CHAPTER 226: THE POISONER’S GAME: III

"How terrible!" Maximilian exclaimed.

"Not for the countess or Albert," Monte Cristo said. "A dead father or husband is better than a disgraced one. Blood washes away shame."

"Poor countess," Maximilian murmured. "I feel terrible for her. She’s such a noble woman."

"Pity Albert too, Maximilian. Believe me, he’s worthy of his mother. But let’s talk about you. You rushed here, can I help you with something?"

"Yes, I need your help. Or rather, I thought like a madman that you might help me in a situation where only God can intervene."

"Tell me what it is," Monte Cristo replied.

"Oh," Morrel said, "I don’t even know if I should reveal this secret to another living soul. But fate drives me, necessity compels me, Count-"

Morrel hesitated.

"Do you think I care about you?" Monte Cristo asked, taking the young man’s hand affectionately.

"You give me courage. Something here," he placed his hand over his heart, "tells me I should have no secrets from you."

"You’re right, Morrel. God is speaking to your heart, and your heart speaks to you. Tell me what it says."

"Count, may I send Baptistin to check on someone you know?"

"I’m at your service, and my servants are too."

"Oh, I can’t live if she’s not better."

"Should I ring for Baptistin?"

"No, I’ll speak to him myself."

Morrel left, called Baptistin, and whispered instructions. The servant ran off immediately.

"There. Are you satisfied?" Monte Cristo asked when Morrel returned.

"Yes. Now I’ll be calmer."

"You know I’m waiting," Monte Cristo said, smiling.

"Yes. I’ll tell you everything." Morrel took a deep breath. "One evening I was in a garden. A cluster of trees concealed me, no one knew I was there. Two people passed near me. Let me hide their names for now. They were speaking quietly, but I was so interested that I caught every word."

"This sounds ominous," Monte Cristo observed, noting Morrel’s pallor and trembling.

"It was ominous. Someone had just died in the house that owned that garden. One person was the master of the house, the other a physician. The master was confiding his grief and fear to the doctor. It was the second time in a month that death had suddenly and unexpectedly entered that house, as if some destroying angel had marked it for God’s wrath."

"Indeed?" Monte Cristo said, studying the young man intently. By an imperceptible movement, he shifted his chair so he remained in shadow while light fell full on Maximilian’s face.

"Yes," Morrel continued. "Death had struck that house twice in one month."

"What did the doctor say?"

"He said the death wasn’t natural. It had to be attributed to-"

"To what?"

"To poison."

"Really?" Monte Cristo said with a slight cough that helped him disguise his reaction, a blush, pallor, or the intense interest with which he listened. "You heard that, Maximilian?"

"Yes, Count. And the doctor added that if another death occurred the same way, he’d have to report it to the authorities."

Monte Cristo listened, or appeared to, with complete calm.

"Well," Maximilian continued, "death came a third time. Neither the master nor the doctor said anything. Now death may be striking a fourth time. Count, what am I supposed to do, knowing this secret?"

"My dear friend," Monte Cristo replied, "you’re describing an adventure we all know by heart. I know the house you’re talking about, or one very similar, a house with a garden, a master, a physician, and three unexpected, sudden deaths. I haven’t intercepted your confidence, yet I know it all as well as you do. And I have no moral dilemma about it. It doesn’t concern me. You say a destroying angel seems devoted to marking that house for God’s anger? Who says your supposition isn’t reality? Don’t pay attention to things that those with a stake in them are choosing to overlook. If it’s God’s justice, not his anger, walking through that house, Maximilian, turn away and let justice take its course."

Morrel shuddered. Something mournful, solemn, and terrible had entered the Count’s manner.

"Besides," Monte Cristo continued in a completely different tone, "who says it will happen again?"

"It has happened again, Count!" Morrel exclaimed. "That’s why I rushed here!"

"Well, what do you want me to do? Give information to the prosecutor?"

Monte Cristo spoke with such pointed meaning that Morrel jumped to his feet.

"You know who I’m talking about, don’t you, Count?"

"Perfectly well, my friend. I’ll prove it by filling in the blanks. You were walking one evening in Monsieur de Villefort’s garden, the evening of Madame de Saint-Méran’s death, I assume. You overheard Monsieur de Villefort talking to Monsieur d’Avrigny about the deaths of both Monsieur and Madame de Saint-Méran. D’Avrigny said he believed both were poisoned. And you, honest man that you are, have been asking your heart and conscience ever since whether you should expose or conceal this secret. But my dear fellow, let them sleep if they’re sleeping. Let them grow pale if they’re inclined to. Remain at peace, you have no guilt disturbing you."

Deep grief marked Morrel’s features. He grabbed Monte Cristo’s hand.

"But it’s starting again, I tell you!"

"Well," the Count said, surprised by his persistence, "let it begin again. It’s like the cursed house of Atreus. God has condemned them, and they must accept their punishment. They’ll all fall like a house of cards, even if there are two hundred of them. Three months ago it was Monsieur de Saint-Méran. Two months ago, Madame de Saint-Méran. Recently, Barrois. Today, old Noirtier or young Valentine."

"You knew?" Morrel cried in such terror that Monte Cristo, who would remain unmoved even if the heavens fell, actually started. "You knew and said nothing?"

"What is it to me?" Monte Cristo replied, shrugging. "Do I know these people? Must I sacrifice one to save another? No, because between the guilty and the victim, I have no preference."

"But I," Morrel groaned, "I love her!"

"You love? Whom?" Monte Cristo leaped to his feet, seizing both of Morrel’s hands as they rose toward heaven.

"I love her with all my heart. I love her madly. I love her so much I’d give my life’s blood to spare her a single tear. I love Valentine de Villefort, who’s being murdered at this very moment! Do you understand me? I love her, and I’m asking you and God how I can save her!"

Monte Cristo let out a cry that only those who’ve heard a wounded lion roar could comprehend.

"Unhappy man!" he cried, wringing his own hands. "You love Valentine, that daughter of a cursed race!"

Never had Morrel seen such an expression. Never had such a terrible eye flashed before him. Never had the genius of terror he’d witnessed on battlefields and during murderous nights in Algeria burned with more dreadful fire. He stepped back, terrified.

As for Monte Cristo, after this outburst he closed his eyes as if dazzled by internal light. For a long moment he restrained himself so powerfully that the tempestuous heaving of his chest subsided like turbulent waves yielding to the sun’s influence after a storm passes.

This silence, this self-control, this struggle lasted about twenty seconds. Then the Count raised his pale face.

"Look," he said, "my dear friend, this is how God punishes the most thoughtless and unfeeling men for their indifference. He forces them to witness dreadful scenes. I was watching as an eager, curious spectator. I was observing this mournful tragedy unfold. Like a wicked angel, I was laughing at the evil men committed, protected by their secrecy, and secrecy is easily kept by the rich and powerful. Now I’m bitten by the very serpent whose movements I was tracking. Bitten to the heart!"

Morrel groaned.

"Enough complaints," the Count continued. "Be a man. Be strong. Be full of hope, because I’m here and I’ll watch over you."

Morrel shook his head sorrowfully.