Morrel, clearly disturbed, came to meet Monte Cristo, less with the intention of welcoming him than of blocking his entry.
"Good grief," Monte Cristo said, rubbing his elbow, "it's all your servant's fault. Your stairs are so polished, it's like walking on glass."
"Are you hurt, sir?" Morrel asked coldly.
"I don't think so. But what are you doing in here? You were writing?"
"Me?"
"Your fingers are stained with ink."
"Ah, yes. I was writing. I do sometimes, soldier though I am."
Monte Cristo advanced into the room. Maximilian had no choice but to let him pass, though he followed closely.
"So you were writing?" Monte Cristo said with a searching look.
"I already told you I was," Morrel replied.
The count's eyes swept the room. "Your pistols are beside your desk," he said, pointing to the weapons on the table.
"I'm about to depart on a journey," Morrel replied dismissively.
"My friend," Monte Cristo said in a tone of exquisite tenderness.
"Sir?"
