Respawned as The Count of Glow-Up-Chapter 242: Lingering Poison: II

Here’s what had happened:

At his usual time, Morrel had arrived at the small door leading to Old Noirtier’s room. Strangely, the door stood open, he didn’t even need to ring. He walked into the entrance hall and called for a servant to take him to Monsieur Noirtier.

No answer. The servants had all fled, though Morrel didn’t know that yet.

He wasn’t particularly worried at first. The Count of Monte Cristo had promised that Valentine would live, and the Count had always kept his word. Every night he’d given Morrel news, which Noirtier confirmed the next morning.

Still, this unusual silence felt wrong.

He called again. And again. Nothing.

Finally, he decided to go upstairs himself.

Noirtier’s door stood open like all the others. The old man sat in his wheelchair in his usual spot, but his eyes radiated alarm. His face was deathly pale.

"Are you well, sir?" Morrel asked, his heart sinking.

The old man closed his eyes, his way of saying "yes." But his expression showed increasing distress.

"You’re worried about something," Morrel continued. "You need something. Should I call a servant?"

"Yes," Noirtier indicated.

Morrel pulled the bell cord hard enough to nearly break it. No one came.

He turned back to Noirtier. The pallor and anguish on the old man’s face had intensified.

"Why isn’t anyone answering?" Morrel’s voice rose. "Is someone sick in the house?"

Noirtier’s eyes looked ready to burst from their sockets.

"What is it? You’re scaring me. Is it Valentine? Valentine?"

"Yes, yes," Noirtier signed frantically. 𝕗𝚛𝚎𝚎𝐰𝗲𝗯𝗻𝚘𝚟𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝕞

Morrel tried to speak but couldn’t form words. He swayed, catching himself against the wall. Then he pointed desperately at the door.

"Yes, yes, yes!" the old man’s eyes screamed.

Morrel bolted up the small staircase, Noirtier’s eyes seeming to shout, "Faster, faster!"

He flew through room after room until he reached Valentine’s chamber. The door was wide open.

A sob reached his ears, the only sound. Through a haze, he saw a black figure kneeling, buried in a mass of white fabric. Terrible fear seized him.

Then he heard a voice say, "Valentine is dead."

And another voice, like an echo, "Dead... dead!"

Villefort rose, half-ashamed to be caught in such an emotional state. His twenty-five years as a prosecutor had made him more, or less, than human. His gaze, at first unfocused, settled on Morrel.

"Who are you?" he demanded. "You forget this is not how one enters a house touched by death. Leave. Now."

But Morrel couldn’t move. His eyes were fixed on that disheveled bed and the pale corpse lying upon it.

"Leave! Do you hear me?" Villefort shouted as d’Avrigny moved to escort Morrel out.

Morrel stared at the body, looked around the room, then at both men. His mouth opened to speak, but he couldn’t voice the countless thoughts racing through his mind. He left, running his hands through his hair so violently that Villefort and d’Avrigny exchanged a glance that said, "He’s gone mad."

But less than five minutes later, the staircase groaned under an extraordinary weight.

Morrel appeared, carrying Noirtier’s wheelchair with superhuman strength. When he reached the landing, he set it down and rapidly rolled it into Valentine’s room. Only unnatural strength fueled by powerful emotion could have accomplished such a feat.

The most terrifying sight was Noirtier being pushed toward the bed, his face expressing everything his paralyzed body couldn’t, his eyes burning with intensity.

To Villefort, that pale face and flaming gaze seemed like a nightmare apparition. Every time he’d been brought into contact with his father, something terrible had followed.

"Look what they’ve done!" Morrel cried, one hand on the wheelchair, the other reaching toward Valentine. "Look, my father, look!"

Villefort stepped back, staring in confusion at this young man, practically a stranger, who called Noirtier his father.

The old man’s entire soul seemed concentrated in his eyes, which turned bloodshot. The veins in his throat swelled. His cheeks and temples turned purple, as if he were having a seizure. All that was missing was a scream.

And somehow, the scream came, not from his mouth but from his very being, a cry made more frightful by its silence.

D’Avrigny rushed forward with a powerful restorative.

"Sir!" Morrel grabbed the old man’s trembling hand. "They’re asking who I am and what right I have to be here. You know! Tell them!"

