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MonteCristonoticed,astheydescendedthestaircase,thatBertucciosignedhimselfintheCorsicanmanner;thatis,hadformedthesignofthecrossintheairwithhisthumb,andasheseatedhimselfinthecarriage,mutteredashortprayer.
Anyonebutamanofexhaustlessthirstforknowledgewouldhavehadpityonseeingthesteward’sextraordinaryrepugnanceforthecount’sprojecteddrivewithoutthewalls;buttheCountwastoocurioustoletBertuccioofffromthislittlejourney.
IntwentyminutestheywereatAuteuil;thesteward’semotionhadcontinuedtoaugmentastheyenteredthevillage.
Bertuccio,crouchedinthecornerofthecarriage,begantoexaminewithafeverishanxietyeveryhousetheypassed.
“TellthemtostopatRuedelaFontaine,No.28,”saidthecount,fixinghiseyesonthesteward,towhomhegavethisorder.
Bertuccio’sforeheadwascoveredwithperspiration;however,heobeyed,and,leaningoutofthewindow,hecriedtothecoachman,—”RuedelaFontaine,No.28.”
No.28wassituatedattheextremityofthevillage;duringthedrivenighthadsetin,anddarknessgavethesurroundingstheartificialappearanceofasceneonthestage.
Thecarriagestopped,thefootmansprangoffthebox,andopenedthedoor.
“Well,”saidthecount,“youdonotgetout,M.Bertuccio—youaregoingtostayinthecarriage,then?Whatareyouthinkingofthisevening?”
Bertucciosprangout,andofferedhisshouldertothecount,who,thistime,leaneduponitashedescendedthethreestepsofthecarriage.
“Knock,”saidthecount,“andannounceme.”
Bertuccioknocked,thedooropened,andtheconciergeappeared.“Whatisit?”askedhe.
“Itisyournewmaster,mygoodfellow,”saidthefootman.Andheheldouttotheconciergethenotary’sorder.
“Thehouseissold,then?”demandedtheconcierge;“andthisgentlemaniscomingtolivehere?”
“Yes,myfriend,”returnedthecount;“andIwillendeavortogiveyounocausetoregretyouroldmaster.”
“Oh,monsieur,”saidtheconcierge,“Ishallnothavemuchcausetoregrethim,forhecameherebutseldom;itisfiveyearssincehewasherelast,andhedidwelltosellthehouse,foritdidnotbringhiminanythingatall.”
“Whatwasthenameofyouroldmaster?”saidMonteCristo.
“TheMarquisofSaint–Meran.Ah,Iamsurehehasnotsoldthehouseforwhathegaveforit.”
“TheMarquisofSaint–Meran!”returnedthecount.“Thenameisnotunknowntome;theMarquisofSaint–Meran!”andheappearedtomeditate.
“Anoldgentleman,”continuedtheconcierge,“astanchfolloweroftheBourbons;hehadanonlydaughter,whomarriedM.deVillefort,whohadbeentheking’sattorneyatNimes,andafterwardsatVersailles.”
MonteCristoglancedatBertuccio,whobecamewhiterthanthewallagainstwhichheleanedtopreventhimselffromfalling.“Andisnotthisdaughterdead?”
demandedMonteCristo;“IfancyIhaveheardso.”
“Yes,monsieur,oneandtwentyyearsago;andsincethenwehavenotseenthepoormarquisthreetimes.”
“Thanks,thanks,”saidMonteCristo,judgingfromthesteward’sutterprostrationthathecouldnotstretchthecordfurtherwithoutdangerofbreakingit.“Givemealight.”
“ShallIaccompanyyou,monsieur?”
“No,itisunnecessary;Bertucciowillshowmealight.”
AndMonteCristoaccompaniedthesewordsbythegiftoftwogoldpieces,whichproducedatorrentofthanksandblessingsfromtheconcierge.
“Ah,monsieur,”saidhe,afterhavingvainlysearchedonthemantle–pieceandtheshelves,“Ihavenotgotanycandles.”
“Takeoneofthecarriage–lamps,Bertuccio,”saidthecount,“andshowmetheapartments.”
Thestewardobeyedinsilence,butitwaseasytosee,fromthemannerinwhichthehandthatheldthelighttrembled,howmuchitcosthimtoobey.
Theywentoveratolerablylargeground–floor;asecondfloorconsistedofasalon,abathroom,andtwobedrooms;nearoneofthebedroomstheycametoawindingstaircasethatleddowntothegarden.
“Ah,hereisaprivatestaircase,”saidthecount;“thatisconvenient.Lightme,M.Bertuccio,andgofirst;wewillseewhereitleadsto.”
“Monsieur,”repliedBertuccio,“itleadstothegarden.”
“And,pray,howdoyouknowthat?”
“Itoughttodoso,atleast.”
“Well,letusbesureofthat.”Bertucciosighed,andwentonfirst;thestairsdid,indeed,leadtothegarden.Attheouterdoorthestewardpaused.
“Goon,MonsieurBertuccio,”saidthecount.
