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    Chapter 100

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    Chapter 100
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    CHAPTER 100
    The Apparition.

    As the procureur had told Madame Danglars, Valentine was not
    yet recovered. Bowed down with fatigue, she was indeed
    confined to her bed; and it was in her own room, and from
    the lips of Madame de Villefort, that she heard all the
    strange events we have related, -- we mean the flight of
    Eugenie and the arrest of Andrea Cavalcanti, or rather
    Benedetto, together with the accusation of murder pronounced
    against him. But Valentine was so weak that this recital
    scarcely produced the same effect it would have done had she
    been in her usual state of health. Indeed, her brain was
    only the seat of vague ideas, and confused forms, mingled
    with strange fancies, alone presented themselves before her

    During the daytime Valentine's perceptions remained
    tolerably clear, owing to the constant presence of M.
    Noirtier, who caused himself to be carried to his
    granddaughter's room, and watched her with his paternal
    tenderness; Villefort also, on his return from the law
    courts, frequently passed an hour or two with his father and
    child. At six o'clock Villefort retired to his study, at
    eight M. d'Avrigny himself arrived, bringing the night
    draught prepared for the young girl, and then M. Noirtier
    was carried away. A nurse of the doctor's choice succeeded
    them, and never left till about ten or eleven o'clock, when
    Valentine was asleep. As she went down-stairs she gave the
    keys of Valentine's room to M. de Villefort, so that no one
    could reach the sick-room excepting through that of Madame
    de Villefort and little Edward.

    Every morning Morrel called on Noirtier to receive news of
    Valentine, and, extraordinary as it seemed, each day found
    him less uneasy. Certainly, though Valentine still labored
    under dreadful nervous excitement, she was better; and
    moreover, Monte Cristo had told him when, half distracted,
    he had rushed to the count's house, that if she were not
    dead in two hours she would be saved. Now four days had
    elapsed, and Valentine still lived.

    The nervous excitement of which we speak pursued Valentine
    even in her sleep, or rather in that state of somnolence
    which succeeded her waking hours; it was then, in the
    silence of night, in the dim light shed from the alabaster
    lamp on the chimney-piece, that she saw the shadows pass and
    repass which hover over the bed of sickness, and fan the
    fever with their trembling wings. First she fancied she saw
    her stepmother threatening her, then Morrel stretched his
    arms towards her; sometimes mere strangers, like the Count
    of Monte Cristo came to visit her; even the very furniture,
    in these moments of delirium, seemed to move, and this state
    lasted till about three o'clock in the morning, when a deep,
    heavy slumber overcame the young girl, from which she did
    not awake till daylight. On the evening of the day on which
    Valentine had learned of the flight of Eugenie and the
    arrest of Benedetto, -- Villefort having retired as well as
    Noirtier and d'Avrigny, -- her thoughts wandered in a
    confused maze, alternately reviewing her own situation and
    the events she had just heard.

    Eleven o'clock had struck. The nurse, having placed the
    beverage prepared by the doctor within reach of the patient,
    and locked the door, was listening with terror to the
    comments of the servants in the kitchen, and storing her
    memory with all the horrible stories which had for some
    months past amused the occupants of the ante-chambers in the
    house of the king's attorney. Meanwhile an unexpected scene
    was passing in the room which had been so carefully locked.
    Ten minutes had elapsed since the nurse had left; Valentine,
    who for the last hour had been suffering from the fever
    which returned nightly, incapable of controlling her ideas,
    was forced to yield to the excitement which exhausted itself
    in producing and reproducing a succession and recurrence of
    the same fancies and images. The night-lamp threw out
    countless rays, each resolving itself into some strange form
    to her disordered imagination, when suddenly by its
    flickering light Valentine thought she saw the door of her
    library, which was in the recess by the chimney-piece, open
    slowly, though she in vain listened for the sound of the
    hinges on which it turned.

    At any other time Valentine would have seized the silken
    bell-pull and summoned assistance, but nothing astonished
    her in her present situation. Her reason told her that all
    the visions she beheld were but the children of her
    imagination, and the conviction was strengthened by the fact
    that in the morning no traces remained of the nocturnal
    phantoms, who disappeared with the coming of daylight. From
    behind the door a human figure appeared, but the girl was
    too familiar with such apparitions to be alarmed, and
    therefore only stared, hoping to recognize Morrel. The
    figure advanced towards the bed and appeared to listen with
    profound attention. At this moment a ray of light glanced
    across the face of the midnight visitor.

