"See what they have done?" cried Morrel, with one hand leaning on the back of the chair, and the other extended toward Valentine. "See, my father, see!"
Villefort drew back and looked with astonishment on the young man, who, almost a stranger to him, called Noirtier his father. At this moment the whole soul of the old man seemed centered in his eyes, which became blood-shot; the veins of the throat swelled; his cheeks and temples became purple, as though he was struck with epilepsy; nothing was wanting to complete this but the utterance of a cry. And the cry issued from his pores, if we may thus speak—a cry, frightful in its silence. D'Avrigny rushed toward the old man and made him inhale a powerful restorative.
"Sir!" cried Morrel, seizing the moist hand of the paralytic, "they ask me who I am, and what right I have to be here? Oh, you know it, tell them, tell them!" And the young man's voice was choked by sobs.
As for the old man, his chest heaved with his panting respiration. One could have thought he was undergoing the agonies preceding death. At length, happier than the young man, who sobbed without weeping, tears glistened in the eyes of Noirtier.
"Tell them," said Morrel, in a hoarse voice, "tell them I am her betrothed. Tell them she was my beloved, my only love in the world. Tell them—oh! tell them, that corpse belongs to me."
The young man who presented the dreadful spectacle of a strong frame crushed fell heavily on his knees before the bed, which his fingers grasped with convulsive energy. D'Avrigny, unable to bear the sight of this touching emotion, turned away; and Villefort, without seeking any further explanation, and attracted toward him by the irresistible magnetism which draws us toward those who have loved the people for whom we mourn, extended his hand toward the young man.
Morrel saw nothing; he had grasped the hand of Valentine, and, unable to weep, vented his agony in gnawing the sheets. For some time nothing was heard in that chamber but sobs, exclamations, and prayers. Yet one sound was heard above them all, the hoarse breathing which, at each respiration, seemed to tear and rupture the springs of life in Noirtier's bosom. At length Villefort, the most composed of all, spoke:
"Sir," said he to Maximilian, "you say you loved Valentine, that you were betrothed to her. I knew nothing of this engagement, of this love, yet I, her father, forgive you, for I see your grief is real and deep; and, besides, my own sorrow is too great for anger to find a place in my heart. But you see the angel whom you hoped for has left this
