Monsieur de Villefort was not alone—Dr. d'Avigny accompanied his patient, and whispered a word in his ear now and then.

Villefort was only a ruin now. His hanging lower lip and glassy eyes impressed the spectators and the bench sadly, and even those who were accustomed to be attacked by him in the days of his power as a district-attorney now only felt pity for the man who had fallen so low.

The judge was moved when he arose and delivered the following address to the jury:

"Gentlemen of the jury! Dr. d'Avigny, who pays the greatest care to Monsieur de Villefort, was so kind as to accompany his patient to-day. Before I subpoenaed Monsieur de Villefort I inquired of his physician whether he could attend court without injury to himself. Doctor, will you confirm this statement to the gentlemen of the jury?"

"Certainly, judge," said the old physician, deeply moved. "Monsieur de Villefort's condition is hopeless, and would not be changed in any way by his appearing in court—the apathy of my patient is beyond description."

Thereupon Dr. d'Avigny turned to his patient and led him to a chair. Deep silence reigned throughout the room. The veiled lady looked keenly at the man, before whose gaze criminals were wont to tremble, and who had now sunk lower than the wretched beings he had formerly prosecuted.

Benedetto, in great excitement, had outstretched his arms toward Monsieur de Villefort, and almost immediately after fell back again in his seat crushed and annihilated.

"Monsieur de Villefort," said the judge, "tell us—" He proceeded no further. Villefort tried to rise, and made strenuous efforts to stammer forth some words. The judge waited a short while and then continued:

"Monsieur de Villefort, are you able to answer a few questions I shall address to you?"

Villefort nodded and stammered with some difficulty: "Yes."

"Benedetto," said the judge, turning toward the prisoner, "stand up."

Benedetto obeyed the order.

"Look at Monsieur de Villefort," continued the judge, "and tell me, upon your conscience, whether you uphold the accusations made by you at a former trial of this case."

Benedetto was either, as pious souls say, "touched by compassion," or else the most accomplished hypocrite in existence. He clasped both hands to his face and murmured in a voice choked with tears:

"Pardon, father—pardon!"

"What does the man want of me?" asked Monsieur de Villefort, who was gradually recovering his voice, and to the astonishment of the spectators was soon in possession of his speech.

"He calls you father," replied the judge, "you yourself have acknowledged him as your son."

Villefort put his hand to his forehead.

"My son? And he is alive? It is impossible—my children were killed in my house—my son is dead."

"Have you forgotten the night of the 27th and 28th of September, 1807?"

"No, I have forgotten nothing—that son I killed too."

"Yes, but he escaped death by a miracle, don't you know!"

"Ah, yes, I remember; it was no miracle; he owes his life to an attempt at assassination, and the murderer thought he was lifting up a treasure when he picked up the box containing the child."

"Then you acknowledge your son?"

Villefort laughed maliciously.

"Yes, certainly he is my son. How would he have been a counterfeiter and murderer otherwise? Oh, it is all right—the house in Auteuil, the napkin marked H; Villefort's son must become a murderer."

He stretched out his lean hand toward Benedetto and hissed ironically:

"You are my son. You have murdered already and will murder again."

"No, no," gasped Benedetto; "I have sinned terribly, but nothing on earth could make me increase my crimes! Father, I forgive you, and may God have mercy on both our souls."

A murmur of emotion ran through the room, and Benedetto, encouraged, continued in a sobbing voice:

"And you, too, my mother, whom I have never known, I forgive. If I could only have stammered your name and danced on your knee, I would never have become a criminal."

Deep sobbing was heard in the room and the veiled lady sank half unconscious in her seat. Her companion busied himself with her, and as soon as she had regained consciousness he whispered in her ear:

"Prudence—or all is lost."

"Monsieur de Villefort," said the judge solemnly, "you are discharged! Whatever your faults have been God has made you pay dear for them."

D'Avigny laid his hand on Villefort's arm and wished to take his patient with him, but the former district-attorney shook his head vigorously and said, rather sharply:

"I do not wish to go yet, I have something to say."

"Speak then, we are listening," said the judge, surprised.

"Judge and gentlemen of the jury," Villefort solemnly began, "you have heard the contrite words of the man who is unfortunately my son. Do not believe him—he lies!"

"Monsieur de Villefort," exclaimed the judge, warningly.

