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Bertuccio bowed, and as his wishes were in perfect harmony with the order he had received, he started the same evening. The Inquiry. M. de Villefort kept the promise he had made to Madame Danglars, to endeavor to find out how the Count of Monte Cristo had discovered the history of the house at Auteuil.
San Pietro Martire looked round with mild inquiry on his face as to the meaning and the purpose of caresses in a hard world like this. Bertuccio sprawled on his stomach on the grassy floor of the presence chamber in a palace of the Caesars', kicking with one idle foot a bit of stone that had once formed the classic nose of a god.
"He still lives," he exclaimed, breathing more freely, "and with God's help we will save him." Suddenly a terrible cry was heard behind him, and Bertuccio stammeringly exclaimed: "Oh, sir, it is the wretch, the murderer! Do you not recognize him?" The count bent over the wounded man, and washing the blood from his face he exclaimed in horror: "Really, it is Benedetto!"
Well, the door opened without any knocking, and a stranger stood there: he was young, and beyond humanity, beautiful." Bertuccio paused; the girl felt slow red climbing to her cheek. She dared not look behind, yet she would have given half her possessions to see the expression of his face. Leaning forward, she played with the red tassels at San Pietro's ears. "Go on! go on!" she commanded.
I have no fear of ghosts, and I have never heard it said that so much harm had been done by the dead during six thousand years as is wrought by the living in a single day. Retire within, Bertuccio, and tranquillize your mind.
Once only had Villefort seen his father; it was the day after that upon which Bertuccio had paid his second visit to Benedetto, when the latter was to learn his father's name.
The latter was unconscious. The count raised his pale face, and, dashing some water over it, gradually restored the old man to his senses. "Bertuccio," he softly said, "do you know me?" "Yes, master. Ah, the lion has finished me! Its claws were buried like daggers in my breast." "Have you nothing to say to me? Have you no wish to be carried out? Speak, you know I am your friend."
The cover flew open, and the count could not repress a cry of surprise when he saw the pile of gold and bank-notes. "Count," said Bertuccio, approaching, "he is opening his eyes." "Did he recognize you?" "Oh, no, he is still confused." "So much the better. Keep yourself at a distance. He will recover." "What is this?" exclaimed Bertuccio, catching a glimpse of the contents of the box.
William Winter's "Life and Art of Edwin Booth" is indispensable to a student of the American stage. Here are two paragraphs chosen from many as illuminating: "The salient attributes of Booth's art were imagination, insight, grace, intense emotion, and melancholy refinement. In Hamlet, Richelieu, Othello, Iago, Lear, Bertuccio, and Lucius Brutus they were conspicuously manifest.
"Come, Milla," said La Luciola, "wherever we are, we are under the protection of a powerful friend." They were ushered into a beautifully furnished hallway, which led to a room furnished with heavy velvet draperies. A man with gray hair and aquiline nose, our old friend Bertuccio, received the ladies with a deep bow.
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