Monte Cristo gave his hat, cane, and gloves to the same French footman who had called his carriage at the Count of Morcerf’s, and then he passed into the small salon, preceded by Bertuccio, who showed him the way.

“These are but indifferent marbles in this antechamber,” said Monte Cristo. “I trust all this will soon be taken away.”

Bertuccio bowed. As the steward had said, the notary awaited him in the small salon. He was a simple-looking lawyer’s clerk, elevated to the extraordinary dignity of a provincial scrivener.

“You are the notary empowered to sell the country house that I wish to purchase, monsieur?” asked Monte Cristo.

“Yes, count,” returned the notary.

“Is the deed of sale ready?”

“Yes, count.”