“My mother begs you to come.”
“The Comtesse de Morcerf?” said Monte Cristo, starting.
“Ah, count,” said Albert, “I assure you Madame de Morcerf speaks freely to me, and if you have not felt those sympathetic fibres of which I spoke just now thrill within you, you must be entirely devoid of them, for during the last four days we have spoken of no one else.”
“You have talked of me?”
“Yes, that is the penalty of being a living puzzle!”
“Then I am also a puzzle to your mother? I should have thought her too reasonable to be led by imagination.”
“A problem, my dear count, for everyone—for my mother as well as others; much studied, but not solved, you still remain an enigma, do not fear. My mother