And then he moved farther on, and began again to dig.
Monte Cristo approached him, and said in a low voice, with an expression almost humble:
“Sir, you have indeed lost a son; but——”
Villefort interrupted him; he had neither listened nor heard.
“Oh, I will find it,” he cried; “you may pretend he is not here, but I will find him, though I dig forever!”
Monte Cristo drew back in horror.
“Oh,” he said, “he is mad!” And as though he feared that the walls of the accursed house would crumble around him, he rushed into the street, for the first time doubting whether he had the right to do as he had done. “Oh, enough of this,—enough of this,” he cried; “let me save the last.” On entering his house, he met Morrel, who wandered about like a ghost awaiting the heavenly mandate for return to the tomb.
“Prepare yourself, Maximilian,” he said with a smile; “we leave Paris tomorrow.”
“Have you nothing more to do there?” asked Morrel.
“No,” replied Monte Cristo; “God grant I may not have done too much already.”