door partly open enabled him to see his road, and to hear the sorrowing voice. He pushed it open and entered. At the other end of the room, under a white sheet which covered the head and outlined the form, lay the corpse, still more alarming to Morrel since the account he had so unexpectedly overheard. By the side, on her knees, and her head buried in the cushion of an easy-chair, was Valentine, trembling and sobbing, her hands extended above her head, clasped and stiff. She had turned from the window, which remained open, and was praying in accents that would have affected the most unfeeling; her words were rapid, incoherent, unintelligible; for the burning weight of grief almost stopped her utterance.
The moon shining through the open blinds made the lamp appear to burn paler, and cast a sepulchral hue over the whole scene. Morrel could not resist this; he was not exemplary for piety, he was not easily impressed, but Valentine suffering, weeping, wringing her hands before him, was more than he could bear in silence. He sighed, and whispered a name, and the head bathed in tears and pressed on the velvet cushion of the chair—a head resembling a Magdalen by Correggio—was raised and turned toward him. Valentine perceived him without betraying the least surprise. A heart overwhelmed with one great grief is insensible to minor emotions. Morrel held out his hand to her. Valentine, as her only apology for not having met him, pointed to the corpse under the sheet, and began to sob again.
Neither dared for some time to speak in that room. They hesitated to break the silence which death, with finger on lip, seemed to impose; at length Valentine ventured:
"My friend," said she, "how came you here? Alas, I would say you are welcome, had not death opened the way for you into this house."
"Valentine," said Morrel, with a trembling voice, "I had waited since half-past eight, and did not see you come; I became uneasy, leaped the wall, found my way through the garden, when voices conversing about the fatal event"
"What voices?" asked Valentine. Morrel shuddered as he thought of the conversation of the doctor and Villefort, and he thought he could see through the sheet the extended hands, the stiff neck, and the purple lips.
"Your servants," said he, "who were repeating the whole of the sorrowful story; from them I learned it all."
"But it was risking the failure of our plan to come up here, love," said Valentine, without alarm or anger.
"Forgive me," replied Morrel; "I will go away."
"No," said Valentine, "you might meet some one; stay."
