tion 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 Yillefort; "only return again at eleven o'clock; at twelve the—the—oh, Heavens! my poor, poor child!" and the procureur du roi, 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 work. 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 devoted from their birth to make themselves useful to others. He was punctual, dressed in black, with a crape round his hat, and presented himself at his cousin's with a face made up for the occasion, and which he could drop as might be required.
At eleven 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, Château-Renaud, and Beauchamp, then all the leading men of the day at the bar, in literature, or the army, for Villefort moved in the first Parisian circles, less owing to his social position than to his personal merit.
The cousin standing at the door ushered in the guests, and it was rather a relief, it must be said, to the indifferent to see a person as unmoved as themselves, and who did not exact a mournful face or forced tears, as would have been the case with a father, a brother, or a lover. Those who were acquainted soon formed into little groups. One of those was composed of Debray, Château-Renaud, and Beauchamp.
"Poor girl!" said Debray, like the rest, paying an involuntary tribute to the sad event,—"poor girl! so young! so rich! so beautiful! Could you have imagined this scene, Château-Renaud, when we saw her—how long since? at the most three weeks ago, about to sign that contract which was never signed?"
"Indeed, no!" said Château-Renaud.
"Did you know her?"
