n
presented to the world with the appearance of an immense fortune,
supported by an honorable name. How could she extricate herself from
this labyrinth? To whom would she apply to help her out of this painful
situation? Debray, to whom she had run, with the first instinct of a
woman towards the man she loves, and who yet betrays her,--Debray could
but give her advice, she must apply to some one more powerful than he.

The baroness then thought of M. de Villefort. It was M. de Villefort who
had remorselessly brought misfortune into her family, as though they
had been strangers. But, no; on reflection, the procureur was not a
merciless man; and it was not the magistrate, slave to his duties, but
the friend, the loyal friend, who roughly but firmly cut into the very
core of the corruption; it was not the executioner, but the surgeon, who
wished to withdraw the honor of Danglars from ignominious association
with the disgraced young man they had presented to the world as their
son-in-law. And since Villefort, the friend of Danglars, had acted in
this way, no one could suppose that he had been previously acquainted
with, or had lent himself to, any of Andrea's intrigues. Villefort's
conduct, therefore, upon reflection, appeared to the baroness as
if shaped for their mutual advantage. But the inflexibility of the
procureur should stop there; she would see him the next day, and if she
could not make him fail in his duties as a magistrate, she would, at
least, obtain all the indulgence he could allow. She would invoke
the past, recall old recollections; she would supplicate him by the
remembrance of guilty, yet happy days. M. de Villefort would stifle the
affair; he had only to turn his eyes on one side, and allow Andrea to
fly, and follow up the crime under that shadow of guilt called contempt
of court. And after this reasoning she slept easily.

At nine o'clock next morning she arose, and without ringing for her maid
or giving the least sign of her activity, she dressed herself in the
same simple style as on the previous night; then running down-stairs,
she left the hotel, walked to the Rue de Provence, called a cab, and
drove to M. de Villefort's house. For the last month this wretched house
had presented the gloomy appearance of a lazaretto infected with the
plague. Some of the apartments were closed within and without; the
shutters were only opened to admit a minute's air, showing the scared
face of a footman, and immediat