e
he has been here I have watched him."

"Well?"

"Well, he has taken nothing yet."

"The count is very temperate." Mercedes smiled sadly. "Approach him,"
said she, "and when the next waiter passes, insist upon his taking
something."

"But why, mother?"

"Just to please me, Albert," said Mercedes. Albert kissed his mother's
hand, and drew near the count. Another salver passed, loaded like the
preceding ones; she saw Albert attempt to persuade the count, but he
obstinately refused. Albert rejoined his mother; she was very pale.

"Well," said she, "you see he refuses?"

"Yes; but why need this annoy you?"

"You know, Albert, women are singular creatures. I should like to have
seen the count take something in my house, if only an ice. Perhaps he
cannot reconcile himself to the French style of living, and might prefer
something else."

"Oh, no; I have seen him eat of everything in Italy; no doubt he does
not feel inclined this evening."

"And besides," said the countess, "accustomed as he is to burning
climates, possibly he does not feel the heat as we do."

"I do not think that, for he has complained of feeling almost
suffocated, and asked why the Venetian blinds were not opened as well as
the windows."

"In a word," said Mercedes, "it was a way of assuring me that his
abstinence was intended." And she left the room. A minute afterwards
the blinds were thrown open, and through the jessamine and clematis that
overhung the window one could see the garden ornamented with lanterns,
and the supper laid under the tent. Dancers, players, talkers, all
uttered an exclamation of joy--every one inhaled with delight the
breeze that floated in. At the same time Mercedes reappeared, paler than
before, but with that imperturbable expression of countenance which
she sometimes wore. She went straight to the group of which her husband
formed the centre. "Do not detain those gentlemen here, count," she
said; "they would prefer, I should think, to breathe in the garden
rather than suffocate here, since they are not playing."

"Ah," said a gallant old general, who, in 1809, had sung "Partant pour
la Syrie,"--"we will not go alone to the garden."

"Then," said Mercedes, "I will lead the way." Turning towards Monte
Cristo, she added, "count, will you oblige me with your arm?" The
count almost staggered at these simple words; then he fixed his eyes on
Mercedes. It was only a momentary glance, but it seemed to the countess
to h