“How singular,” murmured Maximilian; “your father hates me, while your grandfather, on the contrary⁠—What strange feelings are aroused by politics.”

“Hush,” cried Valentine, suddenly; “someone is coming!” Maximilian leaped at one bound into his crop of lucern, which he began to pull up in the most ruthless way, under the pretext of being occupied in weeding it.

“Mademoiselle, mademoiselle!” exclaimed a voice from behind the trees. “Madame is searching for you everywhere; there is a visitor in the drawing-room.”

“A visitor?” inquired Valentine, much agitated; “who is it?”

“Some grand personage⁠—a prince I believe they said⁠—the Count of Monte Cristo.”

“I will come directly,” cried Valentine aloud.