“And is not this daughter dead?” demanded Monte Cristo; “I fancy I have heard so.”
“Yes, monsieur, one-and-twenty years ago; and since then we have not seen the poor marquis three times.”
“Thanks, thanks,” said Monte Cristo, judging from the steward’s utter prostration that he could not stretch the cord further without danger of breaking it. “Give me a light.”
“Shall I accompany you, monsieur?”
“No, it is unnecessary; Bertuccio will show me a light.”
And Monte Cristo accompanied these words by the gift of two gold pieces, which produced a torrent of thanks and blessings from the concierge.
“Ah, monsieur,” said he, after having vainly searched on the mantle-piece and the shelves, “I have not got any candles.”
“Take one of the carriage-lamps, Bertuccio,” said the count, “and show me the apartments.”
The steward obeyed in silence, but it was easy to see, from the manner in which the hand that held the light trembled, how much it cost him to obey. They went over a tolerably large ground floor; a first floor consisted of a salon, a bathroom, and two bedrooms; near one of the bedrooms they came to a winding staircase that led down to the garden.
“Ah, here is a private staircase,” said the count; “that is convenient. Light me, M. Bertuccio, and go first; we will see where it leads to.”