She made no pretense at endeavoring to soften the blow she was about to bestow. She drew forth from her dress a letter, the mere sight of which seemed to goad her to a mysterious excitement.
“See,” she cried; “it was M. Ralph Edmondstone who wrote this,—it was to Madame Villefort it was written. It means ruin and dishonor. I offer it to you to read.”
M. Villefort rose and laid his hand upon his chair to steady himself.
“Madame,” he answered, “I will not touch it.”
She struck herself upon her withered breast.
“Behold me!” she said. “Me! I am seventy years old! Good God! seventy! I am a bad old woman, and it is said I do not repent of my sins. I, too, have been a beautiful young girl. I, too, had my first lover. I, too, married a man who had not won my heart. It does not matter that the husband was worthy and the lover was not,—one learns that too late. My fate was what your wife’s will be if you will not sacrifice your pride and save her.”
“Pride!” he echoed in a bitter, hollow voice. “My pride, Madame!”
She went on without noticing him:—
“They have been here this morning—both of them. He followed her, as he always does. He had a desperate look which warned me. Afterward I found the note upon the floor. Now will you read it?”
“Good God!” he cried, as he fell into his chair again, his brow sinking into his hands.