“That is possible,” said the countess, reflecting.
“Never mind,” continued the young man, “smuggler or not, you must agree, mother dear, as you have seen him, that the Count of Monte Cristo is a remarkable man, who will have the greatest success in the salons of Paris. Why, this very morning, in my rooms, he made his entrée amongst us by striking every man of us with amazement, not even excepting Château-Renaud.”
“And what do you suppose is the count’s age?” inquired Mercédès, evidently attaching great importance to this question.
“Thirty-five or thirty-six, mother.”
“So young,—it is impossible,” said Mercédès, replying at the same time to what Albert said as well as to her own private reflection.
“It is the truth, however. Three or four times he has said to me, and certainly without the slightest premeditation, ‘at such a period I was five years old, at another ten years old, at another twelve,’ and I, induced by curiosity, which kept me alive to these details, have compared the dates, and never found him inaccurate. The age of this singular man, who is of no age, is then, I am certain, thirty-five. Besides, mother, remark how vivid his eye, how raven-black his hair, and his brow, though so pale, is free from wrinkles,—he is not only vigorous, but also young.”
The countess bent her head, as if beneath a heavy wave of bitter thoughts.
“And has this man displayed a friendship for you, Albert?” she asked with a nervous shudder.
“I am inclined to think so.”
“And—do—you—like—him?”