After Madame Danglars and her daughter left, and while Maximilian and Valentine were having their conversation elsewhere, something crucial was unfolding in the prosecutor’s mansion.
Monsieur de Villefort walked into his father’s room with his wife following close behind. They both greeted the elderly man and nodded to Barrois, the faithful servant who’d been with the family for twenty-five years. Then they took their positions on either side of the paralyzed old man.
Monsieur Noirtier sat in a special wheelchair, which the servants rolled into his room every morning and back out at night. He was positioned in front of a large mirror that reflected the entire room, a clever setup that let him see everyone who entered and everything that happened around him, even though he couldn’t turn his head.
Despite being almost as still as a corpse, Noirtier’s eyes tracked the newcomers with sharp intelligence. From their stiff, formal manner, he immediately understood this wasn’t a casual visit. They were here on official business, and it probably wasn’t good news.
The paralysis had stolen almost everything from him. Only his sight and hearing remained, two tiny sparks of life in a body that seemed ready for the grave. But through his eyes alone, he could still express the thoughts and feelings that burned in his mind. His gaze was like a distant candle flame spotted by a traveler crossing a dark desert at night, proof that someone was alive in there, beyond all the silence and shadows.
His white hair fell long over his shoulders, and beneath thick black lashes, his eyes held all the energy, cleverness, strength, and intelligence that used to flow through his entire body. When you can’t move your arms, can’t speak, can’t walk, your eyes have to do everything. And Noirtier’s eyes could command, could thank, could speak volumes. Looking at him was unsettling: a corpse with living eyes. Nothing was more startling than watching anger or joy suddenly blaze in those eyes while the rest of his marble-like face remained completely frozen.
Only three people could understand the language of those expressive eyes: Villefort, Valentine, and the old servant Barrois.
But Villefort rarely visited his father, only when he absolutely had to, and he never made any effort to make the old man happy when he did show up. All of Noirtier’s happiness centered on his granddaughter. Valentine had learned through love, patience, and devotion to read every emotion that passed through her grandfather’s gaze. She’d mastered this silent language that baffled everyone else, responding by pouring her whole soul into her own expressions. That’s how they held conversations, the blooming young woman and the helpless invalid whose body was barely alive, but whose mind remained razor-sharp and whose will burned as fierce as ever, trapped in a prison of useless flesh.
Valentine had cracked the code. She could understand his thoughts easily and communicate her own back to him. Through tireless dedication, she almost never failed to anticipate what he needed or wanted in daily life.
As for Barrois, after twenty-five years of service, he knew all his master’s habits so well that Noirtier rarely needed to ask for anything, the servant was always one step ahead.
Villefort didn’t need Valentine or Barrois to help with the strange conversation he was about to have. He understood his father’s silent vocabulary perfectly. If he rarely used it, that was just because he didn’t care enough to bother. So he sent Valentine out to the garden, dismissed Barrois, and seated himself on his father’s right side while his wife took the left.
"I hope you won’t mind, sir, that Valentine isn’t here or that I sent Barrois away," Villefort began. "Our discussion needs to be private. My wife and I have something important to tell you."
Noirtier’s face remained completely blank during this long introduction. Meanwhile, Villefort’s eyes were trying to dig into his father’s mind, searching for any hint of what the old man was thinking.
"This news," the prosecutor continued in that cold, decisive tone that made it clear he wasn’t open to debate, "will surely meet with your approval."
The invalid’s eye stayed vacant and unreadable, preventing his son from getting any clue about his feelings. He just listened. Nothing more. Check latest chapters at novel⁂fire.net
"Sir," Villefort resumed, "we’re planning Valentine’s wedding."
If the old man’s face had been made of wax, it couldn’t have shown less emotion at this announcement.
"The marriage will happen in less than three months," Villefort added.
Noirtier’s eye remained lifeless.
Now Madame de Villefort joined in. "We thought this news would interest you, sir, since you’ve always loved Valentine so much. All that remains is to tell you the name of her future husband. It’s one of the best possible matches, he has wealth, high social standing, and every quality likely to make Valentine supremely happy. His name might sound familiar to you. It’s Monsieur Franz de Quesnel, Baron d’Epinay."
While his wife spoke, Villefort watched his father’s face like a hawk.
The moment Madame de Villefort said "Franz," the pupil of Noirtier’s eye dilated. His eyelids trembled the way someone’s lips tremble right before they speak. Then he shot a look like lightning at both Madame de Villefort and his son.
Villefort knew all about the political hatred that had existed between his father and Franz’s father years ago. He understood perfectly the rage and agitation this announcement triggered. But pretending not to notice, he smoothly continued where his wife left off.
"Sir," he said, "Valentine is about to turn nineteen, which makes it important not to delay her marriage any longer. But don’t worry, we haven’t forgotten about you in our plans. We’ve already confirmed that Valentine’s future husband agrees that you’ll live with them. Not in this house, of course, that might be awkward for the young couple, but you and Valentine, who are so attached to each other, won’t be separated. You’ll be able to continue exactly as you have been. In fact, instead of losing, you’ll gain from this arrangement. You’ll have two children looking after you instead of just one."
Noirtier’s look turned absolutely furious. Something desperate was clearly happening in the old man’s mind. A cry of rage and grief rose in his throat, but unable to escape, it seemed to choke him. His face and lips turned deep purple with the effort.
Villefort calmly opened a window. "It’s quite warm. The heat is affecting Father." Then he returned to his spot but didn’t sit down.
"This marriage," Madame de Villefort added, "aligns perfectly with Monsieur d’Epinay’s wishes and his family’s. Besides, he has no close relatives except an uncle and aunt. His mother died giving birth to him, and his father was murdered in 1815 when Franz was only two years old. Naturally, the boy grew up making his own choices, rarely answering to anyone but himself."
"That murder was quite mysterious," Villefort said. "The killers were never caught, though several people fell under suspicion."
Noirtier’s lips strained so hard they almost formed a smile.
"Now," Villefort continued, "the people who are actually guilty, who committed that crime, who may face human justice here and definitely face divine judgment later, they would surely welcome the chance to offer Valentine as a peace offering to the son of the man whose life they so brutally destroyed."
Noirtier managed to master his emotions more than anyone would think possible for someone so broken and frail.
Yes, I understand, his look said, burning with fierce indignation and deep contempt.
Villefort fully understood his father’s meaning and answered with a slight shrug. Then he signaled his wife that it was time to leave.
"Well, sir," said Madame de Villefort, "I must say goodbye now. Would you like me to send Edward to keep you company?"
They’d established a system: the old man closed his eyes to say yes, blinked several times to say no, and raised his eyes to heaven when he wanted to express something. If he wanted Valentine, he closed only his right eye. For Barrois, the left eye.