“I am the first, I know,” Morrel called to him. “I have done it on purpose so as to have you to myself for a minute before the others came. Julie and Emmanuel sent you all kinds of messages. It is truly magnificent here! But are you sure your servants will take good care of my horse?”
“You need not worry about that, my dear Maximilian. They understand horses.”
“He will want rubbing down. If you knew at what I pace I came—like the wind!”
“I should say so, too, with a horse that cost five thousand francs!” said Monte Cristo in the tone that a father might adopt toward his son.
“Do you regret it?” said Morrel with his frank smile.
“Good gracious, no!” replied the Count. “I should only regret it if the horse were no good.”
“He is so good that I have outdistanced Monsieur de Château-Renaud, the greatest expert in France, and Monsieur Debray, who rides the Minister’s Arabs; at their heels are Baroness Danglars’ horses which always do their six leagues an hour.”
“They are following you then?” asked the Count.
“See, here they are!”
Indeed at that moment a carriage drawn by a sweating pair of bays, and two gentlemen on winded horses arrived at the gate, which opened before them. The carriage drove round and stopped at the steps, followed by the two riders. Debray instantly dismounted and opened the carriage door. He offered his hand to the Baroness, who, in alighting, made a sign to Debray which passed unnoticed by all except Monte Cristo. Nothing ever escaped the Count’s eye, and he perceived a note slipped almost imperceptibly, and with an ease indicating practice, from the Baroness’s hand into that of the Minister’s secretary.
The Baroness was followed by the banker, looking as pale as though he had issued from the grave instead of his carriage. Madame Danglars threw a rapid and inquiring glance around her, embracing in her view the courtyard, the peristyle, and the front of the house. Monte Cristo showed her two immense Chinese porcelain jars on which was intertwined marine vegetation, the size and beauty of which denoted that it could but be the work of nature herself. The Baroness expressed great admiration.
“Why, that would hold a chestnut tree from the Tuileries,” she said. “How did they manage to bake such enormous jars?”
“Oh, madame, that is a question we manufacturers of statuettes and fine glass cannot answer. It is the work of another age, that of the genii of the earth and sea.”
“What do you mean by that? To what period do these jars belong?”
“I know not; I have heard it said, however, that the Emperor of China had an oven built for the purpose. In this oven twelve jars were baked, one after the other, like the one you see here. Two were broken by the fierceness of the fire, the other ten were sunk three hundred fathoms deep into the sea. As though it knew what was demanded of it, the sea threw over them its weeds, encircled them with coral, and encrusted them with shells: the whole being cemented by two hundred years’ submersion in the depths; for the Emperor who made this experiment was carried away by a revolution, and left nothing but a document stating that the jars had been baked and let down into the sea. At the end of two hundred years this document was found, and it was decided to raise the vases. Special diving apparatus was made, and divers descended into the depths of the bay where they had been cast. Of the ten, however, but three were recovered, the others had been shattered and scattered by the waves. I like these vases, and at times my mind conjures up the unshapely, terrifying, and mysterious monsters, such as have been seen by divers only, which have cast their dull, cold, wondering gaze into the depths of the jars, wherein myriads of fish have slept finding refuge there from the pursuit of their enemies.”
In the meantime Danglars, caring little for curiosities, had been mechanically plucking one blossom after another from a magnificent orange-tree; when tired of that tree, he turned his attention to a cactus which, being of a less easygoing character, pricked him outrageously. He rubbed his eyes with a shudder as though awakening from a dream.
“Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti! The Viscount Andrea Cavalcanti!” announced Baptistin.
A black satin stock, fresh from the maker’s hands, a well-trimmed beard and grey moustache, a bold eye, a major’s uniform decorated with three stars and five crosses, in short the irreproachable bearing of an old soldier, such was the appearance of Bartolomeo Cavalcanti, the tender father. Close beside him, in brand new clothes, and with a smile upon his lips, came Viscount Andrea Cavalcanti, the respectful son.
