“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.”
“Is everyone here, your excellency?”
“Yes.”
Bertuccio glanced through the door, which was ajar. The count watched him. “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 walking while she waited for——”
Bertuccio stood at the open door, with his eyes starting and his hair on end.
“Waiting for whom?” Bertuccio, without answering, pointed to Villefort with 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.”