e an irresistible reality, and by
one of the incomprehensible transports of youth, he bounded from his
hiding-place, and with two strides, at the risk of being seen, at the
risk of alarming Valentine, at the risk of being discovered by
some exclamation which might escape the young girl, he crossed the
flower-garden, which by the light of the moon resembled a large white
lake, and having passed the rows of orange-trees which extended in front
of the house, he reached the step, ran quickly up and pushed the door,
which opened without offering any resistance. Valentine had not seen
him. Her eyes, raised towards heaven, were watching a silvery cloud
gliding over the azure, its form that of a shadow mounting towards
heaven. Her poetic and excited mind pictured it as the soul of her
grandmother.

Meanwhile, Morrel had traversed the anteroom and found the staircase,
which, being carpeted, prevented his approach being heard, and he had
regained that degree of confidence that the presence of M. de Villefort
even would not have alarmed him. He was quite prepared for any such
encounter. He would at once approach Valentine's father and acknowledge
all, begging Villefort to pardon and sanction the love which united two
fond and loving hearts. Morrel was mad. Happily he did not meet any one.
Now, especially, did he find the description Valentine had given of the
interior of the house useful to him; he arrived safely at the top of
the staircase, and while he was feeling his way, a sob indicated the
direction he was to take. He turned back, a door partly open enabled him
to see his road, and to hear the voice of one in sorrow. He pushed the
door open and entered. At the other end of the room, under a white sheet
which covered it, lay the corpse, still more alarming to Morrel since
the account he had so unexpectedly overheard. By its side, on her knees,
and with her head buried in the cushion of an easy-chair, was Valentine,
trembling and sobbing, her hands extended above her head, clasped and
stiff. She had turned from the window, which remained open, and was
praying in accents that would have affected the most unfeeling; her
words were rapid, incoherent, unintelligible, for the burning weight of
grief almost stopped her utterance. The moon shining through the open
blinds made the lamp appear to burn paler, and cast a sepulchral hue
over the whole scene. Morrel could not resist this; he was not exemplary
for piety, he was not easily im