“It is Ali!” cried Albert, in the midst of the general surprise.
“Yes, Ali himself, my Nubian mute, whom you saw, I think, at Rome.”
“Certainly,” said Morcerf; “I recollect him perfectly. But how could you charge a Nubian to purchase a house, and a mute to furnish it?—he will do everything wrong.”
“Undeceive yourself, monsieur,” replied Monte Cristo; “I am quite sure, that, on the contrary, he will choose everything as I wish. He knows my tastes, my caprices, my wants. He has been here a week, with the instinct of a hound, hunting by himself. He will arrange everything for me. He knew, that I should arrive today at ten o’clock; he was waiting for me at nine at the Barrière de Fontainebleau. He gave me this paper; it contains the number of my new abode; read it yourself,” and Monte Cristo passed a paper to Albert.
“Ah, that is really original,” said Beauchamp.
“And very princely,” added Château-Renaud.
“What, do you not know your house?” asked Debray.
“No,” said Monte Cristo; “I told you I did not wish to be behind my time; I dressed myself in the carriage, and descended at the viscount’s door.” The young men looked at each other; they did not know if it was a comedy Monte Cristo was playing, but every word he uttered had such an air of simplicity, that it was impossible to suppose what he said was false—besides, why should he tell a falsehood?
“We must content ourselves, then,” said Beauchamp, “with rendering the count all the little services in our power. I, in my quality of journalist, open all the theatres to him.”
“Thanks, monsieur,” returned Monte Cristo, “my steward has orders to take a box at each theatre.”