"You are not Busoni?--you are not Monte Cristo? Oh, heavens--you are,
then, some secret, implacable, and mortal enemy! I must have wronged you
in some way at Marseilles. Oh, woe to me!"

"Yes; you are now on the right path," said the count, crossing his arms
over his broad chest; "search--search!"

"But what have I done to you?" exclaimed Villefort, whose mind was
balancing between reason and insanity, in that cloud which is neither a
dream nor reality; "what have I done to you? Tell me, then! Speak!"

"You condemned me to a horrible, tedious death; you killed my father;
you deprived me of liberty, of love, and happiness."

"Who are you, then? Who are you?"

"I am the spectre of a wretch you buried in the dungeons of the Chateau
d'If. God gave that spectre the form of the Count of Monte Cristo when
he at length issued from his tomb, enriched him with gold and diamonds,
and led him to you!"

"Ah, I recognize you--I recognize you!" exclaimed the king's attorney;
"you are"--

"I am Edmond Dantes!"

"You are Edmond Dantes," cried Villefort, seizing the count by the
wrist; "then come here!" And up the stairs he dragged Monte Cristo; who,
ignorant of what had happened, followed him in astonishment, foreseeing
some new catastrophe. "There, Edmond Dantes!" he said, pointing to the
bodies of his wife and child, "see, are you well avenged?" Monte Cristo
became pale at this horrible sight; he felt that he had passed beyond
the bounds of vengeance, and that he could no longer say, "God is for
and with me." With an expression of indescribable anguish he threw
himself upon the body of the child, reopened its eyes, felt its
pulse, and then rushed with him into Valentine's room, of which he
double-locked the door. "My child," cried Villefort, "he carries away
the body of my child! Oh, curses, woe, death to you!" and he tried to
follow Monte Cristo; but as though in a dream he was transfixed to the
spot,--his eyes glared as though they were starting through the sockets;
he griped the flesh on his chest until his nails were stained with
blood; the veins of his temples swelled and boiled as though they would
burst their narrow boundary, and deluge his brain with living fire.
This lasted several minutes, until the frightful overturn of reason was
accomplished; then uttering a loud cry followed by a burst of laughter,
he rushed down the stairs.

A quarter of an hour afterwards the door of Valentine's room opened, and
Monte Cri