And he disappeared without any one seeing whither he went.
The funeral being over, the guests returned to Paris. Château-Renaud looked a moment for Morrel; but while watching the departure of the count, Morrel had quitted his post, and Château-Renaud, failing in his search, joined Debray and Beauchamp.
Monte-Cristo had plunged into the shrubbery and concealed himself behind a large tomb, and waited the arrival of Morrel, who, by degrees, approached the tomb now abandoned by spectators and workmen. Morrel threw a glance around, but before it reached the spot occupied by Monte-Cristo, the latter had advanced yet nearer, still unperceived. The young man knelt down. The count, with outstretched neck, and glaring eyes, stood in an attitude ready to fling himself on Morrel upon the first signal. Morrel bent his head till it touched the stone, then clutching the grating with both hands, he murmured:
"Oh! Valentine!"
The count's heart was pierced by the utterance of these two words; he stepped forward, and touching the young man's shoulder, said:
"I was looking for you, my friend." Monte-Cristo expected a burst of passion, but he was deceived, for Morrel, turning round, said with calmness:
"You see I was praying." The scrutinizing glance of the count searched the young man from head to foot. He then seemed more easy.
"Shall I drive you back to Paris?" he asked.
"No, thank you."
"Do you wish anything?"
"Leave me to pray."
The count withdrew without opposition, but it was only to place himself in a situation where he could watch every movement of Morrel, who at length rose, brushed the dust from his knees, and turned toward Paris, without once looking back. He walked slowly down the Rue de la Roquette. The count, dismissing his carriage, followed him about a hundred paces behind. Maximilian crossed the canal, and entered the Rue Meslay by the Boulevards.
Five minutes after the door had been closed on Morrel's entrance, it was again opened for the count. Julie was at the entrance of the garden, where she was attentively watching Penelon, who, entering with zeal into his profession of a gardener, was very busy grafting some Bengal roses. "Ah, count!" she exclaimed, with the delight manifested by every member of the family whenever he visited the Rue Meslay.
