entwined. Oh!
that by some miracle, such as the fabled divinities of old Olympus were
said to have performed, he might be restored to reason and the
possession of an unblemished name! But the days of miracles were over,
and if the young Italian was to be brought back to sanity and cleared
from the fearful charge against him that had wrought all this harm, this
misery, it must be by earthly and ordinary means. Perhaps she and her
husband were destined to work these apparently impossible changes! Who
knew? Many things equally improbable had happened, and why should not
this wondrous transformation, a transformation worthy of the wand of
some potent Prospero, be effected? Valentine was a devoted friend and an
enthusiast, and Monte-Cristo's maxim, "Wait and Hope," was her guiding
star. "Wait and Hope!" Oh! how cheering, how reassuring was that simple,
trustful motto!

Maximilian, on his side, felt unutterable pity for both the wretched man
before him and the lovely Zuleika, the sweet and tender child of his
benefactor, languishing and despairing far away in her father's
luxurious, palatial home. The poor girl was surrounded by all the
blessings that unbounded wealth could confer; she had the Count's love,
Mercedes' love, Esperance's love and the sincere affection of all who
knew her; but alas! princely riches, parental, brotherly love and the
affection of friends were as nothing compared to the passion that was
gnawing at her vitals, a desperate, hopeless passion that was but a
heavy weight of woe! But was this passion altogether desperate and
hopeless? Time alone could show!

M. and Mme. Morrel were now within a few feet of the hapless, crazed
young man, but his attention was so engrossed by the mad thoughts
surging through his bewildered brain that he yet failed to detect their
presence.

Bidding Valentine remain where she was, her husband drew close beside
Giovanni and suddenly placed his hand on his shoulder. The Viscount
started at this unexpected interruption of his sombre reverie and
hastily glanced at the intruder. His eyes, however, had a stony,
uncomprehending stare, expressing neither surprise nor fear.

"Giovanni Massetti," said Maximilian, "listen to me! I am a friend!"

The young man replied, in a low, discordant voice:

"Who is it mentions Giovanni Massetti? There was once a man who bore
that name, but he is dead, dead to the world!"

"I have told you I am a friend," resumed M. Morrel. "I have come to