Граф Монте-Кристо

The House at Auteuil.

           Thedoor,asitopened,disclosedagloomysky,inwhichthemoonstrovevainlytostrugglethroughaseaofcloudsthatcoveredherwithbillowsofvaporwhichsheilluminedforaninstant,onlytosinkintoobscurity.Thestewardwishedtoturntotheleft."No,no,monsieur,"saidMonteCristo."Whatistheuseoffollowingthealleys?Hereisabeautifullawn;letusgoonstraightforwards."

           Bertucciowipedtheperspirationfromhisbrow,butobeyed;however,hecontinuedtotakethelefthand.MonteCristo,onthecontrary,tooktherighthand;arrivednearaclumpoftrees,hestopped.Thestewardcouldnotrestrainhimself."Move,monsieurmoveaway,Ientreatyou;youareexactlyinthespot!"

           "Whatspot?"

           "Wherehefell."

           "MydearMonsieurBertuccio,"saidMonteCristo,laughing,"controlyourself;wearenotatSartenaoratCorte.ThisisnotaCorsicanarbor,butanEnglishgarden;badlykept,Iown,butstillyoumustnotcalumniateitforthat."

           "Monsieur,Iimploreyoudonotstaythere!"

           "Ithinkyouaregoingmad,Bertuccio,"saidthecountcoldly."Ifthatisthecase,Iwarnyou,Ishallhaveyouputinalunaticasylum."

           "Alas,excellency,"returnedBertuccio,joininghishands,andshakinghisheadinamannerthatwouldhaveexcitedthecount’slaughter,hadnotthoughtsofasuperiorinterestoccupiedhim,andrenderedhimattentivetotheleastrevelationofthistimorousconscience.

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Страница 757 из 1932