M. de Boville had encountered the funeral procession carrying Valentine to her final resting place. The sky was heavy with storm clouds, and a bitter wind tore the last yellow leaves from the trees, scattering them among the crowds lining the streets.
M. de Villefort, a true Parisian through and through, believed only one cetery was worthy of his family, Père-Lachaise. It was the most prestigious burial ground in Paris, where the city’s elite laid their dead to rest. He’d purchased a family vault there years ago, and it had already claid several mbers of his household. The monunt bore an inscription, "The families of Saint-Méran and Villefort", the last wish of poor Renée, Valentine’s mother.
The elaborate procession wound its way from the fashionable Faubourg Saint-Honoré district toward Père-Lachaise cetery. They crossed through Paris, passing through the Faubourg du Temple before reaching the outer boulevards. More than fifty private carriages followed the twenty official mourning coaches, and behind them, over five hundred people walked on foot.
Those walking were mostly young people, friends and admirers whom Valentine’s death had struck like lightning. Despite the raw, bone-chilling weather, they couldn’t bring themselves to miss paying their respects to the beautiful, pure, and beloved girl whose life had been cut short in the bloom of youth.
As the procession left Paris proper, a carriage drawn by four horses suddenly pulled up at full speed. Monte Cristo erged from it. The count stepped out and lted into the crowd of mourners on foot. Château-Renaud noticed him imdiately and left his own carriage to join him.
The count’s eyes swept through every gap in the crowd. He was clearly searching for soone, but his search seed fruitless.
"Where is Morrel?" he asked. "Do any of you know where he is?"
"We’ve been wondering the sa thing," Château-Renaud replied. "None of us have seen him."
The count fell silent but continued scanning the crowd. Finally, they reached the cetery gates.
Monte Cristo’s sharp eyes pierced through the clusters of bushes and ancient trees. Relief washed over him when he spotted a shadow gliding between the yew trees, he’d found who he was looking for.
Funerals in this grand city all shared certain similarities. Black-clad figures dotted the long white pathways. The only sounds breaking the solemn silence were the crackling of branches from the hedges planted around monunts, the lancholy chanting of priests, and occasional sobs escaping from mourners hidden behind masses of flowers.
The shadow Monte Cristo had noticed slipped quickly behind the famous tomb of Abélard and Héloïse, two legendary lovers from centuries past. It positioned itself near the horses pulling the hearse and followed the undertaker’s n to the burial site.
Everyone’s attention focused on the ceremony. Monte Cristo saw nothing but that shadow, which no one else seed to notice. Twice he left his position to check whether the person carried any concealed weapon.
When the procession stopped, the shadow revealed itself as Morrel. His coat was buttoned to his throat, his face deathly pale, and his hands crushed his hat between white-knuckled fingers. He leaned against a tree on elevated ground that commanded a perfect view of the mausoleum, from there, no detail of the funeral could escape his observation.
Everything proceeded according to custom. A few n, the least emotionally invested in the scene, gave speeches. So lanted this premature death, others spoke of the father’s grief, and one particularly elaborate speaker ntioned how Valentine had once begged her father to show rcy to condemned criminals. They exhausted their stores of flowery language and mournful rhetoric.
Monte Cristo heard and saw nothing, or rather, he only saw Morrel, whose eerie calmness had a frightening effect on those who understood what must be raging in his heart.
"Look," Beauchamp said, pointing Morrel out to Debray. "What’s he doing up there?"
They called Château-Renaud’s attention to him.
"How pale he looks!" Château-Renaud said, shuddering.
"He’s just cold," Debray suggested.
"No," Château-Renaud said slowly. "I think he’s violently agitated. He’s always been susceptible to emotion."
"Co on," Debray scoffed. "He barely knew Mademoiselle de Villefort. You said so yourself."
"True. Though I rember he danced with her three tis at Mada de Morcerf’s ball. Do you rember that ball, Count, where you made such an impression?"
"No, I don’t," Monte Cristo replied without even knowing what he was responding to. His entire focus remained locked on Morrel, who stood there holding his breath.
"The speeches are over. Farewell, gentlen," the count said abruptly. He vanished without anyone seeing where he went.
As the funeral concluded and guests began returning to Paris, Château-Renaud looked around for Morrel. But while they’d been watching the count’s departure, Morrel had abandoned his post. Unable to find him, Château-Renaud rejoined Debray and Beauchamp.
Monte Cristo concealed himself behind a large tomb and waited. Gradually, Morrel approached the gravesite, now abandoned by spectators and workers alike.
Morrel glanced around, but before his gaze could reach Monte Cristo’s hiding spot, the count had already moved closer, still undetected.
The young man dropped to his knees.
The count stood with outstretched neck and intense eyes, ready to pounce on Morrel at the first sign of danger. Morrel bent his head until it touched the cold stone, then clutched the grating with both hands and murmured, "Oh, Valentine!"
The utterance of those two words pierced the count’s heart. He stepped forward and touched the young man’s shoulder. "I was looking for you, my friend."
Monte Cristo expected an explosion of emotion, but Morrel simply turned and said calmly, "You see, I was praying."
The count’s scrutinizing gaze examined the young man from head to foot. He seed sowhat reassured.
"Shall I drive you back to Paris?" he asked.
"No, thank you."
"Do you need anything?"
"Leave to pray."
The count withdrew without protest, but only to position himself where he could watch Morrel’s every movent. Eventually, Morrel stood, brushed the dust from his knees, and turned toward Paris without looking back even once.
He walked slowly down the Rue de la Roquette. The count dismissed his carriage and followed about a hundred paces behind. Maximilian crossed the canal and entered the Rue slay via the boulevards.
Five minutes after the door closed on Morrel’s entrance, it opened again for the count.
Julie stood at the entrance to the garden, watching Penelon, who was enthusiastically grafting so Bengal roses in his role as gardener.
"Ah, Count!" she exclaid with the delight every family mber showed whenever he visited the Rue slay house.
"Maximilian just returned, hasn’t he, mada?" the count asked.
"Yes, I think I saw him pass. But please, let call Emmanuel for you."
"Excuse , mada, but I must go up to Maximilian’s room imdiately," Monte Cristo replied urgently. "I have sothing of the greatest importance to tell him."
"Go, then," she said with a charming smile that accompanied him until he disappeared.
Monte Cristo quickly climbed the staircase from the ground floor to Maximilian’s room. When he reached the landing, he listened carefully. Everything was silent.
Like many old houses occupied by a single family, the door had a glass panel, but it was locked. Maximilian had shut himself in, and a red curtain drawn across the glass made it impossible to see what was happening inside.
The count’s anxiety showed in the bright color that rarely appeared on that usually imperturbable face.
"What should I do?" he muttered, pausing to think. "Should I ring? No, the sound of a bell announcing a visitor will only accelerate whatever resolution soone in Maximilian’s state has made. And the bell would be followed by an even louder noise."
Monte Cristo trembled from head to foot. Then, as if his decision had ford with lightning speed, he struck one of the glass panes with his elbow. The glass shattered into fragnts. Withdrawing the curtain, he saw Morrel, who had been writing at his desk, leap from his seat at the sound of breaking glass.
"I beg a thousand pardons," the count said casually. "Nothing’s wrong, I just slipped and broke one of your panes with my elbow. Since it’s open now, I’ll take advantage and enter through here. Don’t trouble yourself at all!"
He reached his hand through the broken glass and opened the door from inside.
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