“There, you see,” exclaimed Danglars. “Now the mischief is out; depend upon it the custom-house people went rummaging about the ship in our absence, and discovered poor Dantès’ hidden treasures.”
Mercédès, however, paid no heed to this explanation of her lover’s arrest. Her grief, which she had hitherto tried to restrain, now burst out in a violent fit of hysterical sobbing.
“Come, come,” said the old man, “be comforted, my poor child; there is still hope!”
“Hope!” repeated Danglars.
“Hope!” faintly murmured Fernand, but the word seemed to die away on his pale agitated lips, and a convulsive spasm passed over his countenance.
“Good news! good news!” shouted forth one of the party stationed in the balcony on the lookout. “Here comes M. Morrel back. No doubt, now, we shall hear that our friend is released!”
Mercédès and the old man rushed to meet the shipowner and greeted him at the door. He was very pale.
“What news?” exclaimed a general burst of voices.
“Alas, my friends,” replied M. Morrel, with a mournful shake of his head, “the thing has assumed a more serious aspect than I expected.”
“Oh, indeed—indeed, sir, he is innocent!” sobbed forth Mercédès.
“That I believe!” answered M. Morrel; “but still he is charged——”
“With what?” inquired the elder Dantès.
“With being an agent of the Bonapartist faction!” Many of our readers may be able to recollect how formidable such an accusation became in the period at which our story is dated.
A despairing cry escaped the pale lips of Mercédès; the old man sank into a chair.