“These are but indifferent marbles in this antechamber,” said Monte Cristo. “I trust all this will soon be taken away.”
Bertuccio bowed. As the steward had said, the notary awaited him in the small salon. He was a simple-looking lawyer’s clerk, elevated to the extraordinary dignity of a provincial scrivener.
“You are the notary empowered to sell the country house that I wish to purchase, monsieur?” asked Monte Cristo.
“Yes, count,” returned the notary.
“Is the deed of sale ready?”
“Yes, count.”
“Have you brought it?”
“Here it is.”
“Very well; and where is this house that I purchase?” asked the count carelessly, addressing himself half to Bertuccio, half to the notary. The steward made a gesture that signified, “I do not know.” The notary looked at the count with astonishment.
“What!” said he, “does not the count know where the house he purchases is situated?”