young lady herself entered the apartment. She appeared much dejected; and any person who considered her attentively might have observed the traces of recent tears in her eyes.
Valentine, whom we have in the rapid march of our narrative presented to our readers without formally introducing her, was a tall and graceful girl of nineteen, with bright chestnut hair, deep blue eyes, and that reposeful air of quiet distinction which characterized her mother. Her white and slender fingers, her pearly neck, her cheeks tinted with varying hues, reminded one of the lovely Englishwomen who have been so poetically compared in their manner to the gracefulness of a swan.
She entered the apartment, and seeing near her stepmother the stranger of whom she had already heard so much, saluted him without any girlish awkwardness, or even lowering her eyes, and with an elegance that redoubled the count’s attention.
He rose to return the salutation.
“Mademoiselle de Villefort, my stepdaughter,” said Madame de Villefort to Monte Cristo, leaning back on her sofa and motioning towards Valentine with her hand.
“And M. de Monte Cristo, King of China, Emperor of Cochin-China,” said the young imp, looking slyly towards his sister.
Madame de Villefort at this really did turn pale, and was very nearly angry with this household plague, who answered to the name of Edward; but the count, on the contrary, smiled, and appeared to look at the boy complacently, which caused the maternal heart to bound again with joy and enthusiasm.
“But, madame,” replied the count, continuing the conversation, and looking by turns at Madame de Villefort and Valentine, “have I not