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Yes, certainly, to Villa Mayda. Could not that light be extinguished? The servant put it out, and spoke of a paper. What paper? A paper the Signora had placed in the inside pocket of the coupé, ordering him to give it to the gentleman. Benedetto did not understand, or see. The footman took the paper and slipped it into Benedetto's pocket.
A secret instinct warned Sanselme that Benedetto would wreak his vengeance on the son of his enemy, and concealed behind the curtain he had given Esperance the warning that had so startled him. Then he hurried away, aghast at what he had done. What was the young Vicomte to him? What did he care for Benedetto's hates?
He trembled with rage, as he washed Benedetto's wound, but he did not dare to say a word. Haydee had in the meantime loosened a cord from the package and discovered a small oaken box, which she tried in vain to open. The count noticed it, and after he had carefully examined the lock, he murmured: "I will try to open it with my key." He really succeeded in doing it.
Di Leynì begged that they would present him to her on her arrival. He had a message for her, but was not acquainted with her. The message, indeed, concerned all of Benedetto's friends, therefore concerned the Selvas also. Maria trembled. "A message from him?" she asked eagerly. "A message from Benedetto?"
A son had killed his mother, and then departed, carrying with him a large sum of money. Bad as was Sanselme, he shuddered at this terrible crime. He had aided in Benedetto's escape with the hope of receiving part of the money, but he repulsed the blood-stained hand that offered it. "Be off with you or I will kill you!" he cried, and Benedetto fled.
They, as well as Monte-Cristo's children and the Nubian, had been suddenly seized by a party of rough-looking Greeks, evidently a portion of Benedetto's band.
The Professor kept his finger continually on Benedetto's pulse, and from time to time gave him a cordial. At the entrance to the villa, either from emotion or from fatigue, the sick man's poor, fleshless face blanched, and was covered with sweat, and he closed his great, shining eyes.
His hands clasped behind him, he leaned against the doorpost, watching Benedetto, and the tall, dark figure never moved from that spot during all the time that Benedetto kept his followers with him. Benedetto's face was flushed, his eyes glittered, and his breathing was quick. He greeted his friends with a "Thank you!" which quivered with happy and intense excitement, and which made some one sob.
The oil in the lamp was almost exhausted, the ring of shadows was closing in, was growing deeper around and above the small circle of light in which the two figures were outlined, confronting each other: the white figure of the Pontiff in his chair, and Benedetto's dark figure standing erect.
To escape the reproach of the uplifted eyebrow, the quizzical look, the "que diable allait il faire dans cette galère?" expression, it was necessary to be one of the Mr. Lutes or Miss Nedra Jennings Nuncheons, of Stephen French Whitman's "Predestined," who were regular habitués of "Benedetto's," under which name Gonfarone's was thinly disguised. Mr.
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