in a silk morning gown, and busily engaged
in plucking the dead leaves off a noisette rose-tree, raised her head.
This was Julie, who had become, as the clerk of the house of Thomson
& French had predicted, Madame Emmanuel Herbault. She uttered a cry
of surprise at the sight of a stranger, and Maximilian began to laugh.
"Don't disturb yourself, Julie," said he. "The count has only been two
or three days in Paris, but he already knows what a fashionable woman of
the Marais is, and if he does not, you will show him."

"Ah, monsieur," returned Julie, "it is treason in my brother to bring
you thus, but he never has any regard for his poor sister. Penelon,
Penelon!" An old man, who was digging busily at one of the beds, stuck
his spade in the earth, and approached, cap in hand, striving to conceal
a quid of tobacco he had just thrust into his cheek. A few locks of
gray mingled with his hair, which was still thick and matted, while his
bronzed features and determined glance well suited an old sailor who had
braved the heat of the equator and the storms of the tropics. "I think
you hailed me, Mademoiselle Julie?" said he. Penelon had still preserved
the habit of calling his master's daughter "Mademoiselle Julie," and
had never been able to change the name to Madame Herbault. "Penelon,"
replied Julie, "go and inform M. Emmanuel of this gentleman's visit,
and Maximilian will conduct him to the salon." Then, turning to Monte
Cristo,--"I hope you will permit me to leave you for a few minutes,"
continued she; and without awaiting any reply, disappeared behind a
clump of trees, and escaped to the house by a lateral alley.

"I am sorry to see," observed Monte Cristo to Morrel, "that I cause no
small disturbance in your house."

"Look there," said Maximilian, laughing; "there is her husband changing
his jacket for a coat. I assure you, you are well known in the Rue
Meslay."

"Your family appears to be a very happy one," said the count, as if
speaking to himself.

"Oh, yes, I assure you, count, they want nothing that can render them
happy; they are young and cheerful, they are tenderly attached to each
other, and with twenty-five thousand francs a year they fancy themselves
as rich as Rothschild."

"Five and twenty thousand francs is not a large sum, however,"
replied Monte Cristo, with a tone so sweet and gentle, that it went to
Maximilian's heart like the voice of a father; "but they will not be
content with that. Your brothe