Madame de Villefort said nothing more, her mind completely absorbed in studying this man who’d made such a powerful impression from the first moment she saw him. While Madame de Villefort was distracted, Monte Cristo examined the boy she held in her arms, lavishing tender affection on him. The child was small for his age and unnaturally pale. A mass of straight black hair that refused all styling fell over his prominent forehead and down to his shoulders, making his already mischievous eyes seem even more lively. His mouth was large, with particularly thin lips that hadn’t yet regained their color. The deep, cunning look dominating his face belonged more to a twelve or fourteen-year-old than such a young child. His first move was to violently push free from his mother’s embrace and rush toward the case where the count had taken the vial. Then, without asking permission, with all the willfulness of a spoiled child used to getting his way, he began pulling corks out of all the bottles. "Don’t touch anything, little friend," the count said urgently. "Some of those liquids are dangerous not just to taste, but even to smell." Madame de Villefort went very pale and seized her son’s arm, pulling him anxiously toward her. Once satisfied he was safe, she cast a brief but meaningful glance at the case, a look the count didn’t miss. At that moment Ali entered. Seeing him, Madame de Villefort brightened. "Edward, darling, do you see that good man? He showed tremendous courage and bravery. He risked his own life to stop the horses that were running away with us and would certainly have destroyed the carriage. Thank him, my child, in your best manner. Without him, neither you nor I would be alive." The child stuck out his lips and turned his head away disdainfully. "He’s too ugly." The count smiled as if the child had just confirmed his expectations, while Madame de Villefort scolded her son with such gentleness that it hardly suggested any real wrongdoing. "This lady," the count said to Ali in Arabic, "wants her son to thank you for saving their lives. But the boy refuses, saying you’re too ugly." Ali turned his intelligent face toward the boy, gazing at him without apparent emotion. But the subtle working of his nostrils revealed to Monte Cristo’s practiced eye that the servant had been wounded deeply. "May I ask," Madame de Villefort said as she rose to leave, "whether you usually live here?" "No," Monte Cristo replied. "This is a small property I bought recently. I live at Number 30, Avenue des Champs-Élysées. But I see you’ve recovered from your shock and no doubt want to return home. Anticipating your wishes, I’ve had the same horses you arrived with hitched to one of my carriages. Ali, the one you think is so ugly," he added with a smile toward the boy, "will have the honor of driving you home, while your driver stays here to repair your carriage. Once that’s done, I’ll have a pair of my own horses harness it and deliver it directly to Madame Danglars." "I’m afraid to return with those terrible horses," Madame de Villefort said. "You’ll see," Monte Cristo replied, "they’ll be completely different in Ali’s hands. With him, they’ll be as gentle and obedient as lambs." And Ali proved it. Approaching the animals, who’d been gotten back on their feet with difficulty, he rubbed their foreheads and nostrils with a sponge soaked in aromatic vinegar, wiping away the sweat and foam covering their mouths. Then, making a loud whistling sound, he rubbed them thoroughly all over for several minutes. Despite the noisy crowd gathered around the broken carriage, Ali calmly harnessed the now-peaceful animals to the count’s carriage, took the reins, and climbed onto the driver’s seat. To the utter astonishment of those who’d witnessed these horses’ wild, uncontrollable speed earlier, Ali actually had to use his whip firmly just to get them moving. Even then, all he could get from the famous dappled grays, now transformed into dull, sluggish creatures, was a slow, plodding pace maintained with such difficulty that Madame de Villefort took over two hours to reach her home. As soon as the first congratulations on her miraculous escape were finished, she wrote this letter to Madame Danglars: I’ve just had a miraculous escape from extreme danger, and I owe my life to the very Count of Monte Cristo we were discussing yesterday, though I never expected to see him today. I remember how mercilessly I laughed at what I thought were your exaggerated praises of him. But now I have every reason to admit that your enthusiastic description of this remarkable man fell far short of reality. Your horses made it as far as Ranelagh when they suddenly bolted like mad creatures, galloping at such terrifying speed that my poor Edward and I seemed destined to be smashed against the first obstacle in their path. Then a strange-looking man, an Arab, African, or Middle Eastern servant of the count, suddenly seized and stopped the crazed animals at a signal from his master, even at the risk of being trampled to death. He must have had a miraculous escape himself. The count then rushed to help us and took us into his house, where he quickly revived my poor Edward. He sent us home in his own carriage. Yours will be returned tomorrow. Your horses are in bad condition from this accident, they seem completely stupefied, as if sulking over being conquered by a human. However, the count has assured me that two or three days’ rest with plenty of grain will restore them to their former magnificent, that is, terrifying condition. Goodbye! I can’t exactly thank you for yesterday’s drive, but after all, I shouldn’t blame you for your horses’ misbehavior, especially since it gave me the pleasure of meeting the Count of Monte Cristo. And certainly that illustrious person, apart from the millions he’s supposedly eager to spend, struck me as one of those fascinatingly complex puzzles I love solving at any cost, even if it required another drive behind your horses. Edward endured the accident with miraculous courage,he didn’t cry out once, but fainted silently in my arms. Not a single tear fell from his eyes afterward. I’m sure you’ll think this is just blind maternal affection, but there’s a soul of iron in that delicate, fragile body. Thıs text ıs hosted at 𝘯𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭•𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦•𝘯𝘦𝘵 Valentine sends her love to your dear Eugénie. I embrace you with all my heart. P.S. Please find some way for me to meet the Count of Monte Cristo at your house. I absolutely must see him again. I’ve just made Monsieur de Villefort promise to call on him, and I hope the visit will be returned. That night, the adventure at Auteuil was the talk of the town. Albert told his mother about it. Château-Renaud recounted it at his club. Debray described it in detail at a political gathering. Even the society columnist Beauchamp devoted twenty lines in his paper to the count’s courage and gallantry, celebrating him as the greatest hero of the day in the eyes of all the aristocratic ladies. A vast crowd of visitors and curious friends left their calling cards at Madame de Villefort’s residence, planning to return at the proper time to hear all the interesting details of this romantic adventure from her own lips. As for Monsieur de Villefort, he fulfilled his wife’s prediction exactly. He dressed in his finest suit, pulled on white gloves, ordered the servants to wear their full formal uniforms, and drove that same night to Number 30, Avenue des Champs-Élysées.