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"
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
.
"
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"
You
live
alone
,
then
?
"
"
I
do
.
"
"
You
have
no
sister
--
no
son
--
no
father
?
"
"
I
have
no
one
.
"
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"
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
?
"