“The Marquis of Saint-Méran. Ah, I am sure he has not sold the house for what he gave for it.”

“The Marquis of Saint-Méran!” returned the count. “The name is not unknown to me; the Marquis of Saint-Méran!” and he appeared to meditate.

“An old gentleman,” continued the concierge, “a staunch follower of the Bourbons; he had an only daughter, who married M. de Villefort, who had been the king’s attorney at Nîmes, and afterwards at Versailles.”

Monte Cristo glanced at Bertuccio, who became whiter than the wall against which he leaned to prevent himself from falling.

“And is not this daughter dead?” demanded Monte Cristo; “I fancy I have heard so.”

“Yes, monsieur, one-and-twenty years ago; and since then we have not seen the poor marquis three times.”