Chapter 62 of 117
Chapter 62: Ghosts
13 min read
Chapter 62. GhostsAt first sight, the exterior of the house at Auteuil gave noindications of splendor, nothing one would expect from the destinedresidence of the magnificent Count of Monte Cristo; but this simplicitywas according to the will of its master, who positively ordered nothingto be altered outside. The splendor was within. Indeed, almost beforethe 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 Ducd’Antin removed in a single night a whole avenue of trees that annoyedLouis XIV.; in three days M. Bertuccio planted an entirely bare courtwith poplars, large spreading sycamores to shade the different parts ofthe house, and in the foreground, instead of the usual paving-stones,half hidden by the grass, there extended a lawn but that morning laiddown, and upon which the water was yet glistening. For the rest, theorders had been issued by the count; he himself had given a plan toBertuccio, marking the spot where each tree was to be planted, and theshape and extent of the lawn which was to take the place of thepaving-stones.Thus the house had become unrecognizable, and Bertuccio himselfdeclared that he scarcely knew it, encircled as it was by a frameworkof trees. The overseer would not have objected, while he was about it,to have made some improvements in the garden, but the count hadpositively forbidden it to be touched. Bertuccio made amends, however,by loading the antechambers, staircases, and mantle-pieces withflowers.What, above all, manifested the shrewdness of the steward, and theprofound science of the master, the one in carrying out the ideas ofthe other, was that this house which appeared only the night before sosad and gloomy, impregnated with that sickly smell one can almost fancyto be the smell of time, had in a single day acquired the aspect oflife, was scented with its master’s favorite perfumes, and had the verylight regulated according to his wish. When the count arrived, he hadunder his touch his books and arms, his eyes rested upon his favoritepictures; his dogs, whose caresses he loved, welcomed him in theantechamber; the birds, whose songs delighted him, cheered him withtheir music; and the house, awakened from its long sleep, like thesleeping beauty in the wood, lived, sang, and bloomed like the houseswe 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 tothe kitchens, gliding down the stairs, restored but the previous day,as if they had always inhabited the house; others filling thecoach-houses, where the equipages, encased and numbered, appeared tohave been installed for the last fifty years; and in the stables thehorses replied with neighs to the grooms, who spoke to them with muchmore respect than many servants pay their masters.The library was divided into two parts on either side of the wall, andcontained upwards of two thousand volumes; one division was entirelydevoted to novels, and even the volume which had been published but theday before was to be seen in its place in all the dignity of its redand gold binding.On the other side of the house, to match with the library, was theconservatory, ornamented with rare flowers, that bloomed in china jars;and in the midst of the greenhouse, marvellous alike to sight andsmell, was a billiard-table which looked as if it had been abandonedduring 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 bythe back staircase, the servants passed with curiosity, and Bertucciowith terror.At five o’clock precisely, the count arrived before the house atAuteuil, followed by Ali. Bertuccio was awaiting this arrival withimpatience, mingled with uneasiness; he hoped for some compliments,while, at the same time, he feared to have frowns. Monte Cristodescended into the courtyard, walked all over the house, without givingany sign of approbation or pleasure, until he entered his bedroom,situated on the opposite side to the closed room; then he approached alittle piece of furniture, made of rosewood, which he had noticed at aprevious 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.30207m“Good,” he said; and M. Bertuccio left enraptured, so great, sopowerful, and real was the influence exercised by this man over all whosurrounded him.At precisely six o’clock the clatter of horses’ hoofs was heard at theentrance 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 haveyou a minute to myself, before everyone came. Julie and Emmanuel have athousand things to tell you. Ah, really this is magnificent! But tellme, 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 hecame—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 thehorse had not proved good.”“It is so good, that I have distanced M. de Château-Renaud, one of thebest riders in France, and M. Debray, who both mount the minister’sArabians; 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 smokinghorses, accompanied by two mounted gentlemen, arrived at the gate,which opened before them. The carriage drove round, and stopped at thesteps, 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 apeculiarity of manner imperceptible to everyone but Monte Cristo. Butnothing escaped the count’s notice, and he observed a little note,passed with the facility that indicates frequent practice, from thehand of Madame Danglars to that of the minister’s secretary.After his wife the banker descended, as pale as though he had issuedfrom his tomb instead of his carriage.Madame Danglars threw a rapid and inquiring glance which could only beinterpreted 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 hercolor, she ascended the steps, saying to Morrel:“Sir, if you were a friend of mine, I should ask you if you would sellyour horse.”Morrel smiled with an expression very like a grimace, and then turnedround to Monte Cristo, as if to ask him to extricate him from hisembarrassment. 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, oneis so sure to obtain it. If it were so with M. Morrel——”“Unfortunately,” replied the count, “I am witness that M. Morrel cannotgive 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. Youunderstand now that if he were to get rid of the animal before the timenamed, he would not only lose his bet, but people would say he wasafraid; and a brave captain of Spahis cannot risk this, even to gratifya pretty woman, which is, in my opinion, one of the most sacredobligations in the world.”