id you ever reveal to
any one our connection?"

"Never, to any one."

"You understand me," replied Villefort, affectionately; "when I say any
one,--pardon my urgency,--to any one living I mean?"

"Yes, yes, I understand very well," ejaculated the baroness; "never, I
swear to you."

"Were you ever in the habit of writing in the evening what had
transpired in the morning? Do you keep a journal?"

"No, my life has been passed in frivolity; I wish to forget it myself."

"Do you talk in your sleep?"

"I sleep soundly, like a child; do you not remember?" The color mounted
to the baroness's face, and Villefort turned awfully pale.

"It is true," said he, in so low a tone that he could hardly be heard.

"Well?" said the baroness.

"Well, I understand what I now have to do," replied Villefort. "In
less than one week from this time I will ascertain who this M. de Monte
Cristo is, whence he comes, where he goes, and why he speaks in our
presence of children that have been disinterred in a garden." Villefort
pronounced these words with an accent which would have made the
count shudder had he heard him. Then he pressed the hand the baroness
reluctantly gave him, and led her respectfully back to the door. Madame
Danglars returned in another cab to the passage, on the other side of
which she found her carriage, and her coachman sleeping peacefully on
his box while waiting for her.

Chapter 68. A Summer Ball.

The same day during the interview between Madame Danglars and the
procureur, a travelling-carriage entered the Rue du Helder, passed
through the gateway of No. 27, and stopped in the yard. In a moment the
door was opened, and Madame de Morcerf alighted, leaning on her son's
arm. Albert soon left her, ordered his horses, and having arranged his
toilet, drove to the Champs Elysees, to the house of Monte Cristo. The
count received him with his habitual smile. It was a strange thing that
no one ever appeared to advance a step in that man's favor. Those who
would, as it were, force a passage to his heart, found an impassable
barrier. Morcerf, who ran towards him with open arms, was chilled as he
drew near, in spite of the friendly smile, and simply held out his hand.
Monte Cristo shook it coldly, according to his invariable practice.
"Here I am, dear count."

"Welcome home again."

"I arrived an hour since."

"From Dieppe?"

"No, from Treport."

"Indeed?"

"And I have come at once to see you."

"That is