“To be sure,” returned Monte Cristo; “it is very convenient, then?”
“It is more—it is magnificent.”
“Peste! let us not lose such an opportunity,” returned Monte Cristo. “The deed, if you please, Mr. Notary.”
And he signed it rapidly, after having first run his eye over that part of the deed in which were specified the situation of the house and the names of the proprietors.
“Bertuccio,” said he, “give fifty-five thousand francs to monsieur.”
The steward left the room with a faltering step, and returned with a bundle of bank-notes, which the notary counted like a man who never gives a receipt for money until after he is sure it is all there.
“And now,” demanded the count, “are all the forms complied with?”
“All, sir.”
“Have you the keys?”
“They are in the hands of the concierge, who takes care of the house, but here is the order I have given him to install the count in his new possessions.”
“Very well;” and Monte Cristo made a sign with his hand to the notary, which said, “I have no further need of you; you may go.”
“But,” observed the honest notary, “the count is, I think, mistaken; it is only fifty thousand francs, everything included.”
“And your fee?”
“Is included in this sum.”
“But have you not come from Auteuil here?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Well, then, it is but fair that you should be paid for your loss of time and trouble,” said the count; and he made a gesture of polite dismissal.