“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 has 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-Méran is just arrived in Paris, bringing the news of M. de Saint-Méran’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-Méran 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.”