The Son of Monte-Cristo, Volume I | Page 7

a poor attaché
along with it in its fall."

"Well, he rescued his millions anyway," replied Beauchamp,
indifferently, "Though, come to think of it," he continued maliciously,
"it is quite natural for Debray to interest himself in Benedetto--the latter
was half and half his son-in-law."
"Oh, Beauchamp, you are cynical; the relationship reminds one of a
morganatic marriage," Chateau-Renaud laughingly interposed.
"By the way, has anything new been found out about the Baroness
Danglars?"
"H'm--they say she has disappeared."
"And her good, honest husband?"
"Is knocking about somewhere. God only knows."
"Well, I must say there is nothing like Parisian life. The house of
Danglars breaks. Father and mother Danglars disappear, in
consequence of which Debray is without his flame; and the daughter--is
anything known of her? To my taste, she was the best of the lot."
"Mademoiselle d'Armilly undoubtedly knows where she is--they were
inseparable companions. They will come to the surface again; from
what I know of Mademoiselle Danglars, she has about as much talent
for singing as a lioness."
"A beautiful constellation. What became of Monsieur de Villefort?"
"He is an incurable maniac, and is in Dr. d'Avigny's private asylum."
"Not a bad business for the old gentleman. The house of Villefort has
had a terrible end. Madame de Villefort and her son are dead, and poor
Valentine--I am not generally sentimental, but I confess the death of the
young girl was a terrible shock to me."
"Beauchamp, do you believe in miracles?" asked Chateau-Renaud,
suddenly.

"That depends. Why do you ask?"
"Well, one of my friends gave me his word of honor that he saw
Mademoiselle Valentine in Marseilles."
"Before or after the funeral?"
"After, certainly."
"That seems rather wonderful, but one is already accustomed to look
upon everything with which the Count of Monte-Cristo has any
connection as something miraculous."
"Have you heard the fable that the count was a vampire?"
"Who could have said such a thing? What is old Noirtier doing?"
"He has gone to the South; and the Morcerf family--"
"Well, what of them?"
"Nothing new. The father a suicide, the son in Africa, and the mother
has disappeared."
"Just like Baroness Danglars."
"Yes, only with this difference, that Madame de Morcerf and her son
gave their whole fortune to the poor."
"I am glad for the poor--I--"
"The Benedetto affair is now on," broke in the voice of the reporter,
interrupting their conversation.
"Ah--thank you." And with this they all entered the court-room.
"Beauchamp," whispered Chateau-Renaud, pointing to a veiled lady
who sat near them, "if I wasn't sure that the Baroness Dangl--"

"Hush! Do not mention any names. I think you are right, but I cannot
understand why she comes in such disreputable company."
The lady spoken about, heavily veiled, held her head on her hand and
awaited the beginning of the case. Her companion, a thin, yellow,
dried-up old man, whose bald head in form and color recalled a ripe
melon, sat as straight as a stick, and kept his eyes on the crucifix
opposite him.
"Bring in the prisoner," ordered the judge.
A shudder ran through the lady, but she did not look up as Benedetto
entered.
CHAPTER VI
BENEDETTO, THE MURDERER
In the meantime the room had become almost filled, as a death sentence
would probably be given. Almost half the spectators were ladies. A
murmur of curiosity ran about the room, and many who were present
remembered the moment in the former sitting when the prisoner, with
the air of a stage hero, let fall the weighty words: "My father is the
royal district-attorney, Monsieur Villefort." Unconsciously all eyes
were turned to the ministerial box, as if hoping to encounter the pale,
confused face of the all-powerful judge, who had himself been judged,
but only the substitute of the procureur was seen.
Benedetto now entered. Beauchamp and Chateau-Renaud could hardly
restrain their astonishment, for very seldom has a man changed so
much in three months. When they had seen Cavalcanti Benedetto last,
he was the type of a parlor hero, and fascinated every one by his
pleasing appearance; but the man who stood now before the judge was
another--a broken-down man.
His curly hair had been shaved close to the skin, his eyes, which had
formerly sparkled with life, were now dim. The small, finely formed
hands were meekly crossed over the breast, and even the prisoner's

clothes harmonized with his general appearance.
A policeman gruffly showed him to his seat. Benedetto bowed deeply,
and sat on the edge of the hard wooden bench.
The prisoner's lawyer, a celebrated advocate, bent down and whispered
a few encouraging words to him. Benedetto listened attentively to them
and murmured half aloud:
"May God have mercy on me."
"And the devil, too," whispered Beauchamp to Chateau-Renaud.
"Benedetto has become a howling coward. It's