MADAME DE MORCERF entered an archway of trees with her companion. It led through a grove of lindens to a conservatory.
"It was too warm in the room, was it not, count?" she asked.
"Yes, madame; and it was an excellent idea of yours to open the doors and the blinds." As he ceased speaking, the count felt the hand of Mercédès tremble. "But you," he said, "with that light dress, and without anything to cover you but that gauze scarf, perhaps you feel cold?"
"Do you know where I am leading you?" said the countess, without replying to the question.
"No, madame," replied Monte Cristo; "but you see I make no resistance."
"We are going to the greenhouse that you see at the other end of the grove."
The count looked at Mercédès as if to interrogate her, but she continued to walk on in silence, and he refrained from speaking. They reached the building, ornamented with magnificent fruits, which ripen at the beginning of July in the artificial temperature which takes the place of the sun, so frequently absent in our climate. The countess left the arm of Monte Cristo, and gathered a bunch of Muscatel grapes. "See, count," she said, with a smile so sad in its expression that one could almost detect the tears on her eyelids--"see, our French grapes are not to be compared, I know, with yours of Sicily and Cyprus, but you will make allowance for our northern sun." The count bowed, but stepped back. "Do you refuse?" said Mercédès, in a tremulous voice. "Pray excuse me, madame," replied Monte Cristo, "but I never eat Muscatel grapes."
Mercédès let them fall, and sighed. A magnificent peach was hanging against an adjoining wall, ripened by the same artificial heat. Mercédès drew near, and plucked the fruit. "Take this peach, then," she said. The count again refused. "What, again?" she exclaimed, in so plaintive an accent that it seemed to stifle a sob; "really, you pain me."
A long silence followed; the peach, like the grapes, fell to the ground. "Count," added Mercédès with a supplicating glance, "there is a beautiful Arabian custom, which makes eternal friends of those who have together eaten bread and salt under the same roof."
"I know it, madame," replied the count; "but we are in France, and not in Arabia, and in France eternal friendships are as rare as the custom of dividing bread and salt with one another."
"But," said the countess, breathlessly, with her eyes fixed on Monte Cristo, whose arm she convulsively pressed with both hands, "we are friends, are we not?"
The count became pale as death, the blood rushed to his heart, and then again rising, dyed his cheeks with crimson; his eyes swam like those of a man suddenly dazzled. "Certainly, we are friends," he replied; "why should we not be?" The answer was so little like the one Mercédès desired, that she turned away to give vent to a sigh, which sounded more like a groan. "Thank you," she said. And they walked on again. They went the whole length of the garden without uttering a word. "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 any one 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." The countess stopped for a moment, as if gasping for breath. "Yes," she said, "and you have still preserved this love in your heart--one can only love once--and did you ever see her again?"
"Never."
"Never?"
"I never returned to the country where she lived."
"To Malta?"
"Yes; Malta."
"She is, then, now at Malta?"
"I think so."
"And have you forgiven her for all she has made you suffer?"
"Her,--yes."
"But only her; do you then still hate those who separated you?"
"I hate them? Not at all; why should I?" The countess placed herself before Monte Cristo, still holding in her hand a portion of the perfumed grapes. "Take some," she said. "Madame, I never eat Muscatel grapes," replied Monte Cristo, as if the subject had not been mentioned before. The countess dashed the grapes into the nearest thicket, with a gesture of despair. "Inflexible man！" she murmured. Monte Cristo remained as unmoved as if the reproach had not been addressed to him. Albert at this moment ran in. "Oh, mother," he exclaimed, "such a misfortune his happened！"
"What? What has happened?" asked the countess, as though awakening from a sleep to the realities of life; "did you say a misfortune? Indeed, I should expect misfortunes."
"M. de Villefort is here."
"Well?"
"He comes to fetch his wife and daughter."
"Why so?"
"Because Madame de Saint-Méran is just arrived in Paris, bringing the news of M. de Saint-Méran's death, which took place on the first stage after he left Marseilles. Madame de Villefort, who was in very good spirits, would neither believe nor think of the misfortune, but Mademoiselle Valentine, at the first words, guessed the whole truth, notwithstanding all the precautions of her father; the blow struck her like a thunderbolt, and she fell senseless."
"And how was M. de Saint-Méran related to Mademoiselle de Villefort?" said the count.
"He was her grandfather on the mother's side. He was coming here to hasten her marriage with Franz."
