“Who is Madame?” asked Château-Renaud.
“The minister’s wife, pardieu! ”
“Oh, your pardon! I never visit ministers; I leave that to the princes.”
“Really, you were only before sparkling, but now you are brilliant; take compassion on us, or, like Jupiter, you will wither us up.”
“I will not speak again,” said Château-Renaud; “pray have compassion upon me, and do not take up every word I say.”
“Come, let us endeavor to get to the end of our story, Beauchamp; I told you that yesterday Madame made inquiries of me upon the subject; enlighten me, and I will then communicate my information to her.”
“Well, gentlemen, the reason people die so multitudinously (I like the word) at M. de Villefort’s is that there is an assassin in the house!”
The two young men shuddered, for the same idea had more than once occurred to them.
“And who is the assassin;” they asked together.
“Young Edward!” A burst of laughter from the auditors did not in the least disconcert the speaker, who continued—“Yes, gentlemen; Edward, the infant phenomenon, who is quite an adept in the art of killing.”
“You are jesting.”
“Not at all. I yesterday engaged a servant, who had just left M. de Villefort—I intend sending him away tomorrow, for he eats so enormously, to make up for the fast imposed upon him by his terror in that house. Well, now listen.”
“We are listening.”