“I know it, and appeal to your penetration. You are of so superior a mind, nothing escapes you.”
“Why do you say so?”
“Because, for instance, you noticed on the evening of the ball we gave, that M. de Monte Cristo would eat nothing in our house.”
Mercédès raised herself on her feverish arm.
“ M. de Monte Cristo!” she exclaimed; “and how is he connected with the question you asked me?”
“You know, mother, M. de Monte Cristo is almost an Oriental, and it is customary with the Orientals to secure full liberty for revenge by not eating or drinking in the houses of their enemies.”
“Do you say M. de Monte Cristo is our enemy?” replied Mercédès, becoming paler than the sheet which covered her. “Who told you so? Why, you are mad, Albert! M. de Monte Cristo has only shown us kindness. M. de Monte Cristo saved your life; you yourself presented him to us. Oh, I entreat you, my son, if you had entertained such an idea, dispel it; and my counsel to you—nay, my prayer—is to retain his friendship.”
“Mother,” replied the young man, “you have special reasons for telling me to conciliate that man.”
“I?” said Mercédès, blushing as rapidly as she had turned pale, and again becoming paler than ever.
“Yes, doubtless; and is it not that he may never do us any harm?”
Mercédès shuddered, and, fixing on her son a scrutinizing gaze, “You speak strangely,” said she to Albert, “and you appear to have some