Page:The Count of Monte-Cristo (1887 Volume 3).djvu/56

36 "It is true," said Valentine, as she passed the end of her slender fingers through a small opening in the planks, thus permitting her lover to press them with his lips, "and you are a true and faithful friend; but still you acted from motives of self-interest, my dear Maximilian, for you well knew that from the moment in which you had manifested an opposite spirit, all would have been ended between us. You promised to bestow on me the friendly affection of a brother I, who have no friend but yourself upon earth, who am neglected and forgotten by my father, persecuted by my step-mother, and left to the sole companionship of a paralyzed and speechless old man, whose withered hand can no longer press mine, and whose eye alone converses with me, while, doubt less, there still lingers in his heart some tenderness. Oh, how bitter a fate is mine, to serve either as a victim or an enemy to all who are stronger than myself, while my only friend and supporter is but a living corpse! Indeed, indeed, Maximilian, I am very miserable, and you are right to love me for myself alone."

"Dear Valentine," replied the young man, deeply affected, "I will not say you are all I love in the world, for I dearly prize my sister and brother-in-law; but my affection for them is calm and tranquil, in no manner resembling that I feel for you. At the mere thought of you my heart beats more quickly, my blood flows with increased rapidity through my veins, and my breast heaves with tumultuous emotions; but I solemnly promise you to restrain all this ardor, this fervor and intensity of feeling, until you yourself shall require me to render them available in serving or assisting you. M. Franz is not expected to return home for a year to come, I am told; in that time many favorable and unforeseen chances may befriend us. Let us, then, hope for the best; hope is so sweet a comforter. Meanwhile, Valentine, while reproaching me with selfishness, think a little what you have been to me—the beautiful but cold resemblance of a marble Venus. What promise of future reward have you made me for all the submission and obedience I have evinced?—none whatever. What granted me?—scarcely more. You tell me of M. Franz d'Epinay, your betrothed lover, and you shrink from, the idea of being his wife; but tell me, Valentine, is there no other sorrow in your heart? You see me devoted to you, body and soul; my life and each warm drop that circles round my heart are consecrated to your service; you know full well that my existence is bound up in yours that were I to lose you I would not outlive the hour of such crushing misery; yet you speak with calmness of the prospect of your being the wife of another! Oh, Valentine! were I in your place, and did I feel conscious, as you do, of being worshiped, adored, with such a love as mine, a hundred times at least should I have passed my hand