projected on the floor by the book-cases and
various articles of furniture, looking like gigantic and dwarfed shapes
of demons and elfs and lending the scene a weird, supernatural aspect.
Monte-Cristo walked amid these distorted shadows like some master
magician communing with the dark, mysterious spirits that received his
commands in silence and then vanished to execute them without question
or debate.

The Count's thoughts were of a sombre nature; he was pondering over the
problem of French freedom, wondering how long the volatile, changeful
nation with which he had cast his lot would retain the liberty acquired
by the revolution that had overturned Louis Philippe's throne and given
the people power. He distrusted the events of the near future. Already
the Bonapartists were active and Louis Napoleon was looming up as a
formidable figure. The nephew of the great conqueror of Europe professed
republican sentiments, but Monte-Cristo doubted his sincerity as well as
his ability to govern the restless population of Paris. He foresaw
imitation of the famous Emperor; his prophetic eye pierced through Louis
Napoleon's presidential aspirations and saw beyond them a second Empire
not less brilliant but not more substantial than the first. The policy
of the Bonapartes was to dazzle the masses, the men of the barricades,
by a show of grandeur and amuse rather than force them into submission.
The Count had held aloof from Louis Napoleon, had even opposed him to
the full extent of his mighty influence; he had done so not from any
personal considerations, but for the good of the entire French people,
for the preservation intact of the fabric of freedom, the fruit of the
revolution of 1848.

Meanwhile, as these thoughts coursed through Monte-Cristo's active
brain, the telegraphic instrument went ticking steadily on, but the
information he expected was not conveyed. News flashed to him from every
centre of political agitation save Berlin; there an obstinate, ominous
silence prevailed. Several times he sought to open communication with
his confederate in the Prussian capital, but his signals were
unanswered. At last he paused wearily in his walk, throwing himself in a
huge arm-chair; fatigue weighed upon his eyelids and he speedily sank
into an uneasy, broken sleep, from which he started at intervals,
disturbed by some vague, disquieting dream. Ever and anon, as he dozed,
that smile that made him so handsome would steal over his manly