an hour at the cemetery; the weather was mild, but dull, and in harmony with the funeral ceremony. Among the groups which flocked toward the family vault, Château-Renaud recognized Morrel, who had come alone in a cab, and walked silently along the path bordered with yew-trees.
"You here!" said Château-Renaud, passing his arm through the young captain's; "are you a friend of Villefort's? How is it I have never met you at his house?"
"I am no acquaintance of M. de Villefort's," answered Morrel; "but I was of Madame de Saint-Méran's." Albert came up to them at this moment with Franz.
"The time and place are but ill-suited for an introduction," said Albert; "but we are not superstitious. M. Morrel, allow me to present to you M. Franz d'Epinay, a delightful traveling companion, with whom I made the tour of Italy. My dear Franz, M. Maximilian Morrel, an excellent friend I have acquired in your absence, and whose name you will hear me mention every time I make any allusion to affection, wit, or amiability."
Morrel hesitated for a moment; he feared it would be hypocritical to accost in a friendly manner the man whom he was tacitly opposing, but his oath and the gravity of the circumstances recurred to his memory; he struggled to conceal his emotion, and bowed to Franz.
"Mademoiselle de Villefort is in deep sorrow, is she not?" said Debray to Franz.
"Inexpressibly deep," replied he; "she looked so pale this morning, I scarcely knew her."
These apparently simple words pierced Morrel to the heart. This man had then seen Valentine, and spoken to her! The young and high-spirited officer required all his strength of mind to resist breaking his oath. He took the arm of Château-Renaud, and turned toward the vault, where the attendants had already placed the two coffins.
"This is a magnificent habitation," said Beauchamp, looking toward the mausoleum; "a summer and winter palace. You will, in turn, enter it, my dear d'Epinay, for you will soon be numbered as one of the family. I, as a philosopher, should like a little country-house, a cottage down there under the trees, without so many cut-stones over my poor body. In dying, I will say to those around me what Voltaire wrote to Piron: 'Eo Rus,' and all will be over. But come, Franz, take courage, your wife is an heiress."
"Indeed, Beauchamp, you are unbearable. Politics have made you laugh at everything, and political men have made you disbelieve everything. But when you have the honor of associating with ordinary men,
