tom, which makes eternal friends of those who have
together eaten bread and salt under the same roof."

"I know it, madame," replied the count; "but we are in France, and not
in Arabia, and in France eternal friendships are as rare as the custom
of dividing bread and salt with one another."

"But," said the countess, breathlessly, with her eyes fixed on Monte
Cristo, whose arm she convulsively pressed with both hands, "we are
friends, are we not?"

The count became pale as death, the blood rushed to his heart, and then
again rising, dyed his cheeks with crimson; his eyes swam like those of
a man suddenly dazzled. "Certainly, we are friends," he replied; "why
should we not be?" The answer was so little like the one Mercedes
desired, that she turned away to give vent to a sigh, which sounded more
like a groan. "Thank you," she said. And they walked on again. They went
the whole length of the garden without uttering a word. "Sir," suddenly
exclaimed the countess, after their walk had continued ten minutes in
silence, "is it true that you have seen so much, travelled so far, and
suffered so deeply?"

"I have suffered deeply, madame," answered Monte Cristo.

"But now you are happy?"

"Doubtless," replied the count, "since no one hears me complain."

"And your present happiness, has it softened your heart?"

"My present happiness equals my past misery," said the count.

"Are you not married?" asked the countess. "I, married?" exclaimed Monte
Cristo, shuddering; "who could have told you so?"

"No one told me you were, but you have frequently been seen at the opera
with a young and lovely woman."

"She is a slave whom I bought at Constantinople, madame, the daughter of
a prince. I have adopted her as my daughter, having no one else to love
in the world."

"You live alone, then?"

"I do."

"You have no sister--no son--no father?"

"I have no one."

"How can you exist thus without any one to attach you to life?"

"It is not my fault, madame. At Malta, I loved a young girl, was on the
point of marrying her, when war came and carried me away. I thought she
loved me well enough to wait for me, and even to remain faithful to my
memory. When I returned she was married. This is the history of most men
who have passed twenty years of age. Perhaps my heart was weaker than
the hearts of most men, and I suffered more than they would have done in
my place; that is all." The countess stopped for a moment, as if gasping