re him, and his eyes were fixed on a paragraph
that seemed to have fascinated him as the serpent fascinates the bird.
The paragraph read as follows:

"Mlle. Louise d' Armilly, the famous prima donna, who will sing to-night
at the Apollo Theatre her great role of _Lucrezia Borgia_, has, it
appears, a deep impenetrable mystery surrounding her. She is French by
birth, and is said to be the daughter of a banker, who vanished under
peculiar circumstances, but, as she positively declines to speak of her
history, we can only give the rumors concerning her for what they are
worth. M. Leon d' Armilly, brother of the prima donna, who supports her
in Donizetti's opera, also refuses to be communicative. At any rate, the
mere hint of the mystery has already caused quite a flutter of
excitement in high society circles and that is sufficient to insure a
crowded house."

"Louise d' Armilly!" murmured the Count, half-audibly. "The name is
familiar, certainly, though where I have seen or heard it before I
cannot now recall. The lady is French by birth, the paper says, and that
fact, at least, is a sufficient pretext for me to visit her. I will call
on her as a fellow countryman, and the interview will demonstrate if she
is known to me."

The Count arose, went to his desk and, seating himself there, wrote the
following brief epistle:

"Edmond Dantes,[3] Count of Monte-Cristo, desires permission to call
upon Mlle. Louise d' Armilly at ten o'clock this morning. In this desire
M. Dantes is actuated solely by the wish to lay the homage of a
Frenchman at the feet of so distinguished an artiste of his own nation
as Mlle. d' Armilly."

Having finished, sealed and addressed this note, the Count touched a
bell which was immediately answered by the ever-watchful Nubian.

"Ali," said the Count, in the Arabic tongue, "take this letter to the
Hotel de France and wait for a reply."

The faithful servant bowed almost to the floor, took the missive and
departed. When he had gone, the Count walked the apartment with the long
strides habitual to him at such times as he was engrossed by some
all-powerful thought.

"Surely," he muttered, "this artiste can in no way interest me
personally, and yet I feel a subtile premonition that it would be wise
in me to see her."

He was still pacing the study when Ali returned. The Nubian's usually
impassible face bore traces of excitement and horror. He prostrated
himself at his master's feet and, with his vi