“Rue de la Fontaine.”
“Rue de la Fontaine!” exclaimed Villefort in an agitated tone; “at what number?”
“No. 28.”
“Then,” cried Villefort, “was it you who bought M. de Saint-Méran’s house!”
“Did it belong to M. de Saint-Méran?” demanded Monte Cristo.
“Yes,” replied Madame de Villefort; “and, would you believe it, count——”
“Believe what?”
“You think this house pretty, do you not?”
“I think it charming.”
“Well, my husband would never live in it.”
“Indeed?” returned Monte Cristo, “that is a prejudice on your part, M. de Villefort, for which I am quite at a loss to account.”
“I do not like Auteuil, sir,” said the procureur, making an evident effort to appear calm.
“But I hope you will not carry your antipathy so far as to deprive me of the pleasure of your company, sir,” said Monte Cristo.
“No, count,—I hope—I assure you I shall do my best,” stammered Villefort.
“Oh,” said Monte Cristo, “I allow of no excuse. On Saturday, at six o’clock. I shall be expecting you, and if you fail to come, I shall think—for how do I know to the contrary?—that this house, which has remained uninhabited for twenty years, must have some gloomy tradition or dreadful legend connected with it.”
“I will come, count,—I will be sure to come,” said Villefort eagerly.
“Thank you,” said Monte Cristo; “now you must permit me to take my leave of you.”
“You said before that you were obliged to leave us, monsieur,” said Madame de Villefort, “and you were about to tell us why when your attention was called to some other subject.”