Chapter 117: The House at Auteuil: II
Number 28 sat at the far edge of the village. Night had fallen during their drive, and the darkness gave everything an eerie, theatrical quality. The carriage stopped. The footman jumped down and opened the door.
"Well?" the Count said. "You’re not getting out, Mr. Bertuccio? Planning to stay in the carriage? What are you thinking about?"
Bertuccio sprang out and offered his shoulder to the Count, who leaned on it as he descended the three carriage steps.
"Knock," the Count commanded, "and announce me."
Bertuccio knocked. The door opened, and a caretaker appeared.
"Yes?" the man asked.
"Your new master, my friend," the footman said, handing over the notary’s authorization.
"The house is sold, then?" the caretaker asked. "And this gentleman is moving in?"
"Yes, my friend," the Count replied. "And I’ll do my best to ensure you don’t regret your old master."
"Oh, sir, I won’t regret him much. He barely came here, it’s been five years since his last visit. He did well to sell the house; it wasn’t bringing him any income."
"What was your old master’s name?" Monte Cristo asked.
"The Marquis of Saint-Méran. I’m sure he didn’t sell it for what he paid."
"The Marquis of Saint-Méran!" the Count repeated. "That name isn’t unfamiliar to me..." He appeared to think deeply.
"An elderly gentleman," the caretaker continued, "a loyal supporter of the old royal family. He had only one daughter, who married Mr. de Villefort, he was a royal prosecutor in the south, then later near the capital."
Monte Cristo glanced at Bertuccio, who had turned whiter than the wall he was leaning against to keep from collapsing.
"And isn’t this daughter dead?" Monte Cristo asked. "I think I heard something about that."
"Yes, sir, twenty-one years ago. We’ve barely seen the poor marquis three times since then."
"I see, thank you," Monte Cristo said, judging from the steward’s complete breakdown that he couldn’t push any further without breaking him entirely. "Give me a light."
"Should I come with you, sir?"
"No, that’s unnecessary. Bertuccio will show me around."
Monte Cristo accompanied these words with two gold coins, which produced a flood of thanks and blessings from the caretaker.
"Ah, sir," the man said after searching the mantelpiece and shelves, "I don’t have any candles."
"Take one of the carriage lamps, Bertuccio," the Count ordered. "And show me the rooms."
The steward obeyed silently, but it was painfully obvious from the way his hand trembled holding the light how much this was costing him.
They toured a fairly large ground floor. The upper level consisted of a sitting room, a bathroom, and two bedrooms. Near one bedroom, they found a winding staircase that led down to the garden.
"Ah, a private staircase," the Count observed. "How convenient. Light the way, Mr. Bertuccio, and go first. Let’s see where it goes."
"Sir," Bertuccio replied, "it leads to the garden."
"And how exactly do you know that?"
"It... should lead there, at least."
"Well, let’s make sure."
Bertuccio sighed and went first. The stairs did indeed lead to the garden. At the outer door, the steward stopped.
"Continue, Mr. Bertuccio," the Count said.
But the man stood frozen, stupefied, bewildered and stunned. His wild eyes darted around as if searching for traces of some terrible event. His clenched fists seemed to be trying to shut out horrifying memories.
"Well?" the Count insisted.
"No, no," Bertuccio cried, setting the lantern down against the interior wall. "No, sir, it’s impossible. I can’t go any farther."
"What does this mean?" Monte Cristo demanded in that irresistible voice of his.
"Don’t you see, Your Excellency," the steward cried, "this isn’t natural! You had a house to purchase, and you bought one at Auteuil specifically. And purchasing one at Auteuil, it happens to be Number 28, Fountain Street! Oh, why didn’t I tell you everything? I’m sure you wouldn’t have forced me to come! I hoped your house would be some other property, as if there were any other house in Auteuil besides the murder house!"
"What? What!" Monte Cristo exclaimed, stopping abruptly. "What are you saying? You impossible man, you superstitious islander, always mysteries and ghost stories! Come, take the lantern and let’s explore the garden. You’re not afraid of ghosts when you’re with me, I hope?"
Bertuccio picked up the lantern and obeyed.
The door opened onto a gloomy sky where the moon struggled vainly against a sea of clouds, illuminating them for brief moments before sinking back into darkness.
The steward tried to turn left.
"No, no, sir," Monte Cristo said. "Why follow the paths? Here’s a beautiful lawn, let’s walk straight across."
Bertuccio wiped the sweat from his forehead but obeyed, though he continued trying to veer left. Monte Cristo deliberately took the right path. When they reached a cluster of trees, he stopped.
The steward couldn’t restrain himself. "Move, sir, please move! You’re standing exactly on the spot!"
"What spot?"
"Where he fell."
"My dear Mr. Bertuccio," Monte Cristo said with a laugh, "control yourself! We’re not on your native island anymore. This isn’t some wild mountain wilderness, it’s just a neglected English garden. You mustn’t slander it."
"Sir, I’m begging you not to stand there!"
"I think you’re going mad, Bertuccio," the Count said coldly. "If that’s the case, I should warn you, I’ll have you committed to an asylum."
"Alas, Your Excellency," Bertuccio replied, clasping his hands and shaking his head in a way that would have made the Count laugh if more important matters hadn’t occupied his attention. "Alas, Your Excellency, the evil has already happened!"
