“In the first place, then, who examined you,—the king’s attorney, his deputy, or a magistrate?”
“The deputy.”
“Was he young or old?”
“About six or seven-and-twenty years of age, I should say.”
“So,” answered the abbé. “Old enough to be ambitious, but too young to be corrupt. And how did he treat you?”
“With more of mildness than severity.”
“Did you tell him your whole story?”
“I did.”
“And did his conduct change at all in the course of your examination?”
“He did appear much disturbed when he read the letter that had brought me into this scrape. He seemed quite overcome by my misfortune.”
“By your misfortune?”
“Yes.”
“Then you feel quite sure that it was your misfortune he deplored?”
“He gave me one great proof of his sympathy, at any rate.”
“And that?”
“He burnt the sole evidence that could at all have criminated me.”
“What? the accusation?”
“No; the letter.”
“Are you sure?”
“I saw it done.”
“That alters the case. This man might, after all, be a greater scoundrel than you have thought possible.”
“Upon my word,” said Dantès, “you make me shudder. Is the world filled with tigers and crocodiles?”
“Yes; and remember that two-legged tigers and crocodiles are more dangerous than the others.”
“Never mind; let us go on.”
“With all my heart! You tell me he burned the letter?”
“He did; saying at the same time, ‘You see I thus destroy the only proof existing against you.’”
“This action is somewhat too sublime to be natural.”