Villefort nodded and stammered with some difficulty: "Yes."
"Benedetto," said the judge, turning toward the prisoner, "stand up."
Benedetto obeyed the order.
"Look at Monsieur de Villefort," continued the judge, "and tell me, upon your conscience, whether you uphold the accusations made by you at a former trial of this case."
Benedetto was either, as pious souls say, "touched by compassion," or else the most accomplished hypocrite in existence. He clasped both hands to his face and murmured in a voice choked with tears:
"Pardon, father—pardon!"
"What does the man want of me?" asked Monsieur de Villefort, who was gradually recovering his voice, and to the astonishment of the spectators was soon in possession of his speech.
"He calls you father," replied the judge, "you yourself have acknowledged him as your son."
Villefort put his hand to his forehead.
"My son? And he is alive? It is impossible—my children were killed in my house—my son is dead."