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    Chapter 71

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    Chapter 71
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    CHAPTER 71
    Bread and Salt.

    Madame de Morcerf entered an archway of trees with her
    companion. It led through a grove of lindens to a
    conservatory.

    "It was too warm in the room, was it not, count?" she asked.

    "Yes, madame; and it was an excellent idea of yours to open
    the doors and the blinds." As he ceased speaking, the count
    felt the hand of Mercedes tremble. "But you," he said, "with
    that light dress, and without anything to cover you but that
    gauze scarf, perhaps you feel cold?"

    "Do you know where I am leading you?" said the countess,
    without replying to the question.

    "No, madame," replied Monte Cristo; "but you see I make no
    resistance."

    "We are going to the greenhouse that you see at the other
    end of the grove."

    The count looked at Mercedes as if to interrogate her, but
    she continued to walk on in silence, and he refrained from
    speaking. They reached the building, ornamented with
    magnificent fruits, which ripen at the beginning of July in
    the artificial temperature which takes the place of the sun,
    so frequently absent in our climate. The countess left the
    arm of Monte Cristo, and gathered a bunch of Muscatel
    grapes. "See, count," she said, with a smile so sad in its
    expression that one could almost detect the tears on her
    eyelids -- "see, our French grapes are not to be compared, I
    know, with yours of Sicily and Cyprus, but you will make
    allowance for our northern sun." The count bowed, but
    stepped back. "Do you refuse?" said Mercedes, in a tremulous
    voice. "Pray excuse me, madame," replied Monte Cristo, "but
    I never eat Muscatel grapes."

    Mercedes let them fall, and sighed. A magnificent peach was
    hanging against an adjoining wall, ripened by the same
    artificial heat. Mercedes drew near, and plucked the fruit.
    "Take this peach, then," she said. The count again refused.
    "What, again?" she exclaimed, in so plaintive an accent that
    it seemed to stifle a sob; "really, you pain me."

    A long silence followed; the peach, like the grapes, fell to
    the ground. "Count," added Mercedes with a supplicating
    glance, "there is a beautiful Arabian custom, which makes
    eternal friends of those who have together eaten bread and
    salt under the same roof."

    "I know it, madame," replied the count; "but we are in
    France, and not in Arabia, and in France eternal friendships
    are as rare as the custom of dividing bread and salt with
    one another."

    "But," said the countess, breathlessly, with her eyes fixed
    on Monte Cristo, whose arm she convulsively pressed with
    both hands, "we are friends, are we not?"

    The count became pale as death, the blood rushed to his
    heart, and then again rising, dyed his cheeks with crimson;
    his eyes swam like those of a man suddenly dazzled.
    "Certainly, we are friends," he replied; "why should we not
    be?" The answer was so little like the one Mercedes desired,
    that she turned away to give vent to a sigh, which sounded
    more like a groan. "Thank you," she said. And they walked on
    again. They went the whole length of the garden without
    uttering a word. "Sir," suddenly exclaimed the countess,
    after their walk had continued ten minutes in silence, "is
    it true that you have seen so much, travelled so far, and
    suffered so deeply?"

    "I have suffered deeply, madame," answered Monte Cristo.

    "But now you are happy?"

    "Doubtless," replied the count, "since no one hears me
    complain."

    "And your present happiness, has it softened your heart?"

    "My present happiness equals my past misery," said the
    count.

    "Are you not married?" asked the countess. "I married?"
    exclaimed Monte Cristo, shuddering; "who could have told you
    so?"

    "No one told me you were, but you have frequently been seen
    at the opera with a young and lovely woman."

    "She is a slave whom I bought at Constantinople, madame, the
    daughter of a prince. I have adopted her as my daughter,
    having no one else to love in the world."

    "You live alone, then?"

    "I do."

    "You have no sister -- no son -- no father?"

    "I have no one."

    "How can you exist thus without any one to attach you to
    life?"

    "It is not my fault, madame. At Malta, I loved a young girl,
    was on the point of marrying her, when war came and carried
    me away. I thought she loved me well enough to wait for me,
    and even to remain faithful to my memory. When I returned
    she was married. This is the history of most men who have
    passed twenty years of age. Perhaps my heart was weaker than
    the hearts of most men, and I suffered more than they would
    have done in my place; that is all." The countess stopped
    for a moment, as if gasping for breath. "Yes," she said,
    "and you have still preserved this love in your heart -- one
    can only love once -- and did you ever see her again?"

    "Never."

    "Never?"

    "I never returned to the country where she lived."

    "To Malta?"

    "Yes; Malta."

    "She is, then, now at Malta?"

    "I think so."

    "And have you forgiven her for all she has made you suffer?"

    "Her, -- yes."

    "But only her; do you then still hate those who separated
    you?"

    "I hate them? Not at all; why should I?" The countess placed
    herself before Monte Cristo, still holding in her hand a
    portion of the perfumed grapes. "Take some," she said.
    "Madame, I never eat Muscatel grapes," replied Monte Cristo,
    as if the subject had not been mentioned before. The
    countess dashed the grapes into the nearest thicket, with a
    gesture of despair. "Inflexible man!" she murmured. Monte
    Cristo remained as unmoved as if the reproach had not been
    addressed to him. Albert at this moment ran in. "Oh,
    mother," he exclaimed, "such a misfortune his happened!"

    "What? What has happened?" asked the countess, as though
    awakening from a sleep to the realities of life; "did you
    say a misfortune? Indeed, I should expect misfortunes."

    "M. de Villefort is here."

    "Well?"

    "He comes to fetch his wife and daughter."

    "Why so?"

    "Because Madame de Saint-Meran is just arrived in Paris,
    bringing the news of M. de Saint-Meran's death, which took
    place on the first stage after he left Marseilles. Madame de
    Villefort, who was in very good spirits, would neither
    believe nor think of the misfortune, but Mademoiselle
    Valentine, at the first words, guessed the whole truth,
    notwithstanding all the precautions of her father; the blow
    struck her like a thunderbolt, and she fell senseless."

    "And how was M. de Saint-Meran related to Mademoiselle de
    Villefort?" said the count.

    "He was her grandfather on the mother's side. He was coming
    here to hasten her marriage with Franz."

    "Ah, indeed?"

    "So Franz must wait. Why was not M. de Saint-Meran also
    grandfather to Mademoiselle Danglars?"

    "Albert, Albert," said Madame de Morcerf, in a tone of mild
    reproof, "what are you saying? Ah, count, he esteems you so
    highly, tell him that he has spoken amiss." And she took two
    or three steps forward. Monte Cristo watched her with an air
    so thoughtful, and so full of affectionate admiration, that
    she turned back and grasped his hand; at the same time she
    seized that of her son, and joined them together.

    "We are friends; are we not?" she asked.

    "Oh, madame, I do not presume to call myself your friend,
    but at all times I am your most respectful servant." The
    countess left with an indescribable pang in her heart, and
    before she had taken ten steps the count saw her raise her
    handkerchief to her eyes. "Do not my mother and you agree?"
    asked Albert, astonished.

    "On the contrary," replied the count, "did you not hear her
    declare that we were friends?" They re-entered the
    drawing-room, which Valentine and Madame de Villefort had
    just quitted. It is perhaps needless to add that Morrel
    departed almost at the same time.
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