and see."

"No, sir; Madame de Villefort sent for him half an hour ago; he went
into her room, and has not been down-stairs since." A cold perspiration
burst out on Villefort's brow; his legs trembled, and his thoughts flew
about madly in his brain like the wheels of a disordered watch. "In
Madame de Villefort's room?" he murmured and slowly returned, with one
hand wiping his forehead, and with the other supporting himself
against the wall. To enter the room he must again see the body of his
unfortunate wife. To call Edward he must reawaken the echo of that room
which now appeared like a sepulchre; to speak seemed like violating the
silence of the tomb. His tongue was paralyzed in his mouth.

"Edward!" he stammered--"Edward!" The child did not answer. Where, then,
could he be, if he had entered his mother's room and not since returned?
He stepped forward. The corpse of Madame de Villefort was stretched
across the doorway leading to the room in which Edward must be; those
glaring eyes seemed to watch over the threshold, and the lips bore the
stamp of a terrible and mysterious irony. Through the open door was
visible a portion of the boudoir, containing an upright piano and a blue
satin couch. Villefort stepped forward two or three paces, and beheld
his child lying--no doubt asleep--on the sofa. The unhappy man uttered
an exclamation of joy; a ray of light seemed to penetrate the abyss of
despair and darkness. He had only to step over the corpse, enter the
boudoir, take the child in his arms, and flee far, far away.

Villefort was no longer the civilized man; he was a tiger hurt unto
death, gnashing his teeth in his wound. He no longer feared realities,
but phantoms. He leaped over the corpse as if it had been a burning
brazier. He took the child in his arms, embraced him, shook him, called
him, but the child made no response. He pressed his burning lips to the
cheeks, but they were icy cold and pale; he felt the stiffened limbs; he
pressed his hand upon the heart, but it no longer beat,--the child
was dead. A folded paper fell from Edward's breast. Villefort,
thunderstruck, fell upon his knees; the child dropped from his arms, and
rolled on the floor by the side of its mother. He picked up the paper,
and, recognizing his wife's writing, ran his eyes rapidly over its
contents; it ran as follows:--

"You know that I was a good mother, since it was for my son's sake I
became criminal. A good mother cannot depart without