"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.
Chapter 63. The Dinner.
It was evident that one sentiment affected all the guests on entering
the dining-room. Each one asked what strange influence had brought them
to this house, and yet astonished, even uneasy though they were, they
still felt that they would not like to be absent. The recent events, the
solitary and eccentric position of the count, his enormous, nay, almost
incredible fortune, should have made men cautious, and have altogether
prevented ladies visiting a house where there was no one of their own
sex to receive them; and yet curiosity had been enough to lead them
to overleap the bounds of prudence and decorum. And all present, even
including Cavalcanti and his son, notwithstanding the stiffness of
the one and the carelessness of the other, were thoughtful, on finding
themselves assembled at the house of this incomprehensible man. Madame
Danglars had started when Villefort, on the count's invitation, offered
his arm; and Villefort felt that his glance was uneasy beneath his gold
spectacles, when he felt the arm of the baroness press upon his own.
None of this had escaped the count, and even by this mere contact of
individuals the scene had already acquired considerable interest for an
observer. M. de Villefort had on the right hand Madame Danglars, on
his left Morrel. The count was seated between Madame de Villefort and
Danglars; the other seats were filled by Debray, who was placed between
the two Cavalcanti, and by Chateau-Renaud, seated between Madame de
Villefort and Morrel.
The repast was magnificent; Monte Cristo had endeavored completely to
overturn the Parisian ideas, and to feed the curiosity as much as the
appetite of his guests. It was an Oriental feast that he offered to
them, but of such a kind as the Arabian fairies might be supposed to
prepare. Every delicious fruit that the four quarters of the globe could
provide was heaped in vases from China and jars from Japan. Rare birds,
retaining their most brilliant plumage, enormous fish, spread upon
massive silver dishes, together with every wine produced in the
Archipelago, Asia Minor, or the Cape, sparkling in bottles, whose
grotesque shape seemed to give an additional flavor to the draught,--all
these, like one of the displays with which Apicius of old gratified his
guests, passed in review before the eyes of the astonished Parisians,
who understood that it was possible to expend a thousand louis upon a
dinner for ten persons, but only on the condition of eating pearls, like
Cleopatra, or drinking refined gold, like Lorenzo de' Medici.
Monte Cristo noticed the general astonishment, and began laughing
and joking about it. "Gentlemen," he said, "you will admit that, when
arrived at a certain degree of fortune, the superfluities of life are
all that can be desired; and the ladies will allow that, after having
risen to a certain eminence of position, the ideal alone can be
more exalted. Now, to follow out this reasoning, what is the
marvellous?--that which we do not understand. What is it that we really
desire?--that which we cannot obtain. Now, to see things which I cannot
understand, to procure impossibilities, these are the study of my life.
I gratify my wishes by two means--my will and my money. I take as
much interest in the pursuit of some whim as you do, M. Danglars, in
promoting a new railway line; you, M. de Villefort, in condemning a
culprit to death; you, M. Debray, in pacifying a kingdom; you, M. de
Chateau-Renaud, in pleasing a woman; and you, Morrel, in breaking a
horse that no one can ride. For example, you see these two fish; one
brought from fifty leagues beyond St. Petersburg, the other five leagues
from Naples. Is it not amusing to see them both on the same table?"
"What are the two fish?" asked Danglars.
"M. Chateau-Renaud, who has lived in Russia, will tell you the name of
one, and Major Cavalcanti, who is an Italian, will tell you the name of
the other."
"This one is, I think, a sterlet," said Chateau-Renaud.
"And that one, if I mistake not, a lamprey."
"Just so. Now, M. Danglars, ask these gentlemen where they are caught."
"Sterlets," said Chateau-Renaud, "are only found in the Volga."
"And," said Cavalcanti, "I know that Lake Fusaro alone supplies lampreys
of that size."
"Exactly; one comes from the Volga, and the other from Lake Fusaro."
"Impossible!" cried all the guests simultaneously.
"Well, this is just what amuses me," said Monte Cristo. "I am like
Nero--cupitor impossibilium; and that is what is amusing you at this
moment. This fish, which seems so exquisite to you, is very likely no
better than perch or salmon; but it seemed impossible to procure it, and
here it is."
"But how could you have these fish brought to France?"
"Oh, nothing more easy. Each fish was brought over in a cask--one filled
with river herbs and weeds, the other with rushes and lake plants; they
were placed in a wagon built on purpose, and thus the sterlet lived
twelve days, the lamprey eight, and both were alive when my cook seized
them, killing one with milk and the other with wine. You do not believe
me, M. Danglars!"
"I cannot help doubting," answered Danglars with his stupid smile.