The three young men chatted together; their eyes wandered from the father to the son and from the very nature of things rested longer on the latter, whom they began criticizing.
“Cavalcanti!” said Debray.
“A fine name, to be sure,” said Morrel.
“You are right,” said Château-Renaud. “These Italians have a fine name, but they are badly dressed.”
“You are difficult to please,” added Debray. “Their clothes are very well cut and are quite new.”
“That is precisely where they are at fault. This gentleman looks as though he were dressed for the first time in his life.”
“Who are they?” Danglars inquired of Monte Cristo.
“You heard . . . the Cavalcantis.”
“That tells me their name, but nothing further.”
“I had forgotten that you do not know Italian nobility: to speak of the Cavalcantis is the same as speaking of a princely race.”
“Any fortune?” asked the banker.
“A fabulous one.”
“What do they do?”
“They try to get through their fortune, but cannot succeed. From what they told me when they called on me the other day, I gather that they intend opening a credit account with your bank. I have invited them to-day on your account. I will introduce you to them.”
“They appear to speak very good French.”
“The son was educated at a college in the South, at Marseilles or somewhere in that district, I believe. You will find him most enthusiastic.”
“On what subject?” inquired the Baroness.
“On the subject of French women, madame. He is quite decided to find a wife for himself in Paris.”
“That is a fine idea,” said Danglars, shrugging his shoulders.
“The Baron is very grim to-day,” said Monte Cristo to Mme Danglars. “Do they by any chance wish to make him a Minister?”
“Not so far as I know. I am more inclined to think he has been speculating and has lost money; now he does not know whom to blame for it.”
“Monsieur and Madame de Villefort!” announced Baptistin.
Five minutes later the two doors of the salon opened; Bertuccio appeared and announced in a loud voice:
“Dinner is served, Your Excellency!”
Monte Cristo offered his arm to Mme de Villefort.
“Monsieur de Villefort,” said he, “will you escort Baroness Danglars?”
Villefort did as he was requested, and they all passed into the dining-room.
The repast was magnificent. Monte Cristo had endeavoured to deviate from the uniformity observed at all such Paris dinners, and his object was to satisfy the curiosity rather than the appetites of his guests. It was an Oriental feast he offered them, but such as one would attribute to Arabian fairies. Every kind of delicious fruit that the four quarters of the globe can send to fill Europe’s cornucopia was piled pyramid-like in Chinese vases and Japanese bowls. Rare birds in all their brilliant plumage, monstrous fish on silver dishes, every wine of the Archipelago, Asia Minor, and the Cape, in decanters of every weird shape the sight of which seemed to add to the flavour, passed like one of Apicius’br reviews before his guests.
Monte Cristo noticed the general amazement and began to laugh and jest about it.
“My friends, you will no doubt admit,” said he, “that, arrived at a certain degree of fortune, the superfluous takes the place of the necessary, and, as you ladies will admit, arrived at a certain degree of e
xaltation, the ideal takes the place of the real. Now to continue this argument, what is marvellous? That which we do not comprehend. What is truly desirable? That which we cannot have. Now to see things I cannot understand, to procure things impossible of possession, such is the plan of my life. I can realize it by two means: money and will. For instance, I expend as much perseverance in the pursuit of a whim as you, Monsieur Danglars, would expend in constructing a new railway line, as you, Monsieur de Villefort, in condemning a man to death, as you, Monsieur Debray, in pacifying a kingdom, as you, Monsieur de Château-Renaud, in pleasing a lady, and you, Morrel, in taming a horse that no one can ride. Thus, for example, you see these two fish. One was born fifty leagues from St Petersburg, the other five leagues from Naples. Do you not find it amusing to unite them on the same table?”
“What are these two fish?” asked Danglars.
“Monsieur de Château-Renaud, who has lived in Russia, will tell you the name of the one, and Major Cavalcanti, who is an Italian, will tell you the name of the other,” said Monte Cristo.
