Chapter 43. The House at Auteuil
Monte Cristo noticed, as they descended the staircase, that Bertucciosigned himself in the Corsican manner; that is, had formed the sign ofthe cross in the air with his thumb, and as he seated himself in thecarriage, muttered a short prayer. Anyone but a man of exhaustlessthirst for knowledge would have had pity on seeing the steward’sextraordinary repugnance for the count’s projected drive without thewalls; but the count was too curious to let Bertuccio off from thislittle journey. In twenty minutes they were at Auteuil; the steward’semotion had continued to augment as they entered the village. Bertuccio,crouched in the corner of the carriage, began to examine with a feverishanxiety 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 laFontaine, No. 28.” No. 28 was situated at the extremity of the village;during the drive night had set in, and darkness gave the surroundingsthe 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 goingto stay in the carriage, then? What are you thinking of this evening?”
Bertuccio sprang out, and offered his shoulder to the count, who, thistime, 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 heldout to the concierge the notary’s order.
“The house is sold, then?” demanded the concierge; “and this gentlemanis coming to live here?”
“Yes, my friend,” returned the count; “and I will endeavor to give youno cause to regret your old master.”
“Oh, monsieur,” said the concierge, “I shall not have much cause toregret him, for he came here but seldom; it is five years since he washere last, and he did well to sell the house, for it did not bring himin anything at all.”
“What was the name of your old master?” said Monte Cristo.
“The Marquis of Saint-Méran. Ah, I am sure he has not sold the house forwhat he gave for it.”
“The Marquis of Saint-Méran!” returned the count. “The name is notunknown to me; the Marquis of Saint-Méran!” and he appeared to meditate.
“An old gentleman,” continued the concierge, “a staunch follower of theBourbons; he had an only daughter, who married M. de Villefort, who hadbeen the king’s attorney at Nîmes, and afterwards at Versailles.”
Monte Cristo glanced at Bertuccio, who became whiter than the wallagainst which he leaned to prevent himself from falling.
“And is not this daughter dead?” demanded Monte Cristo; “I fancy I haveheard so.”
“Yes, monsieur, one-and-twenty years ago; and since then we have notseen the poor marquis three times.”
“Thanks, thanks,” said Monte Cristo, judging from the steward’s utterprostration that he could not stretch the cord further without danger ofbreaking 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 concierge.
“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 showme the apartments.”
The steward obeyed in silence, but it was easy to see, from the mannerin which the hand that held the light trembled, how much it cost him toobey. They went over a tolerably large ground floor; a first floorconsisted of a salon, a bathroom, and two bedrooms; near one of thebedrooms 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 thegarden. 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 someterrible event, and with his clenched hands he seemed striving to shutout horrible recollections.
“Well!” insisted the Count.
“No, no,” cried Bertuccio, setting down the lantern at the angle of theinterior 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 isnot natural; that, having a house to purchase, you purchase it exactlyat 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 youwould not have forced me to come. I hoped your house would have beensome other one than this; as if there was not another house at Auteuilthan that of the assassination!”
“What, what!” cried Monte Cristo, stopping suddenly, “what words do youutter? Devil of a man, Corsican that you are—always mysteries orsuperstitions. Come, take the lantern, and let us visit the garden; youare 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 strugglethrough a sea of clouds that covered her with billows of vapor which sheillumined for an instant, only to sink into obscurity. The stewardwished to turn to the left.
“No, no, monsieur,” said Monte Cristo. “What is the use of following thealleys? Here is a beautiful lawn; let us go on straight forwards.”
Bertuccio wiped the perspiration from his brow, but obeyed; however, hecontinued to take the left hand. Monte Cristo, on the contrary, took theright hand; arrived near a clump of trees, he stopped. The steward couldnot restrain himself.
“Move, monsieur—move away, I entreat you; you are exactly in the spot!”
“What spot?”
“Where he fell.”
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“My dear Monsieur Bertuccio,” said Monte Cristo, laughing, “controlyourself; we are not at Sartène or at Corte. This is not a Corsicanmaquis but an English garden; badly kept, I own, but still you must notcalumniate it for that.”
“Monsieur, I implore you do not stay there!”
“I think you are going mad, Bertuccio,” said the count coldly. “If thatis the case, I warn you, I shall have you put in a lunatic asylum.”
