rees, Monte Cristo recognized him whom he sought. One funeral is
generally very much like another in this magnificent metropolis. Black
figures are seen scattered over the long white avenues; the silence
of earth and heaven is alone broken by the noise made by the crackling
branches of hedges planted around the monuments; then follows the
melancholy chant of the priests, mingled now and then with a sob of
anguish, escaping from some woman concealed behind a mass of flowers.

The shadow Monte Cristo had noticed passed rapidly behind the tomb of
Abelard and Heloise, placed itself close to the heads of the horses
belonging to the hearse, and following the undertaker's men, arrived
with them at the spot appointed for the burial. Each person's attention
was occupied. Monte Cristo saw nothing but the shadow, which no one else
observed. Twice the count left the ranks to see whether the object of
his interest had any concealed weapon beneath his clothes. When the
procession stopped, this shadow was recognized as Morrel, who, with
his coat buttoned up to his throat, his face livid, and convulsively
crushing his hat between his fingers, leaned against a tree, situated
on an elevation commanding the mausoleum, so that none of the funeral
details could escape his observation. Everything was conducted in
the usual manner. A few men, the least impressed of all by the scene,
pronounced a discourse, some deploring this premature death, others
expatiating on the grief of the father, and one very ingenious person
quoting the fact that Valentine had solicited pardon of her father for
criminals on whom the arm of justice was ready to fall--until at length
they exhausted their stores of metaphor and mournful speeches.

Monte Cristo heard and saw nothing, or rather he only saw Morrel, whose
calmness had a frightful effect on those who knew what was passing in
his heart. "See," said Beauchamp, pointing out Morrel to Debray. "What
is he doing up there?" And they called Chateau-Renaud's attention to
him.

"How pale he is!" said Chateau-Renaud, shuddering.

"He is cold," said Debray.

"Not at all," said Chateau-Renaud, slowly; "I think he is violently
agitated. He is very susceptible."

"Bah," said Debray; "he scarcely knew Mademoiselle de Villefort; you
said so yourself."

"True. Still I remember he danced three times with her at Madame de
Morcerf's. Do you recollect that ball, count, where you produced such an
effect?"

"No, I do not