“No, I do not,” replied Monte Cristo, without even knowing of what or to whom he was speaking, so much was he occupied in watching Morrel, who was holding his breath with emotion.
“The discourse is over; farewell, gentlemen,” said the count, unceremoniously.
And he disappeared without anyone seeing whither he went.
The funeral being over, the guests returned to Paris. Château-Renaud looked for a moment for Morrel; but while they were watching the departure of the count, Morrel had quitted his post, and Château-Renaud, failing in his search, joined Debray and Beauchamp.
Monte Cristo concealed himself behind a large tomb and awaited the arrival of Morrel, who by degrees approached the tomb now abandoned by spectators and workmen. Morrel threw a glance around, but before it reached the spot occupied by Monte Cristo the latter had advanced yet nearer, still unperceived. The young man knelt down. The count, with outstretched neck and glaring eyes, stood in an attitude ready to pounce upon Morrel upon the first occasion. Morrel bent his head till it touched the stone, then clutching the grating with both hands, he murmured:
“Oh, Valentine!”
The count’s heart was pierced by the utterance of these two words; he stepped forward, and touching the young man’s shoulder, said:
“I was looking for you, my friend.” Monte Cristo expected a burst of passion, but he was deceived, for Morrel turning round, said calmly—
“You see I was praying.” The scrutinizing glance of the count searched the young man from head to foot. He then seemed more easy.
“Shall I drive you back to Paris?” he asked.