“My dear mother, have you been ill during my absence?”
“No, no, Albert, but you know these roses, tuberoses, and orange-flowers throw out at first, before one is used to them, such violent perfumes.”
“Then, my dear mother,” said Albert, putting his hand to the bell, “they must be taken into the antechamber. You are really ill, and just now were so pale as you came into the room——”
“Was I pale, Albert?”
“Yes; a pallor that suits you admirably, mother, but which did not the less alarm my father and myself.”
“Did your father speak of it?” inquired Mercédès eagerly.
“No, madame; but do you not remember that he spoke of the fact to you?”
“Yes, I do remember,” replied the countess.
A servant entered, summoned by Albert’s ring of the bell.
“Take these flowers into the anteroom or dressing-room,” said the viscount; “they make the countess ill.”
The footman obeyed his orders. A long pause ensued, which lasted until all the flowers were removed.
“What is this name of Monte Cristo?” inquired the countess, when the servant had taken away the last vase of flowers, “is it a family name, or the name of the estate, or a simple title?”
“I believe, mother, it is merely a title. The count purchased an island in the Tuscan archipelago, and, as he told you today, has founded a commandery. You know the same thing was done for Saint Stephen of Florence, Saint George Constantinian of Parma, and even for the Order of Malta. Except this, he has no pretension to nobility, and calls himself a chance count, although the general opinion at Rome is that the count is a man of very high distinction.”