Two-thirds of the way down the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, behind a magnificent private mansion (remarkable even among the many remarkable residences in this rich district), there is a huge garden surrounded by walls as high as ramparts. From here, in springtime, the tufted chestnuts drop their pink-and-white flowers into two fluted stone vases, placed opposite one another on two quadrangular pilasters, between which is set an iron gateway from the time of Louis XIII.

Despite the splendid geraniums growing in the two vases which tossed their marbled leaves and purple flowers in the wind, this grandiose entrance had been condemned since the time -- and it was some time earlier -- when the owners of the mansion confined themselves to possession of the house itself, the tree-lined courtyard opening into the Faubourg and the garden behind the gateway we have mentioned, which formerly gave access to a magnificent vegetable garden, an acre in size, adjoining the property. But the demon of speculation drew a line, in the form of a street, along the side of the vegetable garden; the street, before it even existed except as a line, received a name, thanks to a polished-iron plaque; and someone had the idea that the vegetable garden could be sold for buildings along the street, to compete with the major Parisian thoroughfare called the Faubourg Saint-Honoré.

However, as we said, the garden gate, which used at one time to look over the vegetable garden, has been condemned and rust is eating into its hinges. Worse still: so that the low-born market gardeners shall not sully the interior of the aristocratic property with their vulgar gaze, a wall of planks has been affixed to the bars of the gate up to a height of six feet. Admittedly these planks are not so tightly juxtaposed as to prevent a furtive glance slipping between them; but the house is a forbidding house and not afraid of indiscreet eyes.

However, where speculation is concerned, man proposes and money disposes. The street was baptized and died in its cradle. The purchaser of the vegetable garden, having paid the full amount for it, could not resell at the price he wanted; so, while waiting for a rise in prices that was bound, sooner or later, to more than compensate him for past losses and the capital which he had tied up, he made do with renting the plot to some market gardeners for the sum of five hundred francs a year. This was money invested at half a per cent, which is not much nowadays when so many people invest it at fifty and still complain that the returns are poor.

On the side nearest to the mansion, the chestnut-trees which we mentioned crown the wall, though this does not prevent other luxuriantly flowering rivals from insinuating their branches between them in search of air. At a corner where the growth is so thick that the light can hardly penetrate, a wide stone bench and some garden seats mark a meeting place or favourite retreat of an inhabitant of the large house, which can hardly be seen through the protective wall of greenery around this spot, even though it is only a hundred yards away. Apart from that, the position of this mysterious shelter could have been dictated by: the absence of sun, giving a permanent chill to the air, on even the hottest summer days; the singing of the birds; and the distance from the house and from the street, that is to say from bustle and noise.

In the vegetable garden, instead of cabbages, carrots, radish, peas and melons, the only growing things to show that this otherwise abandoned site is still sometimes tended are tall alfalfa plants. A low door, opening on the proposed line of the street, allows entry to the place, which is surrounded by walls. The tenants have, in the past week, abandoned it because of its barrenness, and now, instead of the previous half a percent, it is bringing in no per cent at all.

On the evening of one of the warmest days that Paris had so far enjoyed that spring, the stone bench carried a book, a sunshade, a work basket and a lawn handkerchief, partly embroidered. Not far from the bench, beside the gate, looking through a gap in the planks, was a young woman whose attention was directed towards the deserted vegetable garden which we have just described.

Almost at the same moment as she was looking out across it, the little doorway into the site closed silently and a young man came through it, tall, energetic, wearing an undyed cotton smock and corduroy cap -- though his well-tended moustache, beard and black hair did not harmonize with this lower-class attire. He looked quickly around to ensure that he was not being watched, came through the door, closed it behind him and strode rapidly towards the iron gate.

Seeing the man she was expecting, if not necessarily in that dress, the young woman was taken aback and started. But the man, with a sharpness of perception that belongs only to a lover, had already seen, through the gaps in the planks, the fluttering of her white dress and long blue belt. He ran across to the gate and, pressing his lips against the opening, said: "Don't worry, Valentine. It's me!"

The girl came back. "Oh, Monsieur," she said, "why are you so late today? Do you realize that it will soon be dinner and that I needed a great deal of diplomacy and a great deal of rapid thinking to get rid of my stepmother who watches me, my chambermaid who spies on me, and my brother who teases me, before I could manage to come down here and work on this embroidery which, I fear, will not be finished for a long while yet? Then, when you have explained and asked forgiveness for your lateness, you can tell me what is this new style of dress that you have decided to adopt, which almost prevented me from recognizing you."

