Mada Danglars usually never let comnts like that slide, but to everyone’s surprise, she pretended not to hear and said nothing.
Monte Cristo noticed her unusual restraint with a small smile. He gestured toward two enormous porcelain jars, covered with marine plants of a size and delicacy that only nature could achieve.
The baroness’s eyes widened. "Why, you could plant one of those massive chestnut trees inside these! How were such enormous jars even manufactured?"
"Ah, mada," Monte Cristo replied, "you mustn’t ask us fine porcelain enthusiasts such questions. This is the work of another age, created by the geniuses of earth and water."
"What do you an? When was this?"
"I don’t know exactly. I only heard that a Chinese emperor had a special kiln built, and in it, twelve jars like these were baked one after another. Two shattered from the intense heat. The other ten were deliberately sunk three hundred fathoms deep into the sea. The ocean, understanding what was needed, covered them with seaweed, wrapped them in coral, and encrusted them with shells. Everything was sealed together by two hundred years at those nearly impenetrable depths. Then a revolution overthrew the emperor who’d ordered the experint, and only the docunts proving the jars’ manufacture and their descent into the sea survived."
He paused, his eyes distant. "After two hundred years, soone found those docunts and decided to retrieve the jars. Divers descended in specially designed machines into the bay where they’d been thrown. Of the ten, only three remained intact, the rest had been destroyed by the waves. I love these jars, thinking about what they’ve witnessed. Perhaps misshapen, terrifying sea creatures stared at them with cold, lifeless eyes. Maybe countless small fish sheltered inside them, hiding from predators."
While Monte Cristo told his story, Danglars, who’d never cared much for curiosities, was chanically tearing blossoms off a splendid orange tree, one after another. When he finished destroying the orange tree, he moved to a cactus. But cacti don’t give up their flowers as easily as orange trees. The spines pricked him badly. He jerked back, rubbing his eyes as if waking from a nightmare.
"Sir," Monte Cristo said to him, "I won’t presu to show you my paintings, not when you own such magnificent art yourself. Nevertheless, I have two works by Hobbema, a Paul Potter, a Mieris, two by Gerard Douw, a Raphael, a Van Dyck, a Zurbarán, and two or three by Murillo that might be worth a look."
"Wait," Debray said suddenly. "I recognize this Hobbema."
"Really?"
"Yes! It was offered to the national museum."
"Which doesn’t have one, if I rember correctly," Monte Cristo said.
"No, and yet they refused to buy it."
"Why?" asked Château-Renaud.
"Oh, co on, you know why. The governnt claid they couldn’t afford it."
"Ah, right," Château-Renaud said. "I’ve been hearing these excuses for eight years now, and I still don’t understand them."
"You will eventually," Debray replied.
"I doubt it," Château-Renaud muttered.
"Major Bartoloo Cavalcanti and Count Andrea Cavalcanti," Baptistin announced.
A black satin collar fresh from the tailor, gray mustaches, a confident gaze, a major’s uniform decorated with three dals and five military crosses, everything about Major Bartoloo Cavalcanti scread "career soldier." This was the tender father we’ve already t.
Next to him, dressed in completely new clothes and smiling broadly, walked Count Andrea Cavalcanti, the dutiful son we also know.
The three young n had been chatting together, but when the newcors entered, their eyes imdiately moved from father to son, then naturally settled on the younger Cavalcanti, sizing him up.
"Cavalcanti!" Debray said.
"Fine na," Morrel agreed.
"Yes," Château-Renaud added. "These Italians have great nas but terrible fashion sense."
"You’re being harsh, Château-Renaud," Debray protested. "Those clothes are well-tailored and brand new."
"That’s exactly my problem. That gentleman looks like he’s wearing nice clothes for the first ti in his life."
"Who are these people?" Danglars asked Monte Cristo.
"You heard, the Cavalcantis."
"That tells their na and nothing else."
"Ah, true. You’re not familiar with Italian nobility. The Cavalcanti family descends from princes."
"Do they have money?"
"An enormous fortune."
