The Count of Monte Cristo

by Alexandre Dumas

  ‘Eight!’ Bertuccio repeated.

  ‘Wait! Wait for a moment! You’re in a devilish hurry to be gone and you’re forgetting one of my guests: Monsieur Andrea Cavalcanti, the young man in the black coat there, looking at the Virgin by Murillo and just turning around…’

  This time Bertuccio started to give a cry that a look from Monte Cristo froze on his lips.

  ‘Benedetto!’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Fate!’

  ‘It is just striking half-past six, Monsieur Bertuccio,’ the count said severely. ‘This is the time for which I ordered dinner to be served, and you know that I don’t like to wait.’

  At this, Monte Cristo went into the drawing-room where his guests had gathered, while Bertuccio returned to the dining-room, steadying himself against the walls.

  Five minutes later, the doors opened. Bertuccio appeared and, making a final heroic effort, like Vatel at Chantilly,1 he announced: ‘Monsieur le Comte is served!’

  Monte Cristo offered his arm to Mme de Villefort. ‘Monsieur de Villefort,’ he said, ‘please be good enough to escort Madame la Baronne Danglars.’

  Villefort obeyed and they went into the dining-room.

  LXIII

  DINNER

  It was clear that all the guests experienced the same feeling as they went into the dining-room. They were wondering what strange force had brought them together in this house; and yet, puzzled and even, in some cases, nervous though they were, they would not have wished to be anywhere else. Recent connections, the count’s unusual and isolated situation, and his unknown, almost fabulous fortune, should have required the men to be cautious and have deterred the women from entering a house where there was no one of their own sex to receive them. Yet the men had been prepared to discard caution and the women, custom: curiosity had pricked them with its irresistible spur and overcome all other feelings.

  Only the Cavalcantis – the father despite his starchiness and the son despite his casual manners – seemed uncomfortable at finding themselves in the house of this man whose motives they did not understand, with these other people whom they were meeting for the first time.

  Seeing M. de Villefort approach to offer his arm, as Monte Cristo had instructed him, Mme Danglars started and M. de Villefort felt his own expression change behind his gold-rimmed spectacles when he felt the baroness’s arm touch his. Neither of these two reactions had escaped the count; there was much to interest an observer of the scene merely in such contact between individuals.

  M. de Villefort had Mme Danglars on his right and Morrel on his left. The count was sitting between Mme de Villefort and Danglars. The other places were filled by Debray, sitting between the elder Cavalcanti and the younger, and by Château-Renaud, between Mme de Villefort and Morrel.

  The meal was magnificent. Monte Cristo had determined entirely to discard Parisian symmetry and to supply the desired nourishment more to the curiosity than to the appetite of his guests. They were offered an Oriental feast, but more like a repast from the Arabian Nights than anything else.

  All the fruits that the four corners of the earth can deliver whole and ripe into the European horn of plenty were amassed in pyramids, in Chinese vases and Japanese bowls. Rare birds, with their most brilliant feathers, monstrous fish lying on sheets of silver, all the wines of the Aegean, Asia Minor and the Cape, enclosed in extravagantly moulded vessels, the bizarre form of which seemed to add to the savour of the food, all came past in succession – like one of those reviews in which Apicius invited his guests to participate – before the eyes of these Parisians who could accept an expenditure of a thousand louis on a dinner for ten, provided that one ate pearls like Cleopatra or drank molten gold like Lorenzo de’ Medici.

  Seeing the general amazement, Monte Cristo burst into laughter and began to scoff aloud. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘you must confess that when one has reached a certain level of prosperity, only the superfluous becomes necessary, just as these ladies will admit that, beyond a certain degree of rapture, only the ideal is tangible. So, let us pursue the same line of argument: what is a marvel? Something that we do not understand. What is truly desirable? A possession that we cannot have. So, my life is devoted to seeing things that I cannot understand and obtaining things that are impossible to have. I succeed by two means: money and will. I am as persevering in the pursuit of my whims as, for example, you are, Monsieur Danglars, in building a railway; or you, Monsieur de Villefort, in condemning a man to death; or you, Monsieur Debray, in pacifying a kingdom; you, Monsieur de Château-Renaud, in finding favour with a woman; or you, Monsieur Morrel, in breaking a horse that no one else can ride. Take these two fish, for example, one of them born fifty leagues from Saint Petersburg, the other five leagues from Naples. Isn’t it amusing to bring them together on the same table?’

