The Count of Monte Cristo

Chapter 5. The Marriage Feast-1

Chapter 5. The Marriage Feast

The morning’s sun rose clear and resplendent, touching the foamy waves

into a network of ruby-tinted light.

The feast had been made ready on the second floor at La Réserve, with

whose arbor the reader is already familiar. The apartment destined for

the purpose was spacious and lighted by a number of windows, over each

of which was written in golden letters for some inexplicable reason the

name of one of the principal cities of France; beneath these windows a

wooden balcony extended the entire length of the house. And although the

entertainment was fixed for twelve o’clock, an hour previous to that

time the balcony was filled with impatient and expectant guests,

consisting of the favored part of the crew of the Pharaon, and other

personal friends of the bridegroom, the whole of whom had arrayed

themselves in their choicest costumes, in order to do greater honor to

the occasion.

Various rumors were afloat to the effect that the owners of the Pharaon

had promised to attend the nuptial feast; but all seemed unanimous in

doubting that an act of such rare and exceeding condescension could

possibly be intended.

Danglars, however, who now made his appearance, accompanied by

Caderousse, effectually confirmed the report, stating that he had

recently conversed with M. Morrel, who had himself assured him of his

intention to dine at La Réserve.

In fact, a moment later M. Morrel appeared and was saluted with an

enthusiastic burst of applause from the crew of the Pharaon, who hailed

the visit of the shipowner as a sure indication that the man whose

wedding feast he thus delighted to honor would ere long be first in

command of the ship; and as Dantès was universally beloved on board his

vessel, the sailors put no restraint on their tumultuous joy at finding

that the opinion and choice of their superiors so exactly coincided with

their own.

With the entrance of M. Morrel, Danglars and Caderousse were despatched

in search of the bridegroom to convey to him the intelligence of the

arrival of the important personage whose coming had created such a

lively sensation, and to beseech him to make haste.

Danglars and Caderousse set off upon their errand at full speed; but ere

they had gone many steps they perceived a group advancing towards them,

composed of the betrothed pair, a party of young girls in attendance on

the bride, by whose side walked Dantès’ father; the whole brought up by

Fernand, whose lips wore their usual sinister smile.

Neither Mercédès nor Edmond observed the strange expression of his

countenance; they were so happy that they were conscious only of the

sunshine and the presence of each other.

Having acquitted themselves of their errand, and exchanged a hearty

shake of the hand with Edmond, Danglars and Caderousse took their places

beside Fernand and old Dantès,—the latter of whom attracted universal

notice.

The old man was attired in a suit of glistening watered silk, trimmed

with steel buttons, beautifully cut and polished. His thin but wiry legs

were arrayed in a pair of richly embroidered clocked stockings,

evidently of English manufacture, while from his three-cornered hat

depended a long streaming knot of white and blue ribbons. Thus he came

along, supporting himself on a curiously carved stick, his aged

countenance lit up with happiness, looking for all the world like one of

the aged dandies of 1796, parading the newly opened gardens of the

Luxembourg and Tuileries.

Beside him glided Caderousse, whose desire to partake of the good things

provided for the wedding party had induced him to become reconciled to

the Dantès, father and son, although there still lingered in his mind a

faint and unperfect recollection of the events of the preceding night;

just as the brain retains on waking in the morning the dim and misty

outline of a dream.

As Danglars approached the disappointed lover, he cast on him a look of

deep meaning, while Fernand, as he slowly paced behind the happy pair,

who seemed, in their own unmixed content, to have entirely forgotten

that such a being as himself existed, was pale and abstracted;

occasionally, however, a deep flush would overspread his countenance,

and a nervous contraction distort his features, while, with an agitated

and restless gaze, he would glance in the direction of Marseilles, like

one who either anticipated or foresaw some great and important event.

Dantès himself was simply, but becomingly, clad in the dress peculiar to

the merchant service—a costume somewhat between a military and a civil

garb; and with his fine countenance, radiant with joy and happiness, a

more perfect specimen of manly beauty could scarcely be imagined.

Lovely as the Greek girls of Cyprus or Chios, Mercédès boasted the same

bright flashing eyes of jet, and ripe, round, coral lips. She moved with

the light, free step of an Arlesienne or an Andalusian. One more

practiced in the arts of great cities would have hid her blushes beneath

a veil, or, at least, have cast down her thickly fringed lashes, so as

to have concealed the liquid lustre of her animated eyes; but, on the

contrary, the delighted girl looked around her with a smile that seemed

to say: “If you are my friends, rejoice with me, for I am very happy.”

As soon as the bridal party came in sight of La Réserve, M. Morrel

descended and came forth to meet it, followed by the soldiers and

sailors there assembled, to whom he had repeated the promise already

given, that Dantès should be the successor to the late Captain Leclere.

Edmond, at the approach of his patron, respectfully placed the arm of

his affianced bride within that of M. Morrel, who, forthwith conducting

her up the flight of wooden steps leading to the chamber in which the

feast was prepared, was gayly followed by the guests, beneath whose

heavy tread the slight structure creaked and groaned for the space of

several minutes.

