“Well,” said the count, “you do not get out, M. Bertuccio—you are going to stay in the carriage, then? What are you thinking of this evening?”
Bertuccio sprang out, and offered his shoulder to the count, who, this time, leaned upon it as he descended the three steps of the carriage.
“Knock,” said the count, “and announce me.”
Bertuccio knocked, the door opened, and the concierge appeared.
“What is it?” asked he.
“It is your new master, my good fellow,” said the footman. And he held out to the concierge the notary’s order.
“The house is sold, then?” demanded the concierge; “and this gentleman is coming to live here?”
“Yes, my friend,” returned the count; “and I will endeavor to give you no cause to regret your old master.”
“Oh, monsieur,” said the concierge, “I shall not have much cause to regret him, for he came here but seldom; it is five years since he was here last, and he did well to sell the house, for it did not bring him in anything at all.”
“What was the name of your old master?” said Monte Cristo.
“The Marquis of Saint-Méran. Ah, I am sure he has not sold the house for what he gave for it.”
“The Marquis of Saint-Méran!” returned the count. “The name is not unknown to me; the Marquis of Saint-Méran!” and he appeared to meditate.
“An old gentleman,” continued the concierge, “a staunch follower of the Bourbons; he had an only daughter, who married M. de Villefort, who