  ‘What kind of fish are they?’ asked Danglars.

  ‘Monsieur de Château-Renaud, who has lived in Russia, will tell you the name of the first, and Major Cavalcanti, who is Italian, can tell you that of the other.’

  ‘I think this one is a sturgeon,’ said Château-Renaud.

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘And that, if I’m not mistaken, is a lamprey,’ said Cavalcanti.

  ‘Just so. Now Monsieur Danglars, ask these two gentlemen where these fish are caught.’

  ‘You can only catch sturgeon in the Volga,’ said Château-Renaud.

  ‘And I only know of Lake Fusaro where you can find lampreys of this size,’ said Cavalcanti.

  ‘Precisely. One comes from the Volga, the other from Lake Fusaro.’

  ‘Impossible!’ all the guests exclaimed at once.

  ‘And that is exactly what I find entertaining,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘I am like Nero: cupitor impossibilium;1 and this is just what is entertaining you at the moment. That’s why this fish, which may not in reality be as good as perch or salmon, will seem delicious to you in a short while – because common sense tells you that it is impossible to obtain, and yet, here it is!’

  ‘But how did you manage to have these two fish brought to Paris?’

  ‘Good Lord! Nothing could be more simple. Each of the two fish was brought in a huge cask, the first padded with weeds and rushes from the river, the other with reeds and plants from the lake. They were installed in a specially constructed wagon and lived in this way, the sturgeon for twelve days, the lamprey for a week. Both of them were quite alive when my cook took them out to poach the first one in milk and the other in wine. Don’t you believe me, Monsieur Danglars?’

  ‘I still have my doubts,’ Danglars replied, with his gross smile.

  ‘Baptistin!’ Monte Cristo called. ‘Bring the other sturgeon and the other lamprey, would you – you know, the ones in the other barrels that are still alive.’

  Danglars’ eyes bulged with astonishment and the rest of the company clapped. Four servants brought in two casks, decorated with water-weeds, in each of which was a quivering fish, like the ones lying, cooked, on the table.

  ‘But why two of each kind?’ asked Danglars.

  ‘Because one might have died,’ Monte Cristo said simply.

  ‘You are without doubt a remarkable man,’ Danglars said. ‘And, whatever philosophers say, it’s marvellous to be rich.’

  ‘And, above all, to have ideas,’ said Mme Danglars.

  ‘Oh, don’t give me the credit for that one, Madame; it was very popular with the Romans. Pliny tells us that relays of slaves were employed to carry, on their heads, from Ostia to Rome, fish of the kind called mulus, which were probably a variety of sea-bream, judging by his description. It was held a luxury to have it alive because when it died the fish changed colour three or four times, like a vanishing rainbow, going through all the colours of the spectrum; then it was sent down to the kitchen. Its death-throes were part of the appeal. If it was not seen alive, it was despised when dead.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Debray, ‘but it is only seven or eight leagues from Ostia to Rome.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Monte Crist
o replied. ‘But what would be the merit in living eighteen hundred years after Lucullus if one could not surpass him?’

  The two Cavalcantis stared in astonishment, but had the good sense to keep quiet.

  ‘That is all very fine,’ said Château-Renaud, ‘but I must admit that what I admire most is the efficiency of the service. Isn’t it true, Monsieur le Comte, that you only bought this house five or six days ago?’

  ‘At the most,’ said Monte Cristo.

  ‘Well, I am sure that in a week it has undergone a complete transformation because, if I’m not mistaken, there was another entrance apart from this one, and the courtyard was paved and empty, whereas now it is a splendid lawn fringed with trees that seem to be a century or so old.’

