s. Now I repeat, my father is named M. de
Villefort, and I am ready to prove it."

There was an energy, a conviction, and a sincerity in the manner of the
young man, which silenced the tumult. All eyes were turned for a moment
towards the procureur, who sat as motionless as though a thunderbolt had
changed him into a corpse. "Gentlemen," said Andrea, commanding silence
by his voice and manner; "I owe you the proofs and explanations of what
I have said."

"But," said the irritated president, "you called yourself Benedetto,
declared yourself an orphan, and claimed Corsica as your country."

"I said anything I pleased, in order that the solemn declaration I have
just made should not be withheld, which otherwise would certainly have
been the case. I now repeat that I was born at Auteuil on the night of
the 27th of September, 1817, and that I am the son of the procureur, M.
de Villefort. Do you wish for any further details? I will give them. I
was born in No. 28, Rue de la Fontaine, in a room hung with red damask;
my father took me in his arms, telling my mother I was dead, wrapped
me in a napkin marked with an H and an N, and carried me into a garden,
where he buried me alive."

A shudder ran through the assembly when they saw that the confidence of
the prisoner increased in proportion to the terror of M. de Villefort.
"But how have you become acquainted with all these details?" asked the
president.

"I will tell you, Mr. President. A man who had sworn vengeance against
my father, and had long watched his opportunity to kill him, had
introduced himself that night into the garden in which my father buried
me. He was concealed in a thicket; he saw my father bury something in
the ground, and stabbed him; then thinking the deposit might contain
some treasure he turned up the ground, and found me still living. The
man carried me to the foundling asylum, where I was registered under the
number 37. Three months afterwards, a woman travelled from Rogliano to
Paris to fetch me, and having claimed me as her son, carried me away.
Thus, you see, though born in Paris, I was brought up in Corsica."

There was a moment's silence, during which one could have fancied
the hall empty, so profound was the stillness. "Proceed," said the
president.

"Certainly, I might have lived happily amongst those good people, who
adored me, but my perverse disposition prevailed over the virtues which
my adopted mother endeavored to instil into my he