Albert had proceeded no farther than the door, where he remained rooted to the spot, being completely fascinated by the sight of such surpassing beauty, beheld as it was for the first time, and of which an inhabitant of more northern climes could form no adequate idea.
“Whom do you bring?” asked the young girl in Romaic, of Monte Cristo; “is it a friend, a brother, a simple acquaintance, or an enemy.”
“A friend,” said Monte Cristo in the same language.
“What is his name?”
“Count Albert; it is the same man whom I rescued from the hands of the banditti at Rome.”
“In what language would you like me to converse with him?”
Monte Cristo turned to Albert. “Do you know modern Greek,” asked he.
“Alas! no,” said Albert; “nor even ancient Greek, my dear count; never had Homer or Plato a more unworthy scholar than myself.”
“Then,” said Haydée, proving by her remark that she had quite understood Monte Cristo’s question and Albert’s answer, “then I will speak either in French or Italian, if my lord so wills it.”