The countess shrank back in terror and said, in a strained voice: ‘Albert, I have always warned you against new acquaintances. Now you are a man and old enough to advise me. Yet I repeat: Albert, beware.’
‘My dear mother, to profit from your advice, I should need to know in advance what I am supposed to beware of. The count never gambles, the count only ever drinks water, coloured with a little Spanish wine, and the count has declared himself to be so rich that he could not borrow money from me without appearing ridiculous. What can I fear from the count?’
‘You are right,’ his mother said. ‘My anxiety is foolish, especially when directed towards the man who saved your life. By the way, Albert, did your father receive him suitably? It is important for us to be more than polite with the count. Monsieur de Morcerf is sometimes so busy and his work preoccupies him so, that he may involuntarily have…’
‘My father was perfect, mother,’ Albert interrupted. ‘I would go further: he seemed greatly flattered by two or three very subtle compliments that the count made – as finely turned and surely aimed as if he had known him for the past thirty years. Each of these eulogistic little darts must have flattered my father so much,’ he added, with a laugh, ‘that they separated the best friends in the world and Monsieur de Morcerf even wanted to take him to the House so that he could listen to his speech.’
The countess said nothing; she was absorbed in such a profound reverie that her eyes gradually closed. The young man, standing in front of her, watched with that filial love that is more tender and affectionate in children whose mothers are still young and beautiful. Then, after seeing her eyes close, he listened for a moment to her breathing, sweetly still, and then, thinking her asleep, tiptoed away, cautiously opening the door of the room where he left her.
‘Damn the man,’ he muttered, shaking his head. ‘I predicted to him in Rome that he would be a sensation in Parisian society; now I can measure his effect on an infallible thermometer. My mother remarked on him, so he must indeed be remarkable.’
He went down to his stables, harbouring a secret feeling of pique at the fact that, without thinking, the Count of Monte Cristo had obtained a team of horses that would outshine his bays in the eyes of any connoisseur.
‘Men,’ he said, ‘are most certainly not equal. I must get my father to expound this theory in the Upper House.’
XLII
MONSIEUR BERTUCCIO
Meanwhile the count had arrived at his house. The journey had taken him six minutes, and these six minutes had been enough for him to be seen by twenty young men who, recognizing the cost of a team that was well beyond their means, had spurred their mounts to a gallop so that they could catch a glimpse of this noble lord who paid ten thousand francs apiece for his horses.
The residence that Ali had chosen to serve as Monte Cristo’s town house was situated on the right as you go up the Champs-Elysées, with a courtyard on one side and a garden on the other. A leafy clump of trees in the courtyard shielded part of the façade and, around it, like two enclosing arms, were two avenues directing carriages to right and left from the front gate towards a double stairway, every step of which supported a vase full of flowers. The house, standing alone in quite ample grounds, had another entrance apart from the main one on the Rue de Ponthieu.
Even before the coachman had called out to the concierge, the huge gate was swinging back on its hinges: the count had been seen approaching and, in Paris as in Rome (as, indeed, everywhere else), his needs were met with lightning rapidity. So the coach entered and described the half-circle without slowing down. The gate had already shut while the wheels were crunching on the gravel of the path.
The carriage stopped on the left-hand side of the stairway and two men appeared at its door. One was Ali, giving his master a smile of joy that was astonishing in its sincerity; it was rewarded with a simple glance from Monte Cristo.
The other man bowed humbly and offered the count his arm to get down from the carriage.
‘Thank you, Monsieur Bertuccio,’ the count said, lightly jumping over the three steps. ‘What about the notary?’
‘In the little drawing-room, Your Excellency,’ Bertuccio replied.
‘And the visiting cards that I asked you to have printed as soon as you knew the number of the house?’
‘They are already done, Monsieur le Comte. I went to the finest printer in the Palais-Royal and he engraved the plate in front of me. The first card struck off from it was sent, as you required, to Monsieur le Baron Danglars, député, at number seven, Rue de la Chaussée-d’Antin. The others are on the mantelpiece of Your Excellency’s bedroom.’
‘Good. What time is it?’
‘Four o’clock.’
