"Then it will be but charitable to inform him. When he arrives, I will not fail to do so."
Just then, a handsome young man, with bright eyes, black hair, arid glossy mustache, respectfully bowed to Madame de Villefort. Albert extended him his hand.
"Madame," said Albert, "allow me to present to you M. Maximilian Morrel, captain of Spahis, one of our best, and, above all, of our bravest officers."
"I have already had the pleasure of meeting this gentleman at Auteuil, at the house of the Count of Monte-Cristo," replied Madame de Villefort, turning away with marked coldness of manner.
This answer, and, above all, the tone in which it was uttered, chilled the heart of poor Morrel.
But a recompense was in store for him; turning round, he saw near the door a beautiful fair face, whose large blue eyes were, without any marked expression, fixed upon him. while the bouquet of myosotis was gently raised to her lips.
The salutation was so well understood that Morrel, with the same expression in his eyes, placed his handkerchief to his mouth; and these two living statues, whose hearts beat so violently under their marble aspect, separated from each other by the whole length of the room, forgot themselves for a moment, or, rather, forgot the world in their mutual contemplation.
They might have remained much longer lost in one another without any one noticing their abstraction. The Count of Monte-Cristo had just entered. We have already said that there was something factitious or natural in the count which attracted universal attention wherever he appeared. It was not the coat, unexceptionable in its cut, though simple and without a decoration; it was not the plain white waistcoat; it was not the trousers, that displayed the foot so perfectly formed it was none of these things that attracted the attention; it was his pale complexion, his waving black hair; it was the expression, so calm and serene; it was the eye, so dark and melancholy; it was the mouth, chiseled with such marvelous delicacy, which so easily expressed such high disdain—these were what fixed all eyes upon him.
Many men might have been handsomer, but certainly there could be none whose appearance was more significant, if the expression may be used. Everything about the count seemed to have its meaning; for the constant habit of thought which he had acquired had given an ease and vigor to the expression of his face, and even to the most trifling gesture, scarcely to be understood. Yet the Parisian world is so strange, that even all this might not have won attention, had there not been, besides this, a mysterious story, gilded by an immense fortune.
