MONTE CRISTO noticed, as they descended the staircase, that Bertuccio signed himself in the Corsican manner; that is, had formed the sign of the cross in the air with his thumb, and as he seated himself in the carriage, muttered a short prayer. Any one but a man of exhaustless thirst for knowledge would have had pity on seeing the steward's extraordinary repugnance for the count's projected drive without the walls; but the Count was too curious to let Bertuccio off from this little journey. In twenty minutes they were at Auteuil; the steward's emotion had continued to augment as they entered the village. Bertuccio, crouched in the corner of the carriage, began to examine with a feverish anxiety every house they passed. "Tell them to stop at Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28," said the count, fixing his eyes on the steward, to whom he gave this order. Bertuccio's forehead was covered with perspiration; however, he obeyed, and, leaning out of the window, he cried to the coachman,--"Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28." No. 28 was situated at the extremity of the village; during the drive night had set in, and darkness gave the surroundings the artificial appearance of a scene on the stage. The carriage stopped, the footman sprang off the box, and opened the door. "Well," said the count, "you do not get out, M. Bertuccio--you are going to stay in the carriage, then? What are you thinking of this evening?" Bertuccio sprang out, and offered his shoulder to the count, who, this time, leaned upon it as he descended the three steps of the carriage. "Knock," said the count, "and announce me." Bertuccio knocked, the door opened, and the concièrge appeared. "What is it?" asked he.

"It is your new master, my good fellow," said the footman. And he held out to the concièrge the notary's order.

"The house is sold, then?" demanded the concièrge; "and this gentleman is coming to live here?"

"Yes, my friend," returned the count; "and I will endeavor to give you no cause to regret your old master."

"Oh, monsieur," said the concièrge, "I shall not have much cause to regret him, for he came here but seldom; it is five years since he was here last, and he did well to sell the house, for it did not bring him in anything at all."

"What was the name of your old master?" said Monte Cristo.

"The Marquis of Saint-Méran. Ah, I am sure he has not sold the house for what he gave for it."

"The Marquis of Saint-Méran!" returned the count. "The name is not unknown to me; the Marquis of Saint-Méran!" and he appeared to meditate.

"An old gentleman," continued the concièrge, "a stanch follower of the Bourbons; he had an only daughter, who married M. de Villefort, who had been the king's attorney at N?mes, and afterwards at Versailles." Monte Cristo glanced at Bertuccio, who became whiter than the wall against which he leaned to prevent himself from falling. "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 concièrge. "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 second 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."

"Monsieur," replied Bertuccio, "it leads to the garden."

"And, pray, how do you know that?"

"It ought to do so, at least."

"Well, let us be sure of that." Bertuccio sighed, and went on first; the stairs did, indeed, lead to the garden. At the outer door the steward paused. "Go on, Monsieur Bertuccio," said the count. But he who was addressed stood there, stupefied, bewildered, stunned; his haggard eyes glanced around, as if in search of the traces of some terrible event, and with his clinched hands he seemed striving to shut out horrible recollections. "Well," insisted the Count. "No, no," cried Bertuccio, setting down the lantern at the angle of the interior wall. "No, monsieur, it is impossible; I can go no farther."

"What does this mean?" demanded the irresistible voice of Monte Cristo.

"Why, you must see, your excellency," cried the steward, "that this is not natural; that, having a house to purchase, you purchase it exactly at Auteuil, and that, purchasing it at Auteuil, this house should be No. 28, Rue de la Fontaine. Oh, why did I not tell you all? I am sure you would not have forced me to come. I hoped your house would have been some other one than this; as if there was not another house at Auteuil than that of the assassination!"

"What, what!" cried Monte Cristo, stopping suddenly, "what words do you utter? Devil of a man, Corsican that you are--always mysteries or superstitions. Come, take the lantern, and let us visit the garden; you are not afraid of ghosts with me, I hope?" Bertuccio raised the lantern, and obeyed. The door, as it opened, disclosed a gloomy sky, in which the moon strove vainly to struggle through a sea of clouds that covered her with billows of vapor which she illumined for an instant, only to sink into obscurity. The steward wished to turn to the left. "No, no, monsieur," said Monte Cristo. "What is the use of following the alleys? Here is a beautiful lawn; let us go on straight forwards."

