loudly exclaimed:

"Ah, Chateau-Renaud!"

"Beauchamp," came back the answer; and the two friends cordially shook hands.

"Really," said Chateau-Renaud, laughing, "I must be grateful to chance, which threw me in your way."

"What brings you here?"

"The trial of his highness Prince Benedetto de Cavalcanti, of course."

"I'm here for the same reason. I also wish to see the concluding act of the drama which has interested Paris so long. Do you think the poor devil has a chance of escaping the hangman's noose?"

"Hardly—but here we are. Why, the hall is about empty," exclaimed Beauchamp, wonderingly.

"Does that astonish you? Paris has always been ungrateful, and has long since forgotten that the Benedetto affair was once an important topic," replied Chateau-Renaud in a tone of indifference.

"Perhaps the trial has been postponed," said the journalist, and turning to a reporter of his acquaintance, he hurriedly asked: "Does Benedetto's trial take place to-day?"

"Benedetto's trial," answered the reporter, musingly: "ah, yes, now I know—the murder in Monte-Cristo's garden, and, if my memory is right, I believe the murderer pretends that he is the son of the procureur du roi, Monsieur de Villefort."

"Perfectly right; you have an enviable memory," laughingly said Beauchamp. "Well, does the trial take place?"

"Certainly, it's the third day of the case."

"Thank you. We can get some refreshments now and pass the time until the Benedetto case comes up," said Chateau-Renaud.

"If you desire to attend the trial, I will inform you when it's time," said the reporter, politely.

"You are very kind," answered Beauchamp, as he departed with his friend.

As they were leaving the corridor, Beauchamp nudged his companion lightly.

"Every one is not so ungrateful as to forget Benedetto. Debray is here too."

"Why not?" said Chateau-Renaud. "Debray has plenty of time to himself since the Ministry was overturned and carried a poor attaché along with it in its fall."

"Well, he rescued his millions anyway," replied Beauchamp, indifferently, "Though, come to think of it," he continued maliciously, "it is quite natural for Debray to interest himself in Benedetto—the latter was half and half his son-in-law."

"Oh, Beauchamp, you are cynical; the relationship reminds one of a morganatic marriage," Chateau-Renaud laughingly interposed.

"By the way, has anything new been found out about the Baroness Danglars?"

"H'm—they say she has disappeared."

"And her good, honest husband?"

"Is knocking about somewhere. God only knows."

"Well, I must say there is nothing like Parisian life. The house of Danglars breaks. Father and mother Danglars disappear, in consequence of which Debray is without his flame; and the daughter—is anything known of her? To my taste, she was the best of the lot."

"Mademoiselle d'Armilly undoubtedly knows where she is—they were inseparable companions. They will come to the surface again; from what I know of Mademoiselle Danglars, she has about as much talent for singing as a lioness."

"A beautiful constellation. What became of Monsieur de Villefort?"

"He is an incurable maniac, and is in Dr. d'Avigny's private asylum."

"Not a bad business for the old gentleman. The house of Villefort has had a terrible end. Madame de Villefort and her son are dead, and poor Valentine—I am not generally sentimental, but I confess the death of the young girl was a terrible shock to me."

"Beauchamp, do you believe in miracles?" asked Chateau-Renaud, suddenly.

"That depends. Why do you ask?"

"Well, one of my friends gave me his word of honor that he saw Mademoiselle Valentine in Marseilles."

"Before or after the funeral?"

"After, certainly."

"That seems rather wonderful, but one is already accustomed to look upon everything with which the Count of Monte-Cristo has any connection as something miraculous."

"Have you heard the fable that the count was a vampire?"

"Who could have said such a thing? What is old Noirtier doing?"

"He has gone to the South; and the Morcerf family—"

"Well, what of them?"

"Nothing new. The father a suicide, the son in Africa, and the mother has disappeared."

"Just like Baroness Danglars."

"Yes, only with this difference, that Madame de Morcerf and her son gave their whole fortune to the poor."

"I am glad for the poor—I—"

"The Benedetto affair is now on," broke in the voice of the reporter, interrupting their conversation.

"Ah—thank you." And with this they all entered the court-room.

"Beauchamp," whispered Chateau-Renaud, pointing to a veiled lady who sat near them, "if I wasn't sure that the Baroness Dangl—"

"Hush! Do not mention any names. I think you are right, but I cannot understand why she comes in such disreputable company."

The lady spoken about, heavily veiled, held her head on her hand and awaited the beginning of the case. Her companion, a thin, yellow, dried-up old man, whose bald head in form and color recalled a ripe melon, sat as straight as a stick, and kept his eyes on the crucifix opposite him.

"Bring in the prisoner," ordered the judge.

A shudder ran through the lady, but she did not look up as Benedetto entered.

CHAPTER VI

BENEDETTO, THE MURDERER

In the meantime the room had become almost filled, as a death sentence would probably be given. Almost half the spectators were ladies. A murmur of curiosity ran about the room, and many who were present remembered the moment in the former sitting when the prisoner, with the air of a stage hero, let fall the weighty words: "My father is the royal district-attorney, Monsieur Villefort." Unconsciously all eyes were turned to the ministerial box, as if hoping to encounter the pale, confused face of the all-powerful judge, who had himself been judged, but only the substitute of the procureur was seen.

Benedetto now entered. Beauchamp and Chateau-Renaud could hardly restrain their astonishment, for very seldom has a man changed so much in three months. When they had seen Cavalcanti Benedetto last, he was the type of a parlor hero, and fascinated every one by his pleasing appearance; but the man who stood now before the judge was another—a broken-down man.

His curly hair had been shaved close to the skin, his eyes, which had formerly sparkled with life, were now dim. The small, finely formed hands were meekly crossed over the breast, and even the prisoner's clothes harmonized with his general appearance.

A policeman gruffly showed him to his seat. Benedetto bowed deeply, and sat on the edge of the hard wooden bench.

The prisoner's lawyer, a celebrated advocate, bent down and whispered a few encouraging words to him. Benedetto listened attentively to them and murmured half aloud:

"May God have mercy on me."

"And the devil, too," whispered Beauchamp to Chateau-Renaud. "Benedetto has become a howling coward. It's a great pity!"

The judge beckoned to the actuary and ordered him to read the indictment. It was short and compact; it recited the murder of Caderousse, the robbery in the Count of Monte-Cristo's house, the revelations made by the prisoner with regard to M. de Villefort, the latter's confession, his insanity, and finally the suicide of his wife.

"Prisoner, stand up!" said the judge, in a soft voice, "and tell me your name."

"Benedetto," replied the former bandit in a modest,