“That I believe!” answered M. Morrel; “but still he is charged⁠—”

“With what?” inquired the elder Dantès.

“With being an agent of the Bonapartist faction!” Many of our readers may be able to recollect how formidable such an accusation became in the period at which our story is dated.

A despairing cry escaped the pale lips of Mercédès; the old man sank into a chair.

“Ah, Danglars!” whispered Caderousse, “you have deceived me⁠—the trick you spoke of last night has been played; but I cannot suffer a poor old man or an innocent girl to die of grief through your fault. I am determined to tell them all about it.”