But now he was not suffered to
have a moment's peace.
Monte Cristo had already been sitting in his dungeon for some time when
Madame Langai's carriage returned from the theatre. Then Mr. Demetrius
rang up the porters to inquire whether Mr. John had also returned home.
No, was the answer. At eleven o'clock Mr. John had still not returned.
Meanwhile Monte Cristo's neighbour had traced the figure on the floor of
the dungeon. Mr. Demetrius here demanded a fuller explanation of the
circumstances. "How was that, Margari?" he enquired.
"I humbly beg your honour's pardon, but I don't understand."
"Very well, proceed!"
Every time a door below was opened or shut, Mr. Demetrius rang up the
porter to enquire whether Mr. John had come in, to the intense
aggravation of the porter, who appeared in the door of the saloon with a
surlier expression and his hair more and more ruffled on each occasion,
inwardly cursing the fool of a student who had not even wit enough to
send an old man asleep, and envying the other servants who at least were
able to sleep at night without interruption.
And still Margari went on reading.
By this time Monte Cristo had had himself sewn up in a sack and flung
into the sea as a corpse.
"Would you have dared to have that done to you, Margari?" interrupted
Mr. Demetrius.
"If I had a lot of money I might, begging your honour's pardon, but a
poor devil like me is only too glad to live at any price," replied
Margari, whose answer naturally had no relation whatever to the text,
not a word of which he understood.
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