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- Author: Alexandre Dumas
- Performer: 0140449264
Book online «The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas (books to read to improve english txt) 📖». Author Alexandre Dumas
“Good; what o’clock is it?”
“Four o’clock.”
Monte Cristo gave his hat, cane, and gloves to the same French footman who had called his carriage at the Count of Morcerf’s, and then he passed into the small salon, preceded by Bertuccio, who showed him the way.
“These are but indifferent marbles in this antechamber,” said Monte Cristo. “I trust all this will soon be taken away.”
Bertuccio bowed. As the steward had said, the notary awaited him in the small salon. He was a simple-looking lawyer’s clerk, elevated to the extraordinary dignity of a provincial scrivener.
“You are the notary empowered to sell the country house that I wish to purchase, monsieur?” asked Monte Cristo.
“Yes, count,” returned the notary.
“Is the deed of sale ready?”
“Yes, count.”
“Have you brought it?”
“Here it is.”
“Very well; and where is this house that I purchase?” asked the count carelessly, addressing himself half to Bertuccio, half to the notary. The steward made a gesture that signified, “I do not know.” The notary looked at the count with astonishment.
“What!” said he, “does not the count know where the house he purchases is situated?”
“No,” returned the count.
“The count does not know?”
“How should I know? I have arrived from Cadiz this morning. I have never before been at Paris, and it is the first time I have ever even set my foot in France.”
“Ah, that is different; the house you purchase is at Auteuil.”
At these words Bertuccio turned pale.
“And where is Auteuil?” asked the count.
“Close by here, monsieur,” replied the notary—“a little beyond Passy; a charming situation, in the heart of the Bois de Boulogne.”
“So near as that?” said the Count; “but that is not in the country. What made you choose a house at the gates of Paris, M. Bertuccio?”
“I,” cried the steward with a strange expression. “His excellency did not charge me to purchase this house. If his excellency will recollect—if he will think——”
“Ah, true,” observed Monte Cristo; “I recollect now. I read the advertisement in one of the papers, and was tempted by the false title, ‘a country house.’”
“It is not yet too late,” cried Bertuccio, eagerly; “and if your excellency will intrust me with the commission, I will find you a better at Enghien, at Fontenay-aux-Roses, or at Bellevue.”
“Oh, no,” returned Monte Cristo negligently; “since I have this, I will keep it.”
“And you are quite right,” said the notary, who feared to lose his fee. “It is a charming place, well supplied with spring-water and fine trees; a comfortable habitation, although abandoned for a long time, without reckoning the furniture, which, although old, is yet valuable, now that old things are so much sought after. I suppose the count has the tastes of the day?”
“To be sure,” returned Monte Cristo; “it is very convenient, then?”
“It is more—it is magnificent.”
“Peste! let us not lose such an opportunity,” returned Monte Cristo. “The deed, if you please, Mr. Notary.”
And he signed it rapidly, after having first run his eye over that part of the deed in which were specified the situation of the house and the names of the proprietors.
“Bertuccio,” said he, “give fifty-five thousand francs to monsieur.”
The steward left the room with a faltering step, and returned with a bundle of bank-notes, which the notary counted like a man who never gives a receipt for money until after he is sure it is all there.
“And now,” demanded the count, “are all the forms complied with?”
“All, sir.”
“Have you the keys?”
“They are in the hands of the concierge, who takes care of the house, but here is the order I have given him to install the count in his new possessions.”
“Very well;” and Monte Cristo made a sign with his hand to the notary, which said, “I have no further need of you; you may go.”
“But,” observed the honest notary, “the count is, I think, mistaken; it is only fifty thousand francs, everything included.”
“And your fee?”
“Is included in this sum.”
“But have you not come from Auteuil here?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Well, then, it is but fair that you should be paid for your loss of time and trouble,” said the count; and he made a gesture of polite dismissal.
The notary left the room backwards, and bowing down to the ground; it was the first time he had ever met a similar client.
“See this gentleman out,” said the count to Bertuccio. And the steward followed the notary out of the room.
Scarcely was the count alone, when he drew from his pocket a book closed with a lock, and opened it with a key which he wore round his neck, and which never left him. After having sought for a few minutes, he stopped at a leaf which had several notes, and compared them with the deed of sale, which lay on the table, and recalling his souvenirs—
“‘Auteuil, Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28;’ it is indeed the same,” said he; “and now, am I to rely upon an avowal extorted by religious or physical terror? However, in an hour I shall know all. Bertuccio!” cried he, striking a light hammer with a pliant handle on a small gong. “Bertuccio!”
The steward appeared at the door.
“Monsieur Bertuccio,” said the count, “did you never tell me that you had travelled in France?”
“In some parts of France—yes, excellency.”
“You know the environs of Paris, then?”
“No, excellency, no,” returned the steward, with a sort of nervous trembling, which Monte Cristo, a connoisseur in all emotions, rightly attributed to great disquietude.
“It is unfortunate,” returned he, “that you have never visited the environs, for I wish to see my new property this evening, and had you gone with me, you could have given me some useful information.”
“To Auteuil!” cried Bertuccio, whose copper complexion became livid—“I go to Auteuil?”
“Well, what is there surprising in that? When I live at Auteuil, you must come there, as you belong to my service.”
