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- Александр Дюма
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- Граф Монте-Кристо
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- Стр. 26/1279
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"
He
went
before
I
came
down
.
"
"
Let
us
go
the
same
way
;
we
will
stop
at
La
Reserve
,
and
we
can
drink
a
glass
of
La
Malgue
,
whilst
we
wait
for
news
"
"
Come
along
,
"
said
Caderousse
;
"
but
you
pay
the
score
.
"
"
Of
course
,
"
replied
Danglars
;
and
going
quickly
to
the
designated
place
,
they
called
for
a
bottle
of
wine
,
and
two
glasses
.
Pere
Pamphile
had
seen
Dantes
pass
not
ten
minutes
before
;
and
assured
that
he
was
at
the
Catalans
,
they
sat
down
under
the
budding
foliage
of
the
planes
and
sycamores
,
in
the
branches
of
which
the
birds
were
singing
their
welcome
to
one
of
the
first
days
of
spring
.
Beyond
a
bare
,
weather-worn
wall
,
about
a
hundred
paces
from
the
spot
where
the
two
friends
sat
looking
and
listening
as
they
drank
their
wine
,
was
the
village
of
the
Catalans
.
Long
ago
this
mysterious
colony
quitted
Spain
,
and
settled
on
the
tongue
of
land
on
which
it
is
to
this
day
.
Whence
it
came
no
one
knew
,
and
it
spoke
an
unknown
tongue
.
One
of
its
chiefs
,
who
understood
Provencal
,
begged
the
commune
of
Marseilles
to
give
them
this
bare
and
barren
promontory
,
where
,
like
the
sailors
of
old
,
they
had
run
their
boats
ashore
.
The
request
was
granted
;
and
three
months
afterwards
,
around
the
twelve
or
fifteen
small
vessels
which
had
brought
these
gypsies
of
the
sea
,
a
small
village
sprang
up
.
This
village
,
constructed
in
a
singular
and
picturesque
manner
,
half
Moorish
,
half
Spanish
,
still
remains
,
and
is
inhabited
by
descendants
of
the
first
comers
,
who
speak
the
language
of
their
fathers
.
For
three
or
four
centuries
they
have
remained
upon
this
small
promontory
,
on
which
they
had
settled
like
a
flight
of
seabirds
,
without
mixing
with
the
Marseillaise
population
,
intermarrying
,
and
preserving
their
original
customs
and
the
costume
of
their
mother-country
as
they
have
preserved
its
language
.
Our
readers
will
follow
us
along
the
only
street
of
this
little
village
,
and
enter
with
us
one
of
the
houses
,
which
is
sunburned
to
the
beautiful
dead-leaf
color
peculiar
to
the
buildings
of
the
country
,
and
within
coated
with
whitewash
,
like
a
Spanish
posada
.
A
young
and
beautiful
girl
,
with
hair
as
black
as
jet
,
her
eyes
as
velvety
as
the
gazelle
's
,
was
leaning
with
her
back
against
the
wainscot
,
rubbing
in
her
slender
delicately
moulded
fingers
a
bunch
of
heath
blossoms
,
the
flowers
of
which
she
was
picking
off
and
strewing
on
the
floor
;
her
arms
,
bare
to
the
elbow
,
brown
,
and
modelled
after
those
of
the
Arlesian
Venus
,
moved
with
a
kind
of
restless
impatience
,
and
she
tapped
the
earth
with
her
arched
and
supple
foot
,
so
as
to
display
the
pure
and
full
shape
of
her
well-turned
leg
,
in
its
red
cotton
,
gray
and
blue
clocked
,
stocking
.
At
three
paces
from
her
,
seated
in
a
chair
which
he
balanced
on
two
legs
,
leaning
his
elbow
on
an
old
worm-eaten
table
,
was
a
tall
young
man
of
twenty
,
or
two-and-twenty
,
who
was
looking
at
her
with
an
air
in
which
vexation
and
uneasiness
were
mingled
.
He
questioned
her
with
his
eyes
,
but
the
firm
and
steady
gaze
of
the
young
girl
controlled
his
look
.
"
You
see
,
Mercedes
,
"
said
the
young
man
,
"
here
is
Easter
come
round
again
;
tell
me
,
is
this
the
moment
for
a
wedding
?
"
