“Well, viscount, there will be in my courtyard this evening a good travelling britzka, with four post-horses, in which one may rest as in a bed. M. Beauchamp, it holds four very well, will you accompany us?”“Yes; I have just made a little excursion to the Borromean Islands“No, dear Morcerf; you know I only refuse when the thing is impossible. Besides, it is important,” added he in a low tone, “that I should remain in Paris just now to watch the paper.
“Yes, and a sincere friend; I love him devotedly. But now we are alone,—although it is immaterial to me,—where are we going?”“Delightful; shall we be quite retired? have no society, no neighbors?”“Exactly what I wish for; I will apprise my mother of my intention, and return to you.”“Yes, I am aware you may go alone, since I once met you in Italy—but to accompany the mysterious Monte Cristo?”“‘Woman is fickle.’ said Francis I.
“But, viscount, since we cannot perform the journey in less than seven or eight hours, do not keep me waiting.”Monte Cristo smiled as he nodded to Albert, then remained a moment absorbed in deep meditation. But passing his hand across his forehead as if to dispel his reverie, he rang the bell twice and Bertuccio entered.
Albert was punctual. The journey soon became interesting from its rapidity, of which Morcerf had formed no previous idea. “Precisely,” said the count; “six years since I bought a horse in Hungary remarkable for its swiftness. The thirty-two that we shall use tonight are its progeny; they are all entirely black, with the exception of a star upon the forehead.”“You see, I travel with them.”“When I no longer require them, Bertuccio will sell them, and he expects to realize thirty or forty thousand francs by the sale.
In a creek lay a little sloop, with a narrow keel and high masts, bearing on its flag the Monte Cristo arms which were a mountain or, on a sea azure, with a cross gules in chief which might be an allusion to his name that recalled Calvary, the mount rendered by our Lord’s passion more precious than gold, and to the degrading cross which his blood had rendered holy; or it might be some personal remembrance of suffering and regeneration buried in the night of this mysterious personage’s past life.
“Florentin here!” cried he, starting up; “is my mother ill?” And he hastened to the door. Monte Cristo watched and saw him approach the valet, who drew a small sealed parcel from his pocket, containing a newspaper and a letter.“Yes, sir; he sent for me to his house, gave me money for my journey, procured a horse, and made me promise not to stop till I had reached you, I have come in fifteen hours.
seems counterintuitive? lol
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