which she illumined for an instant, only to sink into obscurity.
The steward wished to turn to the left. "No, no, monsieur," said
Monte Cristo. "What is the use of following the alleys? Here is a
beautiful lawn; let us go on straight forwards."
Bertuccio wiped the perspiration from his brow, but obeyed;
however, he continued to take the left hand. Monte Cristo, on the
contrary, took the right hand; arrived near a clump of trees, he
stopped. The steward could not restrain himself. "Move, monsieur —
move away, I entreat you; you are exactly in the spot!"
"What spot?"
"Where he fell."
"My dear Monsieur Bertuccio," said Monte Cristo, laughing,
"control yourself; we are not at Sartena or at Corte. This is not a
Corsican arbor, but an English garden; badly kept, I own, but still
you must not calumniate it for that."
"Monsieur, I implore you do not stay there!"
"I think you are going mad, Bertuccio," said the count coldly.
"If that is the case, I warn you, I shall have you put in a lunatic
asylum."
"Alas, excellency," returned Bertuccio, joining his hands, and
shaking his head in a manner that would have excited the count's
laughter, had not thoughts of a superior interest occupied him, and
rendered him attentive to the least revelation of this timorous
conscience. "Alas, excellency, the evil has arrived!"
"M. Bertuccio," said the count, "I am very glad to tell you,
that while you gesticulate, you wring your hands and roll your eyes
like a man possessed by a devil who will not leave him; and I have
always observed, that the devil most obstinate to be expelled is a
secret. I knew you were a Corsican. I knew you were gloomy, and
always brooding over some old history of the vendetta; and I
overlooked that in Italy, because in Italy those things are thought
nothing of. But in France they are considered in very bad taste;
there are gendarmes who occupy themselves with such affairs, judges
who condemn, and scaffolds which avenge." Bertuccio clasped his
hands, and as, in all these evolutions, he did not let fall thehands, and as, in all these evolutions, he did not let fall the
lantern, the light showed his pale and altered countenance. Monte
Cristo examined him with the same look that, at Rome, he had bent
upon the execution of Andrea, and then, in a tone that made a
shudder pass through the veins of the poor steward, — "The Abbe
Busoni, then told me an untruth," said he, "when, after his journey
in France, in 1829, he sent you to me, with a letter of
recommendation, in which he enumerated all your valuable qualities.
Well, I shall write to the abbe; I shall hold him responsible for
his protege's misconduct, and I shall soon know all about this
assassination. Only I warn you, that when I reside in a country, I
conform to all its code, and I have no wish to put myself within
the compass of the French laws for your sake."
"Oh, do not do that, excellency; I have always served you
faithfully," cried Bertuccio, in despair. "I have always been an
honest man, and, as far as lay in my power, I have done good."
"I do not deny it," returned the count; "but why are you thus
agitated. It is a bad sign; a quiet conscience does not occasion
such paleness in the cheeks, and such fever in the hands of a
man."
"But, your excellency," replied Bertuccio hesitatingly, "did not
the Abbe Busoni, who heard my confession in the prison at Nimes,
tell you that I had a heavy burden upon my conscience?"
"Yes; but as he said you would make an excellent steward, I
concluded you had stolen — that was all."
"Oh, your excellency," returned Bertuccio in deep contempt.
"Or, as you are a Corsican, that you had been unable to resist
the desire of making a `stiff,' as you call it."
"Yes, my good master," cried Bertuccio, casting himself at the
count's feet, "it was simply vengeance — nothing else."
"I understand that, but I do not understand what it is that
galvanizes you in this manner."
"But, monsieur, it is very natural," returned Bertuccio, "since
it was in this house that my vengeance was accomplished."
"What! my house?"it was in this house that my vengeance was accomplished."
"What! my house?"
"Oh, your excellency, it was not yours, then."
"Whose, then? The Marquis de Saint-Meran, I think, the concierge
said. What had you to revenge on the Marquis de Saint-Meran?"
"Oh, it was not on him, monsieur; it was on another."
"This is strange," returned Monte Cristo, seeming to yield to
his reflections, "that you should find yourself without any
preparation in a house where the event happened that causes you so
much remorse."
"Monsieur," said the steward, "it is fatality, I am sure. First,
you purchase a house at Auteuil — this house is the one where I
have committed an assassination; you descend to the garden by the
same staircase by which he descended; you stop at the spot where he
received the blow; and two paces farther is the grave in which he
had just buried his child. This is not chance, for chance, in this
case, is too much like providence."
"Well, amiable Corsican, let us suppose it is providence. I
always suppose anything people please, and, besides, you must
concede something to diseased minds. Come, collect yourself, and
tell me all."
"I have related it but once, and that was to the Abbe Busoni.
Such things," continued Bertuccio, shaking his head, "are only
related under the seal of confession."
"Then," said the count, "I refer you to your confessor. Turn
Chartreux or Trappist, and relate your secrets, but, as for me, I
do not like any one who is alarmed by such phantasms, and I do not
choose that my servants should be afraid to walk in the garden of
an evening. I confess I am not very desirous of a visit from the
commissary of police, for, in Italy, justice is only paid when
silent — in France she is paid only when she speaks. Peste, I
thought you somewhat Corsican, a great deal smuggler, and an
excellent steward; but I see you have other strings to your bow.
You are no longer in my service, Monsieur Bertuccio."
"Oh, your excellency, your excellency!" cried the steward,