The baron took the pen and signed, then the representative. The baroness approached, leaning on Madame de Villefort’s arm.
“My dear,” said she, as she took the pen, “is it not vexatious? An unexpected incident, in the affair of murder and theft at the Count of Monte Cristo’s, in which he nearly fell a victim, deprives us of the pleasure of seeing M. de Villefort.”
“Indeed?” said M. Danglars, in the same tone in which he would have said, “Oh, well, what do I care?”
“As a matter of fact,” said Monte Cristo, approaching, “I am much afraid that I am the involuntary cause of his absence.”
“What, you, count?” said Madame Danglars, signing; “if you are, take care, for I shall never forgive you.”
Andrea pricked up his ears.
“But it is not my fault, as I shall endeavor to prove.”
Everyone listened eagerly; Monte Cristo who so rarely opened his lips, was about to speak.
“You remember,” said the count, during the most profound silence, “that the unhappy wretch who came to rob me died at my house; the supposition is that he was stabbed by his accomplice, on attempting to leave it.”
“Yes,” said Danglars.
“In order that his wounds might be examined he was undressed, and his clothes were thrown into a corner, where the police picked them up, with the exception of the waistcoat, which they overlooked.”