“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.”