    "It is not he," she murmured, and waited, in the assurance
    that this was but a dream, for the man to disappear or
    assume some other form. Still, she felt her pulse, and
    finding it throb violently she remembered that the best
    method of dispelling such illusions was to drink, for a
    draught of the beverage prepared by the doctor to allay her
    fever seemed to cause a reaction of the brain, and for a
    short time she suffered less. Valentine therefore reached
    her hand towards the glass, but as soon as her trembling arm
    left the bed the apparition advanced more quickly towards
    her, and approached the young girl so closely that she
    fancied she heard his breath, and felt the pressure of his

    This time the illusion, or rather the reality, surpassed
    anything Valentine had before experienced; she began to
    believe herself really alive and awake, and the belief that
    her reason was this time not deceived made her shudder. The
    pressure she felt was evidently intended to arrest her arm,
    and she slowly withdrew it. Then the figure, from whom she
    could not detach her eyes, and who appeared more protecting
    than menacing, took the glass, and walking towards the
    night-light held it up, as if to test its transparency. This
    did not seem sufficient; the man, or rather the ghost -- for
    he trod so softly that no sound was heard -- then poured out
    about a spoonful into the glass, and drank it. Valentine
    witnessed this scene with a sentiment of stupefaction. Every
    minute she had expected that it would vanish and give place
    to another vision; but the man, instead of dissolving like a
    shadow, again approached her, and said in an agitated voice,
    "Now you may drink."

    Valentine shuddered. It was the first time one of these
    visions had ever addressed her in a living voice, and she
    was about to utter an exclamation. The man placed his finger
    on her lips. "The Count of Monte Cristo!" she murmured.

    It was easy to see that no doubt now remained in the young
    girl's mind as to the reality of the scene; her eyes started
    with terror, her hands trembled, and she rapidly drew the
    bedclothes closer to her. Still, the presence of Monte
    Cristo at such an hour, his mysterious, fanciful, and
    extraordinary entrance into her room through the wall, might
    well seem impossibilities to her shattered reason. "Do not
    call any one -- do not be alarmed," said the Count; "do not
    let a shade of suspicion or uneasiness remain in your
    breast; the man standing before you, Valentine (for this
    time it is no ghost), is nothing more than the tenderest
    father and the most respectful friend you could dream of."

    Valentine could not reply; the voice which indicated the
    real presence of a being in the room, alarmed her so much
    that she feared to utter a syllable; still the expression of
    her eyes seemed to inquire, "If your intentions are pure,
    why are you here?" The count's marvellous sagacity
    understood all that was passing in the young girl's mind.

    "Listen to me," he said, "or, rather, look upon me; look at
    my face, paler even than usual, and my eyes, red with
    weariness -- for four days I have not closed them, for I
    have been constantly watching you, to protect and preserve
    you for Maximilian." The blood mounted rapidly to the cheeks
    of Valentine, for the name just announced by the count
    dispelled all the fear with which his presence had inspired
    her. "Maximilian!" she exclaimed, and so sweet did the sound
    appear to her, that she repeated it -- "Maximilian! -- has
    he then owned all to you?"

    "Everything. He told me your life was his, and I have
    promised him that you shall live."

    "You have promised him that I shall live?"


    "But, sir, you spoke of vigilance and protection. Are you a

    "Yes; the best you could have at the present time, believe

    "But you say you have watched?" said Valentine uneasily;
    "where have you been? -- I have not seen you." The count
    extended his hand towards the library. "I was hidden behind
    that door," he said, "which leads into the next house, which
    I have rented." Valentine turned her eyes away, and, with an
    indignant expression of pride and modest fear, exclaimed:
    "Sir, I think you have been guilty of an unparalleled
    intrusion, and that what you call protection is more like an

    "Valentine," he answered, "during my long watch over you,
    all I have observed has been what people visited you, what
    nourishment was prepared, and what beverage was served;
    then, when the latter appeared dangerous to me, I entered,
    as I have now done, and substituted, in the place of the
    poison, a healthful draught; which, instead of producing the
    death intended, caused life to circulate in your veins."

    "Poison -- death!" exclaimed Valentine, half believing
    herself under the influence of some feverish hallucination;
    "what are you saying, sir?"

    "Hush, my child," said Monte Cristo, again placing his
    finger upon her lips, "I did say poison and death. But drink
    some of this;" and the count took a bottle from his pocket,
    containing a red liquid, of which he poured a few drops into
    the glass. "Drink this, and then take nothing more
    to-night." Valentine stretched out her hand, but scarcely
    had she touched the glass when she drew back in fear. Monte
    Cristo took the glass, drank half its contents, and then
    presented it to Valentine, who smiled and swallowed the
    rest. "Oh, yes," she exclaimed, "I recognize the flavor of
    my nocturnal beverage which refreshed me so much, and seemed
    to ease my aching brain. Thank you, sir, thank you!"

    "This is how you have lived during the last four nights,
    Valentine," said the count. "But, oh, how I passed that
    time! Oh, the wretched hours I have endured -- the torture
    to which I have submitted when I saw the deadly poison
    poured into your glass, and how I trembled lest you should
    drink it before I could find time to throw it away!"

    "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

    "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.
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