A quarter of an hour afterwards the door of Valentine’s room opened, and Monte Cristo reappeared.
Pale, with a dull eye and heavy heart, all the noble features of that face, usually so calm and serene, were overcast by grief.
In his arms he held the child, whom no skill had been able to recall to life.
Bending on one knee, he placed it reverently by the side of its mother, with its head upon her breast.
Then, rising, he went out, and meeting a servant on the stairs, he asked:
“Where is M. de Villefort?”
The servant, instead of answering, pointed to the garden. Monte Cristo ran down the steps, and advancing towards the spot designated beheld Villefort, encircled by his servants, with a spade in his hand, and digging the earth with fury.
“It is not here!” he cried. “It is not here!”
And then he moved farther on, and began again to dig.
Monte Cristo approached him, and said in a low voice, with an expression almost humble:
“Sir, you have indeed lost a son; but—”
Villefort interrupted him; he had neither listened nor heard.
“Oh, I will find it,” he cried; “you may pretend he is not here, but I will find him, though I dig forever!”
Monte Cristo drew back in horror.