“M. Morrel, I believe?” said Villefort.
“Yes, sir.”
“Come nearer,” said the magistrate, with a patronizing wave of the hand, “and tell me to what circumstance I owe the honor of this visit.”
“Do you not guess, monsieur?” asked Morrel.
“Not in the least; but if I can serve you in any way I shall be delighted.”
“Everything depends on you.”
“Explain yourself, pray.”
“Monsieur,” said Morrel, recovering his assurance as he proceeded, “do you recollect that a few days before the landing of his majesty the emperor, I came to intercede for a young man, the mate of my ship, who was accused of being concerned in correspondence with the Island of Elba? What was the other day a crime is today a title to favor. You then served Louis XVIII., and you did not show any favor—it was your duty; today you serve Napoleon, and you ought to protect him—it is equally your duty; I come, therefore, to ask what has become of him?”
Villefort by a strong effort sought to control himself. “What is his name?” said he. “Tell me his name.”
“Edmond Dantès.”
Villefort would probably have rather stood opposite the muzzle of a pistol at five-and-twenty paces than have heard this name spoken; but he did not blanch.
“Dantès,” repeated he, “Edmond Dantès.”
“Yes, monsieur.” Villefort opened a large register, then went to a table, from the table turned to his registers, and then, turning to Morrel,
“Are you quite sure you are not mistaken, monsieur?” said he, in the most natural tone in the world.