read for his own edification.

This worthy man, then, grew prematurely old in reading, year out year
in, aloud to Mr. Demetrius, one after another, all the German
translations of French novels procurable at Robert Lempel's circulating
library without understanding a single word of them. Mr. Demetrius had,
naturally, no library of his own, for reading to him, in his condition,
was pretty much the same as medicine, and who would ever think of
keeping a dispensary on his own premises? I may add that the reader
received free board and lodging and ten florins a month pocket-money for
his services.

On that particular night when Mr. John flung out of the house in such a
violent rage, Mr. Demetrius was particularly sleepless. I know not
whether Monte Cristo, the first volume of which honest Margari happened
to be reading just then, was the cause of this, or whether it was due to
the old man's nervousness about the terrible things John was likely to
do, but the fact remains that poor Margari on this occasion got no
respite from his labours. At other times Margari did manage to get a
little relief. Whenever he observed that Mr. Demetrius was beginning to
draw longer breaths than usual he would let his head sink down on his
book and fall asleep immediately till the awakened tyrant roused him out
of his slumbers and made him go on again. But now he was not suffered to
have a moment's peace.

Monte Cristo had already been sitting in his dungeon for some time when
Madame Langai's carriage returned from the theatre. Then Mr. Demetrius
rang up the porters to inquire whether Mr. John had also returned home.
No, was the answer. At eleven o'clock Mr. John had still not returned.
Meanwhile Monte Cristo's neighbour had traced the figure on the floor of