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- Александр Дюма
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- Граф Монте-Кристо
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- Стр. 803/1279
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A
long
silence
followed
;
the
peach
,
like
the
grapes
,
fell
to
the
ground
.
"
Count
,
"
added
Mercedes
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
Mercedes
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
.
