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never.”

      “Besides,” said Dantes, “the various circumstances mentioned in the letter were wholly unknown to him.”

      “You had never spoken of them yourself to any one?”

      “To no one.”

      “Not even to your mistress?”

      “No, not even to my betrothed.”

      “Then it is Danglars.”

      “I feel quite sure of it now.”

      “Wait a little. Pray, was Danglars acquainted with Fernand?”

      “No — yes, he was. Now I recollect” —

      “What?”

      “To have seen them both sitting at table together under an arbor at Pere Pamphile’s the evening before the day fixed for my wedding. They were in earnest conversation. Danglars was joking in a friendly way, but Fernand looked pale and agitated.”

      “Were they alone?”

      “There was a third person with them whom I knew perfectly well, and who had, in all probability made their acquaintance; he was a tailor named Caderousse, but he was very drunk. Stay! — stay! — How strange that it should not have occurred to me before! Now I remember quite well, that on the table round which they were sitting were pens, ink, and paper. Oh, the heartless, treacherous scoundrels!” exclaimed Dantes, pressing his hand to his throbbing brows.

      “Is there anything else I can assist you in discovering, besides the villany of your friends?” inquired the abbe with a laugh.

      “Yes, yes,” replied Dantes eagerly; “I would beg of you, who see so completely to the depths of things, and to whom the greatest mystery seems but an easy riddle, to explain to me how it was that I underwent no second examination, was never brought to trial, and, above all, was condemned without ever having had sentence passed on me?”

      “That is altogether a different and more serious matter,” responded the abbe. “The ways of justice are frequently too dark and mysterious to be easily penetrated. All we have hitherto done in the matter has been child’s play. If you wish me to enter upon the more difficult part of the business, you must assist me by the most minute information on every point.”

      “Pray ask me whatever questions you please; for, in good truth, you see more clearly into my life than I do myself.”

      “In the first place, then, who examined you, — the king’s attorney, his deputy, or a magistrate?”

      “The deputy.”

      “Was he young or old?”

      “About six or seven and twenty years of age, I should say.”

      “So,” answered the abbe. “Old enough to be ambitions, but too young to be corrupt. And how did he treat you?”

      “With more of mildness than severity.”

      “Did you tell him your whole story?”

      “I did.”

      “And did his conduct change at all in the course of your examination?”

      “He did appear much disturbed when he read the letter that had brought me into this scrape. He seemed quite overcome by my misfortune.”

      “By your misfortune?”

      “Yes.”

      “Then you feel quite sure that it was your misfortune he deplored?”

      “He gave me one great proof of his sympathy, at any rate.”

      “And that?”

      “He burnt the sole evidence that could at all have criminated me.”

      “What? the accusation?”

      “No; the letter.”

      “Are you sure?”

      “I saw it done.”

      “That alters the case. This man might, after all, be a greater scoundrel than you have thought possible.”

      “Upon my word,” said Dantes, “you make me shudder. Is the world filled with tigers and crocodiles?”

      “Yes; and remember that two-legged tigers and crocodiles are more dangerous than the others.”

      “Never mind; let us go on.”

      “With all my heart! You tell me he burned the letter?”

      “He did; saying at the same time, `You see I thus destroy the only proof existing against you.’”

      “This action is somewhat too sublime to be natural.”

      “You think so?”

      “I am sure of it. To whom was this letter addressed?”

      “To M. Noirtier, No. 13 Coq-Heron, Paris.”

      “Now can you conceive of any interest that your heroic deputy could possibly have had in the destruction of that letter?”

      “Why, it is not altogether impossible he might have had, for he made me promise several times never to speak of that letter to any one, assuring me he so advised me for my own interest; and, more than this, he insisted on my taking a solemn oath never to utter the name mentioned in the address.”

      “Noirtier!” repeated the abbe; “Noirtier! — I knew a person of that name at the court of the Queen of Etruria, — a Noirtier, who had been a Girondin during the Revolution! What was your deputy called?”

      “De Villefort!” The abbe burst into a fit of laughter, while Dantes gazed on him in utter astonishment.

      “What ails you?” said he at length.

      “Do you see that ray of sunlight?”

      “I do.”

      “Well, the whole thing is more clear to me than that sunbeam is to you. Poor fellow! poor young man! And you tell me this magistrate expressed great sympathy and commiseration for you?”

      “He did.”

      “And the worthy man destroyed your compromising letter?”

      “Yes.”

      “And then made you swear never to utter the name of Noirtier?”

      “Yes.”

      “Why, you poor short-sighted simpleton, can you not guess who this Noirtier was, whose very name he was so careful to keep concealed? Noirtier was his father.”

      Had a thunderbolt fallen at the feet of Dantes, or hell opened its yawning gulf before him, he could not have been more completely transfixed with horror than he was at the sound of these unexpected words. Starting up, he clasped his hands around his head as though to prevent his very brain from bursting, and exclaimed, “His father! his father!”

      “Yes, his father,” replied the abbe; “his right name was Noirtier de Villefort.” At this instant a bright light shot through the mind of Dantes, and cleared up all that had been dark and obscure before. The change that had come over Villefort during the examination, the destruction of the letter, the exacted promise, the almost supplicating tones of the magistrate, who seemed rather to implore mercy than to pronounce punishment, — all returned with a stunning force to his memory. He cried out, and staggered against the wall like a drunken man, then he hurried to the opening that led from the abbe’s cell to his own, and said, “I must be alone, to think over all this.”

      When he regained his dungeon, he threw himself on his bed, where the turnkey found him in the evening visit, sitting with fixed gaze and contracted features, dumb and motionless as a statue. During these hours of profound meditation, which to him had seemed only minutes, he had formed a fearful resolution, and bound himself to its fulfilment by a solemn oath.

      Dantes

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