roat and began.

"Signor Count," said he, "in the first place I must tell you that young
Massetti has been disowned and disinherited by his proud, stern father,
who believes him one of the guiltiest and most depraved scoundrels on
earth!"

Monte-Cristo gave a start; his face grew a shade paler than was habitual
with him, but he said nothing; he was eagerly awaiting further
developments.

"That is not all, however," continued Peppino, after a slight pause to
note the effect of his communication upon his auditor, "nor is it the
worst! The unfortunate Viscount, upon being ignominiously expelled from
the Palazzo Massetti by the old Count's orders, immediately lost his
senses; he is now a raving maniac!"

"Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!" exclaimed Monte-Cristo, springing to his feet and
pacing the cell, a prey to intense agitation he did not endeavour to
control. "A raving maniac!--Giovanni a raving maniac! Oh! my daughter,
my daughter!"

"All I say is the truth," resumed the Italian. "As I hope for Heaven I
swear it!"

"But what has become of Massetti? Where is he?" demanded the Count,
abruptly pausing in his walk. "Has he been consigned to some asylum?"

"He is an outcast and a wanderer," replied Peppino. "All Rome frowns
upon him, avoids him as a pestilence is avoided. When I left Italy he
had sought refuge amid the ruins of the Colosseum, where he was the
terror alike of visitors and the superstitious guides. I saw him there
with my own eyes the day before my departure. He was in rags, carried a
tall staff, wore a crown of ivy leaves and spent his time cursing God
and man. They say he never leaves the ruins, save to beg a few scraps
upon which to subsist, and that he sleeps at night in the depths of a
dark vomitarium in company with bats, spiders and other unclean things."

"This is incredible!" cried Monte-Cristo, gazing piercingly at his
companion and half suspecting that he was drawing upon his vivid Italian
imagination for some of his graphic details.

"But it is true, Signor Count," protested Peppino, earnestly; "every
word of it is true!"

"Go on," said Monte-Cristo, hoarsely, again seating himself on the
stool. "Tell me about the conspiracy."

"I am coming to it, Signor Count," said the former bandit, assuming a
sitting posture upon the edge of the bed. "You know, of course, that the
cause of all the Viscount Massetti's trouble was a certain handsome
young peasant girl named Annunziata Solara?"

"I have heard