Albert had left the count to speak to his mother, Danglars to converse with young Cavalcanti; Monte Cristo was for an instant alone. Meanwhile the heat became excessive. The footmen were hastening through the rooms with waiters loaded with ices. Monte Cristo wiped the perspiration from his forehead, but drew back when the waiter was presented to him; he took no refreshment. Madame de Morcerf did not lose sight of Monte Cristo; she saw that he took nothing, and even noticed his gesture of refusal.
“Albert,” she asked, “did you notice that?”
“What, mother?”
“That the count has never been willing to partake of food under the roof of M. de Morcerf.”
“Yes; but then he breakfasted with me—indeed, he made his first appearance in the world on that occasion.”
“But your house is not M. de Morcerf’s,” murmured Mercédès; “and since he has been here I have watched him.”
“Well?”
“Well, he has taken nothing yet.”
“The count is very temperate.”
Mercédès smiled sadly.
“Approach him,” said she, “and when the next waiter passes, insist upon his taking something.”
“But why, mother?”
“Just to please me, Albert,” said Mercédès. Albert kissed his mother’s hand, and drew near the count. Another salver passed, loaded like the preceding ones; she saw Albert attempt to persuade the count, but he obstinately refused. Albert rejoined his mother; she was very pale.
“Well,” said she, “you see he refuses?”
“Yes; but why need this annoy you?”
“You know, Albert, women are singular creatures. I should like to have seen the count take something in my house, if only an ice. Perhaps he cannot reconcile himself to the French style of living, and might prefer something else.”