  ‘What do you expect? I like greenery and shade.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mme de Villefort said, ‘the entrance used to be through a door giving on to the road, and I remember that, on the day of my miraculous rescue, you brought me into the house through that door to the road.’

  ‘Yes, Madame,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘But since then I have decided to turn the entrance round so that I can see the Bois de Boulogne through my fence.’

  ‘In four days!’ Morrel exclaimed. ‘It’s incredible!’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Château-Renaud. ‘To make a new house out of an old one is a miracle, because this house was quite old and very gloomy. I remember, my mother got me to look it over, two or three years ago, when Monsieur de Saint-Méran put it on the market.’

  ‘Monsieur de Saint-Méran?’ said Mme de Villefort. ‘Did this house belong to Monsieur de Saint-Méran before you bought it?’

  ‘It appears so,’ said Monte Cristo.

  ‘What! It appears so… Don’t you know who you bought it from?’

  ‘Well, no. My steward looks after all those details.’

  ‘Admittedly it hadn’t been inhabited for at least ten years,’ said Château-Renaud, ‘and it was very depressing to see it with its shutters down, its doors locked and grass growing in the courtyard. In fact, if it hadn’t belonged to the father-in-law of a crown prosecutor, one might have taken it for one of those ill-omened houses in which some great crime was committed.’

  Villefort, who until this moment had not touched any one of the three or four glasses full of exceptionally fine wines on the table in front of him, picked one indiscriminately and drained it at a gulp.

  Monte Cristo let a moment go by; then, breaking the silence that followed Château-Renaud’s words, he said: ‘Now that’s odd, Baron, but the same idea struck me, the first time I came here. The house seemed to me so dismal that I should never have bought it if my steward had not chosen it for me. No doubt the fellow got some tip from the solicitor.’

  ‘I expect so,’ Villefort stammered, with an attempt at a smile. ‘But, believe me, I am not responsible for any of this. Monsieur de Saint-Méran wanted to sell this house, which was part of his granddaughter’s dowry, because if it had remained empty for another three or four years it would have fallen into decay.’

  Now it was Morrel’s face that was drained of colour.

  ‘In particular,’ Monte Cristo continued, ‘there was one room – oh, quite ordinary to look at! A room like any other, with red damask hangings, which for some reason seemed to me particularly sinister.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Debray. ‘Why sinister?’

  ‘Can one explain these feelings? Are there not some places where one seems naturally to inhale an odour of sadness? Why? Who can tell? A linking of memories, a chance thought recalling other places and other times, which may perhaps have no connection with the time and place in which we find ourselves. So it was that this room powerfully recalled for me the chamber of the Marquise de Ganges or that of Desdemona.2 In fact, now that we have finished dinner, I must show it to you. Then we shall come back down and take coffee in the garden; and, after that, the evening’s entertainment.’

  Monte Cristo made a sign to invite his guests to go with him. Mme de Villefort got up, he did the same and everyone else followed suit. Villefort and Danglars, however, remained for an instant as if glued to their chairs, exchanging a look that was silent and icy cold.

  ‘Did you hear?’ said Mme Danglars.

  ‘We must go,’ Villefort replied, getting up and offering her his arm.

  Everyone was already scattered around the house, driven by curiosity, because they assumed that the visit would not be confined to the single bedroom but would allow them at the same time to wander around the rest of this hovel that Monte Cristo had transformed into a palace. So everyone rushed through one door after another. Monte Cristo waited for the two latecomers and, when they had gone through in their turn, took up the rear with a smile which, if they could have understood its meaning, would have terrified the guests much more than the empty room they were about to enter.

  They began by going through the apartments: the bedrooms, which were done out in the Oriental manner with no beds except divans and cushions and no furniture except pipes and swords; the drawing-rooms hung with the finest old master paintings; and the boudoirs in Chinese materials, with fantastical colours, extravagant designs and marvellous silks. Then, finally, they reached the famous room itself.

  There was nothing unusual about it except that, although it was growing dark, there were no lights here and, unlike all the other rooms, it had not been refurbished. These two things in themselves were enough to give it a gloomy air.

