ke it
to the count, and say that, although in haste to attend the Chamber, my
master came out of his way to have the honor of calling upon him."

"I never speak to his excellency," replied the concierge; "the valet de
chambre will carry your message." The groom returned to the carriage.
"Well?" asked Danglars. The man, somewhat crest-fallen by the rebuke he
had received, repeated what the concierge had said. "Bless me," murmured
Baron Danglars, "this must surely be a prince instead of a count by
their styling him 'excellency,' and only venturing to address him by the
medium of his valet de chambre. However, it does not signify; he has a
letter of credit on me, so I must see him when he requires his money."

Then, throwing himself back in his carriage, Danglars called out to
his coachman, in a voice that might be heard across the road, "To the
Chamber of Deputies."

Apprised in time of the visit paid him, Monte Cristo had, from behind
the blinds of his pavilion, as minutely observed the baron, by means of
an excellent lorgnette, as Danglars himself had scrutinized the house,
garden, and servants. "That fellow has a decidedly bad countenance,"
said the count in a tone of disgust, as he shut up his glass into its
ivory case. "How comes it that all do not retreat in aversion at sight
of that flat, receding, serpent-like forehead, round, vulture-shaped
head, and sharp-hooked nose, like the beak of a buzzard? Ali," cried
he, striking at the same time on the brazen gong. Ali appeared. "Summon
Bertuccio," said the count. Almost immediately Bertuccio entered the
apartment. "Did your excellency desire to see me?" inquired he. "I did,"
replied the count. "You no doubt observed the horses standing a few
minutes since at the door?"

"Certainly, your excellency. I noticed them for their remarkable
beauty."

"Then how comes it," said Monte Cristo with a frown, "that, when I
desired you to purchase for me the finest pair of horses to be found in
Paris, there is another pair, fully as fine as mine, not in my stables?"
At the look of displeasure, added to the angry tone in which the count
spoke, Ali turned pale and held down his head. "It is not your fault, my
good Ali," said the count in the Arabic language, and with a gentleness
none would have thought him capable of showing, either in voice or
face--"it is not your fault. You do not understand the points of English
horses." The countenance of poor Ali recovered its serenity. "Per