CHAPTER CI
LOCUSTA
WO clocks, slower than that of Saint-Philippe-du-Roule, struck the hour of midnight from different distances; and, excepting the rumbling of a few carriages, all was silent. Then Valentine’s attention was engrossed by the clock in her room, which marked the seconds. She began counting them, remarking that they were much slower than the beatings of her heart; and still she doubted: the inoffensive Valentine could not imagine any one desiring her death. Why should they? To what end? What had she done to excite the malice of an enemy?
There was no fear of her falling asleep. One terrible idea pressed upon her mind, that some one existed in the world who had attempted to assassinate her, and who was about to endeavor to do so again. Supposing this person, wearied at the inefficacy of the poison, should, as Monte-Cristo said, have recourse to steel!—What if the count should have no time to run to her rescue!—What if her last moments were approaching, and she would never again see Morrel!
When this terrible chain of ideas, which made her face livid, and covered her with an icy perspiration, presented itself, Valentine was nearly persuaded to ring the bell, and call for help. But through the door of the library she fancied she saw the luminous eye of the count—that eye which lived in her memory—and the recollection overwhelmed her with so much shame, that she asked herself whether any amount of gratitude could ever efface the painful effect of the count’s indiscreet friendship.
Twenty minutes, twenty eternities, passed thus, then ten more, and at last the clock struck the half-hour on the bell.
Just then the sound of finger-nails slightly grating against the door of the library informed Valentine that the count was still watching, and
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