s for that Benedetto,
who so grossly belied his name, have you never made any effort to trace
out whither he has gone, or what has become of him?"

"No; far from wishing to learn whither he has betaken himself, I should
shun the possibility of meeting him as I would a wild beast. Thank God,
I have never heard his name mentioned by any person, and I hope and
believe he is dead."

"Do not think so, Bertuccio," replied the count; "for the wicked are
not so easily disposed of, for God seems to have them under his special
watch-care to make of them instruments of his vengeance."

"So be it," responded Bertuccio, "all I ask of heaven is that I may
never see him again. And now, your excellency," he added, bowing his
head, "you know everything--you are my judge on earth, as the Almighty
is in heaven; have you for me no words of consolation?"

"My good friend, I can only repeat the words addressed to you by the
Abbe Busoni. Villefort merited punishment for what he had done to you,
and, perhaps, to others. Benedetto, if still living, will become the
instrument of divine retribution in some way or other, and then be duly
punished in his turn. As far as you yourself are concerned, I see but
one point in which you are really guilty. Ask yourself, wherefore, after
rescuing the infant from its living grave, you did not restore it to its
mother? There was the crime, Bertuccio--that was where you became really
culpable."

"True, excellency, that was the crime, the real crime, for in that
I acted like a coward. My first duty, directly I had succeeded in
recalling the babe to life, was to restore it to its mother; but, in
order to do so, I must have made close and careful inquiry, which would,
in all probability, have led to my own apprehension; and I clung to
life, partly on my sister's account, and partly from that feeling
of pride inborn in our hearts of desiring to come off untouched and
victorious in the execution of our vengeance. Perhaps, too, the natural
and instinctive love of life made me wish to avoid endangering my
own. And then, again, I am not as brave and courageous as was my poor
brother." Bertuccio hid his face in his hands as he uttered these words,
while Monte Cristo fixed on him a look of inscrutable meaning. After
a brief silence, rendered still more solemn by the time and place, the
count said, in a tone of melancholy wholly unlike his usual manner, "In
order to bring this conversation to a fitting termination (