of this man, it seems to me we are not of the same race.”
“I am highly flattered,” returned Beauchamp.
“At the same time,” added Château-Renaud, “your Count of Monte Cristo is a very fine fellow, always excepting his little arrangements with the Italian banditti.”
“There are no Italian banditti,” said Debray.
“No vampire,” cried Beauchamp.
“No Count of Monte Cristo,” added Debray. “There is half-past ten striking, Albert.”
“Confess you have dreamed this, and let us sit down to breakfast,” continued Beauchamp.
But the sound of the clock had not died away when Germain announced, “His excellency the Count of Monte Cristo.” The involuntary start everyone gave proved how much Morcerf’s narrative had impressed them, and Albert himself could not wholly refrain from manifesting sudden emotion. He had not heard a carriage stop in the street, or steps in the antechamber; the door had itself opened noiselessly. The count appeared, dressed with the greatest simplicity, but the most fastidious dandy could have found nothing to cavil at in his toilet. Every article of dress—hat, coat, gloves, and boots—was from the first makers. He seemed scarcely five-and-thirty. But what struck everybody was his extreme resemblance to the portrait Debray had drawn. The count advanced, smiling, into the centre of the room, and approached Albert, who hastened towards him holding out his hand in a ceremonial manner.
“Punctuality,” said Monte Cristo, “is the politeness of kings, according to one of your sovereigns, I think; but it is not the same with travellers. However, I hope you will excuse the two or three seconds I am behindhand; five