The Count of Monte Cristo

friends upon the events which served as a subject of
conversation for three-fourths of that city known as the
capital of the world.

At the precise time when Madame Danglars, dressed in black
and concealed in a long veil, was ascending the stairs
leading to Debray's apartments, -- notwithstanding the
assurances of the concierge that the young man was not at
home, -- Debray was occupied in repelling the insinuations
of a friend, who tried to persuade him that after the
terrible scene which had just taken place he ought, as a
friend of the family, to marry Mademoiselle Danglars and her
two millions. Debray did not defend himself very warmly, for
the idea had sometimes crossed his mind; still, when he
recollected the independent, proud spirit of Eugenie, he
positively rejected it as utterly impossible, though the
same thought again continually recurred and found a
resting-place in his heart. Tea, play, and the conversation,
which had become interesting during the discussion of such
serious affairs, lasted till one o'clock in the morning.

Meanwhile Madame Danglars, veiled and uneasy, awaited the
return of Debray in the little green room, seated between
two baskets of flowers, which she had that morning sent, and
which, it must be confessed, Debray had himself arranged and
watered with so much care that his absence was half excused
in the eyes of the poor woman.

At twenty minutes of twelve, Madame Danglars, tired of
waiting, returned home. Women of a certain grade are like
prosperous grisettes in one respect, they seldom return home
after twelve o'clock. The baroness returned to the hotel
with as much caution as Eugenie used in leaving it; she ran
lightly up-stairs, and with an aching heart entered her
apartment, contiguous, as we know, to that of Eugenie. She
was fearful of exciting any remark, and believed firmly in
her daughter's innocence and fidelity to the paternal roof.
She listened at Eugenie's door, and hearing no sound tried
to enter, but the bolts were in place. Madame Danglars then
concluded that the young girl had been overcome with the
terrible excitement of the evening, and had gone to bed and
to sleep. She called the maid and questioned her.

"Mademoiselle Eugenie," said the maid, "retired to her
apartment with Mademoiselle d'Armilly; they then took tea
together, after which they desired me to leave, saying that
they needed me no longer." Since then the maid had been
below, and like every one else she thought the young ladies
were in their own room; Madame Danglars, therefore, went to
bed without a shadow of suspicion, and began to muse over
the recent events. In proportion as her memory became
clearer, the occurrences of the evening were revealed in
their true light; what she had taken for confusion was a
tumult; what she had regarded as something distressing, was
in reality a disgrace. And then the baroness remembered that
she had felt no pity for poor Mercedes, who had been
afflicted with as severe a blow through her husband and son.

"Eugenie," she said to herself, "is lost, and so are we. The
affair, as it will be reported, will cover us with shame;
for in a society such as ours satire inflicts a painful and
incurable wound. How fortunate that Eugenie is possessed of
that strange character which has so often made me tremble!"
And her glance was turned towards heaven, where a mysterious
providence disposes all things, and out of a fault, nay,
even a vice, sometimes produces a blessing. And then her
thoughts, cleaving through space like a bird in the air,
rested on Cavalcanti. This Andrea was a wretch, a robber, an
assassin, and yet his manners showed the effects of a sort
of education, if not a complete one; he had been presented
to the world with the appearance of an immense fortune,
supported by an honorable name. How could she extricate
herself from this labyrinth? To whom would she apply to help
her out of this painful situation? Debray, to whom she had
run, with the first instinct of a woman towards the man she
loves, and who yet betrays her, -- Debray could but give her
advice, she must apply to some one more powerful than he.

The baroness then thought of M. de Villefort. It was M. de
Villefort who had remorselessly brought misfortune into her
family, as though they had been strangers. But, no; on
reflection, the procureur was not a merciless man; and it
was not the magistrate, slave to his duties, but the friend,
the loyal friend, who roughly but firmly cut into the very
core of the corruption; it was not the executioner, but the
surgeon, who wished to withdraw the honor of Danglars from
ignominious association with the disgraced young man they
had presented to the world as their son-in-law. And since
Villefort, the friend of Danglars, had acted in this way, no
one could suppose that he had been previously acquainted
with, or had lent himself to, any of Andrea's intrigues.
Villefort's conduct, therefore, upon reflection, appeared to
the baroness as if shaped for their mutual advantage. But
the inflexibility of the procureur should stop there; she
would see him the next day, and if she could not make him
fail in his duties as a magistrate, she would, at least,
obtain all the indulgence he could allow. She would invoke
the past, recall old recollections; she would supplicate him
by the remembrance of guilty, yet happy days. M. de
Villefort would stifle the affair; he had only to turn his