Chapter 182: Chapter 182

Maximilian returned home and waited all evening and all the next day. No message came.

It wasn’t until the following morning around ten o’clock, just as he was about to head to the notary’s office, that he received a small letter from the postman. He recognized Valentine’s handwriting immediately, though he’d never seen it before.

"Tears, begging, prayers, none of it worked. Yesterday I spent two hours at Saint-Phillippe du Roule church, praying with everything I had. Heaven is as inflexible as my father. The contract signing is scheduled for tonight at nine o’clock. I have only one promise to give, only one heart. That promise belongs to you. That heart is yours. Tonight at 8:45, meet me at the gate.

Valentine de Villefort

P.S. My grandmother is getting worse. Yesterday she had a terrible fever that made her delirious. Today the delirium has turned into something like madness. Please be kind to me, Morrel. Help me forget how awful it feels to leave her . I think they’re keeping it secret from Grandfather Noirtier that the contract is being signed tonight."

Morrel went to see the notary, who confirmed that the signing was scheduled for that evening. Then he visited the Count of Monte Cristo and learned even more. Franz had announced the ceremony, and Madame de Villefort had written to apologize for not inviting the Count, the recent death and his widow’s illness would cast too much gloom over the event. The day before, Franz had met with Madame de Saint-Méran, who had gotten out of bed to receive him but had to return to it immediately after.

The Count noticed Morrel’s agitation immediately, nothing escaped his perceptive eyes. Monte Cristo was unusually warm and kind, so much so that Morrel almost told him everything several times. But he remembered his promise to Valentine and kept quiet.

Throughout the day, Maximilian read Valentine’s letter at least twenty times. It was her first letter to him, and what a momentous occasion for it! Each time he read it, he renewed his vow to make her happy. The power of a woman who makes such a courageous choice was incredible. She deserved absolute devotion from the man she’d sacrificed everything for. She deserved to be loved completely. She’d become both his queen and his wife, and it was impossible to thank her or love her enough.

Morrel desperately wanted to hear Valentine say, "Here I am, Maximilian. Help me." He’d prepared everything for her escape. Two ladders were hidden in the clover field. He’d ordered a small carriage for himself alone, no driver, no lights. They’d light the lamps only after turning onto the first street; too many precautions would attract police attention.

Sometimes he shivered thinking about the moment when he’d help Valentine down from the wall, holding her in his arms for the first time, having only kissed her delicate hand before.

When afternoon arrived and the hour drew near, he craved solitude. His nerves were shot. Even a simple question from a friend would have irritated him. He locked himself in his room and tried to read, but his eyes skimmed over the pages without understanding a word. He threw the book aside and sketched his plan for the second time, the ladders, the fence, every detail.

Finally, the hour approached. Time moves differently for people in love, never peacefully. Morrel obsessed over his clock so much that it struck eight when it was only six-thirty. He told himself, "It’s time. The signing is at nine, but Valentine might not wait that long."

So Maximilian left his apartment on Rue Meslay at eight-thirty according to his clock. He arrived at the clover field while the church bell of Saint-Phillippe du Roule was striking eight. The horse and carriage were hidden behind a small ruined structure where he’d waited many times before.

Night fell gradually. The garden foliage darkened. Morrel emerged from his hiding place, heart pounding, and peered through the small gap in the gate. Nobody was there yet.

The clock struck eight-thirty. Another half hour passed. Morrel paced back and forth, checking through the opening more and more frequently. The garden grew darker, but he saw no white dress in the shadows. He heard no footsteps in the silence.

The house, barely visible through the trees, remained dark. There was no indication that something as important as a marriage contract signing was happening inside. Morrel checked his watch, quarter to ten. But then the church clock corrected his error by striking nine-thirty.

It was already half an hour past the time Valentine had specified.

This was torture for the young man. The slightest rustle of leaves, the faintest whistle of wind, made him jump. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He tremblingly set up his ladder and, not wanting to waste another second, placed his foot on the first rung.

Between waves of hope and terror, the clock struck ten.

"Impossible," Maximilian muttered. "The contract signing couldn’t take this long without something going wrong. I’ve calculated the time for all the formalities. Something must have happened." Fresh chapters posted on NoveI-Fire.ɴet

He paced rapidly, pressing his burning forehead against the fence. Had Valentine fainted? Had she been discovered and stopped during her escape? These seemed like the only possible explanations.

The thought that she’d collapsed somewhere in the garden, that her strength had failed her, seized his mind. "If that’s true," he said aloud, "I’d lose her because of my own fault."

He fixated on this idea until it felt real. He thought he could even see something on the ground in the distance. He risked calling out softly. The wind seemed to carry back a faint sigh.

Finally, ten-thirty struck.

He couldn’t wait any longer. His head was pounding, his vision blurring. He swung one leg over the wall and dropped down on the other side.

He was on Villefort property now, having scaled the wall illegally. What would the consequences be? But he’d come too far to turn back.

He followed the wall for a short distance, then crossed a path and pushed through a cluster of trees. In moments, he’d passed through them and could see the house clearly.

Morrel had been right, the house wasn’t lit up. Instead of lights blazing in every window like during celebrations, he saw only a gray mass, further obscured by clouds blocking the weak moonlight. A single light moved occasionally past three windows on the second floor, Madame de Saint-Méran’s room. Another light remained still behind red curtains in Madame de Villefort’s bedroom. Morrel knew all this because he’d made Valentine describe the entire house so many times that he knew its layout without ever having been inside.

This darkness and silence alarmed him even more than Valentine’s absence had.

Almost mad with worry, determined to risk everything to see Valentine once more and confirm his worst fears, Morrel reached the edge of the trees. He was about to dash through the flower garden when he heard a voice in the distance, carried by the wind.

At that sound, already partially exposed, he stepped back into the shadows and became completely still.

He’d made his decision. If it was Valentine alone, he’d speak to her as she passed. If she was with someone and he couldn’t speak, at least he’d see her and know she was safe. If the voices belonged to strangers, he’d listen to their conversation and maybe understand this incomprehensible mystery.

He waited in the darkness, barely breathing, as the voices grew closer.