Albert left the cab in which he had come at the count’s door, intending to take a turn on foot. As he was passing the Allée des Veuves, he thought he saw the count’s horses standing at Gosset’s shooting-gallery; he approached, and soon recognized the coachman.
“Is the count shooting in the gallery?” said Morcerf.
“Yes, sir,” replied the coachman. While he was speaking, Albert had heard the report of two or three pistol-shots. He entered, and on his way met the waiter.
“Excuse me, my lord,” said the lad; “but will you have the kindness to wait a moment?”
“What for, Philip?” asked Albert, who, being a constant visitor there, did not understand this opposition to his entrance.
“Because the person who is now in the gallery prefers being alone, and never practices in the presence of anyone.”
“Not even before you, Philip? Then who loads his pistol?”
“His servant.”
“A Nubian?”
“A negro.”
“It is he, then.”
“Do you know this gentleman?”
“Yes, and I am come to look for him; he is a friend of mine.”
“Oh, that is quite another thing, then. I will go immediately and inform him of your arrival.”
And Philip, urged by his own curiosity, entered the gallery; a second afterwards, Monte Cristo appeared on the threshold.
“I ask your pardon, my dear count,” said Albert, “for following you here, and I must first tell you that it was not the fault of your servants that I did so; I alone am to blame for the indiscretion. I went to your house, and they told me you were out, but that they expected you home at ten o’clock to breakfast. I was walking about in order to pass away the time till ten o’clock, when I caught sight of your carriage and horses.”