Bertuccio wiped the perspiration from his brow, but obeyed; however, he continued to take the left hand. Monte Cristo, on the contrary, took the right hand; arrived near a clump of trees, he stopped. The steward could not restrain himself. "Move, monsieur--move away, I entreat you; you are exactly in the spot!"

"What spot?"

"Where he fell."

"My dear Monsieur Bertuccio," said Monte Cristo, laughing, "control yourself; we are not at Sartena or at Corte. This is not a Corsican arbor, but an English garden; badly kept, I own, but still you must not calumniate it for that."

"Monsieur, I implore you do not stay there!"

"I think you are going mad, Bertuccio," said the count coldly. "If that is the case, I warn you, I shall have you put in a lunatic asylum."

"Alas, excellency," returned Bertuccio, joining his hands, and shaking his head in a manner that would have excited the count's laughter, had not thoughts of a superior interest occupied him, and rendered him attentive to the least revelation of this timorous conscience. "Alas, excellency, the evil has arrived!"

"M. Bertuccio," said the count, "I am very glad to tell you, that while you gesticulate, you wring your hands and roll your eyes like a man possessed by a devil who will not leave him; and I have always observed, that the devil most obstinate to be expelled is a secret. I knew you were a Corsican. I knew you were gloomy, and always brooding over some old history of the vendetta; and I overlooked that in Italy, because in Italy those things are thought nothing of. But in France they are considered in very bad taste; there are gendarmes who occupy themselves with such affairs, judges who condemn, and scaffolds which avenge." Bertuccio clasped his hands, and as, in all these evolutions, he did not let fall the lantern, the light showed his pale and altered countenance. Monte Cristo examined him with the same look that, at Rome, he had bent upon the execution of Andrea, and then, in a tone that made a shudder pass through the veins of the poor steward,--"The Abbé Busoni, then told me an untruth," said he, "when, after his journey in France, in 1829, he sent you to me, with a letter of recommendation, in which he enumerated all your valuable qualities. Well, I shall write to the abbé; I shall hold him responsible for his protege's misconduct, and I shall soon know all about this assassination. Only I warn you, that when I reside in a country, I conform to all its code, and I have no wish to put myself within the compass of the French laws for your sake."

"Oh, do not do that, excellency; I have always served you faithfully," cried Bertuccio, in despair. "I have always been an honest man, and, as far as lay in my power, I have done good."

"I do not deny it," returned the count; "but why are you thus agitated. It is a bad sign; a quiet conscience does not occasion such paleness in the cheeks, and such fever in the hands of a man."

"But, your excellency," replied Bertuccio hesitatingly, "did not the Abbé Busoni, who heard my confession in the prison at N?mes, tell you that I had a heavy burden upon my conscience?"

"Yes; but as he said you would make an excellent steward, I concluded you had stolen--that was all."

"Oh, your excellency," returned Bertuccio in deep contempt.

"Or, as you are a Corsican, that you had been unable to resist the desire of making a 'stiff,' as you call it."

"Yes, my good master," cried Bertuccio, casting himself at the count's feet, "it was simply vengeance--nothing else."

"I understand that, but I do not understand what it is that galvanizes you in this manner."

"But, monsieur, it is very natural," returned Bertuccio, "since it was in this house that my vengeance was accomplished."

"What! my house?"

"Oh, your excellency, it was not yours, then."

"Whose, then? The Marquis de Saint-Méran, I think, the concièrge said. What had you to revenge on the Marquis de Saint-Méran?"

"Oh, it was not on him, monsieur; it was on another."

"This is strange," returned Monte Cristo, seeming to yield to his reflections, "that you should find yourself without any preparation in a house where the event happened that causes you so much remorse."

