venged, I shall be reasonable enough," said
Albert furiously.

"I do not understand you, sir," replied Monte Cristo; "and if I did,
your tone is too high. I am at home here, and I alone have a right
to raise my voice above another's. Leave the box, sir!" Monte Cristo
pointed towards the door with the most commanding dignity. "Ah, I shall
know how to make you leave your home!" replied Albert, clasping in his
convulsed grasp the glove, which Monte Cristo did not lose sight of.

"Well, well," said Monte Cristo quietly, "I see you wish to quarrel with
me; but I would give you one piece of advice, which you will do well
to keep in mind. It is in poor taste to make a display of a challenge.
Display is not becoming to every one, M. de Morcerf."

At this name a murmur of astonishment passed around the group of
spectators of this scene. They had talked of no one but Morcerf the
whole day. Albert understood the allusion in a moment, and was about
to throw his glove at the count, when Morrel seized his hand, while
Beauchamp and Chateau-Renaud, fearing the scene would surpass the limits
of a challenge, held him back. But Monte Cristo, without rising, and
leaning forward in his chair, merely stretched out his arm and, taking
the damp, crushed glove from the clinched hand of the young man, "Sir,"
said he in a solemn tone, "I consider your glove thrown, and will return
it to you wrapped around a bullet. Now leave me or I will summon my
servants to throw you out at the door."

Wild, almost unconscious, and with eyes inflamed, Albert stepped back,
and Morrel closed the door. Monte Cristo took up his glass again as if
nothing had happened; his face was like marble, and his heart was like
bronze. Morrel whispered, "What have you done to him?"

"I? Nothing--at least personally," said Monte Cristo.

"But there must be some cause for this strange scene."

"The Count of Morcerf's adventure exasperates the young man."

"Have you anything to do with it?"

"It was through Haidee that the Chamber was informed of his father's
treason."

"Indeed?" said Morrel. "I had been told, but would not credit it, that
the Grecian slave I have seen with you here in this very box was the
daughter of Ali Pasha."

"It is true, nevertheless."

"Then," said Morrel, "I understand it all, and this scene was
premeditated."

"How so?"

"Yes. Albert wrote to request me to come to the opera, doubtless that I
might be a witness to the insult he meant to