The Count of Monte Cristo

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together eaten bread and salt under the same roof."

"I know it, madame," replied the count; "but we are in France, and not
in Arabia, and in France eternal friendships are as rare as the custom
of dividing bread and salt with one another."

"But," said the countess, breathlessly, with her eyes fixed on Monte
Cristo, whose arm she convulsively pressed with both hands, "we are
friends, are we not?"

The count became pale as death, the blood rushed to his heart, and then
again rising, dyed his cheeks with crimson; his eyes swam like those of
a man suddenly dazzled. "Certainly, we are friends," he replied; "why
should we not be?" The answer was so little like the one Mercedes
desired, that she turned away to give vent to a sigh, which sounded more
like a groan. "Thank you," she said. And they walked on again. They went
the whole length of the garden without uttering a word. "Sir," suddenly