"Monsieur," said the steward, "it is fatality, I am sure. First, you purchase a house at Auteuil--this house is the one where I have committed an assassination; you descend to the garden by the same staircase by which he descended; you stop at the spot where he received the blow; and two paces farther is the grave in which he had just buried his child. This is not chance, for chance, in this case, is too much like providence."

"Well, amiable Corsican, let us suppose it is providence. I always suppose anything people please, and, besides, you must concede something to diseased minds. Come, collect yourself, and tell me all."

"I have related it but once, and that was to the Abbé Busoni. Such things," continued Bertuccio, shaking his head, "are only related under the seal of confession."

"Then," said the count, "I refer you to your confessor. Turn Chartreux or Trappist, and relate your secrets, but, as for me, I do not like any one who is alarmed by such phantasms, and I do not choose that my servants should be afraid to walk in the garden of an evening. I confess I am not very desirous of a visit from the commissary of police, for, in Italy, justice is only paid when silent--in France she is paid only when she speaks. Peste, I thought you somewhat Corsican, a great deal smuggler, and an excellent steward; but I see you have other strings to your bow. You are no longer in my service, Monsieur Bertuccio."

"Oh, your excellency, your excellency!" cried the steward, struck with terror at this threat, "if that is the only reason I cannot remain in your service, I will tell all, for if I quit you, it will only be to go to the scaffold."

"That is different," replied Monte Cristo; "but if you intend to tell an untruth, reflect it were better not to speak at all."

"No, monsieur, I swear to you, by my hopes of salvation, I will tell you all, for the Abbé Busoni himself only knew a part of my secret; but, I pray you, go away from that plane-tree. The moon is just bursting through the clouds, and there, standing where you do, and wrapped in that cloak that conceals your figure, you remind me of M. de Villefort."

"What!" cried Monte Cristo, "it was M. de Villefort?"

"Your excellency knows him?"

"The former royal attorney at N?mes?"

"Yes."

"Who married the Marquis of Saint-Méran's daughter?"

"Yes."

"Who enjoyed the reputation of being the most severe, the most upright, the most rigid magistrate on the bench?"

"Well, monsieur," said Bertuccio, "this man with this spotless reputation"--

"Well?"

"Was a villain."

"Bah," replied Monte Cristo, "impossible!"

"It is as I tell you."

"Ah, really," said Monte Cristo. "Have you proof of this?"

"I had it."

"And you have lost it; how stupid!"

"Yes; but by careful search it might be recovered."

"Really," returned the count, "relate it to me, for it begins to interest me." And the count, humming an air from Lucia di Lammermoor, went to sit down on a bench, while Bertuccio followed him, collecting his thoughts. Bertuccio remained standing before him.

基督山注意到，当他们跨上马车的时候，贝尔图乔曾做了一个科西嘉式的手势，即用他的大拇指在空中划了一个十字，而当他坐进马车里的时候，又喃喃地低声作了一个简短的祷告。管家这种古怪的举动，显然是他忌讳伯爵这次出门，除了喜欢刨根问底的人，谁见了都会可怜他的，但伯爵的好奇心似乎太重了，非要贝尔图乔跟着他跑这一趟不可。不到二十分钟，他们便到了欧特伊，他们进了村庄以后管家显得愈来愈烦躁不安。贝尔图乔缩在马车的角落里，开始焦急不安地察看经过的每一座房子。

“告诉他们在芳丹街二十八号停车。”伯爵吩咐他的管家，眼睛一眨不眨地盯着他。

贝尔图乔的前额上满是汗珠，但还是照办了，他把头从窗口里探出去，对车夫喊道：“芳丹街二十八号。”

二十八号在村子的尽头，在车子向前走的时候，夜幕渐渐降临了，说得确切些，天空中出现了一大片带电的乌云，使薄暮中的这场戏剧化的插曲被包围在庄严的气氛里。马车停住了，听差从车夫的座位上跳下来，打开了车门。

“贝尔图乔先生，”伯爵说，“你不下车吗？你想留在车子里吗？你今晚上有什么心事吗？”

贝尔图乔慌忙跳下车，直挺挺地站在车门旁边，伯爵扶住他的肩头走下马车的三级踏板。

“去敲门，”伯爵说道，“说我来了。”

