"I thought Eugenie Danglars was shrewder than that. Of course his scar disfigures his face so much as to make it almost unrecognizable. Who was it, Eugenie, who, in former years, had the audacity to ask your hand in marriage, and then—"
"Prince Cavalcanti!" exclaimed La Luciola, horror-stricken.
"Yes, if you wish to call him thus; in reality, though, he is the escaped galley slave and murderer, Benedetto."
"But what has the wretch to do with my mother?"
"Unfortunately, more than you think; to rob your mother of her treasure, a full million, the monster plunged a dagger in her breast—"
"Oh, the miserable coward! But you told me my mother lived—"
"Yes, she lives! The murderer did not strike the heart as he had intended, and, after months of agony, the poor woman recovered."
"Thank God! But where is she? I want to go to her and throw myself at her feet. My love will make her forget her grief," exclaimed Luciola, passionately.
"That is impossible just now. Your mother had intended to enter a convent, but chance just happened to throw her in Valentine de Villefort's way. You know her?"
"Oh, certainly; Valentine, the only one whom I love to remember among all my past acquaintances."