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The entire academy had been whispering for days about the new director, who was also rumored to be a fencing instructor. They said he was of noble birth, a rich and titled man, whose bearing was impeccable and whose manners were a model of exquisite politeness. His face, they said, was always impenetrable, as if carved from stone; his skin was pale, almost marbled, like that of a man who had long forgotten the taste of sunlight. And his blade, they added enthusiastically, seemed an extension of his own hand. The name of this man resounded in every corner of the academy, in whispers, with restrained trepidation, with a hint of secret admiration: the Count of Monte Cristo. Julien Deverneau, however, did not share the general interest. Since childhood, he had not had warm feelings for aristocrats - he saw in them only a show of nobility, covering up spiritual emptiness and hypocrisy. Cold politeness and barely noticeable alienation - that's what he considered an appropriate measure of treatment of such people. One day, when the sunset enveloped the building of the academy in a crimson-golden light, and long shadows crawled along the worn stone floors, the leader - the same one who was responsible for discipline in the dormitory - invited their class to the library. Only young people. There were only fourteen of them, and among them - Julien, the youngest in the group, nineteen years old, but not at all inferior in height to the elders. At the leader's order, they lined up in a straight line in the center of the hall. The library to which they were led was spacious, majestic, and rose to the vaulted ceilings. The air in it was filled with the tart smell of ancient books, soaked in centuries - as if the walls themselves were breathing the memory of bygone eras. The guide disappeared for a minute, and soon returned, no longer alone. A stranger walked next to him. He was dressed in an elegant vest of a deep dark green color, with fine, almost jewelry embroidery, which seemed alive in the soft semi-darkness of the hall. The pattern resembled an ancient coat of arms or a stylized figure of a mythical beast. The fabric looked heavy - velvet or thick jacquard - and lay on the figure with military severity, emphasizing training and inner composure. From under the vest one could see a black shirt with a high stand-up collar and wide sleeves, giving the whole appearance a solemn restraint. Every detail, from the muted color scheme to the precision of the lines, spoke of high origin, exquisite taste and impeccable discipline. However, Julien, standing in the direct sunlight, could not make out the face of the man who entered. The light was in his eyes, and the figure of the count remained a silhouette - clear, impressive, but faceless. Silence reigned in the hall. The students fell silent, as if intuitively sensing the significance of the moment. "Gentlemen," said the leader, "allow me to introduce: the Count of Monte Cristo. From now on, he will be your fencing teacher."