"Ah, indeed?"
"So Franz must wait. Why was not M. de Saint-Méran also grandfather to Mademoiselle Danglars?"
"Albert, Albert," said Madame de Morcerf, in a tone of mild reproof, "what are you saying? Ah, count, he esteems you so highly, tell him that he has spoken amiss." And she took two or three steps forward. Monte Cristo watched her with an air so thoughtful, and so full of affectionate admiration, that she turned back and grasped his hand; at the same time she seized that of her son, and joined them together.
"We are friends; are we not?" she asked.
"Oh, madame, I do not presume to call myself your friend, but at all times I am your most respectful servant." The countess left with an indescribable pang in her heart, and before she had taken ten steps the count saw her raise her handkerchief to her eyes. "Do not my mother and you agree?" asked Albert, astonished.
"On the contrary," replied the count, "did you not hear her declare that we were friends?" They re-entered the drawing-room, which Valentine and Madame de Villefort had just quitted. It is perhaps needless to add that Morrel departed almost at the same time.
马尔塞夫夫人由基督山陪着，来到枝叶交错形成的拱廓。
两旁都是菩提树，这条路是通到一间温室去的。
“大厅里太热了，是不是，伯爵？”她问。
“是的，夫人，您想得真周到，把门和百叶窗都打开。”当他说这几句话的时候，伯爵感到美塞苔丝的手在颤抖。“但您，”他继续说，“穿着那样单薄的衣服，只披一条纱巾，或许会有点冷吧？”
“您知道我要带您去哪儿吗？”伯爵夫人说，并不回答基督山的问题。
“不知道，夫人，”基督山回答，“但您知道我并没有拒绝。”
“我们是到温室里去，您瞧，那间温室就在这条路的尽头。”
伯爵看了看美塞苔丝，象要问她什么话，但她只是默默地向前走，于是基督山也不开口了。他们走到那间结满了美丽的果子的温室里。这时虽是七月里，但却依旧在靠工人控制温度来代替太阳热量来使果子成熟。伯爵夫人放开基督山的手臂，摘下一串紫葡萄。“瞧，伯爵，”她微笑着说，那种微笑那么凄然，让人几乎觉得她的眼眶里已盛满了泪水——
“瞧，我知道我们的法国葡萄没法和你们西西里或塞浦路斯的相比，但您大概可以原谅我们北方的阳光不足吧！”
伯爵鞠了一躬，往后退了一步。
“您拒绝吗？”美塞苔丝的声音发颤。
“请原谅我，夫人，”基督山答道，“但我是从来不吃紫葡萄的。”
葡萄从美塞苔丝的手里落到地上，他叹了一口气。邻近架梯上垂着一只美丽的桃子，也是用人工的热度焙熟的。”美塞苔丝走过去，摘下那只果子。“那么，吃了这只桃子吧。”她说。
伯爵还是不接受。
“什么，又拒绝！”她的声音凄婉，似乎在竭力抑制哭泣。
“真的，您太让我痛苦了。”
接着是长时间的沉默。那只桃子，象葡萄一样，也落到地上。
“伯爵，”美塞苔丝用悲哀恳求的目光看了他一眼说，“阿拉伯有一种动人的风俗，凡是在一个屋顶底下一同吃过面包和盐的人，就成了永久的朋友。”
