“In the name of the love you once bore me!”
“No, no!”
“In the name of our child! Ah, for the sake of our child, let me live!”
“No, no, no, I tell you; one day, if I allow you to live, you will perhaps kill him, as you have the others!”
“I?—I kill my boy?” cried the distracted mother, rushing toward Villefort; “I kill my son? Ha, ha, ha!” and a frightful, demoniac laugh finished the sentence, which was lost in a hoarse rattle.
Madame de Villefort fell at her husband’s feet. He approached her.
“Think of it, madame,” he said; “if, on my return, justice has not been satisfied, I will denounce you with my own mouth, and arrest you with my own hands!”
She listened, panting, overwhelmed, crushed; her eye alone lived, and glared horribly.
“Do you understand me?” he said. “I am going down there to pronounce the sentence of death against a murderer. If I find you alive on my return, you shall sleep tonight in the conciergerie.”
Madame de Villefort sighed; her nerves gave way, and she sunk on the carpet. The king’s attorney seemed to experience a sensation of pity; he looked upon her less severely, and, bowing to her, said slowly:
“Farewell, madame, farewell!”
That farewell struck Madame de Villefort like the executioner’s knife. She fainted. The procureur went out, after having double-locked the door.