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He stifled, therefore, the feelings of compassion that were rising, composed his features, and sat down, grim and sombre, at his desk. An instant after Dantes entered. He was pale, but calm and collected, and saluting his judge with easy politeness, looked round for a seat, as if he had been in M. Morrel's salon.
But where is this marvel of excellence pardon me, Beauchamp," perceiving that the journalist looked yet more grave, and seemed in no mood for bantering or being bantered "where is Madame de Morcerf at the present time?" "At Marseilles, I have heard." "And is married again?" "No. She is yet a widow." "And is a recluse, like Morrel's beautiful wife?" "So says report. They dwell together."
And at the very moment when the wheels of that coach crossed the gateway a report was heard, and a thick smoke escaped through one of the panes of the window, which was broken by the explosion. Valentine. We may easily conceive where Morrel's appointment was.
M. Morrel's interest and amusement changed to wonder and amazement; he was thoroughly mystified and bewildered. "The common people of Rome are not very far astray in their estimate of this Dr. Absalom!" he muttered. "This certainly looks as if the man were a magician!" "Pshaw!" returned Monte-Cristo, with a display of impatience he rarely exhibited.
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