Madame de Morcerf entered an archway of trees with hercompanion. It led through a grove of lindens to aconservatory.

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

"Yes, madame; and it was an excellent idea of yours to openthe doors and the blinds." As he ceased speaking, the countfelt the hand of Mercedes tremble. "But you," he said, "withthat light dress, and without anything to cover you but thatgauze 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 noresistance."

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

The count looked at Mercedes as if to interrogate her, butshe continued to walk on in silence, and he refrained fromspeaking. They reached the building, ornamented withmagnificent fruits, which ripen at the beginning of July inthe artificial temperature which takes the place of the sun,so frequently absent in our climate. The countess left thearm of Monte Cristo, and gathered a bunch of Muscatelgrapes. "See, count," she said, with a smile so sad in itsexpression that one could almost detect the tears on hereyelids - "see, our French grapes are not to be compared, Iknow, with yours of Sicily and Cyprus, but you will makeallowance for our northern sun." The count bowed, butstepped back. "Do you refuse?" said Mercedes, in a tremulousvoice. "Pray excuse me, madame," replied Monte Cristo, "butI never eat Muscatel grapes."

Mercedes let them fall, and sighed. A magnificent peach washanging against an adjoining wall, ripened by the sameartificial 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 thatit seemed to stifle a sob; "really, you pain me."

A long silence followed; the peach, like the grapes, fell tothe ground. "Count," added Mercedes with a supplicatingglance, "there is a beautiful Arabian custom, which makeseternal friends of those who have together eaten bread andsalt under the same roof."

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

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

The count became pale as death, the blood rushed to hisheart, 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 notbe?" The answer was so little like the one Mercedes desired,that she turned away to give vent to a sigh, which soundedmore like a groan. "Thank you," she said. And they walked onagain. They went the whole length of the garden withoututtering a word. "Sir," suddenly exclaimed the countess,after their walk had continued ten minutes in silence, "isit true that you have seen so much, travelled so far, andsuffered so deeply?"

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

"But now you are happy?"

"Doubtless," replied the count, "since no one hears mecomplain."

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

"My present happiness equals my past misery," said thecount.

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

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

"She is a slave whom I bought at Constantinople, madame, thedaughter 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 tolife?"

"It is not my fault, madame. At Malta, I loved a young girl,was on the point of marrying her, when war came and carriedme away. I thought she loved me well enough to wait for me,and even to remain faithful to my memory. When I returnedshe was married. This is the history of most men who havepassed twenty years of age. Perhaps my heart was weaker thanthe hearts of most men, and I suffered more than they wouldhave done in my place; that is all." The countess stoppedfor a moment, as if gasping for breath. "Yes," she said,"and you have still preserved this love in your heart - onecan only love once - and did you ever see her again?"

"Never."

"Never?"

"I never returned to the country where she lived."

"To Malta?"

"Yes; Malta."

"She is, then, now at Malta?"

"I think so."

"And have you forgiven her for all she has made you suffer?"

"Her, - yes."

"But only her; do you then still hate those who separatedyou?"

"I hate them? Not at all; why should I?" The countess placedherself before Monte Cristo, still holding in her hand aportion of the perfumed grapes. "Take some," she said."Madame, I never eat Muscatel grapes," replied Monte Cristo,as if the subject had not been mentioned before. Thecountess dashed the grapes into the nearest thicket, with agesture of despair. "Inflexible man!" she murmured. MonteCristo remained as unmoved as if the reproach had not beenaddressed to him. Albert at this moment ran in. "Oh,mother," he exclaimed, "such a misfortune his happened!"

"What? What has happened?" asked the countess, as thoughawakening from a sleep to the realities of life; "did yousay a misfortune? Indeed, I should expect misfortunes."

"M. de Villefort is here."

"Well?"

"He comes to fetch his wife and daughter."

"Why so?"

"Because Madame de Saint-Meran is just arrived in Paris,bringing the news of M. de Saint-Meran's death, which tookplace on the first stage after he left Marseilles. Madame deVillefort, who was in very good spirits, would neitherbelieve nor think of the misfortune, but MademoiselleValentine, at the first words, guessed the whole truth,notwithstanding all the precautions of her father; the blowstruck her like a thunderbolt, and she fell senseless."

"And how was M. de Saint-Meran related to Mademoiselle deVillefort?" said the count.

"He was her grandfather on the mother's side. He was cominghere to hasten her marriage with Franz."

"Ah, indeed?"

"So Franz must wait. Why was not M. de Saint-Meran alsograndfather to Mademoiselle Danglars?"

"Albert, Albert," said Madame de Morcerf, in a tone of mildreproof, "what are you saying? Ah, count, he esteems you sohighly, tell him that he has spoken amiss." And she took twoor three steps forward. Monte Cristo watched her with an airso thoughtful, and so full of affectionate admiration, thatshe turned back and grasped his hand; at the same time sheseized that of her son, and joined them together.

"We are friends; are we not?" she asked.

"Oh, madame, I do not presume to call myself your friend,but at all times I am your most respectful servant." Thecountess left with an indescribable pang in her heart, andbefore she had taken ten steps the count saw her raise herhandkerchief to her eyes. "Do not my mother and you agree?"asked Albert, astonished.

"On the contrary," replied the count, "did you not hear herdeclare that we were friends?" They re-entered thedrawing-room, which Valentine and Madame de Villefort hadjust quitted. It is perhaps needless to add that Morreldeparted almost at the same time.