“Yes,” said Monte Cristo, “I recognized him.”
“How so?—you were looking the other way.”
The count smiled, as he was in the habit of doing when he did not want to make any reply, and he again turned towards the veiled woman, who soon disappeared at the corner of the street.
Turning to his friend:
“Dear Maximilian,” said the count, “have you nothing to do in this land?”
“I have to weep over the grave of my father,” replied Morrel in a broken voice.
“Well, then, go—wait for me there, and I will soon join you.”
“You leave me, then?”
“Yes; I also have a pious visit to pay.”
Morrel allowed his hand to fall into that which the count extended to him; then with an inexpressibly sorrowful inclination of the head he quitted the count and bent his steps to the east of the city.
Monte Cristo remained on the same spot until Maximilian was out of sight; he then walked slowly towards the Allées de Meilhan to seek out a small house with which our readers were made familiar at the beginning of this story.
It yet stood, under the shade of the fine avenue of lime-trees, which forms one of the most frequent walks of the idlers of Marseilles, covered by an immense vine, which spreads its aged and blackened branches over the stone front, burnt yellow by the ardent sun of the south.