Chapter 43 The House at Auteuil
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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 conciииrge
appeared. "What is it?" asked he. "It
is your new master, my good fellow," said the footman. And he held
out to the conciииrge
the notary's order. "The
house is sold, then?" demanded the conciииrge; "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 conciииrge,
"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-Mижran.
Ah, I am sure he has not sold the house for what he gave for it." "The
Marquis of Saint-Mижran!"
returned the count. "The name is not unknown to me; the Marquis of
Saint-Mижran!" and he appeared to
meditate. "An
old gentleman," continued the conciииrge, "a stanch follower of the Bourbons; he had
an only daughter, who married M. de Villefort, who had been the king's
attorney at N?mes, and afterwards at Versailles." Monte Cristo
glanced at Bertuccio, who became whiter than the wall against which he
leaned to prevent himself from falling. "And is not this daughter
dead?" demanded Monte Cristo; "I fancy I have heard so." "Yes,
monsieur, one and twenty years ago; and since then we have not seen the
poor marquis three times." "Thanks,
thanks," said Monte Cristo, judging from the steward's utter
prostration that he could not stretch the cord further without danger of
breaking it. "Give me a light." "Shall
I accompany you, monsieur?" "No,
it is unnecessary; Bertuccio will show me a light." And Monte Cristo
accompanied these words by the gift of two gold pieces, which produced a
torrent of thanks and blessings from the conciииrge. "Ah, monsieur," said he, after having
vainly searched on the mantle-piece and the shelves, "I have not got
any candles." "Take
one of the carriage-lamps, Bertuccio," said the count, "and show
me the apartments." The steward obeyed in silence, but it was easy to
see, from the manner in which the hand that held the light trembled, how
much it cost him to obey. They went over a tolerably large ground-floor; a
second floor consisted of a salon, a bathroom, and two bedrooms; near one
of the bedrooms they came to a winding staircase that led down to the
garden. "Ah,
here is a private staircase," said the count; "that is
convenient. Light me, M. Bertuccio, and go first; we will see where it
leads to." "Monsieur,"
replied Bertuccio, "it leads to the garden." "And,
pray, how do you know that?" "It
ought to do so, at least." "Well,
let us be sure of that." Bertuccio sighed, and went on first; the
stairs did, indeed, lead to the garden. At the outer door the steward
paused. "Go on, Monsieur Bertuccio," said the count. But he who
was addressed stood there, stupefied, bewildered, stunned; his haggard
eyes glanced around, as if in search of the traces of some terrible event,
and with his clinched hands he seemed striving to shut out horrible
recollections. "Well," insisted the Count. "No, no,"
cried Bertuccio, setting down the lantern at the angle of the interior
wall. "No, monsieur, it is impossible; I can go no farther." "What
does this mean?" demanded the irresistible voice of Monte Cristo. "Why,
you must see, your excellency," cried the steward, "that this is
not natural; that, having a house to purchase, you purchase it exactly at
Auteuil, and that, purchasing it at Auteuil, this house should be No. 28,
Rue de la Fontaine. Oh, why did I not tell you all? I am sure you would
not have forced me to come. I hoped your house would have been some other
one than this; as if there was not another house at Auteuil than that of
the assassination!" "What,
what!" cried Monte Cristo, stopping suddenly, "what words do you
utter? Devil of a man, Corsican that you are--always mysteries or
superstitions. Come, take the lantern, and let us visit the garden; you
are not afraid of ghosts with me, I hope?" Bertuccio raised the
lantern, and obeyed. The door, as it opened, disclosed a gloomy sky, in
which the moon strove vainly to struggle through a sea of clouds that
covered her with billows of vapor which she illumined for an instant, only
to sink into obscurity. The steward wished to turn to the left. "No,
no, monsieur," said Monte Cristo. "What is the use of following
the alleys? Here is a beautiful lawn; let us go on straight
forwards." Bertuccio
wiped the perspiration from his brow, but obeyed; however, he continued to
take the left hand. Monte Cristo, on the contrary, took the right hand;
arrived near a clump of trees, he stopped. The steward could not restrain
himself. "Move, monsieur--move away, I entreat you; you are exactly
in the spot!" "What
spot?" "Where
he fell." "My
dear Monsieur Bertuccio," said Monte Cristo, laughing, "control
yourself; we are not at Sartena or at Corte. This is not a Corsican arbor,
but an English garden; badly kept, I own, but still you must not
calumniate it for that." "Monsieur,
I implore you do not stay there!" "I
think you are going mad, Bertuccio," said the count coldly. "If
that is the case, I warn you, I shall have you put in a lunatic
asylum." "Alas,
excellency," returned Bertuccio, joining his hands, and shaking his
head in a manner that would have excited the count's laughter, had not
thoughts of a superior interest occupied him, and rendered him attentive
to the least revelation of this timorous conscience. "Alas,
excellency, the evil has arrived!" "M.
