“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.