Monte Cristo noticed, as they descended the staircase, thatBertuccio 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 shortprayer. Any one but a man of exhaustless thirst forknowledge would have had pity on seeing the steward'sextraordinary repugnance for the count's projected drivewithout the walls; but the Count was too curious to letBertuccio off from this little journey. In twenty minutesthey were at Auteuil; the steward's emotion had continued toaugment as they entered the village. Bertuccio, crouched inthe corner of the carriage, began to examine with a feverishanxiety every house they passed. "Tell them to stop at Ruede la Fontaine, No. 28," said the count, fixing his eyes onthe steward, to whom he gave this order. Bertuccio'sforehead 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 theextremity of the village; during the drive night had set in,and darkness gave the surroundings the artificial appearanceof a scene on the stage. The carriage stopped, the footmansprang off the box, and opened the door. "Well," said thecount, "you do not get out, M. Bertuccio - you are going tostay in the carriage, then? What are you thinking of thisevening?" Bertuccio sprang out, and offered his shoulder tothe count, who, this time, leaned upon it as he descendedthe three steps of the carriage. "Knock," said the count,"and announce me." Bertuccio knocked, the door opened, andthe 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 thisgentleman is coming to live here?"

"Yes, my friend," returned the count; "and I will endeavorto give you no cause to regret your old master."

"Oh, monsieur," said the concierge, "I shall not have muchcause to regret him, for he came here but seldom; it is fiveyears since he was here last, and he did well to sell thehouse, 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 soldthe house for what he gave for it."

"The Marquis of Saint-Meran!" returned the count. "The nameis not unknown to me; the Marquis of Saint-Meran!" and heappeared to meditate.

"An old gentleman," continued the concierge, "a stanchfollower of the Bourbons; he had an only daughter, whomarried M. de Villefort, who had been the king's attorney atNimes, and afterwards at Versailles." Monte Cristo glancedat Bertuccio, who became whiter than the wall against whichhe leaned to prevent himself from falling. "And is not thisdaughter dead?" demanded Monte Cristo; "I fancy I have heardso."

"Yes, monsieur, one and twenty years ago; and since then wehave not seen the poor marquis three times."

"Thanks, thanks," said Monte Cristo, judging from thesteward's utter prostration that he could not stretch thecord further without danger of breaking it. "Give me alight."

"Shall I accompany you, monsieur?"

"No, it is unnecessary; Bertuccio will show me a light." AndMonte Cristo accompanied these words by the gift of two goldpieces, which produced a torrent of thanks and blessingsfrom the concierge. "Ah, monsieur," said he, after havingvainly searched on the mantle-piece and the shelves, "I havenot 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 handthat held the light trembled, how much it cost him to obey.They went over a tolerably large ground-floor; a secondfloor consisted of a salon, a bathroom, and two bedrooms;near one of the bedrooms they came to a winding staircasethat led down to the garden.

"Ah, here is a private staircase," said the count; "that isconvenient. Light me, M. Bertuccio, and go first; we willsee 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 wenton first; the stairs did, indeed, lead to the garden. At theouter door the steward paused. "Go on, Monsieur Bertuccio,"said the count. But he who was addressed stood there,stupefied, bewildered, stunned; his haggard eyes glancedaround, as if in search of the traces of some terribleevent, and with his clinched hands he seemed striving toshut out horrible recollections. "Well," insisted the Count."No, no," cried Bertuccio, setting down the lantern at theangle of the interior wall. "No, monsieur, it is impossible;I can go no farther."

"What does this mean?" demanded the irresistible voice ofMonte 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 itat 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 haveforced me to come. I hoped your house would have been someother one than this; as if there was not another house atAuteuil than that of the assassination!"

"What, what!" cried Monte Cristo, stopping suddenly, "whatwords 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 ghostswith me, I hope?" Bertuccio raised the lantern, and obeyed.The door, as it opened, disclosed a gloomy sky, in which themoon strove vainly to struggle through a sea of clouds thatcovered her with billows of vapor which she illumined for aninstant, only to sink into obscurity. The steward wished toturn to the left. "No, no, monsieur," said Monte Cristo."What is the use of following the alleys? Here is abeautiful 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 clumpof trees, he stopped. The steward could not restrainhimself. "Move, monsieur - move away, I entreat you; youare 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. Thisis 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 countcoldly. "If that is the case, I warn you, I shall have youput in a lunatic asylum."