“This one is a sterlet, I believe,” said Château-Renaud.
“Capital!”
“And if I mistake not,” said Cavalcanti, “this one is a lamprey.”
“Just so. Now, Monsieur Danglars, ask these two gentlemen where these fish are found.”
“Sterlets are found only in the Volga,” said Château-Renaud.
“And I know that the Lake of Fusaro alone supplies lampreys of this size.”
“Exactly so. One comes from the Volga, the other from the Lake of Fusaro.”
“Impossible!” the guests exclaimed unanimously.
“You see, this is precisely what affords me amusement. I am like Nero: cupitor impossibilium.bs At the present moment it is amusing you, too, and the reason why these fish, which, I dare say, are in reality not such good eating as a perch or a salmon, seem exquisite is that in your opinion it was impossible to procure them. Yet here they are.”
“How did you have them brought to Paris?”
“Nothing simpler. They were each brought in a large cask, the one lined with reeds and river weeds, the other with rushes and other lake plants: these were placed in a waggon built specially for them. Here the sterlet lived twelve days and the lamprey eight. Both of them were alive when my cook took them out of the casks to kill them, the former in milk and the latter in wine. You do not believe me, Monsieur Danglars?”
“At any rate I doubt it,” replied Danglars, with a heavy smile.
“Baptistin, send for the other sterlet and lamprey,” said Monte Cristo. “You know, those that came in the other casks and are still alive.”
Danglars opened his eyes in amazement; the rest of the company clapped their hands.
Four servants brought in two casks decorated with marine plants, in each of which was panting a fish similar to those on the table.
“But why are there two of each kind?” asked Danglars.
“Because one of them might have died,” replied Monte Cristo simply.
“You are really a wonderful man,” said Danglars. “Philosophers may well say it is superb to be rich.”
“Above all to have ideas,” said Mme Danglars.
“Oh, do not give me credit for this one, madame. It is an idea that was much esteemed by the Romans, and Pliny relates that they sent relays of slaves from Ostia to Rome who carried on their heads fish of the species he calls mullus, which, from the description he gives, is probably the goldfish. It was considered a luxury to have them alive, and an amusing sight to see them die; when dying they changed colour two or three times and, like the fading rainbow, they passed through all the prismatic shades; then they were sent to the kitchens. Their agony formed part of their merit. If they were not seen alive, they were despised when dead.”
“Yes, but it is only seven or eight leagues from Ostia to Rome!”
“Quite true,” said Monte Cristo. “But where would be the merit of living eighteen hundred years after Lucullusbt if we did not go one better than he?”
The two Cavalcantis opened their enormous eyes wide, but they had the good sense not to say a word.
“This is all very amusing,” said Château-Renaud, “but I must confess that what I admire most is the wonderful promptitude with which you are served. Is it not true, Count, that you bought this house only five or six days ago?”
“Certainly no longer.”
“Well, I am sure it has undergone complete transformation in a week for, if I mistake not, it had quite a different entrance and the yard was paved and empty, whereas what formerly was the yard is to-day a magnificent lawn bordered by trees which look a hundred years old.”
“Why not? I like grass and shade,” said Monte Cristo.
“In four days!” said Morrel. “It is marvellous!”
The evening wore on. Mme de Villefort expressed her desire to return to Paris, which Mme Danglars did not dare to do, notwithstanding her obvious uneasiness.
At his wife’s request M. de Villefort was the first to give the signal for departure, and offered Mme Danglars a seat in his landau. As for M. Danglars he was so absorbed in a most interesting conversation on industry with M. Cavalcanti, that he did not pay any attention to what was going on around him. More and more delighted with the Major, he offered him a seat in his carriage.
Andrea Cavalcanti found his tilbury awaiting him at the gate, and the groom, fitted out in an exaggeration of the prevailing English fashion, was standing on the tips of his high boots, holding the head of the enormous iron-grey horse.
