“My dear father, I think I already know what you are about to tell me.”
“Ah, you have heard of the landing of the emperor?”
“Not so loud, father, I entreat of you—for your own sake as well as mine. Yes, I heard this news, and knew it even before you could; for three days ago I posted from Marseilles to Paris with all possible speed, half-desperate at the enforced delay.”
“Three days ago? You are crazy. Why, three days ago the emperor had not landed.”
“No matter, I was aware of his intention.”
“How did you know about it?”
“By a letter addressed to you from the Island of Elba.”
“To me?”
“To you; and which I discovered in the pocket-book of the messenger. Had that letter fallen into the hands of another, you, my dear father, would probably ere this have been shot.” Villefort’s father laughed.
“Come, come,” said he, “will the Restoration adopt imperial methods so promptly? Shot, my dear boy? What an idea! Where is the letter you speak of? I know you too well to suppose you would allow such a thing to pass you.”