“Father,” said Mercédès, stopping when she had reached the centre of the

table, “sit, I pray you, on my right hand; on my left I will place him

who has ever been as a brother to me,” pointing with a soft and gentle

smile to Fernand; but her words and look seemed to inflict the direst

torture on him, for his lips became ghastly pale, and even beneath the

dark hue of his complexion the blood might be seen retreating as though

some sudden pang drove it back to the heart.

During this time, Dantès, at the opposite side of the table, had been

occupied in similarly placing his most honored guests. M. Morrel was

seated at his right hand, Danglars at his left; while, at a sign from

Edmond, the rest of the company ranged themselves as they found it most

agreeable.

Then they began to pass around the dusky, piquant, Arlesian sausages,

and lobsters in their dazzling red cuirasses, prawns of large size and

brilliant color, the echinus with its prickly outside and dainty morsel

within, the clovis, esteemed by the epicures of the South as more than

rivalling the exquisite flavor of the oyster, North. All the delicacies,

in fact, that are cast up by the wash of waters on the sandy beach, and

styled by the grateful fishermen “fruits of the sea.”

“A pretty silence truly!” said the old father of the bridegroom, as he

carried to his lips a glass of wine of the hue and brightness of the

topaz, and which had just been placed before Mercédès herself. “Now,

would anybody think that this room contained a happy, merry party, who

desire nothing better than to laugh and dance the hours away?”

“Ah,” sighed Caderousse, “a man cannot always feel happy because he is

about to be married.”

“The truth is,” replied Dantès, “that I am too happy for noisy mirth; if

that is what you meant by your observation, my worthy friend, you are

right; joy takes a strange effect at times, it seems to oppress us

almost the same as sorrow.”

Danglars looked towards Fernand, whose excitable nature received and

betrayed each fresh impression.

“Why, what ails you?” asked he of Edmond. “Do you fear any approaching

evil? I should say that you were the happiest man alive at this

instant.”

“And that is the very thing that alarms me,” returned Dantès. “Man does

not appear to me to be intended to enjoy felicity so unmixed; happiness

is like the enchanted palaces we read of in our childhood, where fierce,

fiery dragons defend the entrance and approach; and monsters of all

shapes and kinds, requiring to be overcome ere victory is ours. I own

that I am lost in wonder to find myself promoted to an honor of which I

feel myself unworthy—that of being the husband of Mercédès.”

“Nay, nay!” cried Caderousse, smiling, “you have not attained that honor

yet. Mercédès is not yet your wife. Just assume the tone and manner of a

husband, and see how she will remind you that your hour is not yet

come!”

The bride blushed, while Fernand, restless and uneasy, seemed to start

at every fresh sound, and from time to time wiped away the large drops

of perspiration that gathered on his brow.

“Well, never mind that, neighbor Caderousse; it is not worthwhile to

contradict me for such a trifle as that. ’Tis true that Mercédès is not

actually my wife; but,” added he, drawing out his watch, “in an hour and

a half she will be.”

A general exclamation of surprise ran round the table, with the

exception of the elder Dantès, whose laugh displayed the still perfect

beauty of his large white teeth. Mercédès looked pleased and gratified,

while Fernand grasped the handle of his knife with a convulsive clutch.

“In an hour?” inquired Danglars, turning pale. “How is that, my friend?”

“Why, thus it is,” replied Dantès. “Thanks to the influence of M.

Morrel, to whom, next to my father, I owe every blessing I enjoy, every

difficulty has been removed. We have purchased permission to waive the

usual delay; and at half-past two o’clock the Mayor of Marseilles will

be waiting for us at the city hall. Now, as a quarter-past one has

already struck, I do not consider I have asserted too much in saying,

that, in another hour and thirty minutes Mercédès will have become

Madame Dantès.”

Fernand closed his eyes, a burning sensation passed across his brow, and

he was compelled to support himself by the table to prevent his falling

from his chair; but in spite of all his efforts, he could not refrain

from uttering a deep groan, which, however, was lost amid the noisy

felicitations of the company.

“Upon my word,” cried the old man, “you make short work of this kind of

affair. Arrived here only yesterday morning, and married today at three

o’clock! Commend me to a sailor for going the quick way to work!”

“But,” asked Danglars, in a timid tone, “how did you manage about the

other formalities—the contract—the settlement?”

“The contract,” answered Dantès, laughingly, “it didn’t take long to fix

that. Mercédès has no fortune; I have none to settle on her. So, you

see, our papers were quickly written out, and certainly do not come very

expensive.” This joke elicited a fresh burst of applause.

“So that what we presumed to be merely the betrothal feast turns out to

be the actual wedding dinner!” said Danglars.

“No, no,” answered Dantès; “don’t imagine I am going to put you off in

that shabby manner. Tomorrow morning I start for Paris; four days to go,

and the same to return, with one day to discharge the commission

entrusted to me, is all the time I shall be absent. I shall be back here

by the first of March, and on the second I give my real marriage feast.”

This prospect of fresh festivity redoubled the hilarity of the guests to

such a degree, that the elder Dantès, who, at the commencement of the

repast, had commented upon the silence that prevailed, now found it

difficult, amid the general din of voices, to obtain a moment’s

tranquillity in which to drink to the health and prosperity of the bride

and bridegroom.

Dantès, perceiving the affectionate eagerness of his father, responded

by a look of grateful pleasure; while Mercédès glanced at the clock and

made an expressive gesture to Edmond.