officer of the Legion of Honor! Perhaps it was a mere whim on his part, for he is falling, they say, into second childhood, but I love him for showing so much interest in you.”
“How singular,” murmured Maximilian; “your father hates me, while your grandfather, on the contrary—What strange feelings are aroused by politics.”
“Hush,” cried Valentine, suddenly; “someone is coming!”
Maximilian leaped at one bound into his crop of lucern, which he began to pull up in the most ruthless way, under the pretext of being occupied in weeding it.
“Mademoiselle, mademoiselle!” exclaimed a voice from behind the trees. “Madame is searching for you everywhere; there is a visitor in the drawing-room.”
“A visitor?” inquired Valentine, much agitated; “who is it?”
“Some grand personage—a prince I believe they said—the Count of Monte Cristo.”
“I will come directly,” cried Valentine aloud.
The name of Monte Cristo sent an electric shock through the young man on the other side of the iron gate, to whom Valentine’s “I am coming” was the customary signal of farewell.
“Now, then,” said Maximilian, leaning on the handle of his spade, “I would give a good deal to know how it comes about that the Count of Monte Cristo is acquainted with M. de Villefort.”