Villefort, papers under his arm and hat in hand, directed his steps toward his wife's apartment. At the door he paused for a moment to wipe his damp, pale brow. Then he entered.
Madame de Villefort sat on an ottoman, impatiently flipping through newspapers and pamphlets that young Edward was tearing to pieces before she could finish reading them. He found this game amusing.
She was dressed to go out. Her bonnet lay on a chair beside her, and she wore her gloves.
"Ah, here you are," she said in her naturally calm voice. "But how pale you are! Have you been working all night? Why didn't you come down for breakfast? Well, will you take me, or should I take Edward?"
She'd multiplied her questions hoping to get at least one answer, but to all her inquiries, Villefort remained silent and cold as a statue.
"Edward," Villefort said, fixing an commanding glance on the child, "go play in the drawing room, dear. I need to speak with your mother."
