Chapter 116: The House at Auteuil: I
The Count arrived at his mansion in just six minutes, but those six minutes were enough for twenty wealthy young men to recognize his incredibly expensive carriage and kick their horses into a gallop, desperate to catch another glimpse of the mysterious foreigner who could casually drop forty thousand on a pair of horses.
The house his servant Ali had selected stood majestically on the right side of the famous tree-lined avenue. Thick clusters of trees and bushes concealed part of the entrance, while two curved driveways swept around them like elegant arms, leading from the iron gates to an impressive double entrance. Porcelain vases overflowing with flowers adorned every step.
This isolated estate had two entrances, the main one and a side entrance on a different street. Before the coachman could even announce their arrival, the massive gates swung open smoothly. They’d seen the Count coming. In this city, like everywhere else, he was served with lightning speed.
The carriage swept through the courtyard without slowing, and the gates closed behind them before the wheels stopped crunching on the gravel. When they pulled up to the left side of the entrance, two men appeared at the carriage window.
Ali smiled with pure, genuine joy, a single glance from Monte Cristo was reward enough for him. The other man bowed respectfully and extended his arm to help the Count down.
"Thanks, Mr. Bertuccio," the Count said, springing lightly up the three steps. "Is the notary here?"
"He’s waiting in the small sitting room, Your Excellency," Bertuccio replied.
"And those business cards I ordered, the ones with my new address?"
"Already done, Your Excellency. I went to the best engraver in the city myself and watched him make the plate. The first card was delivered to Baron Danglars at his residence, just as you ordered. The rest are on your bedroom mantelpiece."
"Good. What time is it?"
"Four o’clock."
Monte Cristo handed his hat, cane, and gloves to the French footman who had called his carriage earlier, then entered the small sitting room with Bertuccio leading the way.
"These marble floors are mediocre at best," Monte Cristo remarked, glancing at the entrance hall. "I trust this will all be replaced soon."
Bertuccio bowed. As he’d said, the notary was waiting in the small sitting room, a simple lawyer’s clerk who’d been elevated to handle property transactions.
"You’re the notary authorized to sell the country house I wish to purchase?" Monte Cristo asked.
"Yes, Count," the notary replied.
"Is the sale contract ready?"
"Yes, Count."
"Did you bring it?"
"Right here."
"Excellent. And where exactly is this house I’m buying?" the Count asked casually, directing the question to both Bertuccio and the notary.
The steward made a gesture that clearly said, ’I have no idea.’
The notary looked at the Count with obvious surprise. "What! The Count doesn’t know where the house he’s purchasing is located?"
"No," the Count replied calmly.
"You really don’t know?"
"How would I? I just arrived from the south this morning. I’ve never been to this city before, this is literally my first time setting foot in this entire country."
"Ah, that explains it! The house you’re purchasing is in Auteuil."
At those words, Bertuccio went pale.
"And where is Auteuil?" the Count asked.
"Very close by, sir," the notary answered. "Just beyond the nearby district, a charming location in the heart of the forest park."
"That close?" the Count said. "But that’s hardly the countryside. What made you choose a house at the city gates, Mr. Bertuccio?"
"Me?" the steward cried with a strange expression. "Your Excellency didn’t ask me to purchase this house! If Your Excellency will remember, if you’ll think back-"
"Ah, true," Monte Cristo observed. "I remember now. I saw an advertisement in one of the newspapers and was tempted by the misleading title: ’country house.’"
"It’s not too late!" Bertuccio said eagerly. "If Your Excellency will allow me, I can find you something much better, in other districts, farther out from the city center!"
"Oh no," Monte Cristo replied casually. "Since I’ve got this one, I’ll keep it."
"And you’re absolutely right," the notary said quickly, worried about losing his fee. "It’s a wonderful property, with natural spring water and beautiful trees. A comfortable residence, though it’s been abandoned for years. Not to mention the furniture, it may be old, but it’s valuable now that antiques are so fashionable. I assume the Count appreciates vintage items?"
"Of course," Monte Cristo said. "So it’s convenient, then?"
"It’s more than convenient, it’s magnificent."
