Chương Chương 64 · Ghosts

At first sight, the exterior of the house at Auteuil gave no

indications of splendor, nothing one would expect from the destined

residence of the magnificent Count of Monte Cristo; but this simplicity

was according to the will of its master, who positively ordered nothing

to be altered outside. The splendor was within. Indeed, almost before

the door opened, the scene changed.

M. Bertuccio had outdone himself in the taste displayed in furnishing,

and in the rapidity with which it was executed. It is told that the Duc

d’Antin removed in a single night a whole avenue of trees that annoyed

Louis XIV.; in three days M. Bertuccio planted an entirely bare court

with poplars, large spreading sycamores to shade the different parts of

the house, and in the foreground, instead of the usual paving-stones,

half hidden by the grass, there extended a lawn but that morning laid

down, and upon which the water was yet glistening. For the rest, the

orders had been issued by the count; he himself had given a plan to

Bertuccio, marking the spot where each tree was to be planted, and the

shape and extent of the lawn which was to take the place of the

paving-stones.

Thus the house had become unrecognizable, and Bertuccio himself

declared that he scarcely knew it, encircled as it was by a framework

of trees. The overseer would not have objected, while he was about it,

to have made some improvements in the garden, but the count had

positively forbidden it to be touched. Bertuccio made amends, however,

by loading the antechambers, staircases, and mantle-pieces with

flowers.

What, above all, manifested the shrewdness of the steward, and the

profound science of the master, the one in carrying out the ideas of

the other, was that this house which appeared only the night before so

sad and gloomy, impregnated with that sickly smell one can almost fancy

to be the smell of time, had in a single day acquired the aspect of

life, was scented with its master’s favorite perfumes, and had the very

light regulated according to his wish. When the count arrived, he had

under his touch his books and arms, his eyes rested upon his favorite

pictures; his dogs, whose caresses he loved, welcomed him in the

antechamber; the birds, whose songs delighted him, cheered him with

their music; and the house, awakened from its long sleep, like the

sleeping beauty in the wood, lived, sang, and bloomed like the houses

we have long cherished, and in which, when we are forced to leave them,

we leave a part of our souls.

The servants passed gayly along the fine courtyard; some, belonging to

the kitchens, gliding down the stairs, restored but the previous day,

as if they had always inhabited the house; others filling the

coach-houses, where the equipages, encased and numbered, appeared to

have been installed for the last fifty years; and in the stables the

horses replied with neighs to the grooms, who spoke to them with much

more respect than many servants pay their masters.

The library was divided into two parts on either side of the wall, and

contained upwards of two thousand volumes; one division was entirely

devoted to novels, and even the volume which had been published but the

day before was to be seen in its place in all the dignity of its red

and gold binding.

On the other side of the house, to match with the library, was the

conservatory, ornamented with rare flowers, that bloomed in china jars;

and in the midst of the greenhouse, marvellous alike to sight and

smell, was a billiard-table which looked as if it had been abandoned

during the past hour by players who had left the balls on the cloth.

One chamber alone had been respected by the magnificent Bertuccio.

Before this room, to which you could ascend by the grand, and go out by

the back staircase, the servants passed with curiosity, and Bertuccio

with terror.

At five o’clock precisely, the count arrived before the house at

Auteuil, followed by Ali. Bertuccio was awaiting this arrival with

impatience, mingled with uneasiness; he hoped for some compliments,

while, at the same time, he feared to have frowns. Monte Cristo

descended into the courtyard, walked all over the house, without giving

any sign of approbation or pleasure, until he entered his bedroom,

situated on the opposite side to the closed room; then he approached a

little piece of furniture, made of rosewood, which he had noticed at a

previous visit.

“That can only be to hold gloves,” he said.

“Will your excellency deign to open it?” said the delighted Bertuccio,

“and you will find gloves in it.”

Elsewhere the count found everything he required—smelling-bottles,

cigars, knick-knacks.

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“Good,” he said; and M. Bertuccio left enraptured, so great, so

powerful, and real was the influence exercised by this man over all who

surrounded him.

