and surely there is more reason for his doing so where he has everything to gain.”
“And,” said Villefort, “is it at your house in the Champs-Élysées that you receive your visitors?”
“No,” said Monte Cristo, “which is precisely the reason which renders your kindness more meritorious—it is in the country.”
“In the country?”
“Yes.”
“Where is it, then? Near Paris, is it not?”
“Very near, only half a league from the Barriers—it is at Auteuil.”
“At Auteuil?” said Villefort; “true, Madame de Villefort told me you lived at Auteuil, since it was to your house that she was taken. And in what part of Auteuil do you reside?”
“Rue de la Fontaine.”
“Rue de la Fontaine!” exclaimed Villefort in an agitated tone; “at what number?”
“ No. 28.”
“Then,” cried Villefort, “was it you who bought M. de Saint-Méran’s house!”
“Did it belong to M. de Saint-Méran?” demanded Monte Cristo.
“Yes,” replied Madame de Villefort; “and, would you believe it, count—”
“Believe what?”
“You think this house pretty, do you not?”