“Why?”
“Because I should never get a better.”
“Probabilities are deceptive.”
“But I deal in certainties; he is the best servant over whom one has the power of life and death.”
“Do you possess that right over Bertuccio?”
“Yes.”
There are words which close a conversation with an iron door; such was the count’s “yes.”
The whole journey was performed with equal rapidity; the thirty-two horses, dispersed over seven stages, brought them to their destination in eight hours. At midnight they arrived at the gate of a beautiful park. The porter was in attendance; he had been apprised by the groom of the last stage of the count’s approach. At half past two in the morning Morcerf was conducted to his apartments, where a bath and supper were prepared. The servant who had travelled at the back of the carriage waited on him; Baptistin, who rode in front, attended the count.
Albert bathed, took his supper, and went to bed. All night he was lulled by the melancholy noise of the surf. On rising, he went to his window, which opened on a terrace, having the sea in front, and at the back a pretty park bounded by a small forest.
In a creek lay a little sloop, with a narrow keel and high masts, bearing on its flag the Monte Cristo arms which were a mountain or, on a sea azure, with a cross gules in chief which might be an allusion to his name that recalled Calvary, the mount rendered by our Lord’s passion more precious than gold, and to the degrading cross which his blood had rendered holy; or it might be some personal remembrance of suffering and regeneration buried in the night of this mysterious personage’s past life.