Chapter 43

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. 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."

"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,