“Ah, monsieur,” returned Julie, “it is treason in my brother to bring you thus, but he never has any regard for his poor sister. Penelon, Penelon!”
An old man, who was digging busily at one of the beds, stuck his spade in the earth, and approached, cap in hand, striving to conceal a quid of tobacco he had just thrust into his cheek. A few locks of gray mingled with his hair, which was still thick and matted, while his bronzed features and determined glance well suited an old sailor who had braved the heat of the equator and the storms of the tropics.
“I think you hailed me, Mademoiselle Julie?” said he.
Penelon had still preserved the habit of calling his master’s daughter “Mademoiselle Julie,” and had never been able to change the name to Madame Herbault.
“Penelon,” replied Julie, “go and inform M. Emmanuel of this gentleman’s visit, and Maximilian will conduct him to the salon.”
Then, turning to Monte Cristo,—“I hope you will permit me to leave you for a few minutes,” continued she; and without awaiting any reply, disappeared behind a clump of trees, and escaped to the house by a lateral alley.
“I am sorry to see,” observed Monte Cristo to Morrel, “that I cause no small disturbance in your house.”
“Look there,” said Maximilian, laughing; “there is her husband changing his jacket for a coat. I assure you, you are well known in the Rue Meslay.”
“Your family appears to be a very happy one,” said the count, as if speaking to himself.