“Oh, your excellency, your excellency!” cried the steward, struck with terror at this threat, “if that is the only reason I cannot remain in your service, I will tell all, for if I quit you, it will only be to go to the scaffold.”
“That is different,” replied Monte Cristo; “but if you intend to tell an untruth, reflect it were better not to speak at all.”
“No, monsieur, I swear to you, by my hopes of salvation, I will tell you all, for the Abbé Busoni himself only knew a part of my secret; but, I pray you, go away from that plane-tree. The moon is just bursting through the clouds, and there, standing where you do, and wrapped in that cloak that conceals your figure, you remind me of M. de Villefort.”
“What!” cried Monte Cristo, “it was M. de Villefort?”
“Your excellency knows him?”
“The former royal attorney at Nîmes?”
“Yes.”
“Who married the Marquis of Saint-Méran’s daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Who enjoyed the reputation of being the most severe, the most upright, the most rigid magistrate on the bench?”
“Well, monsieur,” said Bertuccio, “this man with this spotless reputation——”
“Well?”
“Was a villain.”
“Bah,” replied Monte Cristo, “impossible!”
“It is as I tell you.”
“Ah, really,” said Monte Cristo. “Have you proof of this?”
“I had it.”
“And you have lost it; how stupid!”
“Yes; but by careful search it might be recovered.”
“Really,” returned the count, “relate it to me, for it begins to interest me.”
And the count, humming an air from Lucia, went to sit down on a bench, while Bertuccio followed him, collecting his thoughts. Bertuccio remained standing before him.