The groom, in obedience to his orders, tapped at the window of the porter’s lodge, saying:
“Pray, does not the Count of Monte Cristo live here?”
“His excellency does reside here,” replied the concierge; “but——” added he, glancing an inquiring look at Ali. Ali returned a sign in the negative.
“But what?” asked the groom.
“His excellency does not receive visitors today.”
“Then here is my master’s card, the Baron Danglars. You will take it to the count, and say that, although in haste to attend the Chamber, my master came out of his way to have the honor of calling upon him.”
“I never speak to his excellency,” replied the concierge; “the valet de chambre will carry your message.”
The groom returned to the carriage.
“Well?” asked Danglars.
The man, somewhat crest-fallen by the rebuke he had received, repeated what the concierge had said.
“Bless me,” murmured Baron Danglars, “this must surely be a prince instead of a count by their styling him ‘excellency,’ and only venturing to address him by the medium of his valet de chambre. However, it does not signify; he has a letter of credit on me, so I must see him when he requires his money.”
Then, throwing himself back in his carriage, Danglars called out to his coachman, in a voice that might be heard across the road, “To the Chamber of Deputies.”
Apprised in time of the visit paid him, Monte Cristo had, from behind the blinds of his pavilion, as minutely observed the baron, by means of an excellent lorgnette, as Danglars himself had scrutinized the house, garden, and servants.