“You see my position, madame,” said Morrel, bestowing a grateful smileon Monte Cristo.“It seems to me,” said Danglars, in his coarse tone, ill-concealed by aforced 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, andshowed her two immense porcelain jars, over which wound marine plants,of a size and delicacy that nature alone could produce. The baronesswas astonished.“Why,” said she, “you could plant one of the chestnut-trees in theTuileries inside! How can such enormous jars have been manufactured?”“Ah! madame,” replied Monte Cristo, “you must not ask of us, themanufacturers of fine porcelain, such a question. It is the work ofanother 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 ovenbuilt expressly, and that in this oven twelve jars like this weresuccessively baked. Two broke, from the heat of the fire; the other tenwere sunk three hundred fathoms deep into the sea. The sea, knowingwhat was required of her, threw over them her weeds, encircled themwith coral, and encrusted them with shells; the whole was cemented bytwo hundred years beneath these almost impervious depths, for arevolution carried away the emperor who wished to make the trial, andonly left the documents proving the manufacture of the jars and theirdescent into the sea. At the end of two hundred years the documentswere found, and they thought of bringing up the jars. Divers descendedin machines, made expressly on the discovery, into the bay where theywere thrown; but of ten three only remained, the rest having beenbroken by the waves. I am fond of these jars, upon which, perhaps,misshapen, frightful monsters have fixed their cold, dull eyes, and inwhich myriads of small fish have slept, seeking a refuge from thepursuit of their enemies.”Meanwhile, Danglars, who had cared little for curiosities, wasmechanically tearing off the blossoms of a splendid orange-tree, oneafter another. When he had finished with the orange-tree, he began atthe cactus; but this, not being so easily plucked as the orange-tree,pricked him dreadfully. He shuddered, and rubbed his eyes as thoughawaking from a dream.“Sir,” said Monte Cristo to him, “I do not recommend my pictures toyou, who possess such splendid paintings; but, nevertheless, here aretwo 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 thingsevery day during the last eight years, and I cannot understand themyet.”“You will, by and by,” said Debray.“I think not,” replied Château-Renaud.“Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti and Count Andrea Cavalcanti,” announcedBaptistin.A black satin stock, fresh from the maker’s hands, gray moustaches, abold eye, a major’s uniform, ornamented with three medals and fivecrosses—in fact, the thorough bearing of an old soldier—such was theappearance of Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti, that tender father with whomwe are already acquainted. Close to him, dressed in entirely newclothes, advanced smilingly Count Andrea Cavalcanti, the dutiful son,whom we also know. The three young people were talking together. On theentrance of the new-comers, their eyes glanced from father to son, andthen, naturally enough, rested on the latter, whom they begancriticising.“Cavalcanti!” said Debray.“A fine name,” said Morrel.“Yes,” said Château-Renaud, “these Italians are well named and badlydressed.”“You are fastidious, Château-Renaud,” replied Debray; “those clothesare well cut and quite new.”“That is just what I find fault with. That gentleman appears to be welldressed 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 alldescended 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, fromwhat they told me the day before yesterday. I, indeed, invited themhere today on your account. I will introduce you to them.”“But they appear to speak French with a very pure accent,” saidDanglars.“The son has been educated in a college in the south; I believe nearMarseilles. 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 fromParis.”“A fine idea that of his,” said Danglars, shrugging his shoulders.Madame Danglars looked at her husband with an expression which, at anyother time, would have indicated a storm, but for the second time shecontrolled herself.“The baron appears thoughtful today,” said Monte Cristo to her; “arethey 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, wasvisibly affected, and when Monte Cristo touched his hand, he felt ittremble.“Certainly, women alone know how to dissimulate,” said Monte Cristo tohimself, 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 beenoccupied 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 watchedhim. “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 walkingwhile she waited for——”Bertuccio stood at the open door, with his eyes starting and his hairon end.“Waiting for whom?” Bertuccio, without answering, pointed to Villefortwith 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?”30213m“No; you see plainly he is not dead. Instead of striking between thesixth and seventh left ribs, as your countrymen do, you must havestruck higher or lower, and life is very tenacious in these lawyers, orrather there is no truth in anything you have told me—it was a frightof the imagination, a dream of your fancy. You went to sleep full ofthoughts of vengeance; they weighed heavily upon your stomach; you hadthe nightmare—that’s all. Come, calm yourself, and reckon them up—M.and Madame de Villefort, two; M. and Madame Danglars, four; M. deChâteau-Renaud, M. Debray, M. Morrel, seven; Major BartolomeoCavalcanti, eight.”“Eight!” repeated Bertuccio.“Stop! You are in a shocking hurry to be off—you forget one of myguests. 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 heis turning.”This time Bertuccio would have uttered an exclamation, had not a lookfrom Monte Cristo silenced him.“Benedetto?” he muttered; “fatality!”“Half-past six o’clock has just struck, M. Bertuccio,” said the countseverely; “I ordered dinner at that hour, and I do not like to wait;”and he returned to his guests, while Bertuccio, leaning against thewall, succeeded in reaching the dining-room. Five minutes afterwardsthe doors of the drawing-room were thrown open, and Bertuccio appearingsaid, 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.