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 anyone to attach you to life?”