CHAPTER XLIII
THE HOUSE OF AUTEUIL
ONTE-CRISTO had remarked that, as they descended the staircase, Bertuccio signed himself in the Corsican manner,—that is, had formed the sign of the cross in the air with his thumb,—and as he seated himself in the carriage, muttered a short prayer. Any one but a curious man would have had pity on seeing the steward's extraordinary repugnance for the count's projected drive extra muros; but it seemed the count was too curious to excuse Bertuccio this little journey.
In twenty minutes they were at Auteuil; the steward's emotion had continued to augment as they entered the village. Bertuccio, crouched in a corner of the carriage, began to examine with a feverish anxiety every house they passed.
"Tell them to stop at Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28," said the count, fixing his eyes on the steward, to whom he gave this order.
Bertuccio's forehead was covered with perspiration; but, however, he obeyed, and, leaning out of the window, he cried to the coachman,—"Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28." No. 28 was situated at the extremity of the village; during the drive night had set in, or rather, a black cloud, charged with electricity, gave to the premature darkness the appearance and solemnity of a dramatic episode. The carriage stopped, the footman sprang off the box and opened the door.
"Well," said the count, "you do not get out, M. Bertuccio—you are going to stay in the carriage, then? What are you thinking of this evening?"
Bertuccio sprang out, and offered his shoulder-to the count, who, this time, leaned upon it as he descended the three steps of the carriage.
"Knock," said the count, "and announce me."
Bertuccio knocked, the door opened, and the concierge appeared.
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