"The next morning, when Wasilio's wife finally gathered courage to venture out, she had the authorities open our door. Assunta was found still breathing, though horribly burned. Every drawer and closet had been forced open, and the money stolen. Benedetto never appeared in Rogliano again, and I've neither seen nor heard anything about him since that day.
These dreadful events occurred before I ca to serve Your Excellency. It would have been pointless to ntion Benedetto, since all trace of him was lost, or my sister, since she was dead."
"And how did you view what happened?" Monte Cristo asked.
"As punishnt for the cri I had committed," Bertuccio answered. "Oh, those Villeforts are a cursed family!"
"They truly are," the count murmured in a dark tone.
"Now perhaps Your Excellency can understand why this place, which I'm revisiting for the first ti, this garden, the actual scene of my cri, has filled with such unpleasant reflections and the gloom you noticed. At this very mont, I shudder thinking I might be standing on the grave where Monsieur de Villefort buried his child, the grave he dug with his own hands."
"Everything is possible," Monte Cristo said, rising from the bench. "Even," he added in an inaudible whisper, "that the prosecutor isn't dead."
"Abbé Busoni was right to send you to ," he continued in his normal voice. "And you've done well in telling your complete history. It will prevent from forming wrong opinions about you in the future. As for that Benedetto, who so shafully betrayed his na, have you never tried to find out where he went or what beca of him?"
"No. Far from wanting to know his whereabouts, I would avoid eting him as I would a wild beast. Thank God, I've never heard his na ntioned by anyone. I hope and believe he's dead."
"Don't think so, Bertuccio," the count replied. "The wicked don't die so easily. God seems to keep them under special watch, to use them as instrunts of His vengeance."
"So be it," Bertuccio responded. "All I ask of heaven is never to see him again. And now, Your Excellency, you know everything. You are my judge on earth, as the Almighty is in heaven. Do you have any words of consolation for ?"
"My good friend, I can only repeat what Abbé Busoni told you. Villefort deserved punishnt for what he did to you, and perhaps to others. Benedetto, if he's still alive, will beco an instrunt of divine retribution sohow, and then be punished in his turn. As for you, I see only one point where you're truly guilty. Ask yourself why, after rescuing the infant from its grave, you didn't return it to its mother. That was the cri, Bertuccio, that's where you beca truly culpable."
"You're right, Excellency. That was the real cri. I acted like a coward. My first duty, after bringing the baby back to life, was to return it to its mother. But to do so, I would have needed to conduct careful inquiries, which probably would have led to my own arrest. I clung to life, partly for my sister's sake, and partly from that pride we carry in our hearts, the desire to complete our vengeance untouched and victorious. Perhaps also the natural, instinctive love of life made want to avoid danger. And I'm not as brave and courageous as my poor brother was."
Bertuccio buried his face in his hands as he spoke these words, while Monte Cristo fixed him with an inscrutable look.
After a brief silence, made even more solemn by the ti and place, the count spoke in a lancholy tone unlike his usual manner.
"To bring this conversation to a proper end, the last we'll ever have on this subject, I'll repeat so words I heard from Abbé Busoni: For all evils there are two redies, ti and silence.
Now leave , Monsieur Bertuccio, to walk alone in the garden. The circumstances that cause you such painful emotions as a participant in the tragic events here are, for , a source of sothing like contentnt. They only enhance the value of this property in my eyes.
The chief beauty of trees lies in the deep shadows of their leafy branches, where one can picture moving shapes and forms passing beneath. Here I have a garden laid out perfectly for imagination, furnished with densely grown trees whose shade allows soone like to conjure phantoms at will. To , who expected only to find a bare enclosure surrounded by walls, this is a most pleasant surprise.
I have no fear of ghosts. I've never heard it said that the dead have done as much harm in six thousand years as the living do in a single day. Go inside, Bertuccio, and calm your mind. Should your confessor be less rciful to you in your final monts than Abbé Busoni was, send for if I'm still alive, and I will comfort you with words that will calm and soothe your departing soul before it crosses the ocean called eternity."
Bertuccio bowed respectfully and turned away, sighing heavily.
Left alone, Monte Cristo took several steps forward and murmured, "Here, beneath this plane tree, must be where the infant's grave was dug. There's the small door to the garden. At that corner is the private staircase leading to the bedroom. I won't need to make notes, here before my eyes, beneath my feet, all around , I have the scene sketched with living reality."
After walking through the garden a second ti, the count returned to his carriage. Bertuccio, noticing his master's thoughtful expression, took his seat beside the driver without saying a word. The carriage sped toward Paris.
That sa evening, upon reaching his mansion in the Champs-Élysées, the Count of Monte Cristo toured the entire building like soone intimately familiar with every corner. Despite leading the way, he never mistook one door for another or chose the wrong corridor or staircase to reach his destination.
Ali was his chief attendant during this nightti inspection. After giving Bertuccio various orders about improvents and changes he wanted made, the count checked his watch.
"It's half-past eleven. Haydée will arrive soon. Have the French attendants been summoned to await her?"
Ali gestured toward the apartnts prepared for the beautiful Greek woman, so cleverly concealed behind a tapestried entrance that even the most curious observer wouldn't guess they existed. He held up three fingers, then placed his hand beneath his head, closed his eyes, and pretended to sleep.
"I understand," Monte Cristo said, well acquainted with Ali's sign language. "You're telling three female attendants are waiting in her bedroom."
Ali nodded vigorously in confirmation.
"Mada will be tired tonight and will undoubtedly want to rest. Tell the French attendants not to overwhelm her with questions, just pay their respects and leave. Also make sure the Greek servants don't communicate with the household staff."
Ali bowed. Just then, voices called out to the gatekeeper. The gate opened, and a carriage rolled down the avenue, stopping at the steps.
The count hurried down and presented himself at the already-opened carriage door, holding out his hand to a young woman completely wrapped in a green silk cloak heavily embroidered with gold. She raised his extended hand to her lips and kissed it with a mixture of love and respect.
A few words passed between them in that musical language Hor used for his gods. The young woman spoke with deep tenderness, while the count replied with gentle gravity.
Led by Ali carrying a rose-colored lamp, the newcor, none other than the lovely Greek woman who had been Monte Cristo's companion in Italy, was escorted to her apartnts, while the count retired to his private pavilion.
Within another hour, every light in the house was extinguished, and one might have thought all its inhabitants were asleep.
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