“Sir,” suddenly exclaimed the countess, after their walk had continued ten minutes in silence, “is it true that you have seen so much, travelled so far, and suffered so deeply?”
“I have suffered deeply, madame,” answered Monte Cristo.
“But now you are happy?”
“Doubtless,” replied the count, “since no one hears me complain.”
“And your present happiness, has it softened your heart?”
“My present happiness equals my past misery,” said the count.
“Are you not married?” asked the countess.
“I, married?” exclaimed Monte Cristo, shuddering; “who could have told you so?”
“No one told me you were, but you have frequently been seen at the Opera with a young and lovely woman.”
“She is a slave whom I bought at Constantinople, madame, the daughter of a prince. I have adopted her as my daughter, having no one else to love in the world.”
“You live alone, then?”
“I do.”
“You have no sister—no son—no father?”
“I have no one.”
“How can you exist thus without anyone to attach you to life?”
“It is not my fault, madame. At Malta, I loved a young girl, was on the point of marrying her, when war came and carried me away. I thought she loved me well enough to wait for me, and even to remain faithful to my memory. When I returned she was married. This is the history of most men who have passed twenty years of age. Perhaps my heart was weaker than the hearts of most men, and I suffered more than they would have done in my place; that is all.”