r's room, and accompanied him to see how the old man had slept.
They found him in the large arm-chair, which served him for a bed,
enjoying a calm, nay, almost a smiling sleep. They both stood in
amazement at the door.

"See," said d'Avrigny to Villefort, "nature knows how to alleviate the
deepest sorrow. No one can say that M. Noirtier did not love his child,
and yet he sleeps."

"Yes, you are right," replied Villefort, surprised; "he sleeps, indeed!
And this is the more strange, since the least contradiction keeps him
awake all night."

"Grief has stunned him," replied d'Avrigny; and they both returned
thoughtfully to the procureur's study.

"See, I have not slept," said Villefort, showing his undisturbed bed;
"grief does not stun me. I have not been in bed for two nights; but
then look at my desk; see what I have written during these two days and
nights. I have filled those papers, and have made out the accusation
against the assassin Benedetto. Oh, work, work,--my passion, my joy, my
delight,--it is for thee to alleviate my sorrows!" and he convulsively
grasped the hand of d'Avrigny.

"Do you require my services now?" asked d'Avrigny.

"No," said Villefort; "only return again at eleven o'clock; at twelve
the--the--oh, heavens, my poor, poor child!" and the procureur again
becoming a man, lifted up his eyes and groaned.

"Shall you be present in the reception room?"

"No; I have a cousin who has undertaken this sad office. I shall work,
doctor--when I work I forget everything." And, indeed, no sooner had
the doctor left the room, than he was again absorbed in study. On the
doorsteps d'Avrigny met the cousin whom Villefort had mentioned, a
personage as insignificant in our story as in the world he occupied--one
of those beings designed from their birth to make themselves useful to
others. He was punctual, dressed in black, with crape around his hat,
and presented himself at his cousin's with a face made up for the
occasion, and which he could alter as might be required. At twelve
o'clock the mourning-coaches rolled into the paved court, and the Rue du
Faubourg Saint-Honore was filled with a crowd of idlers, equally pleased
to witness the festivities or the mourning of the rich, and who rush
with the same avidity to a funeral procession as to the marriage of a
duchess.

Gradually the reception-room filled, and some of our old friends
made their appearance--we mean Debray, Chateau-Renaud, and Beauchamp,
acco