Monte-Cristo soon ran up the staircase conducting from the ground-floor to Maximilian's room; when he reached the landing he listened attentively, but all was still. Like many old houses occupied by a single family, the room-door was panelled with glass. But it was locked, Maximilian was shut in, and it was impossible to see what was passing in the room, owing to a red curtain being drawn before the glass. The count's anxiety was manifested by a bright color which seldom appeared on the face of that impassible man.
"What shall I do?" he uttered, and reflected for a moment; "shall I ring? No, the sound of a bell, announcing a visitor, will but accelerate the resolution of one in Maximilian's situation, and then the bell would be followed by another noise."
Monte-Cristo trembled from head to foot, and as if his determination had been taken with the rapidity of lightning, he struck one of the panes of glass with his elbow; the glass was shivered to atoms; then withdrawing the curtain, he saw Morrel, who had been writing at his desk, bound from his seat at the noise of the broken window.
"I beg a thousand pardons!" said the count, "there is nothing the matter, but I slipped down and broke one of your panes of glass with my elbow. Since it is open, I will take advantage of it to enter your room; do not disturb yourself—do not disturb yourself!"
And passing his hand through the broken glass, the count opened the door. Morrel, evidently discomposed, came to meet Monte-Cristo, less with the intention of receiving him than to exclude his entry.
"Ma foi!" said Monte-Cristo, rubbing his elbow, "it's all your servant's fault; your stairs are so polished, it is like walking on glass."
"Are you hurt, sir?" coldly asked Morrel.
"I believe not. But what are you about there? you were writing."
"I?"
"Your fingers are stained with ink."
"Ah, true, I was writing. I do sometimes, soldier though I am."
Monte-Cristo advanced into the room; Maximilian was obliged to let him pass, but he followed him.
"You were writing?" said Monte-Cristo, with a searching look.
"I have already had the honor of telling you I was," said Morrel.
The count looked around him.
"Your pistols are beside your desk," said Monte-Cristo, pointing with his finger to the pistols on the table.
"I am on the point of starting on a journey," replied Morrel, disdainfully.
"My friend!" exclaimed Monte-Cristo, in a tone of exquisite sweetness.
"Sir?"