Monte Cristo gave his gloves, his hat and his cane to the same French lackey who had sprung out of the Comte de Morcerf’s antechamber to call the carriage; then he went into the smaller drawing-room, with Bertuccio showing him the way.
‘The statues in this antechamber are very poor stuff,’ Monte Cristo said. ‘I sincerely hope that they will be removed.’
Bertuccio bowed.
As the steward had said, the notary was waiting in the antechamber – a respectable-looking Parisian assistant solicitor elevated to the insurmountable dignity of a pettifogging suburban lawyer.
‘You are the notary appointed by the vendors of the country house that I wish to buy?’ Monte Cristo asked.
‘Yes, Monsieur le Comte,’ the notary answered.
‘Is the deed of sale ready?’
‘Yes, Monsieur le Comte.’
‘You have it with you?’
‘Here it is.’
‘Splendid. And where is this house that I’m buying?’ Monte Cristo asked casually, addressing the question partly to M. Bertuccio and partly to the notary.
The steward made a sign that meant: ‘I don’t know.’ The notary stared at Monte Cristo in astonishment. ‘What!’ he exclaimed. ‘Does Monsieur le Comte not even know the location of the house that he is buying?’
‘Why, no,’ said the count.
‘Monsieur le Comte is not acquainted with the property?’
‘How on earth could I be? I arrived from Cadiz this morning, I have never been to Paris; this is the first time that I have even set foot in France.’
‘That is a different matter,’ the notary replied. ‘The house that Monsieur le Comte is buying is located in Auteuil.’
On hearing this, Bertuccio went pale.
‘And where is this Auteuil of yours?’ Monte Cristo asked.
‘No distance at all, Monsieur le Comte,’ said the notary. ‘A little beyond Passy, charmingly situated in the middle of the Bois de Boulogne.’
‘So close!’ Monte Cristo said. ‘But this is not the country. The devil take it! How did you manage to choose me a house on the outskirts of Paris, Monsieur Bertuccio?’
‘I!’ cried the steward, with unusual haste. ‘No, no! I am not the one whom Monsieur le Comte asked to choose this house. If Monsieur le Comte would be so good as to remember, to rake his memory, to cast his mind back…’
‘Oh, yes. Quite correct,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘Now I recall. I read the advertisement in a newspaper and allowed myself to be taken in by the mendacious heading: “country house”.’
‘There is still time,’ Bertuccio said in a lively voice. ‘If Your Excellency would like me to look everywhere else, I shall find him the very best, whether in Enghien, Fontenay-aux-Roses or Bellevue.’
‘No, no,’ Monte Cristo said idly. ‘I’ve got this one, so I’ll keep it.’
‘And Monsieur is right!’ exclaimed the notary, afraid of losing his commission. ‘It is a charming property: running streams, dense woodland, a comfortable house, though long abandoned – not to mention the furniture which, old though it is, is valuable, especially nowadays when antiques are so prized. Forgive me, but I would imagine Monsieur le Comte to have fashionable tastes.’
‘Carry on,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘So it’s acceptable, then?’
‘Oh, Monsieur, much more than that: it’s magnificent!’
‘Let’s not pass up such a bargain, then,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘Notary, the contract of sale!’
He signed quickly, after glancing at the point on the deed where the position of the house and the names of the owners were marked.
‘Bertuccio,’ he said. ‘Give this gentleman fifty-five thousand francs.’
The steward went out with faltering steps and returned with a sheaf of notes which the notary counted out like a man who is used to receiving his money only after due legal process.
‘Now,’ said the count. ‘Have all the formalities been completed?’
‘Every one, Monsieur le Comte.’
‘Do you have the keys?’
‘They are held by the concierge who is looking after the house. Here is the order that I have made out to him, requiring him to show Monsieur into his property.’
‘Very good,’ said Monte Cristo, nodding to the notary in a way that meant: ‘I have no further need of you. Go!’
‘But, Monsieur le Comte,’ said the honest pen-pusher. ‘I think Monsieur le Comte has made a mistake. It was only fifty thousand francs, in toto.’
‘And your fee?’
‘Included in that amount, Monsieur le Comte.’
