The Count of Monte Cristo

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& French had predicted, Madame Emmanuel Herbault. She uttered a cry
of surprise at the sight of a stranger, and Maximilian began to laugh.
"Don't disturb yourself, Julie," said he. "The count has only been two
or three days in Paris, but he already knows what a fashionable woman of
the Marais is, and if he does not, you will show him."

"Ah, monsieur," returned Julie, "it is treason in my brother to bring
you thus, but he never has any regard for his poor sister. Penelon,
Penelon!" An old man, who was digging busily at one of the beds, stuck
his spade in the earth, and approached, cap in hand, striving to conceal
a quid of tobacco he had just thrust into his cheek. A few locks of
gray mingled with his hair, which was still thick and matted, while his
bronzed features and determined glance well suited an old sailor who had
braved the heat of the equator and the storms of the tropics. "I think
you hailed me, Mademoiselle Julie?" said he. Penelon had still preserved
the habit of calling his master's daughter "Mademoiselle Julie," and
had never been able to change the name to Madame Herbault. "Penelon,"