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- Александр Дюма
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- Граф Монте-Кристо
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- Стр. 802/1279
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It
was
only
a
momentary
glance
,
but
it
seemed
to
the
countess
to
have
lasted
for
a
century
,
so
much
was
expressed
in
that
one
look
.
He
offered
his
arm
to
the
countess
;
she
took
it
,
or
rather
just
touched
it
with
her
little
hand
,
and
they
together
descended
the
steps
,
lined
with
rhododendrons
and
camellias
.
Behind
them
,
by
another
outlet
,
a
group
of
about
twenty
persons
rushed
into
the
garden
with
loud
exclamations
of
delight
.
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
Mercedes
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
Mercedes
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
Mercedes
,
in
a
tremulous
voice
.
"
Pray
excuse
me
,
madame
,
"
replied
Monte
Cristo
,
"
but
I
never
eat
Muscatel
grapes
.
"
Mercedes
let
them
fall
,
and
sighed
.
A
magnificent
peach
was
hanging
against
an
adjoining
wall
,
ripened
by
the
same
artificial
heat
.
Mercedes
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
.
"
