s at a time; but, though seemingly
engrossed in State affairs, the Deputy did not lose sight of his son and
daughter, or of the mysterious complication that Vampa was expected to
make clear. Ali had strict orders to watch both Zuleika and Esperance,
and to report to his master whatever they did when at home in his
absence, but the faithful Nubian found nothing amiss, save that the
young people seemed burdened with a sorrow he could not fathom.

At length, when the two weeks that it would take to hear from Rome had
expired, M. Lamartine called one morning at the mansion in the Rue du
Helder, and having finished his business with M. Dantes was invited by
his host to remain to lunch. The repast was served in the
salle-a-manger, Esperance and Zuleika partaking of it with their father
and his illustrious guest. When the edibles had been removed and the
party were taking wine at the dining-table, M. Dantes, suddenly
remembering that he had an engagement, begged M. Lamartine to excuse him
and remain with his son and daughter until his return, that would be in
half an hour at the utmost. This arrangement effected, the Deputy arose
from his chair, threw his cloak over his arm and was about to take his
departure, when Ali appeared on the threshold of the open doorway,
bearing in his hand a letter. Instantly divining that this was Vampa's
answer, upon which hung Massetti's fate and his own, Esperance leaped to
his feet and fixed his wild and staring eyes on the ominous missive as
if he would read its contents through its folds. Zuleika retained her
seat, but lifted her hands in terror and stared at the letter with
pallid cheeks and blanched lips. Even Lamartine turned in his chair and,
holding his glass in his hand, gazed wonderingly at the Nubian and the
epistle. M. Dantes alone seemed unmoved, and his pale countenance gave
no sign of the emotion struggling in his breast; he stood like a man of
iron, and extending his hand took the letter without a tremor. It was
enclosed in a curiously-fashioned envelope, evidently made by the writer
himself, and bore the Roman postmark; the direction, written in bold,
scrawling, but perfectly legible characters, read: "M. Edmond Dantes,
Deputy from Marseilles, No. 27 Rue du Helder, Paris, France. Personal
and private." This direction was in French.

Ali having retired, the Deputy calmly broke the seal and hurriedly ran
his eyes over the missive. Esperance and Zuleika eagerly and
breathlessly w