anguish of spirit, do not tell me that I ought to be gay.” Villefort bowed.
“When I hear misfortunes named, madame,” he said, “I have within the last few months contracted the bad habit of thinking of my own, and then I cannot help drawing up an egotistical parallel in my mind. That is the reason that by the side of my misfortunes yours appear to me mere mischances; that is why my dreadful position makes yours appear enviable. But this annoys you; let us change the subject. You were saying, madame—”
“I came to ask you, my friend,” said the baroness, “what will be done with this impostor?”
“Impostor,” repeated Villefort; “certainly, madame, you appear to extenuate some cases, and exaggerate others. Impostor, indeed!— M. Andrea Cavalcanti, or rather M. Benedetto, is nothing more nor less than an assassin!”
“Sir, I do not deny the justice of your correction, but the more severely you arm yourself against that unfortunate man, the more deeply will you strike our family. Come, forget him for a moment, and instead of pursuing him, let him go.”
“You are too late, madame; the orders are issued.”
“Well, should he be arrested—do they think they will arrest him?”
“I hope so.”
“If they should arrest him (I know that sometimes prisons afford means of escape), will you leave him in prison?”
The procureur shook his head.
“At least keep him there till my daughter be married.”