Albert and Beauchamp parted, the last pressure of their hands expressing what their tongues could not before a stranger.
“Beauchamp is a worthy fellow,” said Monte Cristo, when the journalist was gone; “is he not, Albert?”
“Yes, and a sincere friend; I love him devotedly. But now we are alone,—although it is immaterial to me,—where are we going?”
“Into Normandy, if you like.”
“Delightful; shall we be quite retired? have no society, no neighbors?”
“Our companions will be riding-horses, dogs to hunt with, and a fishing-boat.”
“Exactly what I wish for; I will apprise my mother of my intention, and return to you.”
“But shall you be allowed to go into Normandy?”
“I may go where I please.”
“Yes, I am aware you may go alone, since I once met you in Italy—but to accompany the mysterious Monte Cristo?”
“You forget, count, that I have often told you of the deep interest my mother takes in you.”
“‘Woman is fickle.’ said Francis I.; ‘woman is like a wave of the sea,’ said Shakespeare; both the great king and the great poet ought to have known woman’s nature well.”
“Woman’s, yes; my mother is not woman, but a woman.”
“As I am only a humble foreigner, you must pardon me if I do not understand all the subtle refinements of your language.”
“What I mean to say is, that my mother is not quick to give her confidence, but when she does she never changes.”
“Ah, yes, indeed,” said Monte Cristo with a sigh; “and do you think she is in the least interested in me?”