"Listen," said the count, and deep hatred mounted to his face, as the blood would to the face of any other.
"I will put another case to you," continued the count; "that where society, attacked by the death of a person, avenges death by death.
"Ah, duelling," cried the count; "a pleasant manner, upon my soul, of arriving at your end when that end is vengeance!
"Oh, yes," replied the count; "understand me, I would fight a duel for a trifle, for an insult, for a blow; and the more so that, thanks to my skill in all bodily exercises, and the indifference to danger I have gradually acquired, I should be almost certain to kill my man.
"But," said Franz to the count, "with this theory, which renders you at once judge and executioner of your own cause, it would be difficult to adopt a course that would forever prevent your falling under the power of the law.
During the meal, which was excellent, and admirably served, Franz looked repeatedly at Albert, in order to observe the impressions which he doubted not had been made on him by the words of their entertainer; but whether with his usual carelessness he had paid but little attention to him, whether the explanation of the Count of Monte Cristo with regard to duelling had satisfied him, or whether the events which Franz knew of had had their effect on him alone, he remarked that his companion did not pay the least regard to them, but on the contrary ate like a man who for the last four or five months had been condemned to partake of Italian cookery -- that is, the worst in the world.
Tarzan smiled, and then, bowing to the count, handed him his own card.
"I have had more awe-inspiring enemies, my dear count," replied Tarzan with a quiet smile, "yet I am still alive and unworried.
"I did not know that he was a celebrity," said the count.
Perhaps she flushed the least little bit, for was not the count, her husband, gazing at her with a strangely quizzical expression.
Sir Percival burst out laughing, so violently, so outrageously, that he quite startled us all--the Count more than any of us.
"Poor dear Percival!" cried Count Fosco, looking after him gaily, "he is the victim of English spleen.
"What is your view of the subject, Count?" asked Madame Fosco, calmly proceeding with her cigarettes, and not taking the least notice of me.
The Count stroked one of his white mice reflectively with his chubby little finger before he answered.
Sir Percival had recovered his equanimity, and had come back while we were listening to the Count.