“Nineteen,” returned Dantès.
“What were you doing at the moment you were arrested?”
“I was at the festival of my marriage, monsieur,” said the young man, his voice slightly tremulous, so great was the contrast between that happy moment and the painful ceremony he was now undergoing; so great was the contrast between the sombre aspect of M. de Villefort and the radiant face of Mercédès.
“You were at the festival of your marriage?” said the deputy, shuddering in spite of himself.
“Yes, monsieur; I am on the point of marrying a young girl I have been attached to for three years.” Villefort, impassive as he was, was struck with this coincidence; and the tremulous voice of Dantès, surprised in the midst of his happiness, struck a sympathetic chord in his own bosom—he also was on the point of being married, and he was summoned from his own happiness to destroy that of another. “This philosophic reflection,” thought he, “will make a great sensation at M. de Saint-Méran’s;” and he arranged mentally, while Dantès awaited further questions, the antithesis by which orators often create a reputation for eloquence. When this speech was arranged, Villefort turned to Dantès.
“Go on, sir,” said he.
“What would you have me say?”
“Give all the information in your power.”
“Tell me on which point you desire information, and I will tell all I know; only,” added he, with a smile, “I warn you I know very little.”
“Have you served under the usurper?”