“The count does not know?”
“How should I know? I have arrived from Cadiz this morning. I have never before been at Paris, and it is the first time I have ever even set my foot in France.”
“Ah, that is different; the house you purchase is at Auteuil.”
At these words Bertuccio turned pale.
“And where is Auteuil?” asked the count.
“Close by here, monsieur,” replied the notary—“a little beyond Passy; a charming situation, in the heart of the Bois de Boulogne.”
“So near as that?” said the Count; “but that is not in the country. What made you choose a house at the gates of Paris, M. Bertuccio?”
“I,” cried the steward with a strange expression. “His excellency did not charge me to purchase this house. If his excellency will recollect—if he will think——”
“Ah, true,” observed Monte Cristo; “I recollect now. I read the advertisement in one of the papers, and was tempted by the false title, ‘a country house.’”
“It is not yet too late,” cried Bertuccio, eagerly; “and if your excellency will intrust me with the commission, I will find you a better at Enghien, at Fontenay-aux-Roses, or at Bellevue.”
“Oh, no,” returned Monte Cristo negligently; “since I have this, I will keep it.”
“And you are quite right,” said the notary, who feared to lose his fee. “It is a charming place, well supplied with spring-water and fine trees; a comfortable habitation, although abandoned for a long time, without reckoning the furniture, which, although old, is yet valuable, now that old things are so much sought after. I suppose the count has the tastes of the day?”