the baron?”
“I do not know him,” returned Monte Cristo; “but I shall probably soon make his acquaintance, for I have a credit opened with him by the house of Richard & Blount, of London, Arstein & Eskeles of Vienna, and Thomson & French at Rome.” As he pronounced the two last names, the count glanced at Maximilian Morrel. If the stranger expected to produce an effect on Morrel, he was not mistaken—Maximilian started as if he had been electrified.
“Thomson & French,” said he; “do you know this house, monsieur?”
“They are my bankers in the capital of the Christian world,” returned the count quietly. “Can my influence with them be of any service to you?”
“Oh, count, you could assist me perhaps in researches which have been, up to the present, fruitless. This house, in past years, did ours a great service, and has, I know not for what reason, always denied having rendered us this service.”
“I shall be at your orders,” said Monte Cristo bowing.
“But,” continued Morcerf, “apropos of Danglars—we have strangely wandered from the subject. We were speaking of a suitable habitation for the Count of Monte Cristo. Come, gentlemen, let us all propose some place. Where shall we lodge this new guest in our great capital?”
“Faubourg Saint-Germain,” said Château-Renaud. “The count will find there a charming hotel, with a court and garden.”
“Bah! Château-Renaud,” returned Debray, “you only know your dull and gloomy Faubourg Saint-Germain; do not pay any attention to him, count—live in the Chaussée d’Antin, that’s the real centre of Paris.”
“Boulevard de l’Opéra,” said Beauchamp; “the