At the same moment, that is, at nine o’clock in the morning, Albert de Morcerf, dressed in a black coat buttoned up to his chin, might have been seen walking with a quick and agitated step in the direction of Monte Cristo’s house in the Champs-Élysées. When he presented himself at the gate the porter informed him that the Count had gone out about half an hour previously.
“Did he take Baptistin with him?”
“No, my lord.”
“Call him, then; I wish to speak to him.”
The concierge went to seek the valet de chambre, and returned with him in an instant.
“My good friend,” said Albert, “I beg pardon for my intrusion, but I was anxious to know from your own mouth if your master was really out or not.”
“He is really out, sir,” replied Baptistin.
“Out, even to me?”
“I know how happy my master always is to receive the vicomte,” said Baptistin; “and I should therefore never think of including him in any general order.”
“You are right; and now I wish to see him on an affair of great importance. Do you think it will be long before he comes in?”