each other's arms, embraced tenderly, and returned together to the
house. The man was M. de Villefort; I fully believed that when he
went out in the night he would be forced to traverse the whole of
the garden alone."
"And," asked the count, "did you ever know the name of this
woman?"
"No, excellency," returned Bertuccio; "you will see that I had
no time to learn it."
"Go on."
"That evening," continued Bertuccio, "I could have killed the
procureur, but as I was not sufficiently acquainted with the
neighborhood, I was fearful of not killing him on the spot, and
that if his cries were overheard I might be taken; so I put it off
until the next occasion, and in order that nothing should escape
me, I took a chamber looking into the street bordered by the wall
of the garden. Three days after, about seven o'clock in the
evening, I saw a servant on horseback leave the house at full
gallop, and take the road to Sevres. I concluded that he was going
to Versailles, and I was not deceived. Three hours later, the man
returned covered with dust, his errand was performed, and two
minutes after, another man on foot, muffled in a mantle, opened the
little door of the garden, which he closed after him. I descended
rapidly; although I had not seen Villefort's face, I recognized him
by the beating of my heart. I crossed the street, and stopped at a
post placed at the angle of the wall, and by means of which I had
once before looked into the garden. This time I did not content
myself with looking, but I took my knife out of my pocket, felt
that the point was sharp, and sprang over the wall. My first care
was to run to the door; he had left the key in it, taking the
simple precaution of turning it twice in the lock. Nothing, then,
preventing my escape by this means, I examined the grounds. The
garden was long and narrow; a stretch of smooth turf extended down
the middle, and at the corners were clumps of trees with thick and
massy foliage, that made a background for the shrubs and flowers.massy foliage, that made a background for the shrubs and flowers.
In order to go from the door to the house, or from the house to the
door, M. de Villefort would be obliged to pass by one of these
clumps of trees.
"It was the end of September; the wind blew violently. The faint
glimpses of the pale moon, hidden momentarily by masses of dark
clouds that were sweeping across the sky, whitened the gravel walks
that led to the house, but were unable to pierce the obscurity of
the thick shrubberies, in which a man could conceal himself without
any fear of discovery. I hid myself in the one nearest to the path
Villefort must take, and scarcely was I there when, amidst the
gusts of wind, I fancied I heard groans; but you know, or rather
you do not know, your excellency, that he who is about to commit an
assassination fancies that he hears low cries perpetually ringing
in his ears. Two hours passed thus, during which I imagined I heard
moans repeatedly. Midnight struck. As the last stroke died away, I
saw a faint light shine through the windows of the private
staircase by which we have just descended. The door opened, and the
man in the mantle reappeared. The terrible moment had come, but I
had so long been prepared for it that my heart did not fail in the
least. I drew my knife from my pocket again, opened it, and made
ready to strike. The man in the mantle advanced towards me, but as
he drew near I saw that he had a weapon in his hand. I was afraid,
not of a struggle, but of a failure. When he was only a few paces
from me, I saw that what I had taken for a weapon was only a spade.
I was still unable to divine for what reason M. de Villefort had
this spade in his hands, when he stopped close to the thicket where
I was, glanced round, and began to dig a hole in the earth. I then
perceived that he was hiding something under his mantle, which he
laid on the grass in order to dig more freely. Then, I confess,
curiosity mingled with hatred; I wished to see what Villefort wascuriosity mingled with hatred; I wished to see what Villefort was
going to do there, and I remained motionless, holding my breath.
Then an idea crossed my mind, which was confirmed when I saw the
procureur lift from under his mantle a box, two feet long, and six
or eight inches deep. I let him place the box in the hole he had
made, then, while he stamped with his feet to remove all traces of
his occupation, I rushed on him and plunged my knife into his
breast, exclaiming, — `I am Giovanni Bertuccio; thy death for my
brother's; thy treasure for his widow; thou seest that my vengeance
is more complete than I had hoped.' I know not if he heard these
words; I think he did not, for he fell without a cry. I felt his
blood gush over my face, but I was intoxicated, I was delirious,
and the blood refreshed, instead of burning me. In a second I had
disinterred the box; then, that it might not be known I had done
so, I filled up the hole, threw the spade over the wall, and rushed
through the door, which I double-locked, carrying off the key."
"Ah," said Monte Cristo "it seems to me this was nothing but
murder and robbery."
"No, your excellency," returned Bertuccio; "it was a vendetta
followed by restitution."
"And was the sum a large one?"
"It was not money."
"Ah, I recollect," replied the count; "did you not say something
of an infant?"
"Yes, excellency; I hastened to the river, sat down on the bank,
and with my knife forced open the lock of the box. In a fine linen
cloth was wrapped a new-born child. Its purple visage, and its
violet-colored hands showed that it had perished from suffocation,
but as it was not yet cold, I hesitated to throw it into the water
that ran at my feet. After a moment I fancied that I felt a slight
pulsation of the heart, and as I had been assistant at the hospital
at Bastia, I did what a doctor would have done — I inflated the
lungs by blowing air into them, and at the expiration of a quarter
of an hour, it began to breathe, and cried feebly. In my turn I