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Updated: June 28, 2025
A few days after this, Jenny Trent ran in upon Bertha as she lay upon a lounge, holding an open book, but with closed eyes. She had come to spend the morning, she announced. She wanted to talk about people, about her dress, about her first ball which was to come off shortly. "And Arthur says" she began. Bertha turned her head almost as Edmondstone had done. "Arthur!" she repeated.
We have borne yesterday; why should we want it back again?" And when they parted she said only one thing of the future: "There is no need that we should talk. There is nothing for us beyond this point. We can only go back. We must try to forget and be satisfied with our absinthe." Instead of returning to his hotel, Edmondstone found his way to the Champs Élysées, and finally to the Bois.
It was into this shining bay that the Tortoise sped, her white sails bellied with the pleasant wind. Priscilla exulted, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. Frank, yielding a little to the fascination of the sailing, was yet ill at ease. His conscience troubled him, the acutely sensitive conscience of a prefect who had been responsible for the tone of Edmondstone House.
M. Villefort rose to receive him with serious courtesy, but the pretty American was not so gracious. Not until he had seated himself at her side and spoken to her did she turn her head and permit her eyes simply to rest upon his face. M. Renard smiled again. "Enter," he remarked in a low tone, "enter M. Ralph Edmondstone, the cousin of Madame."
He was quite prepared to be severe upon the reading, but was surprised to be compelled to acknowledge that M. Villefort read wondrously well, and positively with hints of delicate perception. His voice was full and yet subtly flexible. Edmondstone tried to protest against this also, but uselessly.
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