“我知道的，夫人，”伯爵回答，“但我们是在法国，不是在阿拉伯。而在法国，永久的友谊就象分享面包和盐那种风俗一样的罕见。”
“但是，”伯爵夫人的眼睛一眨不眨地盯着基督山，两手痉挛地抓住他的胳膊，紧张得好象都喘不过气来似的说，“我们是朋友，是不是？”
伯爵的脸苍白得象死人的一样，浑身的血好象都冲进他的心，然后又向上涌，把他的两颊染得通红；他只觉得自己泪眼模糊，象要晕眩一样。“当然，我们是朋友，”他答道。
“我们为什么不是朋友呢？”
这个答复与美塞苔丝所希望的回答相差太远了，她转过身去，发出一声听来象呻吟似的叹息。“谢谢您，”说完，他们又开始向前走。“阁下，”在他们默默地走了大约十分钟以后，伯爵夫人突然喊道，“您真的见过很多的东西，旅行到过很远的地方，受过很深的痛苦吗？”
“我受过很深的痛苦，夫人。”基督山回答。
“但您现在很快乐了？”
“当然，”伯爵答道，“因为没有人听到我叹息的声音。”
“您目前的快乐是否已软化了您的心呢？”
“我目前的快乐相等于我过去的痛苦。”伯爵说。
“您没有结婚吗？”伯爵夫人问道。
“我结婚！”基督山打了一个寒颤，喊道。“那是谁告诉您的？”
“谁都没有告诉我，但有人在戏院里见您常和一位年轻可爱的姑娘在一起。”
“她是我在君士坦丁堡买来的一个女奴，夫人——是王族的一位公主。我把她认作我的义女，因为她在世界上再没有亲人了。”
“那么您是独自一人生活。”
“我过着独身生活。”
“您没有女儿，儿子，父亲？”
“一个都没有。”
“您怎么能这样生活？一个亲人都没有？
“那不是我的错，夫人。在马耳他的时候，我爱过一个年轻姑娘。当我快要和她结婚的时候，燃起了战火。我以为她很爱我，会等我，即使我死了，也会忠守着我的坟墓。但当我回来的时候，她已经结婚了。这种事情对二十出头的年轻人来说本是不足为奇的，也许我的心比旁人软弱，换了别人也许不会像我这样痛苦，这就是我的恋爱经历。”
伯爵夫人停住脚步，象是只是为了喘一口气。“是的，”她说，“而您，在您的心里依旧保存这段爱情——人是一生只能恋爱一次的，您后来有没有再见到过她？”
“从来没有！”
“从来没有？”
“我从来没有回到她所住的那个地方。”
“在马耳他？”
“是的，在马耳他。”
“那么，她现在还在马耳他？”
“我想是的。”
“她使您所受的种种痛苦，您宽恕她了吗？”
“是的，我饶恕了她。”
“但不只是她，那么您依旧还恨使您和她分离的那些人吗？”伯爵夫人手里还有一小串葡萄，散发了香味。这时她就站在基督山的面前。“吃一点吧。”她说。
“夫人，我是从来不吃紫葡萄的。”基督山回答，好象这个问题以前并没有提到过似的。
伯爵夫人用一种绝望的姿势，把葡萄抛进最近的树丛里。
“真是铁石心肠。”她轻声说。基督山毫不动情，好象这种责备并不是说他似的。
这时，阿尔贝奔了进来。“母亲！”他喊道，发生不幸的事啦！”
“什么？发生了什么事情？”伯爵夫人问道，象是一下子从梦中醒来似的。“你说是不幸的事？哦，当然是不幸的事了。”
“维尔福先生来了。”
“怎么了？”
“他来找他的太太和女儿。”
“为什么？”
“因为圣·梅朗夫人刚到巴黎，带来了圣·梅朗先生去世的噩耗，他是离开马赛不久就死的。维尔福夫人正在兴头上，也许没有听清那件祸事，或也许不相信会发生那样的事情。但瓦朗蒂娜小姐一听到话头，又注意到她父亲那种小心谨慎的样子，就全部猜到了。那个打击对她象是晴天霹雳一般，她当场昏了过去。”
“圣·梅朗先生是维尔福小姐的什么人？”伯爵问。
“是她的外祖父。他是来催促她和弗兰兹结婚的。”
“啊。真的吗？”
“嗯，”阿尔贝说，“弗兰兹现在没人催他了，为什么圣·梅朗先生不也是腾格拉尔小姐的外祖父呢？”
“阿尔贝！阿尔贝！”马尔塞夫夫人用一种温和的责备口气说，“你在说什么呀？啊，伯爵，他非常敬重您，请告诉他，他不该这么说话。”于是她向前走了两三步。
基督山用非常奇怪的眼光望着她，他的脸上有一种恍恍惚惚但又充满爱慕的表情。她不由停住了脚步。然后她又上来搀住他的手，同时抓起她儿子的手，把那两只手合在一起。
“我们是朋友，是不是？”她问。
“噢，夫人，我不敢自称为您的朋友，但我始终是您最恭敬的仆人。”
伯爵夫人心里带着一种无法形容的痛楚走了。她还没有走上十步，伯爵就看见她用手帕擦眼泪。
“家母跟您谈得有点不愉快吗？”阿尔贝惊讶地问。
“正巧相反，”伯爵答道，“您没听到她说我们是朋友吗？”
他们回到大厅里，瓦朗蒂娜和维尔福先生夫妇刚离开，不用说，莫雷尔也跟在他们后面走了。