"Edmond," began Mercedes, without further apologies, "you know what was the intention of my son, for whom I was attached to life when everything around was destroyed. Alas! Albert is the favorite of my heart; do not think me foolish, if I tell you he was worthy of you! His letters, which, breathe of his uninterrupted, faithful filial love, have kept me alive ten long, lonesome and weary years; when I read his tender words, when he embraced me, all my hopes centred in the moment when we should meet again! But suddenly all letters ceased to arrive. I waited many a long day, weeks, months, but all in vain—no news came.
"I anxiously read all papers—I inquired and hoped, but I could bring nothing to light. At length I resolved to write to Paris to the Minister of War—I received no answer, and my despair increased daily.
"Then an accident led Monsieur Beauchamp to Marseilles—I took heart to look for him, and acquainted him with my sorrow. He received me very kindly, listened to me, and promised to exert himself to obtain some information for me. After eight days I received the sad news—"
"Then Albert is dead?" said the count, sorrowfully.
"Oh, God, no—say not so—he cannot, he dare not be dead!" sobbed Mercedes. "The news which Beauchamp acquainted me with was disheartening enough. My poor son, captain in the first Zouave regiment, or the so-called Jackals, about three months ago, after an expedition against the Kabyles, disappeared; they fear the wild horde has taken him away!"
Monte-Cristo reflected a moment and then inquired: "Did it happen before or after the submission of Abd-el-Kader?"
"After, as much as I can tell. Monsieur Beauchamp, however, was not satisfied with the uncertain reports—he informed me that a Zouave from Albert's regiment was on furlough in Paris, and he would not fail to have the Zouave sent to Marseilles to inform me of all, in a more particular way."
"And has this Zouave arrived?" inquired Monte-Cristo, animatedly.
"Yes, a few days since."
"And what does he say?"