"Ma foi! my dear viscount, you are fated to hear music this evening; you have only escaped from the piano of Mademoiselle Danglars to be attacked by the guzla of Haydée."
"Haydée! what an adorable name! Are there, then, really women who bear the name of Haydée anywhere but in Byron's poems?"
"Certainly there are. Haydée is a very uncommon name in France, but it is common enough in Albania and Epirus; it is as if you said, for example, Chastity, Modesty, Innocence,―it is a kind of baptismal name, as you Parisians call it."
"Oh, that is charming!" said Albert; "how I should like to hear my countrywomen called Mademoiselle Goodness, Mademoiselle Silence, Mademoiselle Christian Charity! Only think, then, if Mademoiselle Danglars, instead of being called Claire Marie Eugénie, had been named Mademoiselle Chastity Modesty Innocence Danglars; what a fine effect that would have produced on the announcement of her marriage!"
"Silence!" said the count, "do not joke in so loud a tone; Haydée may hear you, perhaps."
"And you think she would be angry?"
"No, certainly not," said the count, with a haughty expression.
"She is very amiable, then, is she not?" said Albert.
"It is not to be called amiability, it is her duty; a slave does not dictate to a master."
"Come, you are joking yourself now; are there slaves nowadays?"
"Undoubtedly, as Haydée is mine."
"Really, count, you do nothing, and have nothing like other people. The slave of M. le Comte de Monte-Cristo! why, it is a rank of itself in France; and from the way in which you lavish money, it is a place that must be worth a hundred thousand francs a year."
"A hundred thousand francs! the poor girl originally possessed much more than that; she was born to treasures, to which those in the 'Thousand and One Nights' are trifles."
"She must be a princess, then?"
"You are right, and one of the greatest in her country, too."
"I thought so. But how did it happen that such a great princess became a slave?"
"How was it that Dionysius the Tyrant became a school-master? The fortune of war, my dear viscount,―the caprice of fortune."
"And is her name a secret?"
"For the world it is; but not for you, my dear viscount, who are one of my friends, and on whose silence I may rely, if I enjoin it; may I not do so?"