Buthewhowasaddressedstoodthere,stupefied,bewildered,stunned;hishaggardeyesglancedaround,asifinsearchofthetracesofsometerribleevent,andwithhisclinchedhandsheseemedstrivingtoshutouthorriblerecollections.“Well,”insistedtheCount.
“No,no,”criedBertuccio,settingdownthelanternattheangleoftheinteriorwall.
“No,monsieur,itisimpossible;Icangonofarther.”
“Whatdoesthismean?”demandedtheirresistiblevoiceofMonteCristo.
“Why,youmustsee,yourexcellency,”criedthesteward,“thatthisisnotnatural;that,havingahousetopurchase,youpurchaseitexactlyatAuteuil,andthat,purchasingitatAuteuil,thishouseshouldbeNo.28,RuedelaFontaine.Oh,whydidInottellyouall?
Iamsureyouwouldnothaveforcedmetocome.
Ihopedyourhousewouldhavebeensomeotheronethanthis;asiftherewasnotanotherhouseatAuteuilthanthatoftheassassination!”
“What,what!”criedMonteCristo,stoppingsuddenly,“whatwordsdoyouutter?
Devilofaman,Corsicanthatyouare—alwaysmysteriesorsuperstitions.
Come,takethelantern,andletusvisitthegarden;youarenotafraidofghostswithme,Ihope?”
Bertuccioraisedthelantern,andobeyed.
Thedoor,asitopened,disclosedagloomysky,inwhichthemoonstrovevainlytostrugglethroughaseaofcloudsthatcoveredherwithbillowsofvaporwhichsheilluminedforaninstant,onlytosinkintoobscurity.Thestewardwishedtoturntotheleft.“No,no,monsieur,”saidMonteCristo.
“Whatistheuseoffollowingthealleys?
Hereisabeautifullawn;letusgoonstraightforwards.”
Bertucciowipedtheperspirationfromhisbrow,butobeyed;however,hecontinuedtotakethelefthand.
MonteCristo,onthecontrary,tooktherighthand;arrivednearaclumpoftrees,hestopped.Thestewardcouldnotrestrainhimself.
“Move,monsieur—moveaway,Ientreatyou;youareexactlyinthespot!”
“Whatspot?”
“Wherehefell.”
“MydearMonsieurBertuccio,”saidMonteCristo,laughing,“controlyourself;wearenotatSartenaoratCorte.
ThisisnotaCorsicanarbor,butanEnglishgarden;badlykept,Iown,butstillyoumustnotcalumniateitforthat.”
“Monsieur,Iimploreyoudonotstaythere!”
“Ithinkyouaregoingmad,Bertuccio,”saidthecountcoldly.“Ifthatisthecase,Iwarnyou,Ishallhaveyouputinalunaticasylum.”
“Alas,excellency,”returnedBertuccio,joininghishands,andshakinghisheadinamannerthatwouldhaveexcitedthecount’slaughter,hadnotthoughtsofasuperiorinterestoccupiedhim,andrenderedhimattentivetotheleastrevelationofthistimorousconscience.
“Alas,excellency,theevilhasarrived!”
“M.Bertuccio,”saidthecount,“Iamverygladtotellyou,thatwhileyougesticulate,youwringyourhandsandrollyoureyeslikeamanpossessedbyadevilwhowillnotleavehim;andIhavealwaysobserved,thatthedevilmostobstinatetobeexpelledisasecret.IknewyouwereaCorsican.
Iknewyouweregloomy,andalwaysbroodingoversomeoldhistoryofthevendetta;andIoverlookedthatinItaly,becauseinItalythosethingsarethoughtnothingof.
ButinFrancetheyareconsideredinverybadtaste;therearegendarmeswhooccupythemselveswithsuchaffairs,judgeswhocondemn,andscaffoldswhichavenge.”
Bertuccioclaspedhishands,andas,inalltheseevolutions,hedidnotletfallthelantern,thelightshowedhispaleandalteredcountenance.
MonteCristoexaminedhimwiththesamelookthat,atRome,hehadbentupontheexecutionofAndrea,andthen,inatonethatmadeashudderpassthroughtheveinsofthepoorsteward,—”TheAbbeBusoni,thentoldmeanuntruth,”saidhe,“when,afterhisjourneyinFrance,in1829,hesentyoutome,withaletterofrecommendation,inwhichheenumeratedallyourvaluablequalities.
Well,Ishallwritetotheabbe;Ishallholdhimresponsibleforhisprotege’smisconduct,andIshallsoonknowallaboutthisassassination.
OnlyIwarnyou,thatwhenIresideinacountry,Iconformtoallitscode,andIhavenowishtoputmyselfwithinthecompassoftheFrenchlawsforyoursake.”
“Oh,donotdothat,excellency;Ihavealwaysservedyoufaithfully,”criedBertuccio,indespair.“Ihavealwaysbeenanhonestman,and,asfaraslayinmypower,Ihavedonegood.”
