“Oh, yes.”
“And from whose hands the count extricated me in so wonderful a manner?”
“To be sure, I remember it all now.”
“He called himself Vampa. You see. it’s evident where the count got the name.”
“But what could have been his motive for sending the cup to me?”
“In the first place, because I had spoken much of you to him, as you may believe; and in the second, because he delighted to see a countrywoman take so lively an interest in his success.”
“I trust and hope you never repeated to the count all the foolish remarks we used to make about him?”
“I should not like to affirm upon oath that I have not. Besides, his presenting you the cup under the name of Lord Ruthven” —
“Oh, but that is dreadful! Why, the man must owe me a fearful grudge.”
“Does his action appear like that of an enemy?”
“No; certainly not.”
“Well, then” —
“And so he is in Paris?”
“Yes.”
“And what effect does he produce?”
“Why,” said Albert, “he was talked about for a week; then the coronation of the queen of England took place, followed by the theft of Mademoiselle Mars’s diamonds; and so people talked of something else.”
“My good fellow,” said Chateau-Renaud, “the count is your friend and you treat him accordingly. Do not believe what Albert is telling you, countess; so far from the sensation excited in the Parisian circles by the appearance of the Count of Monte Cristo having abated, I take upon myself to declare that it is as strong as ever. His first astounding act upon coming amongst us was to present a pair of horses, worth 32,000 francs, to Madame Danglars; his second, the almost miraculous preservation of Madame de Villefort’s life; now it seems that he has carried off the prize awarded by the Jockey Club. I therefore maintain, in spite of Morcerf, that not only is the count the object of interest at this present moment, but also that he will continue to be so for a month longer if he pleases to exhibit an eccentricity of conduct which, after all, may be his ordinary mode of existence.”
“Perhaps you are right,” said Morcerf; “meanwhile, who is in the Russian ambassador’s box?”
“Which box do you mean?” asked the countess.
“The one between the pillars on the first tier — it seems to have been fitted up entirely afresh.”
“Did you observe any one during the first act?” asked Chateau-Renaud.
“Where?”
“In that box.”
“No,” replied the countess, “it was certainly empty during the first act;” then, resuming the subject of their previous conversation, she said, “And so you really believe it was your mysterious Count of Monte Cristo that gained the prize?”
“I am sure of it.”
“And who afterwards sent the cup to me?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“But I don’t know him,” said the countess; “I have a great mind to return it.”
“Do no such thing, I beg of you; he would only send you another, formed of a magnificent sapphire, or hollowed out of a gigantic ruby. It is his way, and you must take him as you find him.” At this moment the bell rang to announce the drawing up of the curtain for the second act. Albert rose to return to his place. “Shall I see you again?” asked the countess. “At the end of the next act, with your permission, I will come and inquire whether there is anything I can do for you in Paris?”
“Pray take notice,” said the countess, “that my present residence is 22 Rue de Rivoli, and that I am at home to my friends every Saturday evening. So now, you are both forewarned.” The young men bowed, and quitted the box. Upon reaching their stalls, they found the whole of the audience in the parterre standing up and directing their gaze towards the box formerly possessed by the Russian ambassador. A man of from thirty-five to forty years of age, dressed in deep black, had just entered, accompanied by a young woman dressed after the Eastern style. The lady was surpassingly beautiful, while the rich magnificence of her attire drew all eyes upon her. “Hullo,” said Albert; “it is Monte Cristo and his Greek!”