Граф Монте-Кристо

Haidee.

           

           "Everything."

           "Count,"saidAlbert,inalowtonetoMonteCristo,"doallowthesignoratotellmesomethingofherhistory.Youprohibitedmymentioningmyfather’snametoher,butperhapsshewillalludetohimofherownaccordinthecourseoftherecital,andyouhavenoideahowdelightedIshouldbetohearournamepronouncedbysuchbeautifullips."MonteCristoturnedtoHaidee,andwithanexpressionofcountenancewhichcommandedhertopaythemostimplicitattentiontohiswords,hesaidinGreek"Tellusthefateofyourfather;butneitherthenameofthetraitornorthetreason."Haideesigheddeeply,andashadeofsadnesscloudedherbeautifulbrow.

           "Whatareyousayingtoher?"saidMorcerfinanundertone.

           "Iagainremindedherthatyouwereafriend,andthatsheneednotconcealanythingfromyou."

           "Then,"saidAlbert,"thispiouspilgrimageinbehalfoftheprisonerswasyourfirstremembrance;whatisthenext?"

           "Oh,thenIrememberasifitwerebutyesterdaysittingundertheshadeofsomesycamore-trees,onthebordersofalake,inthewatersofwhichthetremblingfoliagewasreflectedasinamirror.Undertheoldestandthickestofthesetrees,recliningoncushions,satmyfather;mymotherwasathisfeet,andI,childlike,amusedmyselfbyplayingwithhislongwhitebeardwhichdescendedtohisgirdle,orwiththediamond-hiltofthescimitarattachedtohisgirdle.

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