"Dear Valentine," said the young man, "you are too far above my love for me to dare speak of it to you, yet every time that I see you I need to tell you that I adore you, so that the echo of my own words will gently caress my heart when I am no longer with you. Now, let me thank you for your scolding; it charms me, because it proves that… I dare not say that you were waiting for me, but at least that you thought of me. You wish to know the reason for my late arrival and for my disguise. I shall tell you and I hope you will forgive them. I have chosen a trade…"

"What idiocy is this!"

"A trade! What do you mean, Maximilien? Are we fortunate enough for you to jest about what matters so much to us?"

"Heaven forbid that I should jest when my life depends on it," said the young man. "But I have grown tired of being a runner through fields and a climber of walls; and I was seriously worried by the idea you suggested to me the other evening, that your father might one day have me hauled up as a thief, which would be a blow to the honour of the entire French army. Apart from which, I feared people might find it odd for a captain in the spahis to be constantly hovering around this plot of land, where there is not a single fortress to attack or blockhouse to defend; so I have become a market gardener and put on the clothing of my profession."

"None at all but, I think, the most sensible thing I have done in my life, because it gives us complete security."

"Well, I went to find the owner of this plot of land and, since the lease with the old tenants had run out, I took it over from him myself. All this alfalfa that you see is mine, Valentine. Nothing prevents me from building a cabin in the stubble and from henceforth living twenty yards away from you. Oh, happiness and joy -- I can hardly contain myself. Do you think that those two things can be bought, Valentine? Impossible, isn't it? Well, all this happiness and joy, for which I would have given ten years of my life, are costing me… guess how much? Five hundred francs a year, in quarterly instalments. You see, from now on we have nothing to fear. I am at home here. I can put a ladder against my wall and look over it. I am entitled to tell you that I love you, without fearing that the night watch will disturb me, provided your pride is not wounded at hearing this word on the lips of a poor day-labourer dressed in a smock and wearing a cap."

"Explain what you mean."

"Can you say that to me, my dearest; to the man who, since he has known you, has proved every day that he subordinates his own thoughts and his own life to yours? Was it not my happiness that gave you confidence in me? When you told me that some vague instinct had convinced you that you were running a great danger, I devoted myself to serving you, and asked for no reward save the happiness of being able to do so. Since that time, have I given any indication that would make you repent of having chosen me from among all those who would have been happy to die for you? Poor child, you told me that you were engaged to Monsieur d'Epinay, that your father had decided that this match would take place and that, consequently, it was certain to do so, since everything that Monsieur de Villefort wants is bound to happen. Well, I stayed in the background, not expecting anything from my own will or yours, but everything from events and from Providence; and yet you love me, you took pity on me, Valentine, and you told me so. Thank you for those sweet words: all I ask is that you should repeat them from time to time, and I shall forget everything else."

Valentine gave a little cry of joyful surprise; then, as if a jealous cloud had suddenly come between her and the ray of sunshine that had lit up her heart, she remarked sadly: "Alas, Maximilien, now we shall be too free and our happiness will tempt fate. We shall misuse our freedom and a false sense of security will destroy us."

"Perils!" Maximilien exclaimed. "How can you say such a hard and unjust word? Have you ever seen a more submissive slave than I? Valentine, you permitted me occasionally to speak to you, but forbade me to follow you. I obeyed. Since I discovered the means to break into this plot of land and speak to you through this door -- in short, to be so close to you without seeing you -- have I ever asked to touch even the hem of your dress through the gate? Tell me. Have I ever taken a step towards climbing over the wall, a trivial obstacle to one as young and as strong as I am? Not a single rebuke for your harshness towards me, not a single desire spoken aloud. I have kept my word as scrupulously as a knight of old. At least admit that, so that I may not think you unjust."

"This is why you have become so bold, Maximilien; this is why my life is at once very sweet and very unhappy, to the point where I often ask myself which is better for me: the sorrow that I once endured because of my stepmother and her blind preference for her own child, or all the perils of the happiness that I feel when I see you."

"It is true," Valentine said, slipping the tip of one of her slender fingers between two planks for Maximilien to kiss it. "It's true, you are a trustworthy friend. But, in the end, you only acted out of self-interest, my dear, because you know very well that, on the day when the slave becomes too demanding, he must lose everything. You promised me the friendship of a brother -- I who have no friends, I who am ignored by my father, I who am persecuted by my stepmother and who have no other consolation but a motionless, benumbed old man, whose hand cannot press my hand and who can speak to me only with his eyes, though his heart no doubt beats with some trace of warmth for me. What a bitter irony of fate that I should be the enemy and victim of all those who are stronger than I am, having only a corpse as my supporter and friend! Oh, Maximilien, I say it again, I am truly unfortunate, and you are right to love me for myself and not for you."