贝尔图乔上去敲门，门开了，门房走出来。“什么事？”他问道。

“这位是你的新主人，伙计。”听差说道，然后他把公证人的那张条子交给了门房。

“那么，房子卖出去了？”门房问道，“这位先生是来这儿住的吗？”

“是的，我的朋友，”伯爵答道，“我要尽量使你不再去想你的旧主人。”

“噢，先生，”那门房说道，“我对他没有什么可留恋的，因为他很少到这儿来。他上一次来也是五年前的事了，他是该卖掉这所房子的，因为这所房子对他毫无好处。”

“你的旧主人叫什么名字？”基督山问道。

“圣·梅朗侯爵。啊，我相信他不是为了钱才卖这所房子的吧。”

“圣·梅朗侯爵！”伯爵回答说。“这个名字我好象听说过，圣·梅朗侯爵！”于是他现出了沉思的样子。

“是一位老绅士，”门房又说道，“是波旁王朝最忠实的臣仆，他有一个独生女儿，嫁给维尔福先生，维尔福先生做过尼姆的检察官，后来调到凡尔赛去了。”

基督山这时向贝尔图乔瞟了一眼，只见贝尔图乔正将身子靠在墙上，以免跌倒，他的脸比他所靠的那面墙还要白。“他这个女儿不是死了吗？”基督山问道，“我好象听人这样说过。”

“是的，先生，那是二十一年以前的事了，从那以后，我们见到可怜的侯爵总共不过三次。”

“谢谢，谢谢，”基督山说道，他从那位管家失魂落魄的样子上判断出，他不能再把弦拉紧了，再紧便有绷断的危险。“请给我个人。”

“要我陪您吗，先生，？”

“不，不必了，贝尔图乔会给我照亮的。”基督山一边说，一边赏了他两块金洋，这两块金洋使门房的嘴巴里接连流出来一大串感谢和祝福的话。

“啊，先生，”他在壁炉架和搁板上面找了一番以后说道，“我没有蜡烛了。”

“去拿一盏灯来，贝尔图乔，”伯爵说道，“领我去看看房子。”

管家一声不响地服从着命令，但他拿灯的那只手在发抖，从这一点上，很容易看出他这次的服从付出了多大的代价。二楼有一间客厅，一间浴室和两间卧室，这两间卧室中的一间和一座螺旋形的楼梯相连，楼梯出去便是花园。

“啊，这儿有一座秘密楼梯，”伯爵说道，“这倒很方便。照着我，贝尔图乔先生，往前走，我们来看看它通到什么地方。”

“大人，”贝尔图乔答道，“它是通花园的。”

“请问，你是怎么知道的？”

“我想应该如此的。”

“好吧，我们去确定一下吧。”

贝尔图乔叹了一口气，走在了前头。这座楼梯的确是通到花园里去的。一到门口，管家就站住了。“走啊，贝尔图乔先生。”伯爵说道。但对方却呆在那里了，只是瞪着眼，现出一副神志不清的样子，他那惊慌失措的眼睛向四面环顾着，象是寻找过去某件可怕的事情的痕迹似的，双手紧紧地握成了拳头，似乎竭力要赶走某种恐怖的回忆。

“喂！”伯爵坚持说道。

“不，不，”贝尔图乔把灯放在墙角，大声说道，“不，大人，这不行，我不能再向前走了。”

“这是怎么回事？”基督山用一种不可抗拒的口吻问道。

“您瞧，伯爵阁下，”管家大声说道，“这不是无缘无故的，您要买一所房子，而恰巧会买在欧特伊，而既买在欧特伊，又恰巧是芳丹街二十八号。噢！我为什么不把一切先讲给您听呢？我相信那样您就不会强迫我来了。我多么希望您的房子不会是这一幢，啊，好象欧特伊除了这个谋杀过人的房子以外就再也没有别的房子了似的！”

