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 Abbe 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 abbe; 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
Abbe Busoni, who heard my confession in the prison at Nimes, 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-Meran, I think, the concierge said.
What had you to revenge on the Marquis de Saint-Meran?"
"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 Abbe 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 Abbe 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 Nimes?"
"Yes."
"Who married the Marquis of Saint-Meran'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," went to sit
down on a bench, while Bertuccio followed him, collecting his thoughts.
Bertuccio remained standing before him.
Chapter 44. The Vendetta.
"At what point shall I begin my story, your excellency?" asked
Bertuccio.
"Where you please," returned Monte Cristo, "since I know nothing at all
of it."
"I thought the Abbe Busoni had told your excellency."
"Some particulars, doubtless, but that is seven or eight years ago, and
I have forgotten them."
"Then I can speak without fear of tiring your excellency."
"Go on, M. Bertuccio; you will supply the want of the evening papers."
"The story begins in 1815."
"Ah," said Monte Cristo, "1815 is not yesterday."
"No, monsieur, and yet I recollect all things as clearly as if they had
happened but then. I had a brother, an elder brother, who was in the
service of the emperor; he had become lieutenant in a regiment composed
entirely of Corsicans. This brother was my only friend; we became
orphans--I at five, he at eighteen. He brought me up as if I had been
his son, and in 1814 he married. When the emperor returned from the
Island of Elba, my brother instantly joined the army, was slightly
wounded at Waterloo, and retired with the army beyond the Loire."
"But that is the history of the Hundred Days, M. Bertuccio," said the
count; "unless I am mistaken, it has been already written."
"Excuse me, excellency, but these details are necessary, and you
promised to be patient."
"Go on; I will keep my word."
"One day we received a letter. I should tell you that we lived in the
little village of Rogliano, at the extremity of Cape Corso. This letter
was from my brother. He told us that the army was disbanded, and that he
should return by Chateauroux, Clermont-Ferrand, Le Puy, and Nimes; and,
if I had any money, he prayed me to leave it for him at Nimes, with an
inn-keeper with whom I had dealings."
"In the smuggling line?" said Monte Cristo.
"Eh, your excellency? Every one must live."
"Certainly; go on."
"I loved my brother tenderly, as I told your excellency, and I resolved
not to send the money, but to take it to him myself. I possessed a
thousand francs. I left five hundred with Assunta, my sister-in-law, and
with the other five hundred I set off for Nimes. It was easy to do so,
and as I had my boat and a lading to take in at sea, everything favored
my project. But, after we had taken in our cargo, the wind became
contrary, so that we were four or five days without being able to enter
the Rhone. At last, however, we succeeded, and worked up to Arles. I
left the boat between Bellegarde and Beaucaire, and took the road to
Nimes."
"We are getting to the story now?"
"Yes, your excellency; excuse me, but, as you will see, I only tell you
what is absolutely necessary. Just at this time the famous massacres
took place in the south of France. Three brigands, called Trestaillon,
Truphemy, and Graffan, publicly assassinated everybody whom they
suspected of Bonapartism. You have doubtless heard of these massacres,
your excellency?"
"Vaguely; I was far from France at that period. Go on."
"As I entered Nimes, I literally waded in blood; at every step you
encountered dead bodies and bands of murderers, who killed, plundered,
and burned. At the sight of this slaughter and devastation I became
terrified, not for myself--for I, a simple Corsican fisherman, had
nothing to fear; on the contrary, that time was most favorable for us
smugglers--but for my brother, a soldier of the empire, returning from
the army of the Loire, with his uniform and his epaulets, there was
everything to apprehend. I hastened to the inn-keeper. My misgivings had
been but too true. My brother had arrived the previous evening at
Nimes, and, at the very door of the house where he was about to demand
hospitality, he had been assassinated. I did all in my power to discover
the murderers, but no one durst tell me their names, so much were they
dreaded. I then thought of that French justice of which I had heard so
much, and which feared nothing, and I went to the king's attorney."
"And this king's attorney was named Villefort?" asked Monte Cristo
carelessly.
"Yes, your excellency; he came from Marseilles, where he had been
deputy-procureur. His zeal had procured him advancement, and he was said
to be one of the first who had informed the government of the departure
from the Island of Elba."
"Then," said Monte Cristo "you went to him?"
"'Monsieur,' I said, 'my brother was assassinated yesterday in the
streets of Nimes, I know not by whom, but it is your duty to find out.
You are the representative of justice here, and it is for justice to
avenge those she has been unable to protect.'--'Who was your brother?'
asked he.--'A lieutenant in the Corsican battalion.'--'A soldier of the
usurper, then?'--'A soldier of the French army.'--'Well,' replied he,
'he has smitten with the sword, and he has perished by the sword.'--'You
are mistaken, monsieur,' I replied; 'he has perished by the
poniard.'--'What do you want me to do?' asked the magistrate.--'I have
already told you--avenge him.'--'On whom?'--'On his murderers.'--'How
should I know who they are?'--'Order them to be sought for.'--'Why, your
brother has been involved in a quarrel, and killed in a duel. All these
old soldiers commit excesses which were tolerated in the time of the
emperor, but which are not suffered now, for the people here do not like
soldiers of such disorderly conduct.'--'Monsieur,' I replied, 'it is not
for myself that I entreat your interference--I should grieve for him or
avenge him, but my poor brother had a wife, and were anything to happen