‘But did you not come here from Auteuil?’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘Well, you must be paid for your trouble,’ said the count, dismissing him with a gesture.
The notary backed out of the room, bowing to the floor. This was the first time since obtaining his articles that he had ever met such a client.
‘Show this gentleman out,’ the count said to Bertuccio, who followed the notary out.
No sooner was the count alone than he took out of his pocket a locked wallet and opened it with a little key that he kept always around his neck and which never left him. He looked for a moment, then stopped at a page containing some notes, compared the notes with the deed of sale lying on the table and, searching his memory, said: ‘That’s it: Auteuil, number twenty-eight, Rue de la Fontaine. Now, am I relying on a confession extracted by religious terror or physical fear? In any event, I shall know all in an hour’s time. Bertuccio!’ He banged on the table with a sort of little hammer with a folding handle, that gave a high-pitched, resonant sound, like a tom-tom. ‘Bertuccio!’
The steward appeared in the doorway.
‘Monsieur Bertuccio,’ said the count, ‘didn’t you once tell me that you had travelled in France?’
‘In some parts of France, yes, Excellency.’
‘So you doubtless know the country around Paris?’
‘No, Excellency, no,’ the steward replied with a sort of nervous stammer which Monte Cristo, a specialist in the matter of human emotions, rightly attributed to extreme anxiety.
‘It is annoying,’ he said, ‘this fact that you haven’t explored the district around Paris, because I wish to go and see my new property this very evening, and you would no doubt have been able to accompany me and give me some useful information.’
‘To Auteuil?’ Bertuccio cried, his bronzed features becoming almost livid. ‘Me! Go to Auteuil!’
‘What is it? What is so astonishing about you going to Auteuil, may I ask? When I am living there, you will have to come, since you are part of my household.’
Bertuccio lowered his eyes before his master’s imperious gaze and remained silent and motionless.
‘Well I never! What’s wrong with you? Do you want me to ring again for my carriage?’ Monte Cristo said in the tone of voice adopted by Louis XIV to speak the celebrated words: ‘I was almost made to wait!’1
Bertuccio went in a flash from the little drawing-room to the antechamber and called out in a hoarse voice: ‘Prepare His Excellency’s carriage!’
Monte Cristo wrote two or three letters. As he was coming to the end of the last of them, the steward reappeared.
‘You Excellency’s carriage is at the door,’ he said.
‘Well then, get your hat and gloves,’ said the count.
‘Am I to accompany Monsieur le Comte?’ Bertuccio cried.
‘Of course. You must give your orders, for I intend to live in this house.’
It was unheard of to question one of the count’s commands, so the steward followed his master, unprotesting. The latter got into the carriage and motioned to him to do likewise. The steward sat respectfully on the front seat.
XLIII
THE HOUSE AT AUTEUIL
Monte Cristo noticed that, as he came down the steps, Bertuccio crossed himself in the manner of the Corsicans, who make a cross in the air with their thumbs; and that when he took his place in the carriage he muttered a short prayer under his breath. A less curious man would have taken pity on the worthy steward in view of the extreme reluctance he had shown to the idea of a drive extra muros with the count; but it appeared that the man was too keen to discover the reason why for him to excuse Bertuccio their little journey.
In twenty minutes they had reached Auteuil. The steward’s anxiety had increased steadily. As they entered the village, Bertuccio, slumped in a corner of the carriage, began to study each of the houses that they passed with feverish attention.
‘Tell them to stop at number twenty-eight, Rue de la Fontaine,’ the count said, staring pitilessly at his steward while giving him this order.
A sweat broke out on Bertuccio’s face, but he obeyed and, leaning out of the carriage, called to the coachman: ‘Rue de la Fontaine, number twenty-eight.’
Number 28 was at the far end of the village. As they travelled, night had fallen; or, rather, a black cloud heavy with electricity gave the premature darkness the appearance and the solemnity of a dramatic event. The carriage stopped and the footman leapt down to open the door.
‘Well, now, Monsieur Bertuccio,’ said the count, ‘won’t you get down? Do you intend to stay in the carriage, then? What the devil is up with you this evening?’
