CHAPTER 239: THE NIGHT OF TERROR: II

The count extended his hand toward the library. "I was hidden behind that door, which connects to the house next door. I rented it."

Valentine looked away, an expression of outraged pride and modest fear crossing her face. "Sir, I think you’ve committed an unparalleled intrusion, and what you call protection feels more like an insult!"

"Valentine," he answered softly, "during my long watch over you, all I observed was who visited you, what food was prepared, and what drinks were served. When I noticed the beverage appeared dangerous, I entered, as I have tonight, and substituted a healthy drink for the poison. Instead of producing the intended death, it allowed life to flow through your veins."

"Poison? Death?" Valentine exclaimed, half-believing she was still trapped in some feverish hallucination. "What are you saying?"

"Hush, my child." Monte Cristo placed his finger on her lips again. "Yes, I said poison and death. But drink this first." He pulled a bottle from his pocket containing a red liquid and poured a few drops into her glass. "Drink this, and take nothing else tonight."

Valentine reached out, but the moment her fingers touched the glass, she jerked back in fear.

Monte Cristo took the glass, drank half himself, then offered it to Valentine. She smiled hesitantly and swallowed the rest.

"Oh yes!" she exclaimed. "I recognize the taste of that drink I’ve been having at night, the one that refreshed me so much and eased the pain in my head. Thank you, sir, thank you!"

"This is how you’ve survived the last four nights, Valentine. But oh, the agony I endured! The torture I suffered watching that deadly poison being poured into your glass, trembling that you might drink it before I could throw it away!"

"Sir," Valentine said, her terror reaching new heights, "you said you watched the deadly poison being poured into my glass. But if you saw that... you must have seen the person who poured it?"

"Yes."

Valentine pushed herself up in bed, pulling the embroidered blanket, still damp with cold sweat from her fever and now from her fear, over her chest.

"You saw the person?" she repeated.

"Yes," the count confirmed.

"What you’re telling me is horrible! You want me to believe something too dreadful to imagine. Someone is trying to murder me? In my father’s house? In my own room? While I’m sick in bed? No, please leave, sir. You’re tempting me to doubt the goodness of God. It’s impossible. It can’t be true!"

"Are you the first person this hand has struck? Haven’t you witnessed Monsieur de Saint-Méran’s death? Madame de Saint-Méran’s? Barrois’s? Wouldn’t Monsieur Noirtier have fallen victim too, if not for the treatment he’s been taking for three years, which neutralized the poison’s effects?"

"Oh, God," Valentine breathed. "Is that why grandfather has made me share all his drinks this past month?"

"And didn’t they all taste slightly bitter, like dried orange peel?"

"Yes! Yes, they did!"

"That explains everything. Your grandfather knows a poisoner lives in this house. He may even suspect who it is. He’s been fortifying you, his beloved grandchild, against the poison’s fatal effects. It failed because your system was already saturated with the antidote. But even that wouldn’t have helped against the more deadly substance used four days ago, one that’s almost always fatal."

"But who is this assassin? This murderer?"

"Let me ask you something first. Have you ever seen anyone enter your room at night?"

"Oh yes. I’ve often seen shadows pass close to me, approach, then disappear. But I thought they were just visions created by my feverish imagination. Even when you entered just now, I thought I was delirious."

"So you don’t know who’s trying to kill you?"

"No," Valentine said. "Who could possibly want me dead?"

"You’re about to find out," Monte Cristo said, listening intently. "Right now."

"What do you mean?" Valentine glanced around anxiously.

"Because tonight you’re not feverish or delirious, you’re completely awake. And midnight is approaching. The hour murderers prefer."

"Oh God," Valentine whispered, wiping drops of sweat from her forehead.

Midnight began to strike, slowly and sadly. Each chime seemed to fall like a weight on the young girl’s heart.

"Valentine," the count said, "gather all your courage. Steady your heartbeat. Don’t make a sound. Pretend to be asleep. Then you’ll see."

Valentine seized the count’s hand. "I think I hear something. Please, you have to leave."

"Goodbye for now," the count replied, walking on tiptoe toward the library door. He smiled with an expression so sad and paternal that Valentine’s heart filled with gratitude.

Before closing the door, he turned back one last time. "Not a movement. Not a word. Let them think you’re asleep, or they might kill you before I can help you."

With that terrifying warning, the count vanished through the door, which closed silently behind him.

Valentine was alone now. Two other clocks, slower than the one at Saint-Philippe du Roule, struck midnight from different directions. Except for the rumble of a few distant carriages, all was silent.

Valentine’s attention fixed on the clock in her room, counting the seconds. She began counting along with it, noticing the ticks were much slower than her pounding heartbeats. Still, she couldn’t quite believe it. Sweet, innocent Valentine couldn’t imagine why anyone would want her dead. Why would they? What purpose would it serve? What had she done to earn an enemy’s hatred?

There was no danger of falling asleep now. One terrible thought consumed her mind: someone in this world had tried to murder her and was about to try again. What if, tired of poison’s inefficiency, they resorted to a knife, as Monte Cristo had suggested? What if the count couldn’t reach her in time? What if these were her last moments, and she’d never see Morrel again?

When this chain of dark thoughts overwhelmed her, Valentine almost rang the bell to call for help. But then she imagined seeing the count’s luminous eyes through the door, those eyes that lived in her memory, and shame washed over her. Could any amount of gratitude ever repay his adventurous and devoted friendship?

Twenty agonizing minutes crawled by. Then ten more. Finally, the clock struck the half-hour.

Just then, the faint sound of fingernails scratching against the library door told Valentine the count was still watching. At the same time, from the opposite direction, Edward’s room, she thought she heard the floor creaking. She listened carefully, holding her breath until she nearly suffocated.

The lock turned. The door slowly opened.

Valentine had raised herself on one elbow, but she barely had time to throw herself back down and cover her eyes with her arm. Trembling, agitated, her heart beating with indescribable terror, she waited.

Someone approached the bed and pulled back the curtains.

Valentine summoned every ounce of willpower and breathed with the regular rhythm of peaceful sleep.

"Valentine?" said a low voice.

She stayed silent. She’d promised not to wake.

Then everything went still, except Valentine heard the nearly silent sound of liquid being poured into the glass she’d just emptied.

She dared to open her eyelids slightly and peek over her extended arm.

She saw a woman in a white dressing gown pouring liquid from a small bottle into her glass.

Valentine must have held her breath or moved slightly, because the woman suddenly stopped and leaned over the bed to check if Valentine was really asleep.

It was Madame de Villefort. Her stepmother.