CHAPTER LXXI
BREAD AND SALT
ADAME de MORCERF entered the archway of trees with her companion. It was a grove of lindens, conducting to a conservatory. "It was too warm in the room, was it not, count?" she asked.
"Yes, madame; and it was an excellent idea of yours to open the doors and the blinds." As he ceased speaking, the count felt the hand of Mercédès tremble.
"But you," he said, "with that light dress, and without anything to cover you but that gauze scarf, perhaps you feel cold?"
"Do you know where I am leading you?" said the countess, without replying to the question of Monte-Cristo.
"No, madame," replied Monte-Cristo; "but you see I make no resistance."
"We are going to the green-house that you see at the end of this grove."
The count looked at Mercédès as if to interrogate her, but she continued walking in silence; on his side, Monte-Cristo also said nothing. They reached the building, ornamented with magnificent fruits, which ripen even in July in the artificial temperature which takes the place of the sun, so frequently absent in our climate. The countess left the arm of Monte-Cristo, and gathered a bunch of Muscatel grapes.
"See, count," she said, with a smile, so sad in its expression that one could almost see the tears gathering on her eyelids—"see, our French grapes are not to be compared, I know, with yours of Sicily and Cyprus, but you will make allowance for our northern sun." The count bowed but stepped back.
"Do you refuse?" said Mercédès in a tremulous voice.
"Pray excuse me, madame," replied Monte-Cristo, "but I never eat Muscatel grapes."
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