"Morrel has now been in Africa five whole years," said the Secretary—"a few months only excepted after his marriage with Villefort's fair daughter, Valentine, (as was said) when he was indulged with a furlough for his honeymoon."
"She is not in Paris?" asked Beauchamp.
"No; she leads the life of a perfect recluse with her child, during her husband's absence, at his villa somewhere in the south—near Marseilles, where the department forwards her letters."
"Yet she is said to be a magnificent woman," remarked the Count.
"Wonderful!" cried Beauchamp. "A magnificent woman and a recluse!"
"Oh! but it was a love-match of the most devoted species, you must remember."
"True; she was to have married our friend, Franz d'Epinay."
"And died to save herself from that fate, I suppose—and afterwards was resurrected and blessed Morrel with her hand and heart, and the most exquisite person that even a jaded voluptuary could covet. Happy—happy—happy man!"
"Apropos of dying," said the Secretary, "do you remember how fast people died at M. de Villefort's house about that time?"