“Alas! excellency,” returned Bertuccio, joining his hands, and shakinghis head in a manner that would have excited the count’s laughter, hadnot thoughts of a superior interest occupied him, and rendered himattentive 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 whileyou gesticulate, you wring your hands and roll your eyes like a manpossessed 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 youwere a Corsican. I knew you were gloomy, and always brooding over someold history of the vendetta; and I overlooked that in Italy, because inItaly those things are thought nothing of. But in France they areconsidered in very bad taste; there are gendarmes who occupy themselveswith such affairs, judges who cond
emn, and scaffolds which avenge.”
Bertuccio clasped his hands, and as, in all these evolutions, he did notlet fall the lantern, the light showed his pale and altered countenance.Monte Cristo examined him with the same look that, at Rome, he had bentupon the execution of Andrea, and then, in a tone that made a shudderpass through the veins of the poor steward—
“The Abbé Busoni, then told me an untruth,” said he, “when, after hisjourney in France, in 1829, he sent you to me, with a letter ofrecommendation, in which he enumerated all your valuable qualities.Well, I shall write to the abbé; I shall hold him responsible for hisprotégé’s misconduct, and I shall soon know all about thisassassination. Only I warn you, that when I reside in a country, Iconform to all its code, and I have no wish to put myself within thecompass 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, asfar 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 inthe cheeks, and such fever in the hands of a man.”
“But, your excellency,” replied Bertuccio hesitatingly, “did not theAbbé Busoni, who heard my confession in the prison at Nîmes, tell youthat I had a heavy burden upon my conscience?”
“Yes; but as he said you would make an excellent steward, I concludedyou 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 thedesire of making a ‘stiff,’ as you call it.”
“Yes, my good master,” cried Bertuccio, casting himself at the count’sfeet, “it was simply vengeance—nothing else.”
“I understand that, but I do not understand what it is that galvanizesyou in this manner.”
“But, monsieur, it is very natural,” returned Bertuccio, “since it wasin this house that my vengeance was accomplished.”
“What! my house?”
“Oh, your excellency, it was not yours, then.”
“Whose, then? The Marquis de Saint-Méran, I think, the concierge said.What had you to revenge on the Marquis de Saint-Méran?”
“Oh, it was not on him, monsieur; it was on another.”
“This is strange,” returned Monte Cristo, seeming to yield to hisreflections, “that you should find yourself without any preparation in ahouse where the event happened that causes you so much remorse.”
“Monsieur,” said the steward, “it is fatality, I am sure. First, youpurchase a house at Auteuil—this house is the one where I have committedan assassination; you descend to the garden by the same staircase bywhich he descended; you stop at the spot where he received the blow; andtwo 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 likeProvidence.”
“Well, amiable Corsican, let us suppose it is Providence. I alwayssuppose anything people please, and, besides, you must concede somethingto diseased minds. Come, collect yourself, and tell me all.”
“I have related it but once, and that was to the Abbé Busoni. Suchthings,” continued Bertuccio, shaking his head, “are only related underthe seal of confession.”
“Then,” said the count, “I refer you to your confessor. Turn Chartreuxor Trappist, and relate your secrets, but, as for me, I do not likeanyone who is alarmed by such phantasms, and I do not choose that myservants should be afraid to walk in the garden of an evening. I confessI am not very desirous of a visit from the commissary of police, for, inItaly, justice is only paid when silent—in France she is paid only whenshe speaks. Peste! I thought you somewhat Corsican, a great dealsmuggler, and an excellent steward; but I see you have other strings toyour bow. You are no longer in my service, Monsieur Bertuccio.”
“Oh, your excellency, your excellency!” cried the steward, struck withterror at this threat, “if that is the only reason I cannot remain inyour service, I will tell all, for if I quit you, it will only be to goto the scaffold.”
“That is different,” replied Monte Cristo; “but if you intend to tell anuntruth, reflect it were better not to speak at all.”
“No, monsieur, I swear to you, by my hopes of salvation, I will tell youall, for the Abbé Busoni himself only knew a part of my secret; but, Ipray you, go away from that plane-tree. The moon is just burstingthrough the clouds, and there, standing where you do, and wrapped inthat 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 Nîmes?”
“Yes.”
“Who married the Marquis of Saint-Méran’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 spotlessreputation——”
“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 tointerest me.”
And the count, humming an air from Lucia, went to sit down on a bench,while Bertuccio followed him, collecting his thoughts. Bertuccioremained standing before him.
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