“Thirty-five or thirty-six, mother.”
“So young—it is impossible,” said Mercédès, replying at the same time to what Albert said as well as to her own private reflection.
“It is the truth, however. Three or four times he has said to me, and certainly without the slightest premeditation, ‘at such a period I was five years old, at another ten years old, at another twelve,’ and I, induced by curiosity, which kept me alive to these details, have compared the dates, and never found him inaccurate. The age of this singular man, who is of no age, is then, I am certain, thirty-five. Besides, mother, remark how vivid his eye, how raven-black his hair, and his brow, though so pale, is free from wrinkles—he is not only vigorous, but also young.”
The countess bent her head, as if beneath a heavy wave of bitter thoughts.
“And has this man displayed a friendship for you, Albert?” she asked with a nervous shudder.
“I am inclined to think so.”
“And—do—you—like—him?”
“Why, he pleases me in spite of Franz d’Épinay, who tries to convince me that he is a being returned from the other world.”
The countess shuddered.
“Albert,” she said, in a voice which was altered by emotion, “I have always put you on your guard against new acquaintances. Now you are a man, and are able to give me advice; yet I repeat to you, Albert, be prudent.”
“Why, my dear mother, it is necessary, in order to make your advice turn to account, that I should know beforehand what I have to distrust. The