The Count of Monte Cristo

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disappeared under a long cassock, as did his hair under a priest's wig;
the three-cornered hat over this effectually transformed the count into
an abbe.

The man, hearing nothing more, stood erect, and while Monte Cristo was
completing his disguise had advanced straight to the secretary, whose
lock was beginning to crack under his nightingale.

"Try again," whispered the count, who depended on the secret spring,
which was unknown to the picklock, clever as he might be--"try again,
you have a few minutes' work there." And he advanced to the window.
The man whom he had seen seated on a fence had got down, and was still
pacing the street; but, strange as it appeared, he cared not for those
who might pass from the avenue of the Champs-Elysees or by the Faubourg
St. Honore; his attention was engrossed with what was passing at the
count's, and his only aim appeared to be to discern every movement in
the dressing-room.