er he visited
the Rue Meslay.

"Maximilian has just returned, has he not, madame?" asked the count.

"Yes, I think I saw him pass; but pray, call Emmanuel."

"Excuse me, madame, but I must go up to Maximilian's room this instant,"
replied Monte Cristo, "I have something of the greatest importance to
tell him."

"Go, then," she said with a charming smile, which accompanied him until
he had disappeared. Monte Cristo soon ran up the staircase conducting
from the ground-floor to Maximilian's room; when he reached the landing
he listened attentively, but all was still. Like many old houses
occupied by a single family, the room door was panelled with glass; but
it was locked, Maximilian was shut in, and it was impossible to see
what was passing in the room, because a red curtain was drawn before the
glass. The count's anxiety was manifested by a bright color which seldom
appeared on the face of that imperturbable man.

"What shall I do!" he uttered, and reflected for a moment; "shall I
ring? No, the sound of a bell, announcing a visitor, will but accelerate
the resolution of one in Maximilian's situation, and then the bell would
be followed by a louder noise." Monte Cristo trembled from head to
foot and as if his determination had been taken with the rapidity of
lightning, he struck one of the panes of glass with his elbow; the glass
was shivered to atoms, then withdrawing the curtain he saw Morrel, who
had been writing at his desk, bound from his seat at the noise of the
broken window.

"I beg a thousand pardons," said the count, "there is nothing the
matter, but I slipped down and broke one of your panes of glass with
my elbow. Since it is opened, I will take advantage of it to enter your
room; do not disturb yourself--do not disturb yourself!" And passing
his hand through the broken glass, the count opened the door. Morrel,
evidently discomposed, came to meet Monte Cristo less with the intention
of receiving him than to exclude his entry. "Ma foi," said Monte Cristo,
rubbing his elbow, "it's all your servant's fault; your stairs are so
polished, it is like walking on glass."

"Are you hurt, sir?" coldly asked Morrel.

"I believe not. But what are you about there? You were writing."

"I?"

"Your fingers are stained with ink."

"Ah, true, I was writing. I do sometimes, soldier though I am."

Monte Cristo advanced into the room; Maximilian was obliged to let him
pass, but he followed him. "You were writing?" sa