"Baptistin," said the count, "have the other fish brought in--the
sterlet and the lamprey which came in the other casks, and which are yet
alive." Danglars opened his bewildered eyes; the company clapped their
hands. Four servants carried in two casks covered with aquatic plants,
and in each of which was breathing a fish similar to those on the table.
"But why have two of each sort?" asked Danglars.
"Merely because one might have died," carelessly answered Monte Cristo.
"You are certainly an extraordinary man," said Danglars; "and
philosophers may well say it is a fine thing to be rich."
"And to have ideas," added Madame Danglars.
"Oh, do not give me credit for this, madame; it was done by the Romans,
who much esteemed them, and Pliny relates that they sent slaves from
Ostia to Rome, who carried on their heads fish which he calls the mulus,
and which, from the description, must probably be the goldfish. It was
also considered a luxury to have them alive, it being an amusing sight
to see them die, for, when dying, they change color three or four times,
and like the rainbow when it disappears, pass through all the prismatic
shades, after which they were sent to the kitchen. Their agony formed
part of their merit--if they were not seen alive, they were despised
when dead."
"Yes," said Debray, "but then Ostia is only a few leagues from Rome."
"True," said Monte Cristo; "but what would be the use of living eighteen
hundred years after Lucullus, if we can do no better than he could?" The
two Cavalcanti opened their enormous eyes, but had the good sense not
to say anything. "All this is very extraordinary," said Chateau-Renaud;
"still, what I admire the most, I confess, is the marvellous promptitude
with which your orders are executed. Is it not true that you only bought
this house five or six days ago?"
"Certainly not longer."
"Well, I am sure it is quite transformed since last week. If I remember
rightly, it had another entrance, and the court-yard was paved and
empty; while to-day we have a splendid lawn, bordered by trees which
appear to be a hundred years old."
"Why not? I am fond of grass and shade," said Monte Cristo.
"Yes," said Madame de Villefort, "the door was towards the road before,
and on the day of my miraculous escape you brought me into the house
from the road, I remember."
"Yes, madame," said Monte Cristo; "but I preferred having an entrance
which would allow me to see the Bois de Boulogne over my gate."
"In four days," said Morrel; "it is extraordinary!"
"Indeed," said Chateau-Renaud, "it seems quite miraculous to make a new
house out of an old one; for it was very old, and dull too. I recollect
coming for my mother to look at it when M. de Saint-Meran advertised it
for sale two or three years ago."
"M. de Saint-Meran?" said Madame de Villefort; "then this house belonged
to M. de Saint-Meran before you bought it?"
"It appears so," replied Monte Cristo.
"Is it possible that you do not know of whom you purchased it?"
"Quite so; my steward transacts all this business for me."
"It is certainly ten years since the house had been occupied," said
Chateau-Renaud, "and it was quite melancholy to look at it, with the
blinds closed, the doors locked, and the weeds in the court. Really, if
the house had not belonged to the father-in-law of the procureur, one
might have thought it some accursed place where a horrible crime had
been committed." Villefort, who had hitherto not tasted the three or
four glasses of rare wine which were placed before him, here took one,
and drank it off. Monte Cristo allowed a short time to elapse, and then
said, "It is singular, baron, but the same idea came across me the first
time I came here; it looked so gloomy I should never have bought it
if my steward had not taken the matter into his own hands. Perhaps the
fellow had been bribed by the notary."
"It is probable," stammered out Villefort, trying to smile; "but I can
assure you that I had nothing to do with any such proceeding. This house
is part of Valentine's marriage-portion, and M. de Saint-Meran wished to
sell it; for if it had remained another year or two uninhabited it would
have fallen to ruin." It was Morrel's turn to become pale.
"There was, above all, one room," continued Monte Cristo, "very plain in
appearance, hung with red damask, which, I know not why, appeared to me
quite dramatic."
"Why so?" said Danglars; "why dramatic?"
"Can we account for instinct?" said Monte Cristo. "Are there not some
places where we seem to breathe sadness?--why, we cannot tell. It is a
chain of recollections--an idea which carries you back to other times,
to other places--which, very likely, have no connection with the present
time and place. And there is something in this room which reminds me
forcibly of the chamber of the Marquise de Ganges [*] or Desdemona. Stay,
since we have finished dinner, I will show it to you, and then we will
take coffee in the garden. After dinner, the play." Monte Cristo looked
inquiringly at his guests. Madame de Villefort rose, Monte Cristo did
the same, and the rest followed their example. Villefort and Madame
Danglars remained for a moment, as if rooted to their seats; they
questioned each other with vague and stupid glances. "Did you hear?"
said Madame Danglars.
* Elisabeth de Rossan, Marquise de Ganges, was one of the
famous women of the court of Louis XIV. where she was known
