The Count of Monte Cristo

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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
detect the tears 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 Mercedes, in a tremulous voice. "Pray excuse me,
madame," replied Monte Cristo, "but I never eat Muscatel grapes."

Mercedes let them fall, and sighed. A magnificent peach was hanging
against an adjoining wall, ripened by the same artificial heat. Mercedes
drew near, and plucked the fruit. "Take this peach, then," she said. The
count again refused. "What, again?" she exclaimed, in so plaintive an
accent that it seemed to stifle a sob; "really, you pain me."

A long silence followed; the peach, like the grapes, fell to the
ground. "Count," added Mercedes with a supplicating glance, "there is a
beautiful Arabian custom, which makes eternal friends of those who have