"Mr. Bertuccio," the Count said, "I notice that while you’re gesticulating wildly, wringing your hands, and rolling your eyes like a man possessed by a demon, you remind me of something. I’ve always observed that the most stubborn demons are secrets. I know you’re from that island. I know you’re brooding over some old blood-feud story, and I overlooked that because such things are common where you’re from. But here, they’re considered extremely distasteful. There are police who handle such matters, judges who pass sentences, and execution platforms for revenge."
Bertuccio clasped his hands, and throughout all these dramatic movements, he never dropped the lantern. Its light revealed his pale, stricken face.
Monte Cristo examined him with the same penetrating look he’d once used while watching an execution, then said in a tone that sent shivers through the poor steward’s veins:
"So Abbot Busoni lied to me, did he? When he sent you to me in 1829 after his journey here, he gave me a letter of recommendation listing all your valuable qualities. Well, I’ll write to the abbot. I’ll hold him responsible for his protégé’s misconduct, and I’ll soon learn all about this assassination. But I warn you, when I live in a country, I follow its laws. I have no desire to fall under the jurisdiction of the authorities here because of your actions."
"Oh, don’t do that, Your Excellency! I’ve always served you faithfully!" Bertuccio cried in despair. "I’ve always been an honest man, and as much as I could, I’ve done good!"
"I don’t deny it," the Count replied. "But why are you so agitated? It’s a bad sign. A clear conscience doesn’t cause such pale cheeks and fevered hands."
"But, Your Excellency," Bertuccio said hesitantly, "didn’t Abbot Busoni, who heard my confession in prison, tell you I carried a heavy burden on my conscience?"
"Yes, but since he said you’d make an excellent steward, I assumed you’d stolen something, that was all."
"Oh, Your Excellency," Bertuccio said with deep contempt.
"Or, since you’re from that island, I thought perhaps you’d been unable to resist the desire to settle a blood debt, what you people call ’making things even.’"
"Yes, my good master," Bertuccio cried, throwing himself at the Count’s feet. "It was simply vengeance, nothing more!"
"I understand that. But I don’t understand what’s affecting you so dramatically right now."
"But, sir, it’s only natural," Bertuccio replied, "since my vengeance was carried out in *this house*."
"What? My house?"
"Oh, Your Excellency, it wasn’t yours then.
"Whose was it then? The Marquis de Saint-Méran’s, I believe the caretaker said. What did you have against the Marquis?"
"Oh, it wasn’t him, sir. It was someone else."
"This is strange," Monte Cristo mused, seeming to yield to reflection. "That you should find yourself, completely unprepared, in the very house where the event occurred that causes you such remorse."
"Sir," the steward said, "it’s fate, I’m certain. First, you purchase a house in Auteuil, and it’s the house where I committed murder. You descend to the garden by the same staircase he used. You stop at the exact spot where he was struck. And just two steps farther is the grave where he’d just buried his child! This isn’t coincidence, coincidence like this is too much like divine intervention."
"Well, my anxious islander, let’s suppose it is divine intervention. I’m always willing to accept whatever people believe. Besides, I make allowances for troubled minds. Come now, collect yourself and tell me everything."
"I’ve only told this story once before, to Abbot Busoni. Such things," Bertuccio continued, shaking his head, "should only be spoken of in confession."
"Then," the Count said, "I refer you to your confessor. Go join some monastery and share your secrets there. As for me, I don’t employ anyone who’s frightened by phantoms. I won’t have my servants afraid to walk in the garden at night. Frankly, I’m not eager for a visit from the police inspector. Back on my island, justice is only satisfied when it’s silent, here, justice is only satisfied when it speaks! I thought you were somewhat from your homeland, mostly a smuggler, and an excellent steward. But I see you have other talents I didn’t know about. You’re no longer in my service, Mr. Bertuccio."
"Oh, Your Excellency!" the steward cried, terrified by this threat. "If that’s the only reason I can’t remain in your service, I’ll tell you everything! Because if I leave you, my next stop will be the execution platform!"
"That’s different," Monte Cristo replied. "But if you plan to lie, remember, it would be better not to speak at all."
"No, sir, I swear on my hopes of salvation, I’ll tell you the truth! Even Abbot Busoni only knew part of my secret. But please, move away from that plane tree. The moon is breaking through the clouds, and standing there, wrapped in that cloak that conceals your figure, you remind me of Mr. de Villefort."
"What!" Monte Cristo exclaimed. "It was Mr. de Villefort?"
"Your Excellency knows him?"
"The former royal prosecutor from the south?"
"Yes."
"Who married the Marquis of Saint-Méran’s daughter?"
"Yes."
"Who had the reputation of being the most severe, most upright, most rigid magistrate on the bench?"
"Well, sir," Bertuccio said, "this man with his spotless reputation-"
"Yes?"
"-was a villain."
"What?" Monte Cristo replied. "Impossible!"
"It’s exactly as I’m telling you."
"Really?" Monte Cristo said. "Do you have proof?"
"I had it."
"And you lost it? How careless!"
"Yes, but with careful investigation, it might be recovered."
"Indeed," the Count said. "Tell me the story, you’ve definitely caught my interest now."
The Count hummed a tune and sat down on a nearby bench while Bertuccio remained standing before him, gathering his thoughts to begin his tale.