After quitting their guides at the Colosseum Maximilian and Valentine advanced towards the centre of the gladiatorial arena where the demented Giovanni Massetti was standing. He did not notice them, did not seem to pay even the slightest attention to his surroundings, but kept his eyes upturned towards heaven, the murmur of bitter malediction constantly issuing from his lips. As M. and Mme. Morrel approached his words became clearer and clearer and they had no difficulty whatever in fully understanding their terrible import. No wonder the guides were frightened by such a flow of bitter scathing curses!
The afflicted Viscount maintained his motionless, statue-like attitude, resembling more the weird creation of some sculptor's vivid fancy than a living, breathing mortal. Valentine was filled with indescribable sorrow as she gazed at him and realized that this wreck of noble, glorious manhood was the beloved of Zuleika's heart, the being with whose unhappy destiny that of Monte-Cristo's daughter was inextricably entwined. Oh! that by some miracle, such as the fabled divinities of old Olympus were said to have performed, he might be restored to reason and the possession of an unblemished name! But the days of miracles were over, and if the young Italian was to be brought back to sanity and cleared from the fearful charge against him that had wrought all this harm, this misery, it must be by earthly and ordinary means. Perhaps she and her husband were destined to work these apparently impossible changes! Who knew? Many things equally improbable had happened, and why should not this wondrous transformation, a transformation worthy of the wand of some potent Prospero, be effected? Valentine was a devoted friend and an enthusiast, and Monte-Cristo's maxim, "Wait and Hope," was her guiding star. "Wait and Hope!" Oh! how cheering, how reassuring was that simple, trustful motto!
Maximilian, on his side, felt unutterable pity for both the wretched man before him and the lovely Zuleika, the sweet and tender child of his benefactor, languishing and despairing far away in her father's luxurious, palatial home. The poor girl was surrounded by all the blessings that unbounded wealth could confer; she had the Count's love, Mercédès' love, Espérance's love and the sincere affection of all who knew her; but alas! princely riches, parental, brotherly love and the affection of friends were as nothing compared to the passion that was gnawing at her vitals, a desperate, hopeless passion that was but a heavy weight of woe! But was this passion altogether desperate and hopeless? Time alone could show!
M. and Mme. Morrel were now within a few feet of the hapless, crazed young man, but his attention was so engrossed by the mad thoughts surging through his bewildered brain that he yet failed to detect their presence.