“You know how imperfectly the women of the mezzo cito are educated in Italy?” (This is the name of the lower class.)
“Yes.”
“Well, read the letter again. Look at the writing, and find if you can, any blemish in the language or orthography.” The writing was, in reality, charming, and the orthography irreproachable.
“You are born to good fortune,” said Franz, as he returned the letter.
“Laugh as much as you will,” replied Albert, “I am in love.”
“You alarm me,” cried Franz. “I see that I shall not only go alone to the Duke of Bracciano’s, but also return to Florence alone.”
“If my unknown be as amiable as she is beautiful,” said Albert, “I shall fix myself at Rome for six weeks, at least. I adore Rome, and I have always had a great taste for archaeology.”
“Come, two or three more such adventures, and I do not despair of seeing you a member of the Academy.”
Doubtless Albert was about to discuss seriously his right to the academic chair when they were informed that dinner was ready. Albert’s love had not taken away his appetite. He hastened with Franz to seat himself, free to recommence the discussion after dinner. After dinner, the Count of Monte Cristo was announced. They had not seen him for two days. Signor Pastrini informed them that business had called him to Civita Vecchia. He had started the previous evening, and had only returned an hour since. He was charming. Whether he kept a watch over himself, or whether by accident he did not sound the acrimonious chords that in other circumstances had been touched, he was tonight like everybody else.