“Sir,” said he in a solemn tone, “I consider your glove thrown, and will return it to you wrapped around a bullet. Now leave me or I will summon my servants to throw you out at the door.”
Wild, almost unconscious, and with eyes inflamed, Albert stepped back, and Morrel closed the door. Monte Cristo took up his glass again as if nothing had happened; his face was like marble, and his heart was like bronze. Morrel whispered, “What have you done to him?”
“I? Nothing—at least personally,” said Monte Cristo.
“But there must be some cause for this strange scene.”
“The Count of Morcerf’s adventure exasperates the young man.”
“Have you anything to do with it?”
“It was through Haydée that the Chamber was informed of his father’s treason.”
“Indeed?” said Morrel. “I had been told, but would not credit it, that the Grecian slave I have seen with you here in this very box was the daughter of Ali Pasha.”
“It is true, nevertheless.”
“Then,” said Morrel, “I understand it all, and this scene was premeditated.”
“How so?”
“Yes. Albert wrote to request me to come to the Opera, doubtless that I might be a witness to the insult he meant to offer you.”
“Probably,” said Monte Cristo with his imperturbable tranquillity.
“But what shall you do with him?”
“With whom?”
“With Albert.”
“What shall I do with Albert? As certainly, Maximilian, as I now press your hand, I shall kill him before ten o’clock tomorrow morning.” Morrel, in his turn, took Monte Cristo’s hand in both of his, and he shuddered to feel how cold and steady it was.