At precisely six o’clock the clatter of horses’ hoofs was heard at the

entrance door; it was our captain of Spahis, who had arrived on Médéah.

“I am sure I am the first,” cried Morrel; “I did it on purpose to have

you a minute to myself, before everyone came. Julie and Emmanuel have a

thousand things to tell you. Ah, really this is magnificent! But tell

me, count, will your people take care of my horse?”

“Do not alarm yourself, my dear Maximilian—they understand.”

“I mean, because he wants petting. If you had seen at what a pace he

came—like the wind!”

“I should think so,—a horse that cost 5,000 francs!” said Monte Cristo,

in the tone which a father would use towards a son.

“Do you regret them?” asked Morrel, with his open laugh.

“I? Certainly not,” replied the count. “No; I should only regret if the

horse had not proved good.”

“It is so good, that I have distanced M. de Château-Renaud, one of the

best riders in France, and M. Debray, who both mount the minister’s

Arabians; and close on their heels are the horses of Madame Danglars,

who always go at six leagues an hour.”

“Then they follow you?” asked Monte Cristo.

“See, they are here.” And at the same minute a carriage with smoking

horses, accompanied by two mounted gentlemen, arrived at the gate,

which opened before them. The carriage drove round, and stopped at the

steps, followed by the horsemen.

The instant Debray had touched the ground, he was at the carriage-door.

He offered his hand to the baroness, who, descending, took it with a

peculiarity of manner imperceptible to everyone but Monte Cristo. But

nothing escaped the count’s notice, and he observed a little note,

passed with the facility that indicates frequent practice, from the

hand of Madame Danglars to that of the minister’s secretary.

After his wife the banker descended, as pale as though he had issued

from his tomb instead of his carriage.

Madame Danglars threw a rapid and inquiring glance which could only be

interpreted by Monte Cristo, around the courtyard, over the peristyle,

and across the front of the house, then, repressing a slight emotion,

which must have been seen on her countenance if she had not kept her

color, she ascended the steps, saying to Morrel:

“Sir, if you were a friend of mine, I should ask you if you would sell

your horse.”

Morrel smiled with an expression very like a grimace, and then turned

round to Monte Cristo, as if to ask him to extricate him from his

embarrassment. The count understood him.

“Ah, madame,” he said, “why did you not make that request of me?”

“With you, sir,” replied the baroness, “one can wish for nothing, one

is so sure to obtain it. If it were so with M. Morrel——”

“Unfortunately,” replied the count, “I am witness that M. Morrel cannot

give up his horse, his honor being engaged in keeping it.”

“How so?”

“He laid a wager he would tame Médéah in the space of six months. You

understand now that if he were to get rid of the animal before the time

named, he would not only lose his bet, but people would say he was

afraid; and a brave captain of Spahis cannot risk this, even to gratify

a pretty woman, which is, in my opinion, one of the most sacred

obligations in the world.”

“You see my position, madame,” said Morrel, bestowing a grateful smile

on Monte Cristo.

“It seems to me,” said Danglars, in his coarse tone, ill-concealed by a

forced smile, “that you have already got horses enough.”

Madame Danglars seldom allowed remarks of this kind to pass unnoticed,

but, to the surprise of the young people, she pretended not to hear it,

and said nothing. Monte Cristo smiled at her unusual humility, and

showed her two immense porcelain jars, over which wound marine plants,

of a size and delicacy that nature alone could produce. The baroness

was astonished.

“Why,” said she, “you could plant one of the chestnut-trees in the

Tuileries inside! How can such enormous jars have been manufactured?”

“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 Van Dyck, 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 Château-Renaud.

“You pretend not to know,—because government was not rich enough.”

“Ah, pardon me,” said Château-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 Château-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 Château-Renaud, “these Italians are well named and badly

dressed.”

“You are fastidious, Château-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 today 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 today,” 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 everyone 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 _enceinte_—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?”

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“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

Château-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.