Both Villefort and Monsieur de Flambois uttered a cry of astonishment, and while the latter stammered forth an "Impossible," the sick man whispered: "To-day miracles do not occur any more!"

"Gentlemen," said the physician quietly, "you know I am a sensible man; why should I try to tell you a fable?"

"But I was at the funeral," stammered Flambois.

"I also, and yet I tell you the dead woman lives," persisted D'Avigny, "or if we want to call it by its proper name, Valentine de Villefort is dead and the daughter of Naya and the Rajah Duttjah lives."

"Then Valentine must have been buried alive," muttered Villefort, fixing his eyes upon the physician.

"And if that were the case?" said D'Avigny solemnly.

"Then I would say God has done a miracle to save the innocent," said Villefort, the tears starting in his eyes.

"Monsieur de Villefort," said the physician, earnestly, "do you know how Valentine died?"

"Too well—she was poisoned by my wife."

"What for?"

"Madame de Villefort wished to have Valentine's fortune go to her son."

"That is dastardly," said the district-attorney.

"Do you remember, Monsieur de Villefort," continued D'Avigny, "to have seen a mysterious man in your house some time prior to Valentine's death, whose mission it appears is to reward the good and punish the guilty?"

"Yes, I remember; you mean the Count of Monte-Cristo," said Villefort, with emotion.

"The Count of Monte-Cristo," repeated the district-attorney, contemptuously, "the adventurer?"

"Sir, do not blaspheme!" exclaimed Villefort, passionately; "if Valentine is saved she owes it to that God in the form of man—the Count of Monte-Cristo! He alone has the power to change the dead into the living. If Valentine lives, I will believe God has pardoned a portion of my sins."

"Gentlemen," said the district-attorney, doubtingly, "I only believe what I see; if Valentine de Villefort lives, let her show herself."

"Maximilian," called D'Avigny, opening the door, "tell Valentine to come in."

"Whom did you just call?" asked Villefort, when D'Avigny had closed the door again.

"Maximilian Morrel, Valentine's betrothed, the son of the shipping merchant Morrel, of Marseilles."

"Morrel—Marseilles—Edmond Dantes," murmured Villefort. "Ah, there is justice in Heaven!"

The door was now opened, and Valentine entered. She strode to Villefort's bed and sank on her knees beside it.

"Oh, father," she sobbed, embracing him tenderly. "Thank God, I see you again!"

Villefort gazed at Valentine as if she were a spectre; but tears fell on the young girl's cheeks, and his lean hands were crossed as if in prayer.

"Father, dearly beloved father!" stammered Valentine, weepingly, "why do you not speak? Have you no word of welcome for your Valentine?"

"Monsieur de Flambois, do you still doubt?" asked d'Avigny, softly.

"Yes, not your statement, but my reason," said the district-attorney, wiping the tears from his eyes.

"Valentine," whispered Villefort, in a broken voice, "kiss me. Now I can die easy."

"Oh, father, father, you must not die!" she weepingly cried.

"I must, darling, but I die happy, since I know you will be well taken care of. Monsieur Morrel," he said, turning to the young man, "you know what unhappiness I once caused your father?"

"No, Monsieur de Villefort, I have forgotten everything, and only know that you are Valentine's father," said Maximilian, cordially. "Give us your blessing."

"No, no!" said Villefort, anxiously; "I dare not—I am not worthy of it! But one thing I can do; I can tell Valentine who she is, and Monsieur de Flambois and Monsieur d'Avigny will corroborate my words. Valentine, you, whom I have so often called daughter, look at me and listen to my words. You are the daughter of the Rajah Duttjah and his wife Naya. The marriage of your parents was celebrated at Epping Forest, in England, by a Brahmin, who was also a prisoner there; in the portfolio there you will find the paper relating to the marriage. Do not look at me so fearfully, my poor darling, I am speaking the truth, and these gentlemen will tell you later on all the details. Your parents are both dead. There is a letter in the portfolio from your mother's brother, the Rajah Siwadji Daola. It was written in 1818. If Daola still lives, he will find out that I deceived him; that I saw his sister die, and that Naya's child still lives."

"But, father," said Valentine, passionately, "if my parents are both dead, and you brought me up, I am nevertheless your daughter."

"Thanks, Valentine. But before my strength gives way, I must perform another duty. Doctor, a glass of wine; I have one more favor to ask of Valentine."

D'Avigny poured out a glass of red wine for Monsieur de Villefort, and Valentine put her arm around the dying man's neck, and rested his head against her bosom.

"I want you to look after my son, Valentine," whispered Villefort. "Oh, what would I not give if I could wear the chains instead of him—what is death to the life led by a galley-slave? If it is in your power to do anything for Benedetto, do not fail to do it. He is a scoundrel, but I was the cause of his downfall. Have mercy on him, and I die peacefully!"

"Father," said Valentine, solemnly, "your wish shall be sacred to me. I shall go in search of Benedetto, and bring him your last wishes."

"You are—an—angel," stammered Villefort. "Farewell. Ah—this—is—death!"

A shiver ran through Villefort's frame—a deep groan—a long breath—he was dead.

As soon as Valentine's first grief subsided, the physician persuaded her to stay in her room for the rest of the night, while the gentlemen conferred about the wonderful confession they had heard.

"If I only knew," said Flambois, thoughtfully, "what the papers written in the Indian language contain—I—"

"Monsieur de Flambois," interrupted young D'Avigny, modestly, "if you give me the documents I will translate them for you."

"Really? How can you do it?" asked the district-attorney, doubtingly.

"Very easily. Besides my profession as a doctor, I am an enthusiastic Orientalist. I am always in hopes of being able to go to India: the home of the lotus flower has always had attractions for me. Give me the papers and I will give you the translation to-morrow."

"Here are the papers," said Flambois, thoughtfully.

They then separated.

The next day, as D'Avigny was sitting with his daughter, Julie, Valentine and Maximilian at table, a light knock was heard at the door, and in obedience to the summons to come in, Ali, Monte-Cristo's black servant, appeared on the threshold.

Valentine and Maximilian uttered a cry of surprise. Ali bowed deeply, handed the physician a letter, and disappeared.

D'Avigny opened it and read the following:

"Waiting and hoping! In these two words lies the mystery of life. Be courageous and God will help."

As soon as Monsieur de Villefort's remains were buried, Valentine, Maximilian and Julie returned to Marseilles. Valentine wished to make the journey to Toulon, and then go to Italy for the remainder of the winter with Maximilian, her grandfather, and the Herbaults. D'Avigny's last words at the parting were:

"Beware of Benedetto!"