The carriage stopped.

“Here we are,” said Monte Cristo; “it is only half-past ten o’clock, come in.”

“Certainly, I will.”

“My carriage shall take you back.”

“No, thank you; I gave orders for my coupé to follow me.”

“There it is, then,” said Monte Cristo, as he stepped out of the carriage. They both went into the house; the drawing-room was lighted up⁠—they went in there. “You will make tea for us, Baptistin,” said the count. Baptistin left the room without waiting to answer, and in two seconds reappeared, bringing on a tray, all that his master had ordered, ready prepared, and appearing to have sprung from the ground, like the repasts which we read of in fairy tales.