“My child,” returned Monte Cristo “you know full well that whenever we part, it will be no fault or wish of mine; the tree forsakes not the flower⁠—the flower falls from the tree.”

“My lord,” replied Haydée, “I never will leave you, for I am sure I could not exist without you.”

“My poor girl, in ten years I shall be old, and you will be still young.”

“My father had a long white beard, but I loved him; he was sixty years old, but to me he was handsomer than all the fine youths I saw.”

“Then tell me, Haydée, do you believe you shall be able to accustom yourself to our present mode of life?”

“Shall I see you?”

“Every day.”

“Then what do you fear, my lord?”