“Ah, madame,” replied Monte Cristo, “you must not ask of us, the manufacturers of fine porcelain, such a question. It is the work of another age, constructed by the genii of earth and water.”
“How so?—at what period can that have been?”
“I do not know; I have only heard that an emperor of China had an oven built expressly, and that in this oven twelve jars like this were successively baked. Two broke, from the heat of the fire; the other ten were sunk three hundred fathoms deep into the sea. The sea, knowing what was required of her, threw over them her weeds, encircled them with coral, and encrusted them with shells; the whole was cemented by two hundred years beneath these almost impervious depths, for a revolution carried away the emperor who wished to make the trial, and only left the documents proving the manufacture of the jars and their descent into the sea. At the end of two hundred years the documents were found, and they thought of bringing up the jars. Divers descended in machines, made expressly on the discovery, into the bay where they were thrown; but of ten three only remained, the rest having been broken by the waves. I am fond of these jars, upon which, perhaps, misshapen, frightful monsters have fixed their cold, dull eyes, and in which myriads of small fish have slept, seeking a refuge from the pursuit of their enemies.” Meanwhile, Danglars, who had cared little for curiosities, was mechanically tearing off the blossoms of a splendid orange-tree, one after another. When he had finished with the orange-tree, he began at the cactus; but this, not being so easily plucked as the orange-tree, pricked him dreadfully. He shuddered, and rubbed his eyes as though awaking from a dream.
“Sir,” said Monte Cristo to him, “I do not recommend my pictures to you, who possess such splendid paintings; but, nevertheless, here are two by Hobbema, a Paul Potter, a Mieris, two by Gerard Douw, a Raphael, a Vandyke, a Zurbaran, and two or three by Murillo, worth looking at.”
“Stay,” said Debray; “I recognize this Hobbema.”
“Ah, indeed!”
“Yes; it was proposed for the Museum.”
“Which, I believe, does not contain one?” said Monte Cristo.
“No; and yet they refused to buy it.”
“Why?” said Chateau-Renaud.
“You pretend not to know,—because government was not rich enough.”
“Ah, pardon me,” said Chateau-Renaud; “I have heard of these things every day during the last eight years, and I cannot understand them yet.”
“You will, by and by,” said Debray.
“I think not,” replied Chateau-Renaud.
“Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti and Count Andrea Cavalcanti,” announced Baptistin. A black satin stock, fresh from the maker’s hands, gray moustaches, a bold eye, a major’s uniform, ornamented with three medals and five crosses—in fact, the thorough bearing of an old soldier—such was the appearance of Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti, that tender father with whom we are already acquainted. Close to him, dressed in entirely new clothes, advanced smilingly Count Andrea Cavalcanti, the dutiful son, whom we also know. The three young people were talking together. On the entrance of the new-comers, their eyes glanced from father to son, and then, naturally enough, rested on the latter, whom they began criticising. “Cavalcanti!” said Debray. “A fine name,” said Morrel.
“Yes,” said Chateau-Renaud, “these Italians are well named and badly dressed.”
“You are fastidious, Chateau-Renaud,” replied Debray; “those clothes are well cut and quite new.”
“That is just what I find fault with. That gentleman appears to be well dressed for the first time in his life.”
“Who are those gentlemen?” asked Danglars of Monte Cristo.
“You heard—Cavalcanti.”
“That tells me their name, and nothing else.”
“Ah, true. You do not know the Italian nobility; the Cavalcanti are all descended from princes.”
“Have they any fortune?”
“An enormous one.”
“What do they do?”
“Try to spend it all. They have some business with you, I think, from what they told me the day before yesterday. I, indeed, invited them here to-day on your account. I will introduce you to them.”
“But they appear to speak French with a very pure accent,” said Danglars.
“The son has been educated in a college in the south; I believe near Marseilles. You will find him quite enthusiastic.”
“Upon what subject?” asked Madame Danglars.
“The French ladies, madame. He has made up his mind to take a wife from Paris.”
“A fine idea that of his,” said Danglars, shrugging his shoulders. Madame Danglars looked at her husband with an expression which, at any other time, would have indicated a storm, but for the second time she controlled herself. “The baron appears thoughtful to-day,” said Monte Cristo to her; “are they going to put him in the ministry?”
“Not yet, I think. More likely he has been speculating on the Bourse, and has lost money.”
“M. and Madame de Villefort,” cried Baptistin. They entered. M. de Villefort, notwithstanding his self-control, was visibly affected, and when Monte Cristo touched his hand, he felt it tremble. “Certainly, women alone know how to dissimulate,” said Monte Cristo to himself, glancing at Madame Danglars, who was smiling on the procureur, and embracing his wife. After a short time, the count saw Bertuccio, who, until then, had been occupied on the other side of the house, glide into an adjoining room. He went to him. “What do you want, M. Bertuccio?” said he.
“Your excellency has not stated the number of guests.”
“Ah, true.”
“How many covers?”
“Count for yourself.”
“Is every one here, your excellency?”
“Yes.”
Bertuccio glanced through the door, which was ajar. The count watched him. “Good heavens!” he exclaimed.
“What is the matter?” said the count.
“That woman—that woman!”
“Which?”
“The one with a white dress and so many diamonds—the fair one.”
“Madame Danglars?”
“I do not know her name; but it is she, sir, it is she!”
“Whom do you mean?”
“The woman of the garden!—she that was enciente—she who was walking while she waited for”—Bertuccio stood at the open door, with his eyes starting and his hair on end.
“Waiting for whom?” Bertuccio, without answering, pointed to Villefort with something of the gesture Macbeth uses to point out Banquo. “Oh, oh,” he at length muttered, “do you see?”
“What? Who?”
“Him!”
“Him!—M. de Villefort, the king’s attorney? Certainly I see him.”
“Then I did not kill him?”
“Really, I think you are going mad, good Bertuccio,” said the count.
“Then he is not dead?”
“No; you see plainly he is not dead. Instead of striking between the sixth and seventh left ribs, as your countrymen do, you must have struck higher or lower, and life is very tenacious in these lawyers, or rather there is no truth in anything you have told me—it was a fright of the imagination, a dream of your fancy. You went to sleep full of thoughts of vengeance; they weighed heavily upon your stomach; you had the nightmare—that’s all. Come, calm yourself, and reckon them up—M. and Madame de Villefort, two; M. and Madame Danglars, four; M. de Chateau-Renaud, M. Debray, M. Morrel, seven; Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti, eight.”
“Eight!” repeated Bertuccio.
“Stop! You are in a shocking hurry to be off—you forget one of my guests. Lean a little to the left. Stay! look at M. Andrea Cavalcanti, the young man in a black coat, looking at Murillo’s Madonna; now he is turning.” This time Bertuccio would have uttered an exclamation, had not a look from Monte Cristo silenced him. “Benedetto?” he muttered; “fatality!”
“Half-past six o’clock has just struck, M. Bertuccio,” said the count severely; “I ordered dinner at that hour, and I do not like to wait;” and he returned to his guests, while Bertuccio, leaning against the wall, succeeded in reaching the dining-room. Five minutes afterwards the doors of the drawing-room were thrown open, and Bertuccio appearing said, with a violent effort, “The dinner waits.”
The Count of Monte Cristo offered his arm to Madame de Villefort. “M. de Villefort,” he said, “will you conduct the Baroness Danglars?”
Villefort complied, and they passed on to the dining-room.