Recollect what our excellent father so often told us,
'It was no Englishman that thus saved us.'" Monte Cristo started. "What
did your father tell you, M. Morrel?" said he eagerly.

"My father thought that this action had been miraculously performed--he
believed that a benefactor had arisen from the grave to save us. Oh,
it was a touching superstition, monsieur, and although I did not myself
believe it, I would not for the world have destroyed my father's faith.
How often did he muse over it and pronounce the name of a dear friend--a
friend lost to him forever; and on his death-bed, when the near approach
of eternity seemed to have illumined his mind with supernatural
light, this thought, which had until then been but a doubt, became
a conviction, and his last words were, 'Maximilian, it was Edmond
Dantes!'" At these words the count's paleness, which had for some time
been increasing, became alarming; he could not speak; he looked at his
watch like a man who has forgotten the hour, said a few hurried words
to Madame Herbault, and pressing the hands of Emmanuel and
Maximilian,--"Madame," said he, "I trust you will allow me to visit you
occasionally; I value your friendship, and feel grateful to you for
your welcome, for this is the first time for many years that I have thus
yielded to my feelings;" and he hastily quitted the apartment.

"This Count of Monte Cristo is a strange man," said Emmanuel.

"Yes," answered Maximilian, "but I feel sure he has an excellent heart,
and that he likes us."

"His voice went to my heart," observed Julie; "and two or three times I
fancied that I had heard it before."

Chapter 51. Pyramus and Thisbe.

About two-thirds of the way along the Faubourg Saint-Honore, and in the
rear of one of the most imposing mansions in this rich neighborhood,
where the various houses vie with each other for elegance of design
and magnificence of construction, extended a large garden, where the
wide-spreading chestnut-trees raised their heads high above the walls in
a solid rampart, and with the coming of every spring scattered a shower
of delicate pink and white blossoms into the large stone vases that
stood upon the two square pilasters of a curiously wrought iron gate,
that dated from the time of Louis XII. This noble entrance, however,
in spite of its striking appearance and the graceful effect of the
geraniums planted in the two vases, as they waved their variegated
leaves in the wind and charm