Bertuccio hastened to the door and offered the count his shoulder. This time he put his weight on it and took the three steps out of the carriage one by one.
‘Knock,’ said the count, ‘and announce me.’
Bertuccio knocked, the door opened and the concierge appeared.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Your new master, my good man,’ said the footman, handing the concierge the letter of recommendation from the notary.
‘Is the house sold, then?’ asked the concierge. ‘And is this the gentleman who will live here?’
‘Yes, my friend,’ the count replied. ‘I shall try to ensure that you do not wish for your former master’s return.’
‘Oh, Monsieur,’ said the concierge. ‘I shan’t miss him a lot because we see him rarely enough. He has not been here for five years and I think he was right to sell a house that brought him nothing.’
‘What was your former master’s name?’ Monte Cristo asked.
‘The Marquis de Saint-Méran. He didn’t sell the house for what it cost him, I’ll be bound.’
‘The Marquis de Saint-Méran!’ Monte Cristo repeated. ‘Now, I feel sure I know that name: Marquis de Saint-Méran…’ He appeared to be searching his memory.
‘An old gentleman,’ the concierge went on. ‘A loyal subject of the Bourbons. He had an only daughter whom he married to Monsieur de Villefort, who was the king’s prosecutor in Nîmes and later in Versailles.’
Monte Cristo glanced at Bertuccio, to find him whiter than the wall against which he had leant to prevent himself falling.
‘And the daughter died, didn’t she?’ Monte Cristo asked. ‘I thought I heard something of the sort.’
‘Yes, Monsieur, twenty-one years ago, since when we have not seen the poor dear Marquis more than three times.’
‘Thank you, thank you,’ said Monte Cristo, judging from his steward’s prostrate appearance that he could not stretch that cord any tighter without breaking it. ‘Thank you, my good man. Give us some light.’
> ‘Does Monsieur want me to come with him?’
‘Don’t bother, Bertuccio will light my way.’
Monte Cristo accompanied these words with the gift of two gold pieces, which gave rise to an explosion of blessings and sighs.
‘Oh, Monsieur!’ said the concierge, after looking in vain on the mantelpiece and the surrounds. ‘I’m afraid I have no candles here.’
‘Take one of the lanterns from the carriage, Bertuccio, and show me the house,’ said the count.
The steward obeyed without a murmur but it was easy to see, from the trembling of the hand which held the lantern, how much it cost him to obey.
They entered a large ground floor consisting of a drawing-room, a bathroom and two bedrooms. Through one of the bedrooms you could reach a spiral staircase which led down to the garden.
‘Ah, here’s a stairway to the outside,’ said the count. ‘How convenient. Give me some light, Monsieur Bertuccio; lead the way and let’s see where this staircase will take us.’
‘Monsieur,’ said Bertuccio, ‘it goes to the garden.’
‘How do you know that, if you please?’
‘I mean, that is where it must go.’
‘Very well. Let’s find out.’
Bertuccio sighed and led the way. The staircase did, indeed, take them into the garden. The steward stopped at the outer door.
‘Carry on, Monsieur Bertuccio!’ said the count.
But the man to whom this injunction was addressed was dumbstruck, stupefied, crushed. His haggard eyes searched around him as if hunting for the traces of some awful event, and his clenched fists seemed to be warding off some frightful memory from the past.
‘Well?’ the count insisted.
‘No, no!’ Bertuccio cried, reaching out to the inside wall. ‘No, Monsieur, I will go no further. I cannot!’
‘What does this mean?’ Monte Cristo’s implacable voice demanded.
‘But, Monsieur, surely you can understand,’ cried the steward. ‘It isn’t natural! It’s not natural that, when you are to buy a house in Paris, you should choose to buy one in Auteuil, and that the one you buy in Auteuil should be number twenty-eight, Rue de la Fontaine! Oh, why didn’t I tell you everything before we set out, Sire. You would surely not have insisted that I come. I hoped that Monsieur le Comte’s house would be any house other than this one. As if there was no house in Auteuil, except the house of the murder!’
The Count of Monte Cristo (Penguin Classics eBook) Page 62
