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 obscuri