Andrea had not spoken much during dinner, but afterward he had been seized upon by M. Danglars, who, after a rapid glance at the stiff-necked old Major and his timid son, and taking into consideration the hospitality of the Count, had come to the conclusion that he was face to face with some nabob come to Paris to put the final polish on his society education.
He had noticed with indescribable satisfaction the enormous diamond which shone on the Major’s little finger, and after dinner, of course on pretext of business and travels, he questioned the father and son on their mode of living, and both the father and the son had been most charming and affable.
He was, therefore, greatly pleased when Cavalcanti said: “To-morrow, monsieur, I shall have the honour of calling on you on business matters.”
“And I shall be happy to receive you,” was Danglars’ reply, and he further proposed that he should accompany him to his hotel if it would not be depriving him too much of his son’s company.
Cavalcanti replied that for some time past his son had been accustomed to living independently of him; he had his own horses and carriages, and, as they had not come to the Count’s house together, it would offer them no difficulty to leave separately. The Major had already seated himself in Danglars’ carriage, and the banker took his place beside him, more and more charmed with the ideas of order and economy of this man who, notwithstanding, gave his son fifty thousand francs a year, which meant an income of five or six hundred thousand francs.
As for Andrea, in order to look grand, he began by reprimanding his groom because instead of driving up to the steps he had waited at the gate, thus giving him the fatigue of walking thirty yards to reach his tilbury. The groom received the scolding with humility, and, taking the bit in his left hand to keep back the impatient horse that was pawing the ground, with his right hand he gave the reins to Andrea.
Chapter XLIII
A CONJUGAL SCENE
At the Place Louis XV the three young men separated. Debray drove on till he reached the house of M. Danglars, arriving there just as M. de Villefort’s landau drove up to the door with Mme Danglars. Debray was the first to enter the courtyard, and, with the air of a man on a familiar footing at the house, he threw the bridle to a footman and handed the Baroness from the carriage and into the house.
At the door of her room, the Baroness met Mlle Cornélie, her confidential maid. “What is my daughter doing?” she asked her.
“S
he practised the whole evening and then went to bed,” replied Mlle Cornélie.
“I seem to hear her at the piano now.”
“That is Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly, who is playing to Mademoiselle Danglars while she is in bed.”
“Very well,” said Mme Danglars, “come and undress me.”
They entered the bedroom. Debray stretched himself out on a large settee, and Mme Danglars went into her dressing-room with Mlle Cornélie.
“My dear Monsieur Lucien,” said Mme Danglars through the door, “you are always complaining that Eugénie does not do you the honour of addressing a word to you.”
“I am not the only one to make such complaints, madame,” said Lucien, playing with the Baroness’s little dog, which, recognizing him as a friend of the house, was making a great fuss of him. “I believe I heard Morcerf tell you the other day that he could not get a single word out of his betrothed.”
“It is true,” said Mme Danglars, “but I think all that will change, and one of these days you will see Eugénie at your office.”
“At my office?”
“That is to say, at the Minister’s office.”
“What for?”
“To ask for an engagement at the Opera House. Really, I have never known such an infatuation for music: it is ridiculous in a society girl.”
Debray smiled as he said: “Well, let her come with your consent and the Baron’s, and we will try to give her an engagement in accordance with her merits.”
“You may go, Cornélie,” said Mme Danglars, “I do not need you any more.”
Cornélie disappeared, and an instant later Mme Danglars emerged from her dressing-room and seated herself beside Debray. She began to caress the little spaniel in a thoughtful mood. Lucien looked at her for a moment in silence.
“Tell me frankly, Hermine,” he said presently, “what it is that is annoying you?”
“Nothing,” replied the Baroness.
Suddenly the door opened and M. Danglars entered. “Good evening, madame,” said he. “Good evening, Monsieur Debray!”
Count of Monte Cristo (abridged) (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 35