“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 that 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 that the angel whom you hoped for has left this earth—she has nothing more to do with the adoration of men. Take a last farewell, sir, of her sad remains; take the hand you expected to possess once more within your own, and then separate yourself from her forever. Valentine now requires only the ministrations of the priest.”
“You are mistaken, sir,” exclaimed Morrel, raising himself on one knee, his heart pierced by a more acute pang than any he had yet felt—“you are mistaken; Valentine, dying as she has, not only requires a priest, but an avenger. You, M. de Villefort, send for the priest; I will be the avenger.”
“What do you mean, sir?” asked Villefort, trembling at the new idea inspired by the delirium of Morrel.
“I tell you, sir, that two persons exist in you; the father has mourned sufficiently, now let the procureur fulfil his office.”
The eyes of Noirtier glistened, and d’Avrigny approached.
“Gentlemen,” said Morrel, reading all that passed through the minds of the witnesses to the scene, “I know what I am saying, and you know as well as I do what I am about to say—Valentine has been assassinated!”