“True,” said Monte Cristo, “the loss of a sum of money becomes almost immaterial with a fortune such as you possess, and to one of your philosophic spirit.”
“It is not so much the loss of the money that vexes me,” said Villefort, “though, after all, 900,000 francs are worth regretting; but I am the more annoyed with this fate, chance, or whatever you please to call the power which has destroyed my hopes and my fortune, and may blast the prospects of my child also, as it is all occasioned by an old man relapsed into second childhood.”
“What do you say?” said the count; “900,000 francs? It is indeed a sum which might be regretted even by a philosopher. And who is the cause of all this annoyance?”
“My father, as I told you.”
“M. Noirtier? But I thought you told me he had become entirely paralyzed, and that all his faculties were completely destroyed?”
“Yes, his bodily faculties, for he can neither move nor speak, nevertheless he thinks, acts, and wills in the manner I have described. I left him about five minutes ago, and he is now occupied in dictating his will to two notaries.”
“But to do this he must have spoken?”
“He has done better than that—he has made himself understood.”
“How was such a thing possible?”
“By the help of his eyes, which are still full of life, and, as you perceive, possess the power of inflicting mortal injury.”
“My dear,” said Madame de Villefort, who had just entered the room, “perhaps you exaggerate the evil.”