The young man’s voice choked with sobs. The old man’s chest heaved with labored breathing. He looked as if he were experiencing the agonies before death.

Finally, tears glistened in Noirtier’s eyes, something the young man, sobbing without tears, couldn’t manage.

"Tell them," Morrel said hoarsely. "Tell them I’m her fiancé. Tell them she was my beloved, my noble girl, my only blessing in this world. Tell them, oh, tell them that body belongs to me!"

Overwhelmed by anguish, the young man fell heavily to his knees beside the bed, his fingers gripping the frame with convulsive energy.

D’Avrigny turned away, unable to bear this touching display of grief. Villefort, drawn by an irresistible pull toward someone who had loved the one he mourned, extended his hand toward the young man.

But Morrel saw nothing. He’d seized Valentine’s hand and, unable to cry, vented his agony in groans as he bit the sheets.

For a long time, nothing but sobs, exclamations, and prayers filled that room.

Finally, Villefort, the most composed of them all, spoke.

"Sir," he said to Morrel, "you say you loved Valentine, that you were engaged to her. I knew nothing of this. But I’m her father, and I forgive you, because I see your grief is real and deep. Besides, my own sorrow is too great for anger. But you see that the angel you hoped for has left this earth. She has nothing more to do with mortal love. Say your final farewell to her. Hold the hand you expected to possess one last time. Then you must separate from her forever. Valentine now needs only a priest."

"You’re wrong, sir!" Morrel exclaimed, rising to one knee, his heart pierced by an even sharper pain. "You’re wrong! Valentine, dying as she has, needs not only a priest but an avenger. You, Monsieur de Villefort, send for the priest. I will be the avenger."

"What do you mean?" Villefort trembled at this new idea born from Morrel’s delirium.

"I mean that you are two people. The father has mourned enough. Now let the prosecutor do his job."

Noirtier’s eyes gleamed. D’Avrigny moved closer.

"Gentlemen," Morrel said, reading what passed through their minds, "I know what I’m saying, and you know what I’m about to say. Valentine has been murdered!"

Villefort’s head dropped. D’Avrigny moved nearer. Noirtier’s eyes said, "Yes."

"Now, sir," Morrel continued, "in these times, no one can die by violent means without investigation, especially not a young, beautiful, adorable creature like Valentine. Prosecutor," his voice grew stronger, "I show no mercy. I denounce this crime. Your duty is to find the assassin."

The young man’s relentless gaze interrogated Villefort, who glanced from Noirtier to d’Avrigny. But instead of sympathy, he found the same inflexible expression as Morrel’s.

"Yes," Noirtier indicated.

"Absolutely," d’Avrigny agreed.

"Sir," Villefort said, struggling against this triple force and his own emotions, "you’re mistaken. No one commits crimes here. I am struck by fate. It’s horrible, but no one has murdered anyone."

Noirtier’s eyes blazed with rage. D’Avrigny prepared to speak, but Morrel raised his arm, commanding silence.

"I say murders have been committed here," Morrel declared, his voice lower but no less terrible. "I tell you this is the fourth victim in four months. I tell you Valentine’s life was attacked with poison four days ago, but she survived thanks to Monsieur Noirtier’s precautions. I tell you the dose was doubled, the poison changed, and this time it succeeded. I tell you that you know all this as well as I do, because this gentleman warned you, both as a doctor and as a friend."

"You’re raving!" Villefort cried, trying in vain to escape the trap closing around him.

"Raving?" Morrel said. "Then I appeal to Doctor d’Avrigny. Ask him if he remembers what he said in this house’s garden the night of Madame de Saint-Méran’s death. You thought you were alone, talking about that tragic death and the pattern of fatality. That same pattern has now murdered Valentine."

Villefort and d’Avrigny exchanged looks.

"Yes," Morrel continued, "remember that scene. The words you thought were given only to silence and solitude fell into my ears. After witnessing the criminal negligence Monsieur de Villefort showed toward his own family, I should have reported him to the authorities. Then I wouldn’t be an accomplice to your death now, sweet Valentine. But the accomplice will become the avenger. This fourth murder is obvious to everyone. If your father abandons you, Valentine, I swear I will hunt down the assassin myself."