Villefort, who had hitherto not tasted the three or four glasses of rare wine which were placed before him, here took one, and drank it off. Monte Cristo allowed a short time to elapse, and then said:
“It is singular, baron, but the same idea came across me the first time I came here; it looked so gloomy I should never have bought it if my steward had not taken the matter into his own hands. Perhaps the fellow had been bribed by the notary.”
“It is probable,” stammered out Villefort, trying to smile; “but I can assure you that I had nothing to do with any such proceeding. This house is part of Valentine’s marriage-portion, and M. de Saint-Méran wished to sell it; for if it had remained another year or two uninhabited it would have fallen to ruin.”
It was Morrel’s turn to become pale.
“There was, above all, one room,” continued Monte Cristo, “very plain in appearance, hung with red damask, which, I know not why, appeared to me quite dramatic.”
“Why so?” said Danglars; “why dramatic?”
“Can we account for instinct?” said Monte Cristo. “Are there not some places where we seem to breathe sadness?—why, we cannot tell. It is a chain of recollections—an idea which carries you back to other times, to other places—which, very likely, have no connection with the present time and place. And there is something in this room which reminds me forcibly of the chamber of the Marquise de Ganges or Desdemona. Stay, since we have finished dinner, I will show it to you, and then we will take coffee in the garden. After dinner, the play.”