“Oh, no; I have seen him eat of everything in Italy; no doubt he does not feel inclined this evening.”
“And besides,” said the countess, “accustomed as he is to burning climates, possibly he does not feel the heat as we do.”
“I do not think that, for he has complained of feeling almost suffocated, and asked why the Venetian blinds were not opened as well as the windows.”
“In a word,” said Mercédès, “it was a way of assuring me that his abstinence was intended.”
And she left the room.
A minute afterwards the blinds were thrown open, and through the jessamine and clematis that overhung the window one could see the garden ornamented with lanterns, and the supper laid under the tent. Dancers, players, talkers, all uttered an exclamation of joy—everyone inhaled with delight the breeze that floated in. At the same time Mercédès reappeared, paler than before, but with that imperturbable expression of countenance which she sometimes wore. She went straight to the group of which her husband formed the centre.
“Do not detain those gentlemen here, count,” she said; “they would prefer, I should think, to breathe in the garden rather than suffocate here, since they are not playing.”
“Ah,” said a gallant old general, who, in 1809, had sung Partant pour la Syrie,—“we will not go alone to the garden.”
“Then,” said Mercédès, “I will lead the way.”
Turning towards Monte Cristo, she added, “count, will you oblige me with your arm?”
The count almost staggered at these simple words; then he fixed his eyes on Mercédès. It was only a momentary glance, but it seemed to the countess to have lasted for a century, so much was expressed in that one look. He offered his arm to the countess; she took it, or rather just touched it with her little hand, and they together descended the steps, lined with rhododendrons and camellias. Behind them, by another outlet, a group of about twenty persons rushed into the garden with loud exclamations of delight.