In the household of Villefort, Monte Cristo had done nothing to bring vengeance on that evil man.  He had seen from the first that Villefort’s second wife was studying the art of poisoning, and he felt that revenge was already at work here.  There had already been three mysterious deaths in the house, and now the beautiful Valentine seemed to be suffering from the early effects of some slow poison.  Maximilian Morrel, in despair of Valentine’s life, rushed to Monte Cristo for his advice and assistance.

“Must I let one of the accursed race escape?” Monte Cristo asked himself, but decided, for Maxmilian’s sake, that he would save Valentine.  He had bought the house adjoining that of Villefort, and, clearing out the tenants, had engaged workmen to remove so much of the old wall between the two houses that it was a simple matter for him to take out the remaining stones and pass into a large cupboard in Valentine’s room.  Here the count watched while Valentine was asleep, and saw Madame de Villefort creep into the room and substitute for the medicine in Valentine’s glass a dose of poison.

He then entered the room and threw half the draught into the fireplace, leaving the rest in the glass.  When Valentine awoke he gave her a pellet of hashish, which made her sink into a deathlike sleep.

Next morning the doctor declared that Valentine was dead.  In the glass he discovered poison, and as the same poison was found in madame’s laboratory, there was no doubt of her guilt.  She admitted all, and confessed that her object had been to make her own son sole heir to Villefort’s fortune.

Madame de Villefort fell at her husband’s feet.  He addressed her with passionate words of reproach as he turned to leave her.

“Think of it, madame,” he said; “if on my return justice has not been satisfied, I will denounce you with my own mouth, and arrest you with my own hands!  I am going to the court to pronounce sentence of death on a murderer.  If I find you alive on my return, you shall sleep to-night in gaol.”

Madame sighed, her nerves gave way, and she sank on the carpet.

But Villefort little knew at the moment he spoke these burning words to the woman who was his wife that he himself was not going out to condemn a fellow-sinner, but to be himself condemned.  For the man to whom he referred as a murderer was the so-called Count Cavalcanti, really Benedetto, who now turned out to be an illegitimate son of Villefort’s whom he had endeavoured to bury alive as an infant in the garden of a house at Auteuil.  The night before the criminal had had a long interview with Monte Cristo’s steward, who had disclosed to the prisoner the secret of his birth, and in court he declared his father was Villefort, the public prosecutor!  This statement made a great commotion in the court, and all eyes were on Villefort, while Benedetto continued to answer the questions of the president, and proved that he was the child whom Villefort would have buried alive years before.  The public prosecutor himself confirmed the prisoner’s story by admitting his guilt, and staggering from the court.