The Count of Monte Cristo

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and the supper laid under the tent. Dancers, players, talkers, all
uttered an exclamation of joy--every one inhaled with delight the
breeze that floated in. At the same time Mercedes reappeared, paler than
before, but with that imperturbable expression of countenance which
she sometimes wore. She went straight to the group of which her husband
formed the centre. "Do not detain those gentlemen here, count," she
said; "they would prefer, I should think, to breathe in the garden
rather than suffocate here, since they are not playing."

"Ah," said a gallant old general, who, in 1809, had sung "Partant pour
la Syrie,"--"we will not go alone to the garden."

"Then," said Mercedes, "I will lead the way." Turning towards Monte
Cristo, she added, "count, will you oblige me with your arm?" The
count almost staggered at these simple words; then he fixed his eyes on
Mercedes. It was only a momentary glance, but it seemed to the countess
to have lasted for a century, so much was expressed in that one look. He