"Valentine," the young man said, deeply moved, "I cannot say that you are the only person that I love in the world, because I also love my sister and my brother-in-law; but my love for them is tranquil and calm, quite unlike the feeling that I have for you. When I think of you, my blood churns, my chest swells, my heart flows over; but I shall direct all this strength, all this ardour, all this superhuman power to loving you only as long as you tell me to devote them to your service. They say that Monsieur Franz d'Epinay will be away for another year yet. What good fortune might not befall us in a year, what favourable turn might events not take! So let us hope, because it is so good and so sweet to hope. Meanwhile you, Valentine, you who accuse me of egoism, how have you behaved towards me? Like the beautiful and cold statue of some prudish Venus. In exchange for my devotion, my obedience and my restraint, what have you promised me? Nothing. What have you given me? Very little. You talk to me of Monsieur d'Epinay, your fiancé, and you sigh at the thought that you might one day belong to him. Come, Valentine, is that the only idea on your mind? What! I offer you my life, I give you my soul, I dedicate the slightest beat of my heart to you; and, while I am all yours, while I whisper to myself that I should die if I were to lose you, you, on your side, are not appalled at the very idea of belonging to another man! Oh, Valentine, Valentine! If I was what you are, if I felt myself to be loved as you may be sure that I love you, I should already have put my hand a hundred times through the bars of this gate and grasped poor Maximilien's, saying: 'Yours, yours alone, Maximilien, in this world and in the next.'"

"No," she replied. "You are right. But can you not see that I am a poor creature, abandoned virtually in a stranger's house -- because my father is almost a stranger to me -- whose will has been broken for ten years, day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, by the iron will of the masters who are set over me? No one can see what I suffer and I have told no one except you. In appearance, in the eyes of everyone, all is well with me, all is goodness and affection -- when in reality all is hostility. The outside world says: 'Monsieur de Villefort is too serious and strict to be very gentle with his daughter, but at least she has had the good fortune of finding a second mother in Madame de Villefort.' Well, the outside world is wrong. My father abandons me, with indifference, and my stepmother hates me with an unremitting hatred that is all the more frightful for being hidden beneath an eternal smile."

Valentine made no reply, but the young man heard her sighing and weeping. The effect on him was immediate. "Oh, Valentine, Valentine!" he cried. "Forget what I said. Something in my words must have upset you!"

"So, while it may seem strange to bring money into the question that we are discussing, I do believe, my dear, that her hatred derives from that. Since she has no wealth on her own side, and I am already rich, thanks to my mother, with a fortune that will even be more than doubled by that of Monsieur and Madame de Saint-Méran which is due one day to revert to me, well, I think she is envious. Oh, my God, if I could give half that fortune and feel in Monsieur de Villefort's house as a daughter should in the house of her father, I would do it in an instant."

"So?"

"Alas, my friend," Valentine said, "I have to admit that her hatred towards me comes from what is almost a natural feeling. She adores her son, my brother Edouard."

"She hates you! You, Valentine! How can anyone hate you?"

"Yes, I feel like someone bound, and at the same time so weak that it seems to me that my chains support me and I am afraid to break them. In any case, my father is not the sort of man whose orders can be disregarded with impunity. He is powerful in his opposition to me, he would be powerful against you: he would be the same against the king, protected as he is by an irreproachable past and an almost unassailable position. Oh, Maximilien! I swear it, if I do not struggle, it is because I fear you would be broken as much as I would in the fight."

"Poor Valentine!"

"Because, my friend, I judge it by the past."

"Don't mention Marseille to me, Maximilien. The name alone recalls my dear mother, that angel, mourned by everyone, who watched over her daughter during her brief sojourn on earth and, I hope, still watches over her during her eternal sojourn in heaven. Oh, if my poor mother were alive, Maximilien, I should have nothing to fear. I should tell her that I love you and she would protect us."

"But Valentine, why despair, why always paint the future in such sombre hues?" Maximilien asked.

"Come now: while I may not be an outstanding match from the aristocratic point of view, I still belong, in many ways, to the same world as the one in which you live. The time when there were two nations in France has passed. The leading families of the monarchy have melted into the families of the empire and the aristocracy of the lance has married the nobility of the cannon. Well, I belong to the latter: I have a fine future in the army, I possess a small but independent fortune and, finally, the memory of my father is venerated in our part of the country as that of one of the most honest merchants who ever lived. I say, our part of the country, Valentine, because you almost come from Marseille."

"Oh, my dear friend, now you are being unfair in your turn," Valentine exclaimed. "But tell me…"

"What do you want me to tell you?" Maximilien asked, seeing that Valentine was hesitating.

"Tell me: was there ever, at one time, in Marseille, some matter of dispute between your father and mine?"

"Alas, Valentine," Maximilien said, "if she was alive I should certainly not know you; for, as you said, you would be happy if she were alive -- and a happy Valentine would have looked down on me in contempt."

