“See how the artist peeps out!” exclaimed Madame Danglars. “My poor Eugénie, you must conceal your passion for the fine arts.”
“I admire all that is beautiful,” returned the young lady.
“What do you think of the count?” inquired Debray; “he is not much amiss, according to my ideas of good looks.”
“The count?” repeated Eugénie, as though it had not occurred to her to observe him sooner; “the count?—oh, he is so dreadfully pale.”
“I quite agree with you,” said Morcerf; “and the secret of that very pallor is what we want to find out. The Countess G⸺ insists upon it that he is a vampire.”
“Then the Countess G⸺ has returned to Paris, has she?” inquired the baroness.
“Is that she, mamma?” asked Eugénie; “almost opposite to us, with that profusion of beautiful light hair?”
“Yes,” said Madame Danglars, “that is she. Shall I tell you what you ought to do, Morcerf?”
“Command me, madame.”
“Well, then, you should go and bring your Count of Monte Cristo to us.”
“What for?” asked Eugénie.
“What for? Why, to converse with him, of course. Have you really no desire to meet him?”
“None whatever,” replied Eugénie.
“Strange child,” murmured the baroness.