“哦，哦！”基督山停下来说道，但又突然改了口，“你刚才说的什么话？你们科西嘉人真是鬼东西，老是迷信或鬼鬼祟祟的。来，把灯拿起来，我们去看看花园。我想，你和我在一起该不会害怕了吧？”

贝尔图乔服从了命令，提起风灯。门一打开，就露出一个阴沉沉的天空，月亮在一片云海里徒然地挣扎着，它偶尔也会露面，但立刻就又被阴沉沉的翻滚的乌云所遮盖了，消失在了黑暗里。管家想往左转。

“不，不，先生，”基督山说道，“干么走小路呢？这儿有一片美丽的草地，我们笔直着向前走吧。”

贝尔图乔抹了一把额头上冒出的冷汗，还是服从了，但是，他却继续向左斜着走。基督山则恰巧相反，向右斜着走，到了一丛树木旁边，他停下来不走了。管家再也控制不住了。

“走开，大人，走开，我求求您了，您正巧站在那块地方啦！”

“什么地方？”

“他倒下的地方。”

“我亲爱的贝尔图乔先生，”基督山大笑着说，“你神志清醒一点好吧，我们现在不是在萨尔坦或科尔泰。这不是一片荒地而是一座英国式的花园，我承认管理得很坏，但你却不能说它不是一个花园。”

“大人，我求求您了，别站在那个地方！”

“我想你大概发疯了吧，贝尔图乔，”伯爵冷冷地说道。“假如真是如此，我可得先警告你，我会把你关进疯人院里去的。’“天哪！大人，”贝尔图乔回答说，两手绞在一起，脑袋直晃，要不是伯爵这时正在思考一件事关重要的事，使他未能注意贝尔图乔这种胆怯的心理，贝尔图乔的这副模样一定会引得他大笑。“天啊！大人，我要倒霉啦！”

“贝尔图乔先生，”伯爵说，“我很荣幸地告诉你，当你装腔作势，眼睛骨碌碌地乱转，两手扭来扭去的时候，实在是象一个被魔鬼缠住了的人，而我注意到，心里藏着秘密的人是最难驱逐魔鬼的。我知道你是个科西嘉人，也知道你很郁闷，老是在想着过去为亲人复仇的那一幕历史。在意大利的时候，我可以置之不理，因为在意大利，那种事情算不上一回事。但在法国，暗杀可是极不受人欢迎的。遇到这类事情，宪兵要捉拿凶手，法官来判罪，还有断头台为死者报仇。”

贝尔图乔两手紧紧地扭在了一起，但即使这样，他也没有让那盏风灯跌落到地上，灯光照出了他苍白而变了形的脸。基督山带着他在罗马看安德烈受刑时的那种表情详详细细地观察着他，然后，他又用一种使那可怜的管家全身发抖的口吻说道：“那么说，布沙尼神甫欺骗了我了。一八二九年，他从法国旅行回来以后，叫你拿了一封介绍信到我这儿来，在那封介绍信里，他曾介绍了你的种种优点。好，我现在可以写信给神甫，说他所推荐的人有不良行为，我要叫他负责。而关于这桩暗杀事件，不久我就会完全知道的。只是我要警告你，我住在哪一个国家，就要遵守哪一个国家的法律，我不想为了你的缘故和法国司法机关闹纠纷。”

“噢，请别那样做，大人，我一向都是忠心地侍奉您的，”贝尔图乔绝望地大声说道，“我一向为人都很诚实，在我力所能及的范围内，我总是在向好的方面做的。”

“我并不否认这一点，”伯爵答道，“但你为什么这样慌张。这可不是好现象，一个内心清白的人，他的脸不会这样惨白，他的手不会这样发抖”

“但是，伯爵阁下，”贝尔图乔吞吞吐吐地说道，“我在尼姆监狱里的时候，曾对布沙尼神甫忏悔了一件自己非常后悔的事，他有没有把那件事对您说过？”

“是的，但他只说你可以当一名出色的管家，所以我以为你只不过是偷过东西而已。”

“噢，伯爵阁下！”贝尔图乔轻蔑地叫出了声。

“那么，你既然是一个科西嘉人，你也许曾按奈不住心头的怒火，干过你们所谓‘摘瓢儿’的事。”

