“And God has poured balm into your wounds, as he does into those of all who are in affliction?” said Monte Cristo inquiringly.
“Yes, count,” returned Julie, “we may indeed say he has, for he has done for us what he grants only to his chosen; he sent us one of his angels.”
The count’s cheeks became scarlet, and he coughed, in order to have an excuse for putting his handkerchief to his mouth.
“Those born to wealth, and who have the means of gratifying every wish,” said Emmanuel, “know not what is the real happiness of life, just as those who have been tossed on the stormy waters of the ocean on a few frail planks can alone realize the blessings of fair weather.”
Monte Cristo rose, and without making any answer (for the tremulousness of his voice would have betrayed his emotion) walked up and down the apartment with a slow step.
“Our magnificence makes you smile, count,” said Maximilian, who had followed him with his eyes.
“No, no,” returned Monte Cristo, pale as death, pressing one hand on his heart to still its throbbings, while with the other he pointed to a crystal cover, beneath which a silken purse lay on a black velvet cushion. “I was wondering what could be the significance of this purse, with the paper at one end and the large diamond at the other.”
“Count,” replied Maximilian, with an air of gravity, “those are our most precious family treasures.”
“The stone seems very brilliant,” answered the count.
“Oh, my brother does not allude to its value, although it has been estimated at 100,000 francs; he means, that the articles contained in this purse are the relics of the angel I spoke of just now.”