"What do they do?"
"Try to spend it all. I believe they have so business with you, actually, at least, that’s what they ntioned a couple days ago. I invited them here today specifically for you. I’ll introduce you."
"But they speak French with almost no accent," Danglars observed.
"The son was educated at a boarding school in the south, near Marseilles, I believe. You’ll find him quite enthusiastic."
"About what?" Mada Danglars asked.
"French won, mada. He’s determined to find a wife in Paris."
"What a brilliant idea," Danglars said, shrugging sarcastically.
Mada Danglars shot her husband a look that would normally have started a fight, but for the second ti that evening, she controlled herself.
"The baron seems distracted today," Monte Cristo said to her quietly. "Are they about to offer him a position in the governnt?"
"Not yet, I think. More likely he’s been gambling on the stock exchange and lost money."
"Mr. and Mrs. Villefort," Baptistin announced.
They entered. Despite his usual self-control, Villefort was visibly shaken. When Monte Cristo shook his hand, he felt it trembling.
"Won are the only ones who truly know how to hide their feelings," Monte Cristo thought to himself, watching Mada Danglars smile at the prosecutor while embracing his wife.
After a short while, the count noticed Bertuccio, who’d been busy on the other side of the house, slip into an adjacent room. Monte Cristo followed him.
"What is it, Mr. Bertuccio?" he asked.
"Your excellency hasn’t told the number of guests."
"Ah, right."
"How many places should I set?"
"Count for yourself."
"Is everyone here?"
"Yes."
Bertuccio glanced through the door, which was slightly open. The count watched him carefully.
"Good God!" Bertuccio suddenly gasped.
"What’s wrong?" the count asked.
"That woman! That woman!"
"Which one?"
"The one in the white dress with all those diamonds, the blonde."
"Mada Danglars?"
"I don’t know her na, but it’s her, sir! It’s her!"
"Who do you an?"
"The woman from the garden! The one who was pregnant, the one who was walking while she waited for-"
Bertuccio stood at the open door, his eyes bulging, his hair practically standing on end.
"Waiting for whom?"
Without answering, Bertuccio pointed at Villefort with a gesture reminiscent of soone pointing out a ghost.
"Oh, oh," he finally muttered. "Do you see?"
"What? Who?"
"Him!"
"Him? Mr. Villefort, the prosecutor? Of course I see him."
"Then I didn’t kill him?"
"I think you’re losing your mind, my good Bertuccio," the count said.
"Then he’s not dead?"
"No, as you can clearly see, he’s not dead. Instead of stabbing between the sixth and seventh left ribs, like your countryn typically do, you must have struck higher or lower. Life is remarkably stubborn in these lawyers. Or perhaps none of what you told was true, it was just a terrified imagination, a nightmare. You fell asleep full of thoughts of revenge. They weighed on your mind. You had a bad dream, that’s all. Now calm down and count them with : Mr. and Mrs. Villefort, two; Mr. and Mrs. Danglars, four; Mr. Château-Renaud, Mr. Debray, Mr. Morrel, seven; Major Bartoloo Cavalcanti, eight."
"Eight!" Bertuccio repeated.
"Stop! You’re in such a hurry to leave, you’re forgetting one of my guests. Look to the left. There! Look at Mr. Andrea Cavalcanti, the young man in the black coat, looking at Murillo’s Madonna painting. Now he’s turning."
This ti Bertuccio almost cried out, but a look from Monte Cristo silenced him.
"Benedetto?" he whispered. "It can’t be..."
"It’s half past six, Mr. Bertuccio," the count said severely. "I ordered dinner at six sharp. I don’t like to wait."
He returned to his guests while Bertuccio, leaning against the wall for support, sohow made his way to the dining room.
Five minutes later, the drawing room doors flew open. Bertuccio appeared and said, with visible effort:
"Dinner is served."
The Count of Monte Cristo offered his arm to Mada de Villefort.
"Mr. Villefort," he said, "would you escort Baroness Danglars?"
Villefort nodded stiffly, and they all proceeded to the dining room.
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