Monte Cristo stayed at the opera until his favorite singer finished the famous aria. Then he rose from his seat and left. At the door, Morrel reminded him one last time, tomorrow morning at seven, he'd bring his friend Emmanuel as a witness. The count nodded, stepped into his carriage, and arrived home within five minutes.
His expression was cold and resolved. Anyone who knew him well would have recognized that look. "Ali," he called to his servant as he entered. "Bring me my pistols. The ones with the ivory crosses."
Ali obeyed without question, carrying in an ornate wooden box. Monte Cristo opened it and examined the weapons carefully, a natural precaution for a man about to stake his life on a bit of gunpowder and lead. These weren't ordinary pistols. He'd had them specially crafted for target practice in his private study. They were so precise and so quiet that he could fire them without anyone in the adjacent rooms even knowing.
