“That fellow has a decidedly bad countenance,” said the count in a tone of disgust, as he shut up his glass into its ivory case. “How comes it that all do not retreat in aversion at sight of that flat, receding, serpent-like forehead, round, vulture-shaped head, and sharp-hooked nose, like the beak of a buzzard? Ali,” cried he, striking at the same time on the brazen gong. Ali appeared. “Summon Bertuccio,” said the count. Almost immediately Bertuccio entered the apartment.
“Did your excellency desire to see me?” inquired he.
“I did,” replied the count. “You no doubt observed the horses standing a few minutes since at the door?”
“Certainly, your excellency. I noticed them for their remarkable beauty.”
“Then how comes it,” said Monte Cristo with a frown, “that, when I desired you to purchase for me the finest pair of horses to be found in Paris, there is another pair, fully as fine as mine, not in my stables?”
At the look of displeasure, added to the angry tone in which the count spoke, Ali turned pale and held down his head.
“It is not your fault, my good Ali,” said the count in the Arabic language, and with a gentleness none would have thought him capable of showing, either in voice or face—“it is not your fault. You do not understand the points of English horses.”
The countenance of poor Ali recovered its serenity.
“Permit me to assure your excellency,” said Bertuccio, “that the horses you speak of were not to be sold when I purchased yours.”