Bertuccio," said the count, "I am very glad to tell you, that
while you gesticulate, you wring your hands and roll your eyes like a man
possessed by a devil who will not leave him; and I have always observed,
that the devil most obstinate to be expelled is a secret. I knew you were
a Corsican. I knew you were gloomy, and always brooding over some old
history of the vendetta; and I overlooked that in Italy, because in Italy
those things are thought nothing of. But in France they are considered in
very bad taste; there are gendarmes who occupy themselves with such
affairs, judges who condemn, and scaffolds which avenge." Bertuccio
clasped his hands, and as, in all these evolutions, he did not let fall
the lantern, the light showed his pale and altered countenance. Monte
Cristo examined him with the same look that, at Rome, he had bent upon the
execution of Andrea, and then, in a tone that made a shudder pass through
the veins of the poor steward,--"The Abbиж Busoni, then told me an
untruth," said he, "when, after his journey in France, in 1829,
he sent you to me, with a letter of recommendation, in which he enumerated
all your valuable qualities. Well, I shall write to the abbиж; I shall hold him responsible
for his protege's misconduct, and I shall soon know all about this
assassination. Only I warn you, that when I reside in a country, I conform
to all its code, and I have no wish to put myself within the compass of
the French laws for your sake." "Oh,
do not do that, excellency; I have always served you faithfully,"
cried Bertuccio, in despair. "I have always been an honest man, and,
as far as lay in my power, I have done good." "I
do not deny it," returned the count; "but why are you thus
agitated. It is a bad sign; a quiet conscience does not occasion such
paleness in the cheeks, and such fever in the hands of a man." "But,
your excellency," replied Bertuccio hesitatingly, "did not the
Abbиж Busoni, who heard my confession
in the prison at N?mes, tell you that I had a heavy burden upon my
conscience?" "Yes;
but as he said you would make an excellent steward, I concluded you had
stolen--that was all." "Oh,
your excellency," returned Bertuccio in deep contempt. "Or,
as you are a Corsican, that you had been unable to resist the desire of
making a 'stiff,' as you call it." "Yes,
my good master," cried Bertuccio, casting himself at the count's
feet, "it was simply vengeance--nothing else." "I
understand that, but I do not understand what it is that galvanizes you in
this manner." "But,
monsieur, it is very natural," returned Bertuccio, "since it was
in this house that my vengeance was accomplished." "What!
my house?" "Oh,
your excellency, it was not yours, then." "Whose,
then? The Marquis de Saint-Mижran,
I think, the conciииrge
said. What had you to revenge on the Marquis de Saint-Mижran?" "Oh,
it was not on him, monsieur; it was on another." "This
is strange," returned Monte Cristo, seeming to yield to his
reflections, "that you should find yourself without any preparation
in a house where the event happened that causes you so much remorse."
"Monsieur,"
said the steward, "it is fatality, I am sure. First, you purchase a
house at Auteuil--this house is the one where I have committed an
assassination; you descend to the garden by the same staircase by which he
descended; you stop at the spot where he received the blow; and two paces
farther is the grave in which he had just buried his child. This is not
chance, for chance, in this case, is too much like providence." "Well,
amiable Corsican, let us suppose it is providence. I always suppose
anything people please, and, besides, you must concede something to
diseased minds. Come, collect yourself, and tell me all." "I
have related it but once, and that was to the Abbиж Busoni. Such things," continued Bertuccio,
shaking his head, "are only related under the seal of
confession." "Then,"
said the count, "I refer you to your confessor. Turn Chartreux or
Trappist, and relate your secrets, but, as for me, I do not like any one
who is alarmed by such phantasms, and I do not choose that my servants
should be afraid to walk in the garden of an evening. I confess I am not
very desirous of a visit from the commissary of police, for, in Italy,
justice is only paid when silent--in France she is paid only when she
speaks. Peste, I thought you somewhat Corsican, a great deal smuggler, and
an excellent steward; but I see you have other strings to your bow. You
are no longer in my service, Monsieur Bertuccio." "Oh,
your excellency, your excellency!" cried the steward, struck with
terror at this threat, "if that is the only reason I cannot remain in
your service, I will tell all, for if I quit you, it will only be to go to
the scaffold." "That
is different," replied Monte Cristo; "but if you intend to tell
an untruth, reflect it were better not to speak at all." "No,
monsieur, I swear to you, by my hopes of salvation, I will tell you all,
for the Abbиж
Busoni himself only knew a part of my secret; but, I pray you, go away
from that plane-tree. The moon is just bursting through the clouds, and
there, standing where you do, and wrapped in that cloak that conceals your
figure, you remind me of M. de Villefort." "What!"
cried Monte Cristo, "it was M. de Villefort?" "Your
excellency knows him?" "The
former royal attorney at N?mes?" "Yes."
"Who
married the Marquis of Saint-Mижran's
daughter?" "Yes."
"Who
enjoyed the reputation of being the most severe, the most upright, the
most rigid magistrate on the bench?" "Well,
monsieur," said Bertuccio, "this man with this spotless
reputation"-- "Well?"
"Was
a villain." "Bah,"
replied Monte Cristo, "impossible!" "It
is as I tell you." "Ah,
really," said Monte Cristo. "Have you proof of this?" "I
had it." "And
you have lost it; how stupid!" "Yes;
but by careful search it might be recovered." "Really,"
returned the count, "relate it to me, for it begins to interest
me." And the count, humming an air from Lucia di Lammermoor, went to
sit down on a bench, while Bertuccio followed him, collecting his
thoughts. Bertuccio remained standing before him. |
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