There was a great press of people in M. de Villefort’s antechamber, but Madame Danglars had no occasion even to pronounce her name. The instant she appeared the doorkeeper rose, came to her, and asked her whether she was not the person with whom the procureur had made an appointment; and on her affirmative answer being given, he conducted her by a private passage to M. de Villefort’s office.
The magistrate was seated in an armchair, writing, with his back towards the door; he did not move as he heard it open, and the doorkeeper pronounce the words, “Walk in, madame,” and then reclose it; but no sooner had the man’s footsteps ceased, than he started up, drew the bolts, closed the curtains, and examined every corner of the room. Then, when he had assured himself that he could neither be seen nor heard, and was consequently relieved of doubts, he said:
“Thanks, madame—thanks for your punctuality;” and he offered a chair to Madame Danglars, which she accepted, for her heart beat so violently that she felt nearly suffocated.
“It is a long time, madame,” said the procureur, describing a half-circle with his chair, so as to place himself exactly opposite to Madame Danglars—“it is a long time since I had the pleasure of speaking alone with you, and I regret that we have only now met to enter upon a painful conversation.”
“Nevertheless, sir, you see I have answered your first appeal, although certainly the conversation must be much more painful for me than for you.”
Villefort smiled bitterly.
“It is true, then,” he said, rather uttering his thoughts aloud than addressing his companion—“it is true, then, that all our actions leave their traces—some sad, others bright—on our paths; it is true that every