—No —interpuso Madame de Villefort, en quien el estilo autoritario adoptado por el conde causó una profunda impresión—, no, mas considerad que para salvar mi vida ha arriesgado la suya.
—Su vida, madame, no le pertenece a él; es mía, a cambio de haberlo salvado yo mismo de la muerte.
Madame de Villefort no volvió a replicar; su mente estaba completamente absorta en la contemplación de aquel hombre que, desde el primer instante en que lo vio, le había causado una impresión tan profunda.
During the evident preoccupation of Madame de Villefort, Monte Cristo scrutinized the features and appearance of the boy she kept folded in her arms, lavishing on him the most tender endearments.
The child was small for his age, and unnaturally pale. A mass of straight black hair, defying all attempts to train or curl it, fell over his projecting forehead, and hung down to his shoulders, giving increased vivacity to eyes already sparkling with a youthful love of mischief and fondness for every forbidden enjoyment.
His mouth was large, and the lips, which had not yet regained their color, were particularly thin; in fact, the deep and crafty look, giving a predominant expression to the child’s face, belonged rather to a boy of twelve or fourteen than to one so young.
His first movement was to free himself by a violent push from the encircling arms of his mother, and to rush forward to the casket from whence the count had taken the phial of elixir; then, without asking permission of anyone, he proceeded, in all the wilfulness of a spoiled child unaccustomed to restrain either whims or caprices, to pull the corks out of all the bottles.