The young Greek woman lived, as we have said, in a suite entirely separate from that of the count. It was completely furnished in the Oriental manner: that is to say, the floors were covered in thick Turkish carpets, brocade hangings were spread across the walls and, in each room, a broad divan ran all the way round the room, piled with cushions which those using them could arrange as they wished.

The reader will remember the new -- or, rather, the old -- acquaintances of the Count of Monte Cristo, living in the Rue Meslay: Maximilien, Julie and Emmanuel.

Anticipation of the pleasure of this visit, of these few happy moments and of this celestial light breaking through into the hell which he had chosen to inhabit, had spread a look of utter serenity across the count's face as soon as Villefort was out of sight; and Ali, who had hurried to answer the ring of the bell, seeing his face radiant with such unaccustomed joy, had tiptoed out, holding his breath, as if to avoid scaring away the happy thoughts that he could see fluttering around his master.

It was midday. The count had put aside a time to go and see Haydée; it seemed as though joy could not penetrate all at once into a soul so deeply wounded but that it had to prepare itself for tender feelings, as the souls of others need to be prepared for violent ones.

The young woman herself was in the most distant room in her suite, that is to say a sort of round boudoir, lit only from above, into which daylight only penetrated through panes of pink glass. She was lying down on blue satin cushions trimmed with gold, half leaning backwards across the divan, her head framed in the soft curve of her right arm, while the left hand held to her lips a coral mouthpiece inserted into the flexible pipe of a hookah, from which her gentle breath drew the smoke, obliging it to pass through benzoin water so that none would arrive unperfumed to her mouth.

Haydée had three French maids and a Greek one. The three Frenchwomen remained in an outer room, ready to answer the sound of a little gold bell and obey the orders of the Romaic slave-girl, who knew enough French to pass on her mistress's wishes to the three maids, who had been instructed by Monte Cristo to show the same consideration towards Haydée as they would to a queen.

Her pose, quite natural for a woman of the East, might perhaps, in a Frenchwoman, have suggested slightly affected coquetry.

The beauty of her face was Grecian beauty in the full perfection of the type, with luscious black eyes, straight nose, coral lips and pearl-white teeth. In addition, this charming whole was crowned with the flower of youth in all its brilliance and sweetness: Haydée would have been around nineteen or twenty years old.

On her head she wore a little skullcap, also in gold, studded with pearls, tipped to one side; and over this cap, on the side towards which it was leaning, a lovely purple-coloured rose emerged from hair so black that it seemed blue.

As for her dress, it was that of a woman of Epirus: white satin trousers embroidered with pink flowers, displaying a child's feet which seemed carved out of Parian marble, except that they were toying with two tiny sandals, studded with gold thread and pearls, and with curled toes; a blue-and-white striped jacket, with wide slit sleeves, gold buttonholes and pearl buttons; and finally a sort of bodice, low cut across the heart, leaving the neck and upper part of the bosom bare, and buttoned across the breasts with three diamond buttons. The bottom part of this bodice and the top part of the trousers were concealed by one of those brightly coloured belts with long silken fringes that are so much admired by our elegant Parisian women.

"Why do you not say tu to me, as usual?" the young woman interrupted. "Have I done something wrong? In that case, I must be punished, but don't say vous to me."

Monte Cristo also smiled and said: "You know, Haydée…"

Monte Cristo called the Greek maid and had her ask Haydée's permission for him to go in to her. In reply, Haydée merely gestured to her maid to lift up the tapestry hanging over the door -- the square outline of which framed the young woman on the divan like a delightful painting. Monte Cristo came into the room. Haydée rose on the elbow nearest to the hookah and offered the count her hand, greeting him with a smile and asking, in the resonant tongue of the daughters of Sparta and Athens: "Why do you ask my permission to come in? Are you not my master, am I not your slave?"

"Haydée," the count said, reverting to the familiar form of address, "you know that we are in France and that, consequently, you are free."

"Free to leave me."

"Free to do what?"

"To leave you… Why should I leave you?"

"How do I know? We are going to meet people."

"What need have I to speak to anyone else? My father called me 'my sweet', you call me 'my love', and you both call me 'my child'."

"Poor child," said Monte Cristo. "That is because you have only ever spoken to your father and to me."

"And where am I?" Monte Cristo asked with a smile.

The girl smiled and put her hand on her eyes and her heart: "He is here… and here…" she said.

"I have never seen any man more handsome than you, or loved any man except my father and you."

"Now, Haydée," he said, "you know that you are free, that you are your own mistress, that you are queen. You can keep your native costume, or change it as you wish. You can stay here whenever you like, and go out when you want to go out. There will always be a carriage harnessed and ready for you. Ali and Myrto will accompany you everywhere and be at your orders. I ask only one thing."

"I don't want to meet anyone."

"And among the handsome young men whom you will meet, you may find one whom you like. I would not be so unjust as to…"

"You are everywhere."

He took Haydée's hand to kiss it, but the innocent girl drew it back and offered him her forehead.

"Do you remember your father, Haydée?"

"Listen to me, Haydée: this Oriental style of seclusion may not be possible in Paris. Carry on learning about life in these northern countries, just as you did in Rome, Florence, Milan and Madrid. It will always be useful to you, whether you continue to live here or you return to the East."

"Tell me."

"And I shall never leave you, my Lord," said Haydée. "For I am sure that I could not live without you."

"Yes, child," said Monte Cristo. "You know very well that it will never be I who will leave you. It is not the tree that forsakes the flower, but the flower that forsakes the tree."

The girl looked at the count with her wide, moist eyes and asked: "If we return to the East, you must surely mean, my Lord?"

"My Lord, I have already told you: I shall not meet anyone."

"Poor child! In ten years I shall be old and in ten years you will still be young."

"Keep the secret of your birth and do not say a word about your past. At no time must you give the name of your illustrious father or that of your poor mother."

"Shall I see you?"

"Every day."

"But tell me, do you think you could get used to living here?"

"My father had a long white beard, but that did not stop me loving him. My father was sixty years old and he seemed to me more beautiful than any of the young men I saw."

"So, my Lord, why are you asking me?"

"I am afraid you may be bored."

"No, Lord, for in the morning I shall be thinking that you will come and in the evening I shall recall your visit. In any case, when I am alone I have marvellous memories, I see huge landscapes and vast horizons, with Pindus and Olympus in the distance. Then I have in my heart three feelings with which one can never be bored: sadness, love and gratitude."

"You are mistaken, Lord. I did not love my father as I love you. My love for you is a different kind of love. My father is dead, and I am alive, while if you were to die, I should die also."

"You are a worthy daughter of Epirus, Haydée, graceful, poetic… One can see that you are descended from that family of goddesses to which your country gave birth. So have no fear, my child, I shall ensure that your youth will not be wasted; for, if you love me as though I were your father, I love you as my child."

As he had ordered, the carriage was ready. He stepped into it and the horses, as always, set off at a gallop.

The count held out his hand to the young woman with a smile of deep tenderness and she, as usual, kissed it.

In this way, prepared for the interview that he was about to have with Morrel and his family, the count left, murmuring these verses from Pindar: "Youth is a flower of which love is the fruit… Happy the vintager who picks it after watching it slowly mature."