Граф Монте-Кристо

The Breakfast.

           WhatIknowis,that,likeafool,agreaterfoolthanheofwhomIspokejustnow,Imistookforthispeasantgirlayoungbanditoffifteenorsixteen,withabeardlesschinandslimwaist,andwho,justasIwasabouttoimprintachastesaluteonhislips,placedapistoltomyhead,and,aidedbysevenoreightothers,led,orratherdraggedme,totheCatacombsofSt.Sebastian,whereIfoundahighlyeducatedbrigandchiefperusingCaesar’s‘Commentaries,’andwhodeignedtoleaveoffreadingtoinformme,thatunlessthenextmorning,beforesixo’clock,fourthousandpiastreswerepaidintohisaccountathisbanker’s,ataquarterpastsixIshouldhaveceasedtoexist.Theletterisstilltobeseen,foritisinFranzd’Epinay’spossession,signedbyme,andwithapostscriptofM.LuigiVampa.ThisisallIknow,butIknownot,count,howyoucontrivedtoinspiresomuchrespectinthebanditsofRomewhoordinarilyhavesolittlerespectforanything.Iassureyou,FranzandIwerelostinadmiration."

           "Nothingmoresimple,"returnedthecount."IhadknownthefamousVampaformorethantenyears.Whenhewasquiteachild,andonlyashepherd,Igavehimafewgoldpiecesforshowingmemyway,andhe,inordertorepayme,gavemeaponiard,thehiltofwhichhehadcarvedwithhisownhand,andwhichyoumayhaveseeninmycollectionofarms.

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