"No, not as far as I know," Maximilien replied, "except that your father was an utterly devoted supporter of the Bourbons and mine was devoted to the emperor. I assume that that was the only bone they ever had to pick between them. Why do you ask?"

"I shall tell you, because you ought to know everything. It was on the day when your nomination as officer of the Legion of Honour was published in the newspaper. We were all visiting my grandfather, Monsieur Noirtier, and Monsieur Danglars was there: you know, the banker whose horses nearly killed my mother and my brother two days ago? I was reading aloud from the newspaper to my grandfather while these gentlemen were talking about Mademoiselle Danglars' marriage. When I got to the paragraph concerning you, which I had already read, because you had told me the good news on the previous day, I was very happy, but also very uneasy at having to speak your name aloud. I should certainly have left it out, were it not that I feared that my silence might be misinterpreted. So, I plucked up all my courage and read."

"Something dreadful that I dare not repeat."

"Dearest Valentine!"

"'Morrel,' my father said. 'Wait!' And he raised an eyebrow. 'Would that be one of those Morrels of Marseille, one of those Bonapartist fanatics who gave us so much trouble in 1815?'

"Indeed!" said Maximilien. "What did your father say?"

"'Yes,' Danglars replied. 'I even think it may be the son of the former shipowner.'"

"Well, as soon as I spoke your name, my father turned around. I was so certain -- you see what a silly goose I am! -- that everyone would be struck by your name as if by a bolt of lightning, that I thought I saw my father, and even Monsieur Danglars, shudder at the sound of it; but in his case I am sure it was an illusion.

"Repeat it anyway," Maximilien said with a smile.

"'Their emperor,' he said contemptuously, 'knew how to put all those fanatics in their place: he called them cannon-fodder, and that was the only name they deserved. I am delighted to see that the new government has restored this salutary principle. I should congratulate it on keeping Algeria, if only for that reason, even though the cost is a little excessive.'"

"Oh, he started to laugh with that peculiar sly laugh that he has, which I find savage. Then, a moment later, they got up and left. Only then did I see that something had upset my grandfather. I must tell you, Maximilien, that I am the only person who can tell how he feels, because no one else takes any notice of the poor, paralysed old man; and I guessed that the conversation might have impressed him, since they had been speaking ill of his emperor and it appears he was a fanatical Bonapartist."

"Admittedly, that is rather brutal, as a policy," Maximilien said. "But, my darling, you have no need to blush at what Monsieur de Villefort said, because my good father was a match for yours in this respect: he said repeatedly: 'Why does the emperor, who has done so many fine things, not enrol a regiment of judges and lawyers, and put them in the forefront of the battle?' So you see, my dear, that the two deserve one another, both in kindness of thought and sweetness of expression. But what did Monsieur Danglars say to this remark by the king's prosecutor?"

"'What is it, papa?' I asked. 'Are you pleased?'

"'So, you are pleased that Monsieur Morrel' (I did not dare say, Maximilien) 'has been appointed officer of the Legion of Honour?'

"That's odd," Maximilien meditated. "Your father hates me, while your grandfather… How peculiar these political loves and hatreds are!"

"He shook his head.

"'At what my father has just said?' I asked.

"I have sometimes heard whispers about that, and was surprised by them: a Bonapartist grandfather and a Royalist father. Anyway, what do you expect? I turned back to him and his eyes indicated the paper.

"Again, he shook his head.

"Certainly," said Maximilien. "He was one of the leading figures of the imperial era. He was a senator and, whether you realize it or not, Valentine, he was close to all the Bonapartist conspiracies under the Restoration."

"He nodded.

"He nodded.

"'At what Monsieur Danglars said?'

"Can you believe that, Maximilien? He was pleased that you had been appointed to the Legion of Honour, even though he does not know you. It may perhaps be folly on his part, because people say he is entering a second childhood; but I love him, even so."

"A great lord, a prince, they say. The Count of Monte Cristo."

"A visitor!" Valentine said, in an anxious voice. "Who is visiting us?"

"Well, well," Maximilien said to himself, leaning thoughtfully on his spade. "How does the Count of Monte Cristo happen to know Monsieur de Villefort?"

"Hush!" Valentine suddenly exclaimed. "Hide! Quickly! Go away, someone is coming!"

Maximilien grasped a spade and began to dig pitilessly into the alfalfa.

"I'm coming," Valentine said loudly.

On the other side of the gate, the man to whom Valentine's "I'm coming!" served as a farewell at the end of every meeting, started on hearing the name of her visitor.

"Mademoiselle!" cried a voice behind the trees. "Madame de Villefort is looking everywhere for you and asking after you. There is a visitor in the drawing-room."