The Count of Monte Cristo + The Three Musketeers + The Man in the Iron Mask (3 Unabridged Classics). Alexandre Dumas

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      Chapter 42 Monsieur Bertuccio.

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      Meanwhile the count had arrived at his house; it had taken him six minutes to perform the distance, but these six minutes were sufficient to induce twenty young men who knew the price of the equipage they had been unable to purchase themselves, to put their horses in a gallop in order to see the rich foreigner who could afford to give 20,000 francs apiece for his horses. The house Ali had chosen, and which was to serve as a town residence to Monte Cristo, was situated on the right hand as you ascend the Champs Elysees. A thick clump of trees and shrubs rose in the centre, and masked a portion of the front; around this shrubbery two alleys, like two arms, extended right and left, and formed a carriage-drive from the iron gates to a double portico, on every step of which stood a porcelain vase. filled with flowers. This house, isolated from the rest, had, besides the main entrance, another in the Rue Ponthieu. Even before the coachman had hailed the concierge, the massy gates rolled on their hinges — they had seen the Count coming, and at Paris, as everywhere else, he was served with the rapidity of lightning. The coachman entered and traversed the half-circle without slackening his speed, and the gates were closed ere the wheels had ceased to sound on the gravel. The carriage stopped at the left side of the portico, two men presented themselves at the carriage-window; the one was Ali, who, smiling with an expression of the most sincere joy, seemed amply repaid by a mere look from Monte Cristo. The other bowed respectfully, and offered his arm to assist the count in descending. “Thanks, M. Bertuccio,” said the count, springing lightly up the three steps of the portico; “and the notary?”

      “He is in the small salon, excellency,” returned Bertuccio.

      “And the cards I ordered to be engraved as soon as you knew the number of the house?”

      “Your excellency, it is done already. I have been myself to the best engraver of the Palais Royal, who did the plate in my presence. The first card struck off was taken, according to your orders, to the Baron Danglars, Rue de la Chaussee d’Antin, No. 7; the others are on the mantle-piece of your excellency’s bedroom.”

      “Good; what o’clock is it?”

      “Four o’clock.” Monte Cristo gave his hat, cane, and gloves to the same French footman who had called his carriage at the Count of Morcerf’s, and then he passed into the small salon, preceded by Bertuccio, who showed him the way. “These are but indifferent marbles in this antechamber,” said Monte Cristo. “I trust all this will soon be taken away.” Bertuccio bowed. As the steward had said, the notary awaited him in the small salon. He was a simple-looking lawyer’s clerk, elevated to the extraordinary dignity of a provincial scrivener. “You are the notary empowered to sell the country house that I wish to purchase, monsieur?” asked Monte Cristo.

      “Yes, count,” returned the notary.

      “Is the deed of sale ready?”

      “Yes, count.”

      “Have you brought it?”

      “Here it is.”

      “Very well; and where is this house that I purchase?” asked the count carelessly, addressing himself half to Bertuccio, half to the notary. The steward made a gesture that signified, “I do not know.” The notary looked at the count with astonishment. “What!” said he, “does not the count know where the house he purchases is situated?”

      “No,” returned the count.

      “The count does not know?”

      “How should I know? I have arrived from Cadiz this morning. I have never before been at Paris, and it is the first time I have ever even set my foot in France.”

      “Ah, that is different; the house you purchase is at Auteuil.” At these words Bertuccio turned pale. “And where is Auteuil?” asked the count.

      “Close by here, monsieur,” replied the notary — “a little beyond Passy; a charming situation, in the heart of the Bois de Boulogne.”

      “So near as that?” said the Count; “but that is not in the country. What made you choose a house at the gates of Paris, M. Bertuccio?”

      “I,” cried the steward with a strange expression. “His excellency did not charge me to purchase this house. If his excellency will recollect — if he will think” —

      “Ah, true,” observed Monte Cristo; “I recollect now. I read the advertisement in one of the papers, and was tempted by the false title, `a country house.’”

      “It is not yet too late,” cried Bertuccio, eagerly; “and if your excellency will intrust me with the commission, I will find you a better at Enghien, at Fontenay-aux-Roses, or at Bellevue.”

      “Oh, no,” returned Monte Cristo negligently; “since I have this, I will keep it.”

      “And you are quite right,” said the notary, who feared to lose his fee. “It is a charming place, well supplied with spring-water and fine trees; a comfortable habitation, although abandoned for a long time, without reckoning the furniture, which, although old, is yet valuable, СКАЧАТЬ