A hoarse, broken tone, which was neither a cry nor a sigh, escaped from her, while she became deadly pale.
“Monsieur,” she said, “I—I do not understand you.”
And, in her first paroxysm of terror, she had raised herself from the sofa, in the next, stronger very likely than the other, she fell down again on the cushions.
“I asked you,” continued Villefort, in a perfectly calm tone, “where you conceal the poison by the aid of which you have killed my father-in-law, M. de Saint-Méran, my mother-in-law, Madame de Saint-Méran, Barrois, and my daughter Valentine.”
“Ah, sir,” exclaimed Madame de Villefort, clasping her hands, “what do you say?”
“It is not for you to interrogate, but to answer.”
“Is it to the judge or to the husband?” stammered Madame de Villefort.
“To the judge—to the judge, madame!” It was terrible to behold the frightful pallor of that woman, the anguish of her look, the trembling of her whole frame.
“Ah, sir,” she muttered, “ah, sir,” and this was all.
“You do not answer, madame!” exclaimed the terrible interrogator. Then he added, with a smile yet more terrible than his anger, “It is true, then; you do not deny it!” She moved forward. “And you cannot deny it!” added Villefort, extending his hand toward her, as though to seize her in the name of justice. “You have accomplished