"Well, no, madame!—this is the terrible news I have to tell you," said Villefort, in a hollow voice—"no, nothing was found beneath the flowers; there was no child disinterred—no! You must not weep, no, you must not groan, you must not tremble!"
"What can you mean?" asked Madame Danglars, shuddering.
"I mean that M. de Monte-Cristo, digging underneath these trees found neither skeleton nor chest, because neither of them was there!"
"Neither of them there?" repeated Madame Danglars, fixing upon him her eyes, which, by their fearful dilatation, indicated how much she was alarmed. "Neither of them there!" she again said, as though striving to impress herself with the meaning of the words which escaped her.
"No!" said Villefort, burying his face in his hands, "no! a hundred times no!"
"Then you did not bury the poor child there, sir? Why did you deceive me? Where did you place it? tell me—where?"
"There! But listen to me—listen—and you will pity one who has for twenty years alone borne the heavy burden of grief I am about to reveal, without casting the least portion upon you."
"Oh, you frighten me! But speak; I will listen."
"You recollect that sad night, when you were half expiring on that bed in the red damask room, while I, scarcely less agitated than you, awaited your delivery. The child was born, was given to me—without movement, without breath, without voice, we thought it dead."
Madame Danglars moved rapidly, as though she would spring from her chair; but Villefort stopped, and clasped his hands as if to implore her attention.
"We thought it dead," he repeated; "I placed it in the box, which was to take the place of a coffin; I descended to the garden, I dug a hole, and then flung it down in haste. Scarcely had I covered it with mold, when the arm of the Corsican was stretched toward me; I saw a shadow rise, and, at the same time, a flash of light. I felt pain; I wished to cry out, but an icy shiver ran through my veins and stifled my voice; I fell lifeless, and fancied myself killed. Never shall I for get your sublime courage, when, having returned to consciousness! dragged myself to the foot of the stairs, where, expiring yourself, you came to meet me. We were obliged to keep silent upon the dreadful catastrophe. You had the fortitude to regain the house, assisted by your nurse. A duel was the pretext for my wound. Though scarcely expected it, our secret remained in our own keeping alone, was taken to Versailles; for three months I struggled with death; at
