“Then he must be a wonder. My dear count, if you tell me many more marvellous things, I warn you I shall not believe them.”
“I countenance nothing that is marvellous, M. Albert. Tell me, why does a steward rob his master?”
“Because, I suppose, it is his nature to do so, for the love of robbing.”
“You are mistaken; it is because he has a wife and family, and ambitious desires for himself and them. Also because he is not sure of always retaining his situation, and wishes to provide for the future. Now, M. Bertuccio is alone in the world; he uses my property without accounting for the use he makes of it; he is sure never to leave my service.”
“Why?”
“Because I should never get a better.”
“Probabilities are deceptive.”
“But I deal in certainties; he is the best servant over whom one has the power of life and death.”
“Do you possess that right over Bertuccio?”
“Yes.”
There are words which close a conversation with an iron door; such was the count’s “yes.”
The whole journey was performed with equal rapidity; the thirty-two horses, dispersed over seven stages, brought them to their destination in eight hours. At midnight they arrived at the gate of a beautiful park. The porter was in attendance; he had been apprised by the groom of the last stage of the count’s approach.