As the Marquis uttered this sentiment with a pathetic sigh, I could not refrain from glancing at his manly and athletic proportions. Certainly there was no appearance of over-fatigue or lassitude there. He looked the very incarnation of good cheer, and had contrived to avert from his own person all vestige of those calamities which he was pleased so feelingly to deplore. He might have been exhibited at the _Frères Provençaux_ as a splendid result of their nutritive and culinary system. “You doubt me still, I see,” said De la Pailleterie. “Well, I cannot wonder at it. Such things, I know, sound strange in the apprehension of you incredulous islanders. But I will even give you a proof, Dunshunner, which is more than I would do to any other man—for I cannot forget the service you rendered me long ago at the Isle de Bourbon. You see this little instrument,—put it to your ear. I shall summon Leontine to speak, and the sound of her reply will be conveyed to you through that silver tube, which is in strict _rapport_ with her magnetic constitution.” So saying, he placed in my hand a miniature silver trumpet, beautifully wrought, which I immediately placed to my ear. Monte-Christo drew himself up to his full height, fixed his fine eyes earnestly upon vacuity, made several passes upwards with his hand, and then said, “My friend, do you hear me? If so, answer.” Immediately, and to my unexpected surprise, there thrilled through the silver tube a whisper of miraculous sweetness. “Great master! I listen—I obey!” “May St Mungo, St Mirren, St Rollox, and all the other western saints, have me in their keeping!” cried I. “Heard ever mortal man aught like this?” “Hush—be silent!” said the Marquis, “or you may destroy the spell. Leontine, have you concluded the chapter?” “I have,” said the voice: “shall I read the last sentences?” “Do,” replied the adept, who seemed to hear the response simultaneously with myself, by intuition. The voice went on. “At this moment the door of the apartment opened, and Chon rushed into the room. ‘Well, my little sister, how goes it?’ said the Countess. ‘Bad.’ ‘Indeed!’ ‘It is but too true.’ ‘De Noailles?’ ‘No.’ ‘Ha! D’Aiguillon?’ ‘You deceive yourself.’ ‘Who then?’ ‘Philip de Taverney, the Chevalier Maison-Rouge!’ ‘Ha!’ cried the Countess, ‘then I am lost!’ and she sank senseless upon the cushions.” “Well done, Leontine!” exclaimed De la Pailleterie; “that is the seventh chapter I have composed since morning. Are you fatigued, my child?” “Very—very weary,” replied the voice, in a melancholy cadence. “You shall have rest soon. Come hither. Do you see me?” “Ah! you are very cruel!” “I understand. Cease to be fatigued—I will it!” “Ah! thanks, thanks!” “Do you see me now?” “I do. Oh, how handsome!” The Marquis caressed his whiskers. “Where am I?” “At the corner of the Place de la Concorde, near the Tuilleries’ gardens. Ah, you naughty man, you have been smoking!” “Who is with me?”