history of secret griefs written in each wrinkle time had planted
there. "The countess," said Morcerf, "was at her toilet when she was
informed of the visit she was about to receive. She will, however, be in
the salon in ten minutes."

"It is a great honor to me," returned Monte Cristo, "to be thus, on the
first day of my arrival in Paris, brought in contact with a man whose
merit equals his reputation, and to whom fortune has for once been
equitable, but has she not still on the plains of Metidja, or in the
mountains of Atlas, a marshal's staff to offer you?"

"Oh," replied Morcerf, reddening slightly, "I have left the service,
monsieur. Made a peer at the Restoration, I served through the first
campaign under the orders of Marshal Bourmont. I could, therefore,
expect a higher rank, and who knows what might have happened had the
elder branch remained on the throne? But the Revolution of July was, it
seems, sufficiently glorious to allow itself to be ungrateful, and it
was so for all services that did not date from the imperial period. I
tendered my resignation, for when you have gained your epaulets on the
battle-field, you do not know how to manoeuvre on the slippery grounds
of the salons. I have hung up my sword, and cast myself into politics.
I have devoted myself to industry; I study the useful arts. During the
twenty years I served, I often wished to do so, but I had not the time."

"These are the ideas that render your nation superior to any other,"
returned Monte Cristo. "A gentleman of high birth, possessor of an
ample fortune, you have consented to gain your promotion as an obscure
soldier, step by step--this is uncommon; then become general, peer of
France, commander of the Legion of Honor, you consent to again commence
a second apprenticeship, without any other hope or any other desire than
that of one day becoming useful to your fellow-creatures; this, indeed,
is praiseworthy,--nay, more, it is sublime." Albert looked on and
listened with astonishment; he was not used to see Monte Cristo give
vent to such bursts of enthusiasm. "Alas," continued the stranger,
doubtless to dispel the slight cloud that covered Morcerf's brow, "we
do not act thus in Italy; we grow according to our race and our species,
and we pursue the same lines, and often the same uselessness, all our
lives."

"But, monsieur," said the Count of Morcerf, "for a man of your merit,
Italy is not a country, and France opens her arms to receive