"Perfect! Let’s not miss this opportunity," Monte Cristo declared. "The contract, please."
He signed rapidly after quickly scanning the section that specified the property’s location and previous owners.
"Bertuccio," he said, "give this gentleman fifty-five thousand."
The steward left with an unsteady step and returned with a bundle of banknotes. The notary counted them carefully, like someone who never writes receipts until confirming every bill is genuine.
"Now then," the Count asked, "are all the formalities complete?"
"Everything, sir."
"Do you have the keys?"
"They’re with the caretaker who looks after the house, but here’s the authorization letter for him to grant you access to your new property."
"Very well." Monte Cristo waved his hand dismissively at the notary.
"But," the honest notary protested, "the Count is mistaken, I believe. It’s only fifty thousand total, everything included."
"And your fee?"
"Is included in that sum."
"But didn’t you travel all the way here from Auteuil?"
"Yes, certainly."
"Well then, it’s only fair you’re compensated for your time and trouble," the Count said with a polite, final gesture.
The notary backed out of the room, bowing repeatedly, he’d never encountered a client like this before.
"Show this gentleman out," the Count instructed Bertuccio.
The steward followed the notary out. As soon as the Count was alone, he pulled out a small locked book from his pocket and opened it with a key he wore around his neck, a key that never left him. After searching for a few moments, he stopped at a page filled with notes and compared them with the property deed on the table, refreshing his memories.
"Auteuil, Fountain Street, Number 28," he murmured. "It really is the same place. Now, can I trust a confession extracted through religious fear or physical terror? Well, in an hour I’ll know everything."
He struck a small gong with a flexible hammer. "Bertuccio!"
The steward appeared at the door.
"Mr. Bertuccio," the Count said, "didn’t you once tell me you’d traveled in this country?"
"In some parts, yes, Your Excellency."
"Then you know the areas around the city?"
"No, Your Excellency, no," the steward replied with nervous trembling that Monte Cristo, an expert in reading all emotions, correctly attributed to deep anxiety.
"That’s unfortunate," the Count continued, "because I want to see my new property this evening, and if you’d come with me, you could have given me useful information."
"To Auteuil!" Bertuccio cried, his tanned complexion turning deathly pale. "I’m supposed to go to Auteuil?"
"Well, what’s so surprising about that? When I live in Auteuil, you’ll have to come there, you’re in my service."
Bertuccio hung his head before his master’s commanding gaze, remaining motionless and silent.
"What’s wrong with you? Are you going to make me ring for the carriage twice?" Monte Cristo asked in the same tone a king might use when saying, "I almost had to wait."
Bertuccio practically leaped to the entrance hall and shouted hoarsely, "His Excellency’s carriage!"
Monte Cristo wrote several notes, and as he sealed the last one, the steward reappeared.
"Your Excellency’s carriage is ready," he announced.
"Good. Get your hat and gloves," Monte Cristo instructed.
"I’m... accompanying you, Your Excellency?" Bertuccio stammered.
"Naturally. You need to give instructions since I intend to live there."
It was unprecedented for one of the Count’s servants to dare dispute his orders, so the steward, wordless, followed his master to the carriage. The Count got in and gestured for him to follow. Bertuccio climbed in, taking his place respectfully on the front seat.
As they descended the stairs, Monte Cristo noticed Bertuccio making the sign of the cross in the distinctive way people from his homeland did, drawing it in the air with his thumb. As he settled into the carriage, the steward muttered a short prayer.
Anyone less intensely curious than the Count would have taken pity on seeing the steward’s obvious dread of this journey. But Monte Cristo was far too intrigued to let Bertuccio escape this little excursion.
Twenty minutes later, they reached Auteuil. The steward’s distress had grown steadily worse as they entered the village. Bertuccio, huddled in the corner of the carriage, began examining every house they passed with feverish anxiety.
"Tell them to stop at Fountain Street, Number 28," the Count ordered, fixing his eyes on the steward.
Sweat covered Bertuccio’s forehead, but he obeyed. Leaning out the window, he called to the coachman, "Fountain Street, Number 28!"