“Yes, a fine house standing alone, between a court-yard and a garden, — you must know it.”
“Possibly; but it is not the exterior I care for, it is the interior. What beautiful furniture there must be in it!”
“Have you ever seen the Tuileries?”
“No.”
“Well, it surpasses that.”
“It must be worth one’s while to stoop, Andrea, when that good M. Monte Cristo lets fall his purse.”
“It is not worth while to wait for that,” said Andrea; “money is as plentiful in that house as fruit in an orchard.”
“But you should take me there one day with you.”
“How can I? On what plea?”
“You are right; but you have made my mouth water. I must absolutely see it; I shall find a way.”
“No nonsense, Caderousse!”
“I will offer myself as floor-polisher.”
“The rooms are all carpeted.”
“Well, then, I must be contented to imagine it.”
“That is the best plan, believe me.”
“Try, at least, to give me an idea of what it is.”
“How can I?”
“Nothing is easier. Is it large?”
“Middling.”
“How is it arranged?”
“Faith, I should require pen, ink, and paper to make a plan.”
“They are all here,” said Caderousse, briskly. He fetched from an old secretary a sheet of white paper and pen and ink. “Here,” said Caderousse, “draw me all that on the paper, my boy.” Andrea took the pen with an imperceptible smile and began. “The house, as I said, is between the court and the garden; in this way, do you see?” Andrea drew the garden, the court and the house.
“High walls?”
“Not more than eight or ten feet.”
“That is not prudent,” said Caderousse.
“In the court are orange-trees in pots, turf, and clumps of flowers.”
“And no steel-traps?”
“No.”
“The stables?”
“Are on either side of the gate, which you see there.” And Andrea continued his plan.
“Let us see the ground floor,” said Caderousse.
“On the ground-floor, dining-room, two drawing-rooms, billiard-room, staircase in the hall, and a little back staircase.”
“Windows?”
“Magnificent windows, so beautiful, so large, that I believe a man of your size should pass through each frame.”
“Why the devil have they any stairs with such windows?”
“Luxury has everything.”
“But shutters?”
“Yes, but they are never used. That Count of Monte Cristo is an original, who loves to look at the sky even at night.”
“And where do the servants sleep?”
“Oh, they have a house to themselves. Picture to yourself a pretty coach-house at the right-hand side where the ladders are kept. Well, over that coach-house are the servants’ rooms, with bells corresponding with the different apartments.”
“Ah, diable — bells did you say?”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh. nothing! I only say they cost a load of money to hang, and what is the use of them, I should like to know?”
“There used to be a dog let loose in the yard at night, but it has been taken to the house at Auteuil, to that you went to, you know.”
“Yes.”
“I was saying to him only yesterday, ‘You are imprudent, Monsieur Count; for when you go to Auteuil and take your servants the house is left unprotected.’ Well,’ said he, ‘what next?’ ‘Well, next, some day you will be robbed.’”
“What did he answer?”
“He quietly said, ‘What do I care if I am?’”
“Andrea, he has some secretary with a spring.”
“How do you know?”
“Yes, which catches the thief in a trap and plays a tune. I was told there were such at the last exhibition.”
“He has simply a mahogany secretary, in which the key is always kept.”
“And he is not robbed?”
“No; his servants are all devoted to him.”
“There ought to be some money in that secretary?”
“There may be. No one knows what there is.”
“And where is it?”
“On the first floor.”
“Sketch me the plan of that floor, as you have done of the ground floor, my boy.”
“That is very simple.” Andrea took the pen. “On the first story, do you see, there is the anteroom and the drawing-room; to the right of the drawing-room, a library and a study; to the left, a bedroom and a dressing-room. The famous secretary is in the dressing-room.”