“I never knew till now the delight of speed,” said Morcerf, and the last cloud disappeared from his brow; “but where the devil do you get such horses? Are they made to order?”
“Precisely,” said the count; “six years since I bought a horse in Hungary remarkable for its swiftness. The thirty-two that we shall use tonight are its progeny; they are all entirely black, with the exception of a star upon the forehead.”
“That is perfectly admirable; but what do you do, count, with all these horses?”
“You see, I travel with them.”
“But you are not always travelling.”
“When I no longer require them, Bertuccio will sell them, and he expects to realize thirty or forty thousand francs by the sale.”
“But no monarch in Europe will be wealthy enough to purchase them.”
“Then he will sell them to some Eastern vizier, who will empty his coffers to purchase them, and refill them by applying the bastinado to his subjects.”
“Count, may I suggest one idea to you?”
“Certainly.”
“It is that, next to you, Bertuccio must be the richest gentleman in Europe.”
“You are mistaken, viscount; I believe he has not a franc in his possession.”