"Oh, let me finish," continued the ex-procureur du roi; "I am supposed to be insane, yet I see things clearer than a great many whose reason is unclouded! You believe I would have committed a sin had I killed him—you are wrong, it would have been the only good action of my life if I had freed the world of such a rascal and monster. Benedetto neither regrets nor forgives. I, his father, ought to know him. He is playing a well-studied part. Gentlemen of the jury, be careful! The responsibility which weighs on you is great. When a tiger escapes from his cage, he is shot down. Take the sword of justice and let it fall on his neck—I, the father of this man, move that he be condemned to death!"

A murmur of affright ran through the room; people forgot that a maniac stood before them, and only saw the district-attorney, who, like a second Brutus, delivered over his own son to the law. Like the judgment day the words rang through the room, "I move that he be condemned to death." As soon as the echo of the words died away, Villefort arose, and leaning on D'Avigny's arm, he bowed to the judge and slowly left the court-room.

"Upon my word," whispered Beauchamp to Chateau-Renaud, "Villefort is insane."

"Did you notice that Madame Danglars was struggling with a fainting fit?" asked Chateau-Renaud.

"Ah, bah! Benedetto is a handsome youth, and Madame Danglars is not a model of virtue; who knows what relations they have had with each other?"

"Perhaps Debray might know more, he—"

"Hush! the procureur du roi is speaking. I'll wager that his speech will be less shrewd than that of the maniac."

The procureur du roi arose amid the hushed silence of the court-room, and began to speak, throwing all the blame on Monsieur de Villefort rather than on Benedetto.

"Let us not be carried away by pity," he said, "for these unscrupulous men, who soil their judicial ermine in the lowest passions of mankind, and thereby endanger the lives and sacrifice the honor of their wives and children."

After the prisoner's counsel had summed up eloquently for his client and the judge had charged the jury, the latter went out, but returned in a short time.

"Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon a verdict?" asked the judge.

There was intense excitement in the court-room, the spectators literally holding their breath.

"Yes," answered the foreman; "we find the prisoner guilty, with extenuating circumstances."

The spectators clapped their hands.

"Prisoner, have you anything to say?" asked the judge.

"No," replied Benedetto, in a calm, dignified manner.

"The sentence of the court is, that you be sent to the galleys for life."

No sooner had the sentence been pronounced than the man who had accompanied Madame Danglars glided toward the bar where Benedetto stood, and whispered something in his ear.

"We have kept our word, have we not?"

"Yes; but the galleys?"

"We have saved your head. More we cannot do at present. Have patience."

The court officials coming up to take the prisoner interrupted the conversation. Benedetto was placed in a coach and driven to Bicetre. He was placed in a filthy jail, and then left to himself. He had not been long there when he felt a hand touch him and a voice whisper close to his ear.

"You are in luck, comrade," said the unknown. "Some rich lady is interested in you. You don't remember me, perhaps. 'Twas I who brought you that note two months ago. I got two gold pieces for doing so."

"Who was the lady, and how did you get here?"

"I don't know who she is, but she appears to be over forty. As for me, I am a priest, and committed wrong—"

At this moment the door was opened, and a voice called:

"Benedetto! Benedetto!"

Benedetto arose, and peering through the grated cell-door saw a woman.

"What do you want?" he gruffly asked.

"I am your mother."

"My mother?"

"Yes."

"I have one favor to ask of you."

"I am willing to do anything for you."

"Are you going to stay in Paris?"

"No, I shall leave France on the 26th of February."

"And you sail from Marseilles?"

"Yes."

"Then you will be near Toulon. I know that you do not wish me to see your face or learn your secret. But if you have any love for me, come and see me there."

The poor woman yearned to embrace her son, whose hypocritical words awoke the dormant love in her bosom.

"I promise to see you before I sail on the 26th."

"Come to Toulon, then, on the 24th. And, by the way, here is a letter from one of my comrades to whom I am under deep obligations. On your way home drop it into the letter-box."

She could not decline to do him this service. Her usual caution deserted her, and as she slipped the note in her bosom the light fell full on her face.

Benedetto recognized her at once as Madame Danglars, the wife of Baron Danglars, and the mother of the girl he was to have married. He could hardly restrain a cry of rage and astonishment.

"Good-by," he said. "Do not forget the 24th."