"Alas, excellency," returned Bertuccio, joining his hands,and shaking his head in a manner that would have excited thecount's laughter, had not thoughts of a superior interestoccupied him, and rendered him attentive to the leastrevelation 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 rollyour eyes like a man possessed by a devil who will not leavehim; and I have always observed, that the devil mostobstinate to be expelled is a secret. I knew you were aCorsican. I knew you were gloomy, and always brooding oversome old history of the vendetta; and I overlooked that inItaly, because in Italy those things are thought nothing of.But in France they are considered in very bad taste; thereare gendarmes who occupy themselves with such affairs,judges who condemn, and scaffolds which avenge." Bertuccioclasped his hands, and as, in all these evolutions, he didnot let fall the lantern, the light showed his pale andaltered countenance. Monte Cristo examined him with the samelook that, at Rome, he had bent upon the execution ofAndrea, and then, in a tone that made a shudder pass throughthe veins of the poor steward, - "The Abbe Busoni, thentold me an untruth," said he, "when, after his journey inFrance, in 1829, he sent you to me, with a letter ofrecommendation, in which he enumerated all your valuablequalities. Well, I shall write to the abbe; I shall hold himresponsible for his protege's misconduct, and I shall soonknow all about this assassination. Only I warn you, thatwhen I reside in a country, I conform to all its code, and Ihave no wish to put myself within the compass of the Frenchlaws for your sake."

"Oh, do not do that, excellency; I have always served youfaithfully," cried Bertuccio, in despair. "I have alwaysbeen an honest man, and, as far as lay in my power, I havedone good."

"I do not deny it," returned the count; "but why are youthus agitated. It is a bad sign; a quiet conscience does notoccasion such paleness in the cheeks, and such fever in thehands of a man."

"But, your excellency," replied Bertuccio hesitatingly, "didnot the Abbe Busoni, who heard my confession in the prisonat Nimes, tell you that I had a heavy burden upon myconscience?"

"Yes; but as he said you would make an excellent steward, Iconcluded 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 toresist the desire of making a `stiff,' as you call it."

"Yes, my good master," cried Bertuccio, casting himself atthe count's feet, "it was simply vengeance - nothing else."

"I understand that, but I do not understand what it is thatgalvanizes you in this manner."

"But, monsieur, it is very natural," returned Bertuccio,"since it was in this house that my vengeance wasaccomplished."

"What! my house?"

"Oh, your excellency, it was not yours, then."

"Whose, then? The Marquis de Saint-Meran, I think, theconcierge said. What had you to revenge on the Marquis deSaint-Meran?"

"Oh, it was not on him, monsieur; it was on another."

"This is strange," returned Monte Cristo, seeming to yieldto his reflections, "that you should find yourself withoutany preparation in a house where the event happened thatcauses you so much remorse."

"Monsieur," said the steward, "it is fatality, I am sure.First, you purchase a house at Auteuil - this house is theone where I have committed an assassination; you descend tothe garden by the same staircase by which he descended; youstop at the spot where he received the blow; and two pacesfarther is the grave in which he had just buried his child.This is not chance, for chance, in this case, is too muchlike providence."

"Well, amiable Corsican, let us suppose it is providence. Ialways suppose anything people please, and, besides, youmust concede something to diseased minds. Come, collectyourself, and tell me all."

"I have related it but once, and that was to the AbbeBusoni. 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. TurnChartreux or Trappist, and relate your secrets, but, as forme, I do not like any one who is alarmed by such phantasms,and I do not choose that my servants should be afraid towalk in the garden of an evening. I confess I am not verydesirous of a visit from the commissary of police, for, inItaly, justice is only paid when silent - in France she ispaid only when she speaks. Peste, I thought you somewhatCorsican, a great deal smuggler, and an excellent steward;but I see you have other strings to your bow. You are nolonger in my service, Monsieur Bertuccio."

"Oh, your excellency, your excellency!" cried the steward,struck with terror at this threat, "if that is the onlyreason I cannot remain in your service, I will tell all, forif I quit you, it will only be to go to the scaffold."

"That is different," replied Monte Cristo; "but if youintend to tell an untruth, reflect it were better not tospeak at all."

"No, monsieur, I swear to you, by my hopes of salvation, Iwill tell you all, for the Abbe Busoni himself only knew apart of my secret; but, I pray you, go away from thatplane-tree. The moon is just bursting through the clouds,and there, standing where you do, and wrapped in that cloakthat conceals your figure, you remind me of M. deVillefort."

" What!" cried Monte Cristo, "it was M. de Villefort?"

"Your excellency knows him?"

"The former royal attorney at Nimes?"

"Yes."

"Who married the Marquis of Saint-Meran's daughter?"

"Yes."

"Who enjoyed the reputation of being the most severe, themost upright, the most rigid magistrate on the bench?"

"Well, monsieur," said Bertuccio, "this man with thisspotless 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 itbegins to interest me." And the count, humming an air from"Lucia," went to sit down on a bench, while Bertucciofollowed him, collecting his thoughts. Bertuccio remainedstanding before him.