red, and gold.
The count took out a small quantity of this with a gilt spoon, and offered it to Morrel, fixing a long, steadfast glance upon him. It was then observable that the substance was greenish.
“This is what you asked for,” he said, “and what I promised to give you.”
“I thank you from the depth of my heart,” said the young man, taking the spoon from the hands of Monte-Cristo. The count took another spoon, and again dipped it into the golden box. “What are you going to do, my friend?” asked Morrel, arresting his hand.
“Ma foi! Morrel, I was thinking that I, too, am weary of life, and since an opportunity presents itself –”
“Stay!” said the young man. “You, who love and are beloved; you, who have faith and hope, – oh, do not follow my example; in your case it would be a crime. Adieu, my noble and generous friend, adieu; I will go and tell Valentine what you have done for me.”
And slowly, though without any hesitation, only waiting to press the count’s hand fervently, he swallowed the mysterious substance offered by Monte-Cristo. Then they were both silent. Ali, mute and attentive, brought the pipes and coffee, and disappeared. By degrees the lamps gradually faded in the hands of the marble statues which held them, and the perfumes appeared less powerful to Morrel. Seated opposite to him, Monte-Cristo watched him in the shadow, and Morrel saw nothing but the bright eyes of the count. An overpowering sadness took possession of the young man; his hands relaxed their hold of the nargileh; the objects in the room gradually lost their form and color; and his disturbed vision seemed to perceive doors and curtains open in the wall.
“Friend,” he cried, “I feel that I am dying; thanks!”
He made a last effort to extend his hand, but it fell powerless beside him. Then it appeared to him that Monte-Cristo smiled, not with the strange and fearful expression which had sometimes revealed to him the secrets of his heart, but with the benevolent kindness of a father for an infant that is unreasonable. At the same time the count appeared to increase in stature; his form, nearly double its usual height, stood out in relief against the red tapestry, his black hair was thrown back, and he stood in the attitude of a menacing angel of the day of judgment. Morrel, overpowered, turned round in the arm-chair; a delicious torpor was insinuated into every vein; a change of ideas presented themselves to his brain, like a new design on the kaleidoscope; enervated, prostrate, and breathless, he felt nothing living in him but this dream; he seemed to be entering that vague delirium preceding death. He wished once again to press the count’s hand; but his own was unmovable; he wished to articulate a last farewell, but his tongue lay motionless and heavy in his throat, like a stone at the mouth of a sepulcher. Involuntarily his languid eyes closed; and still through his eyelashes a well-known form seemed to move amid the obscurity with which he thought himself enveloped.
The count had just opened the door. Immediately a brilliant light from the next room, or rather from a palace adjoining, shone upon the room into which he was gently gliding for his last sleep. Then he saw a woman of marvelous beauty appear on the threshold of the door separating the two rooms. Pale, and sweetly smiling, she looked like an angel of mercy conjuring the angel of vengeance.
“Is it heaven that opens before me?” thought the dying man; “that angel resembles the one I have lost.”
Monte-Cristo pointed Morrel to the young woman, who advanced toward him with clasped hands and a smile upon her lips.
“Valentine! Valentine!” he mentally ejaculated; but his lips uttered no sound; and, as though all his strength were centered in that internal emotion, he sighed and closed his eyes. Valentine rushed toward him; his lips again moved.