“Idonotdenyit,”returnedthecount;“butwhyareyouthusagitated.Itisabadsign;aquietconsciencedoesnotoccasionsuchpalenessinthecheeks,andsuchfeverinthehandsofaman.”
“But,yourexcellency,”repliedBertucciohesitatingly,“didnottheAbbeBusoni,whoheardmyconfessionintheprisonatNimes,tellyouthatIhadaheavyburdenuponmyconscience?”
“Yes;butashesaidyouwouldmakeanexcellentsteward,Iconcludedyouhadstolen—thatwasall.”
“Oh,yourexcellency,”returnedBertuccioindeepcontempt.
“Or,asyouareaCorsican,thatyouhadbeenunabletoresistthedesireofmakinga‘stiff,’asyoucallit.”
“Yes,mygoodmaster,”criedBertuccio,castinghimselfatthecount’sfeet,“itwassimplyvengeance—nothingelse.”
“Iunderstandthat,butIdonotunderstandwhatitisthatgalvanizesyouinthismanner.”
“But,monsieur,itisverynatural,”returnedBertuccio,“sinceitwasinthishousethatmyvengeancewasaccomplished.”
“What!myhouse?”
“Oh,yourexcellency,itwasnotyours,then.”
“Whose,then?TheMarquisdeSaint–Meran,Ithink,theconciergesaid.WhathadyoutorevengeontheMarquisdeSaint–Meran?”
“Oh,itwasnotonhim,monsieur;itwasonanother.”
“Thisisstrange,”returnedMonteCristo,seemingtoyieldtohisreflections,“thatyoushouldfindyourselfwithoutanypreparationinahousewheretheeventhappenedthatcausesyousomuchremorse.”
“Monsieur,”saidthesteward,“itisfatality,Iamsure.
First,youpurchaseahouseatAuteuil—thishouseistheonewhereIhavecommittedanassassination;youdescendtothegardenbythesamestaircasebywhichhedescended;youstopatthespotwherehereceivedtheblow;andtwopacesfartheristhegraveinwhichhehadjustburiedhischild.
Thisisnotchance,forchance,inthiscase,istoomuchlikeprovidence.”
“Well,amiableCorsican,letussupposeitisprovidence.Ialwayssupposeanythingpeopleplease,and,besides,youmustconcedesomethingtodiseasedminds.Come,collectyourself,andtellmeall.”
“Ihaverelateditbutonce,andthatwastotheAbbeBusoni.Suchthings,”continuedBertuccio,shakinghishead,“areonlyrelatedunderthesealofconfession.”
“Then,”saidthecount,“Ireferyoutoyourconfessor.
TurnChartreuxorTrappist,andrelateyoursecrets,but,asforme,Idonotlikeanyonewhoisalarmedbysuchphantasms,andIdonotchoosethatmyservantsshouldbeafraidtowalkinthegardenofanevening.
IconfessIamnotverydesirousofavisitfromthecommissaryofpolice,for,inItaly,justiceisonlypaidwhensilent—inFrancesheispaidonlywhenshespeaks.
Peste,IthoughtyousomewhatCorsican,agreatdealsmuggler,andanexcellentsteward;butIseeyouhaveotherstringstoyourbow.
Youarenolongerinmyservice,MonsieurBertuccio.”
“Oh,yourexcellency,yourexcellency!”criedthesteward,struckwithterroratthisthreat,“ifthatistheonlyreasonIcannotremaininyourservice,Iwilltellall,forifIquityou,itwillonlybetogotothescaffold.”
“Thatisdifferent,”repliedMonteCristo;“butifyouintendtotellanuntruth,reflectitwerebetternottospeakatall.”
“No,monsieur,Isweartoyou,bymyhopesofsalvation,Iwilltellyouall,fortheAbbeBusonihimselfonlyknewapartofmysecret;but,Iprayyou,goawayfromthatplane–tree.
Themoonisjustburstingthroughtheclouds,andthere,standingwhereyoudo,andwrappedinthatcloakthatconcealsyourfigure,youremindmeofM.deVillefort.”
“What!”criedMonteCristo,“itwasM.deVillefort?”
“Yourexcellencyknowshim?”
“TheformerroyalattorneyatNimes?”
“Yes.”
“WhomarriedtheMarquisofSaint–Meran’sdaughter?”
“Yes.”
“Whoenjoyedthereputationofbeingthemostsevere,themostupright,themostrigidmagistrateonthebench?”
“Well,monsieur,”saidBertuccio,“thismanwiththisspotlessreputation”—
“Well?”
“Wasavillain.”
“Bah,”repliedMonteCristo,“impossible!”
“ItisasItellyou.”
“Ah,really,”saidMonteCristo.“Haveyouproofofthis?”
“Ihadit.”
“Andyouhavelostit;howstupid!”
“Yes;butbycarefulsearchitmightberecovered.”
“Really,”returnedthecount,“relateittome,foritbeginstointerestme.”
Andthecount,humminganairfrom“Lucia,”wenttositdownonabench,whileBertucciofollowedhim,collectinghisthoughts.Bertuccioremainedstandingbeforehim.
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