“And those of the first floor?”
“You know they are never closed. Go!”
The count signified his intention of dining alone, and that no one but Ali should attend him. Having dined with his usual tranquillity and moderation, the count, making a signal to Ali to follow him, went out by the side-gate and on reaching the Bois de Boulogne turned, apparently without design, towards Paris and at twilight found himself opposite his house in the Champs-Élysées.
All was dark; one solitary, feeble light was burning in the porter’s lodge, about forty paces distant from the house, as Baptistin had said.
Monte Cristo leaned against a tree, and with that scrutinizing