Closely muffling his face in the folds of his cloak, that he might not be recognized, the Deputy from Marseilles passed hurriedly from street to street until he stood before a massive building in the Rue Vivienne. He rang the bell, and, when the concierge appeared, said to her:
"Is the Viscount Massetti at home?"
The woman, a large, fat, lumbering creature, cast a sleepy glance, that was half-curious, half-suspicious, at him and answered:
"Yes, Monsieur; but he bade me deny him to everybody."
"He will see me, however, my good woman," said M. Dantès. "Take my card to him."
The fat concierge took the card and glanced at it; when she read "Edmond Dantès, Deputy from Marseilles," she stared at the famous Republican leader like one possessed; then, filled with awe, she hastened away and climbed the stairs as fast as her cumbersome legs would let her. She returned, panting and puffing, followed by the Viscount's valet, who, with much ceremony and obsequiousness, conducted the distinguished visitor to his master's apartments.
The salon into which M. Dantès was ushered was large and sumptuously furnished; evidences of wealth and luxury were visible on every side, while everything displayed the utmost taste and elegance.
"To what am I indebted for the honor of this unexpected visit, my dear Count?" said Massetti, rising from a handsomely carved, red velvet upholstered arm-chair, in which he had been indolently reclining, and coming forward to greet his guest.
"To a matter that concerns both of us deeply," replied the Deputy, in a meaning tone.