“That’s well,” said Monte Cristo; “I remain here a day or two—arrange accordingly.”
As Bertuccio was leaving the room to give the requisite orders, Baptistin opened the door: he held a letter on a silver waiter.
“What are you doing here?” asked the count, seeing him covered with dust; “I did not send for you, I think?”
Baptistin, without answering, approached the count, and presented the letter. “Important and urgent,” said he.
The count opened the letter, and read:
“ ‘ M. de Monte Cristo is apprised that this night a man will enter his house in the Champs-Élysées with the intention of carrying off some papers supposed to be in the secretaire in the dressing-room. The count’s well-known courage will render unnecessary the aid of the police, whose interference might seriously affect him who sends this advice. The count, by any opening from the bedroom, or by concealing himself in the dressing-room, would be able to defend his property himself. Many attendants or apparent precautions would prevent the villain from the attempt, and M. de Monte Cristo would lose the opportunity of discovering an enemy whom chance has revealed to him who now sends this warning to the count—a warning he might not be able to send another time, if this first attempt should fail and another be made.’ ”
The count’s