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. Any one
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."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-Meran. Ah, I am sure he has not sold the
house for what he gave for it."
"The Marquis of Saint-Meran!" returned the count. "The name is
not unknown to me; the Marquis of Saint-Meran!" and he appeared to
meditate.
"An old gentleman," continued the concierge, "a stanch follower
of the Bourbons; he had an only daughter, who married M. de
Villefort, who had been the king's attorney at Nimes, 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 second floor consisted of a salon,
a bathroom, and two bedrooms; near one of the bedrooms they came toa 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 clinched 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 the interior wall. "No, monsieur, it is
impossible; I can go no farther."
"What does this mean?" demanded the irresistible voice of Monte
Cristo.
"Why, you must see, your excellency," cried the steward, "that
this is not natural; that, having a house to purchase, you purchase
it exactly at Auteuil, and that, purchasing it at Auteuil, this
house should be No. 28, Rue de la Fontaine. Oh, why did I not tell
you all? I am sure you would not have forced me to come. I hoped
your house would have been some other one than this; as if there
was not another house at Auteuil than that of the
assassination!"
"What, what!" cried Monte Cristo, stopping suddenly, "what words
do you utter? Devil of a man, Corsican that you are — always
mysteries or superstitions. Come, take the lantern, and let us
visit the garden; you are not afraid of ghosts with me, I hope?"
Bertuccio raised the lantern, and obeyed. The door, as it opened,
disclosed a gloomy sky, in which the moon strove vainly to struggle
through a sea of clouds that covered her with billows of vapor
which she illumined for an instant, only to sink into obscurity.