Граф Монте-Крісто

Bread and Salt.

           "Prayexcuseme,madame,"repliedMonteCristo,"butInevereatMuscatelgrapes."

           Mercedesletthemfall,andsighed.Amagnificentpeachwashangingagainstanadjoiningwall,ripenedbythesameartificialheat.Mercedesdrewnear,andpluckedthefruit."Takethispeach,then,"shesaid.Thecountagainrefused."What,again?"sheexclaimed,insoplaintiveanaccentthatitseemedtostifleasob;"really,youpainme."

           Alongsilencefollowed;thepeach,likethegrapes,felltotheground."Count,"addedMercedeswithasupplicatingglance,"thereisabeautifulArabiancustom,whichmakeseternalfriendsofthosewhohavetogethereatenbreadandsaltunderthesameroof."

           "Iknowit,madame,"repliedthecount;"butweareinFrance,andnotinArabia,andinFranceeternalfriendshipsareasrareasthecustomofdividingbreadandsaltwithoneanother."

           "But,"saidthecountess,breathlessly,withhereyesfixedonMonteCristo,whosearmsheconvulsivelypressedwithbothhands,"wearefriends,arewenot?"

           Thecountbecamepaleasdeath,thebloodrushedtohisheart,andthenagainrising,dyedhischeekswithcrimson;hiseyesswamlikethoseofamansuddenlydazzled."Certainly,wearefriends,"hereplied;"whyshouldwenotbe?"TheanswerwassolittleliketheoneMercedesdesired,thatsheturnedawaytogiveventtoasigh,whichsoundedmorelikeagroan."Thankyou,"shesaid.Andtheywalkedonagain.

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Сторінка 1226 з 1932