expression of the most sincere joy, seemed amply repaid by a mere look from Monte Cristo. The other bowed respectfully, and offered his arm to assist the count in descending.
“Thanks, M. Bertuccio,” said the count, springing lightly up the three steps of the portico; “and the notary?”
“He is in the small salon, excellency,” returned Bertuccio.
“And the cards I ordered to be engraved as soon as you knew the number of the house?”
“Your excellency, it is done already. I have been myself to the best engraver of the Palais Royal, who did the plate in my presence.
The first card struck off was taken, according to your orders, to the Baron Danglars, Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin, No. 7; the others are on the mantelpiece of your excellency’s bedroom.”
“Good; what o’clock is it?”
“Four o’clock.”
Monte Cristo gave his hat, cane, and gloves to the same French footman who had called his carriage at the Count of Morcerf’s, and then he passed into the small salon, preceded by Bertuccio, who showed him the way.
“These are but indifferent marbles in this antechamber,” said Monte Cristo. “I trust all this will soon be taken away.”
Bertuccio bowed. As the steward had said, the notary awaited him in the small salon. He was a simple-looking lawyer’s clerk, elevated to the extraordinary dignity of a provincial scrivener.