defeat their wishes.”
“It might be so under the Bourbons, but at present—”
“It has always been so, my dear Morrel, since the reign of Louis XIV . The emperor is more strict in prison discipline than even Louis himself, and the number of prisoners whose names are not on the register is incalculable.”
Had Morrel even any suspicions, so much kindness would have dispelled them.
“Well, M. de Villefort, how would you advise me to act?” asked he.
“Petition the minister.”
“Oh, I know what that is; the minister receives two hundred petitions every day, and does not read three.”
“That is true; but he will read a petition countersigned and presented by me.”
“And will you undertake to deliver it?”
“With the greatest pleasure. Dantès was then guilty, and now he is innocent, and it is as much my duty to free him as it was to condemn him.”
Villefort thus forestalled any danger of an inquiry, which, however improbable it might be, if it did take place would leave him defenceless.
“But how shall I address the minister?”
“Sit down there,” said Villefort, giving up his place to Morrel, “and write what I dictate.”
“Will you be so good?”