“是的，我的好主人，”贝尔图乔大喊了一声，使扑倒在伯爵的脚前，“不为别的，只为报一次仇而已。”

“这我懂了，但我不懂那件事怎么又在你心里死灰复燃起来，使你变成这个样子。”

“大人，这是非常自然的，”贝尔图乔回答说，“因为我说是在这座房子里报的仇。”

“什么，在我的房子里？”

“噢，伯爵阁下，当时它还不是您的呢。”

“是谁的？那么，是圣·梅朗侯爵的了，我记得门房说过。但你对圣·梅朗侯爵有什么仇要报呢？”

“噢，不是他，大人，是另外一个人。”

“这听来真是有点奇怪，”基督山回答说，似乎象在想什么心思似的，“你竟不知不觉得又跑到两间自己做过非常后悔的事的房子里来了。”

“大人，”管家说道，“我相信这是命。第一，您在欧特伊买了一座房子，而那正是我暗杀过人的一座房子，您到花园里来经过的，那个楼梯正是他走过的，那个您站的地方也正是他被刺的地方；而两步路之外，正是他埋葬他孩子的坟墓。这一切不是偶然的，因为这简直太象是天意了。”

“好吧，科西嘉先生，我就算这是天意吧。只要人家高兴，我总是什么都肯同意的，而且，你的头脑已经有毛病了，你一定得对它让步。来，想想清楚，把一切都讲给我听吧。”

“这件事我只对一个人讲起过，就是布沙尼神甫。这种事情，”贝尔图乔摇摇头，继续说道，“只有在忏悔师的面前才可以讲。”

“那么，”伯爵说道，“我指点你去找个忏悔师吧。你去找一个卡德留派或白纳亭派的忏悔师，把你的秘密都讲给他听吧。我可不喜欢装神弄鬼吓唬自己的人，我可不愿意用晚上怕在花园里走路的仆人。我承认我并不十分愿意看到警察局里来人拜访，因为在意大利，只要闭嘴不讲，法院就不会来找麻烦你，但在法国，只有先说出来才能解脱自己。真的！我以为你多少总有点科西嘉人的气质，是一个经验丰富的走私贩子，一个出色的管家，但我现在看出你原来还有别的名堂。你不再是我的人了，贝尔图乔先生。”

“噢，伯爵阁下，伯爵阁下！”管家大声说道，他被这恐吓吓坏了，“假如只是为了这个原因我就不能再继续为您效劳了，我宁愿把一切都讲出来，因为我一离开您，就只能上断头台了。”

“那情况不同了，”基督山回答说。“但你要想清楚，假如你想撒谎，还不如不讲为妙。”

“不，大人，我以我灵魂得救的名义向您发誓，我一定把一切实情都讲给您听，因为我的秘密布沙尼神甫也只知道一部分，但我求您先离开那株法国梧桐。月亮正从云堆里钻出来，而您所站的那个地点，和您裹住全身的这件披风，使我想起了维尔福先生。”

“什么！”基督山大声叫道，“原来是维尔福先生”

“大人认识他？”

“他不是尼姆的前任检察官吗？”

“是的。”

“他不就是娶了圣·梅朗侯爵的女儿的那个人吗？”

“也就是在目前司法界赫赫有名，被公认为最严厉，最正直，最死板的那个人吗？”

“哦，大人，贝尔图乔说，“这个名誉白璧无瑕的人”

“怎么样？”

“是一个无耻之徒。”

“什么！”基督山回答说，“不可能吧。”

“我告诉您的是实话。”

“啊，真的！”基督山说道。“你有证据吗？”

“有的。”

“而你把它丢了是吧，多蠢呀。”

“是的，但仔细去找，还是能找回来的。”

“真的吗？”伯爵答道，“讲给我听听吧，因为它引起了我的兴趣。”于是伯爵带着一种很轻松的神气走过去坐在了一条长凳上，贝尔图乔振作起精神跟上去站在了他的前面。