Bertuccio hung down his head before the imperious look of his master, and remained motionless, without making any answer.
“Why, what has happened to you?—are you going to make me ring a second time for the carriage?” asked Monte Cristo, in the same tone that Louis XIV. pronounced the famous, “I have been almost obliged to wait.” Bertuccio made but one bound to the antechamber, and cried in a hoarse voice:
“His excellency’s horses!”
Monte Cristo wrote two or three notes, and, as he sealed the last, the steward appeared.
“Your excellency’s carriage is at the door,” said he.
“Well, take your hat and gloves,” returned Monte Cristo.
“Am I to accompany you, your excellency?” cried Bertuccio.
“Certainly, you must give the orders, for I intend residing at the house.”
It was unexampled for a servant of the count’s to dare to dispute an order of his, so the steward, without saying a word, followed his master, who got into the carriage, and signed to him to follow, which he did, taking his place respectfully on the front seat.
Chapter 43. The House at Auteuil
Monte Cristo noticed, as they descended the staircase, that Bertuccio signed himself in the Corsican manner; that is, had formed the sign of the cross in the air with his thumb, and as he seated himself in the carriage, muttered a short prayer. Anyone but a man of exhaustless thirst for knowledge would have had pity on seeing the steward’s extraordinary repugnance for the count’s projected drive without the walls; but the count was too curious to let Bertuccio off from this little journey. In twenty minutes they were at Auteuil; the steward’s emotion had continued to augment as they entered the village. Bertuccio, crouched in the corner of the carriage, began to examine with a feverish anxiety every house they passed.
“Tell them to stop at Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28,” said the count, fixing his eyes on the steward, to whom he gave this order.
Bertuccio’s forehead was covered with perspiration; however, he obeyed, and, leaning out of the window, he cried to the coachman,—“Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28.” No. 28 was situated at the extremity of the village; during the drive night had set in, and darkness gave the surroundings the artificial appearance of a scene on the stage. The carriage stopped, the footman sprang off the box and opened the door.
“Well,” said the count, “you do not get out, M. Bertuccio—you are going to stay in the carriage, then? What are you thinking of this evening?”
Bertuccio sprang out, and offered his shoulder to the count, who, this time, leaned upon it as he descended the three steps of the carriage.
“Knock,” said the count, “and announce me.”
Bertuccio knocked, the door opened, and the concierge appeared.
“What is it?” asked he.
“It is your new master, my good fellow,” said the footman. And he held out to the concierge the notary’s order.
“The house is sold, then?” demanded the concierge; “and this gentleman is coming to live here?”
“Yes, my friend,” returned the count; “and I will endeavor to give you no cause to regret your old master.”
“Oh, monsieur,” said the concierge, “I shall not have much cause to regret him, for he came here but seldom; it is five years since he was here last, and he did well to sell the house, for it did not bring him in anything at all.”
“What was the name of your old master?” said Monte Cristo.
“The Marquis of Saint-Méran. Ah, I am sure he has not sold the house for what he gave for it.”
“The Marquis of Saint-Méran!” returned the count. “The name is not unknown to me; the Marquis of Saint-Méran!” and he appeared to meditate.
“An old gentleman,” continued the concierge, “a staunch follower of the Bourbons; he had an only daughter, who married M. de Villefort, who had been the king’s attorney at Nîmes, and afterwards at Versailles.”
Monte Cristo glanced at Bertuccio, who became whiter than the wall against which he leaned to prevent himself from falling.
“And is not this daughter dead?” demanded Monte Cristo; “I fancy I have heard so.”
“Yes, monsieur, one-and-twenty years ago; and since then we have not seen the poor marquis three times.”
“Thanks, thanks,” said Monte Cristo, judging from the steward’s utter prostration that he could not stretch the cord further without danger of breaking it. “Give me a light.”
“Shall I accompany you, monsieur?”
“No, it is unnecessary; Bertuccio will show me a light.”
And Monte Cristo accompanied these words by the gift of two gold pieces, which produced a torrent of thanks and blessings from the concierge.
“Ah, monsieur,” said he, after having vainly searched on the mantle-piece and the shelves, “I have not got any candles.”
“Take one of the carriage-lamps, Bertuccio,” said the count, “and show me the apartments.”
The steward obeyed in silence, but it was easy to see, from the manner in which the hand that held the light trembled, how much it cost him to obey. They went over a tolerably large ground floor; a first floor consisted of a salon, a bathroom, and two bedrooms; near one of the bedrooms they came to a winding staircase that led down to the garden.
“Ah, here is a private staircase,” said the count; “that is convenient. Light me, M. Bertuccio, and go first; we will see where it leads to.”
“Monsieur,” replied Bertuccio, “it leads to the garden.”
“And, pray, how do you know that?”
“It ought to do so, at least.”
“Well, let us be sure of that.”
Bertuccio sighed, and went on first; the stairs did, indeed, lead to the garden. At the outer door the steward paused.
“Go on, Monsieur Bertuccio,” said the count.
But he who was addressed stood there, stupefied, bewildered, stunned; his haggard eyes glanced around, as if in search of the traces of some terrible event, and with his clenched hands he seemed striving to shut out horrible recollections.
“Well!” insisted the Count.
“No, no,” cried Bertuccio, setting down the lantern at the angle of
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