“The time and place are but ill-suited for an introduction,” said Albert; “but we are not superstitious. M. Morrel, allow me to present to you M. Franz d’Épinay, a delightful travelling companion, with whom I made the tour of Italy. My dear Franz, M. Maximilian Morrel, an excellent friend I have acquired in your absence, and whose name you will hear me mention every time I make any allusion to affection, wit, or amiability.”
Morrel hesitated for a moment; he feared it would be hypocritical to accost in a friendly manner the man whom he was tacitly opposing, but his oath and the gravity of the circumstances recurred to his memory; he struggled to conceal his emotion and bowed to Franz.
“Mademoiselle de Villefort is in deep sorrow, is she not?” said Debray to Franz.
“Extremely,” replied he; “she looked so pale this morning, I scarcely knew her.”
These apparently simple words pierced Morrel to the heart. This man had seen Valentine, and spoken to her! The young and high-spirited officer required all his strength of mind to resist breaking his oath. He took the arm of Château-Renaud, and turned towards the vault, where the attendants had already placed the two coffins.
“This is a magnificent habitation,” said Beauchamp, looking towards the mausoleum; “a summer and winter palace. You will, in turn, enter it, my dear d’Épinay, for you will soon be numbered as one of the family. I, as a philosopher, should like a little country-house, a cottage down there under the trees, without so many freestones over my poor body. In dying, I will say to those around me what Voltaire wrote to Piron: ‘ Eo rus , and all will be over.’ But come, Franz, take courage, your wife is an heiress.”
“Indeed, Beauchamp, you are unbearable. Politics has made you laugh at everything, and political men have made you disbelieve everything. But