“ ‘Auteuil, Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28;’ it is indeed the same,” said he; “and now, am I to rely upon an avowal extorted by religious or physical terror? However, in an hour I shall know all. Bertuccio!” cried he, striking a light hammer with a pliant handle on a small gong. “Bertuccio!”

The steward appeared at the door.

“Monsieur Bertuccio,” said the count, “did you never tell me that you had travelled in France?”

“In some parts of France⁠—yes, excellency.”

“You know the environs of Paris, then?”

“No, excellency, no,” returned the steward, with a sort of nervous trembling, which Monte Cristo, a connoisseur in all emotions, rightly attributed to great disquietude.