“His life, madame, belongs not to him; it is mine, in return for my having myself saved him from death.”
Madame de Villefort made no further reply; her mind was utterly absorbed in the contemplation of the person who, from the first instant she saw him, had made so powerful an impression on her.
During the evident preoccupation of Madame de Villefort, Monte Cristo scrutinized the features and appearance of the boy she kept folded in her arms, lavishing on him the most tender endearments.
The child was small for his age, and unnaturally pale. A mass of straight black hair, defying all attempts to train or curl it, fell over his projecting forehead, and hung down to his shoulders, giving increased vivacity to eyes already sparkling with a youthful love of mischief and fondness for every forbidden enjoyment.
His mouth was large, and the lips, which had not yet regained their color, were particularly thin; in fact, the deep and crafty look, giving a predominant expression to the child’s face, belonged rather to a boy of twelve or fourteen than to one so young.
His first movement was to free himself by a violent push from the encircling arms of his mother, and to rush forward to the casket from whence the count had taken the phial of elixir; then, without asking permission of anyone, he proceeded, in all the wilfulness of a spoiled child unaccustomed to restrain either whims or caprices, to pull the corks out of all the bottles.
“Touch nothing, my little friend,” cried the count eagerly; “some of those liquids are not only dangerous to taste, but even to inhale.”
Madame de Villefort became very pale, and, seizing her son’s arm, drew him anxiously toward her; but, once satisfied of his safety, she also cast a