"Have you forgotten the night of the 27th and 28th of September, 1807?"
"No, I have forgotten nothing—that son I killed too."
"Yes, but he escaped death by a miracle, don't you know!"
"Ah, yes, I remember; it was no miracle; he owes his life to an attempt at assassination, and the murderer thought he was lifting up a treasure when he picked up the box containing the child."
"Then you acknowledge your son?"
Villefort laughed maliciously.
"Yes, certainly he is my son. How would he have been a counterfeiter and murderer otherwise? Oh, it is all right—the house in Auteuil, the napkin marked H; Villefort's son must become a murderer."
He stretched out his lean hand toward Benedetto and hissed ironically:
"You are my son. You have murdered already and will murder again."
"No, no," gasped Benedetto; "I have sinned terribly, but nothing on earth could make me increase my crimes! Father, I forgive you, and may God have mercy on both our souls."