“You condemned me to a horrible, tedious death; you killed my father; you deprived me of liberty, of love, and happiness.”
“Who are you, then? Who are you?”
“I am the spectre of a wretch you buried in the dungeons of the Château d’If. God gave that spectre the form of the Count of Monte Cristo when he at length issued from his tomb, enriched him with gold and diamonds, and led him to you!”
“Ah, I recognize you—I recognize you!” exclaimed the king’s attorney; “you are—”
“I am Edmond Dantès!”
“You are Edmond Dantès,” cried Villefort, seizing the count by the wrist; “then come here!”
And up the stairs he dragged Monte Cristo; who, ignorant of what had happened, followed him in astonishment, foreseeing some new catastrophe.
“There, Edmond Dantès!” he said, pointing to the bodies of his wife and child, “see, are you well avenged?”
Monte Cristo became pale at this horrible sight; he felt that he had passed beyond the bounds of vengeance, and that he could no longer say, “God is for and with me.” With an expression of indescribable anguish he threw himself upon the body of the child, reopened its eyes, felt its pulse, and then rushed with him into Valentine’s room, of which he double-locked the door.