  ‘Brrr!’ said Mme de Villefort. ‘It certainly is spooky.’

  Mme Danglars tried to stammer a few words that no one heard, and various remarks were passed, all amounting to the opinion that the room with the red damask was truly sinister.

  ‘Isn’t it, indeed?’ said Monte Cristo. ‘Look how oddly that bed is placed, with its sombre, blood-red awning. And those two portraits, in pastel, which have faded because of the damp: do their pallid lips and staring eyes not seem to say: “I saw what happened!” ‘

  Villefort was ashen. Mme Danglars slumped into a chaise-longue beside the fireplace.

  ‘Oh, dear!’ Mme de Villefort said. ‘You are brave sitting there: it could be the very place where the crime was committed!’

  Mme Danglars leapt to her feet.

  ‘And that,’ said Monte Cristo, ‘is not all.’

  ‘What more is there?’ asked Debray, aware of the effect this was having on Mme Danglars.

  ‘Yes, how much more?’ asked Danglars. ‘I must confess that so far I can’t see a lot in it. How about you, Monsieur Cavalcanti?’

  ‘Well, we have Ugolino’s tower3 in Pisa, Tasso’s prison in Ferrara and the bedroom of Francesca and Paolo in Rimini,’ the Italian replied.

  ‘Yes, but you don’t have this little staircase,’ said Monte Cristo, opening a door concealed behind the hangings. ‘Look at it and tell me what you think.’

  ‘What a sinister style of stairway!’ Château-Renaud said with a laugh.

  ‘I don’t know if that Chian wine is conducive to melancholy,’ Debray said, ‘but the fact is that I am starting to see this house in a grim light.’

  As for Morrel, ever since the mention of Valentine’s dowry, he had remained glum and silent.

  ‘Can you imagine,’ Monte Cristo continued, ‘an Othello or some Abbé de Ganges, going down this staircase step by step, on a dark and stormy night, carrying some grim burden which he is anxious to conceal from the eyes of men, if not from those of God!’

  Mme Danglars almost fainted in the arms of Villefort, who was obliged to support himself against the wall.

  ‘Good Lord, Madame!’ Debray exclaimed. ‘What has come over you? How pale you are!’

  ‘What’s come over her?’ said Mme de Villefort. ‘What’s come over her is quite simply that Monsieur de Monte Cristo is telling us these ghastly stories, no doubt hoping to make us die of fright.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Villefort. ‘Look, Count, you’re terrifying the ladies.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Debray whispered again to Mme Dan
glars.

  ‘Nothing, nothing,’ she answered, making an effort to control her feelings. ‘I just need a little air.’

  ‘Would you like to go down to the garden?’ Debray asked, offering his arm to Mme Danglars and leading the way towards the hidden staircase.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No. I’d rather stay here.’

  ‘Is that so, Madame?’ said Monte Cristo. ‘Is this terror serious?’

  ‘No, Monsieur,’ said Mme Danglars. ‘But you have a way of hypothesizing that gives an appearance of reality to illusions.’

  ‘Good Lord, yes!’ Monte Cristo said with a smile. ‘All this is a figment of the imagination. Why could one not just as well imagine this room to be the good and respectable bedroom of the mother of a family. The bed with its purple awning, like a bed visited by the goddess Lucina4… and the mysterious staircase as a passage down which the doctor and the nursemaid might go, so as not to disturb the young mother’s restorative slumber, or even the father, carrying the sleeping child?’

  This time, instead of being reassured by the evocation of this tender tableau, Mme Danglars gave a groan and fainted completely away.

  ‘Madame Danglars is ill,’ stammered Villefort. ‘Perhaps we should take her to her carriage.’

  ‘How frightful!’ said Monte Cristo. ‘And I didn’t bring my flask.’

  ‘I have mine,’ said Mme de Villefort, giving the count a flask full of a red liquid similar to the one that had so benefited Edouard when the count tried it on him. He took it from Mme de Villefort’s hands, raising an eyebrow.