ave lasted for a century, so much was expressed in that one look. He
offered his arm to the countess; she took it, or rather just touched it
with her little hand, and they together descended the steps, lined with
rhododendrons and camellias. Behind them, by another outlet, a group of
about twenty persons rushed into the garden with loud exclamations of
delight.

Chapter 71. Bread and Salt.

Madame de Morcerf entered an archway of trees with her companion. It led
through a grove of lindens to a conservatory.

"It was too warm in the room, was it not, count?" she asked.

"Yes, madame; and it was an excellent idea of yours to open the doors
and the blinds." As he ceased speaking, the count felt the hand of
Mercedes tremble. "But you," he said, "with that light dress, and
without anything to cover you but that gauze scarf, perhaps you feel
cold?"

"Do you know where I am leading you?" said the countess, without
replying to the question.

"No, madame," replied Monte Cristo; "but you see I make no resistance."

"We are going to the greenhouse that you see at the other end of the
grove."

The count looked at Mercedes as if to interrogate her, but she continued
to walk on in silence, and he refrained from speaking. They reached
the building, ornamented with magnificent fruits, which ripen at the
beginning of July in the artificial temperature which takes the place of
the sun, so frequently absent in our climate. The countess left the arm
of Monte Cristo, and gathered a bunch of Muscatel grapes. "See, count,"
she said, with a smile so sad in its expression that one could almost
detect the tears on her eyelids--"see, our French grapes are not to be
compared, I know, with yours of Sicily and Cyprus, but you will make
allowance for our northern sun." The count bowed, but stepped back.
"Do you refuse?" said Mercedes, in a tremulous voice. "Pray excuse me,
madame," replied Monte Cristo, "but I never eat Muscatel grapes."

Mercedes let them fall, and sighed. A magnificent peach was hanging
against an adjoining wall, ripened by the same artificial heat. Mercedes
drew near, and plucked the fruit. "Take this peach, then," she said. The
count again refused. "What, again?" she exclaimed, in so plaintive an
accent that it seemed to stifle a sob; "really, you pain me."

A long silence followed; the peach, like the grapes, fell to the
ground. "Count," added Mercedes with a supplicating glance, "there is a
beautiful Arabian cus