V. Le repas des fiançailles.

V

The Betrothal Feast.

The next day was fine. The sun rose pure and brilliant, and its first purple-red rays diapered with rubies the foamy crests of the waves.

The meal had been prepared on the first floor of that same Réserve, with the arbor of which we have already made acquaintance. It was a large room lit by five or six windows, above each of which (explain the phenomenon who can!) was written the name of one of the great cities of France.

A wooden balustrade, like the rest of the building, ran all along these windows.

Although the meal was not set for noon, from eleven o'clock in the morning this balustrade was laden with impatient strollers. They were the privileged sailors of the _Pharaon_ and a few soldiers, friends of Dantès. All, to do honor to the betrothed, had brought out their finest attire.

Among the future guests, the rumor was circulating that the shipowners of the _Pharaon_ were to honor the wedding feast of their second mate with their presence; but this was so great an honor bestowed upon Dantès that no one yet dared believe it.

However, Danglars, arriving with Caderousse, in his turn confirmed this news. He had seen M. Morrel himself that morning, and M. Morrel had told him he would come to dine at the Réserve.

Indeed, an instant after them, M. Morrel in his turn entered the room and was hailed by the sailors of the _Pharaon_ with a unanimous hurrah of applause. The presence of the shipowner was for them the confirmation of the rumor already abroad that Dantès would be named captain; and as Dantès was much loved on board, these worthy fellows thus thanked the shipowner for the fact that once by chance his choice was in harmony with their wishes. Scarcely had M. Morrel entered than Danglars and Caderousse were unanimously dispatched to the betrothed: they were charged with warning him of the arrival of the important personage whose appearance had produced so vivid a sensation, and with telling him to make haste.

Danglars and Caderousse set off at a run, but they had not gone a hundred paces when, level with the powder magazine, they caught sight of the little troop that was coming.

This little troop was composed of four young girls, friends of Mercédès and Catalans like her, who were accompanying the bride on Edmond's arm. Beside the bride walked old Dantès, and behind them came Fernand with his evil smile.

Neither Mercédès nor Edmond saw Fernand's evil smile. The poor children were so happy that they saw only themselves and that fair pure sky which blessed them.

Danglars and Caderousse discharged their ambassadorial mission; then, after exchanging a vigorous and friendly handshake with Edmond, they went, Danglars to take his place near Fernand, Caderousse to range himself at the side of old Dantès, the center of general attention.

The old man was clad in his fine pinched-taffeta coat, adorned with large faceted steel buttons. His thin but sinewy legs spread out in magnificent speckled cotton stockings that smelled of English contraband a league off. From his three-cornered hat hung a streamer of white and blue ribbons.

Finally, he leaned upon a crooked wooden staff, curved at the top like an antique pedum. He might have been taken for one of those muscadins who paraded in 1796 in the newly reopened gardens of the Luxembourg and the Tuileries.

Near him, as we have said, Caderousse had slipped; Caderousse, whom the hope of a good meal had finished reconciling with the Dantès; Caderousse in whose memory there remained a vague recollection of what had passed the evening before, as on waking in the morning one finds in one's mind the shadow of the dream one dreamed in sleep.

Danglars, on approaching Fernand, had cast a deep glance upon the disappointed lover. Fernand, walking behind the betrothed, completely forgotten by Mercédès, who in that youthful and charming selfishness of love had eyes only for her Edmond. Fernand was pale, then red by sudden flushes that disappeared to give place each time to a growing pallor. From time to time he looked toward Marseille, and then a nervous and involuntary trembling made his limbs shudder. Fernand seemed to await or at least foresee some great event.

Dantès was simply dressed. Belonging to the merchant marine, he wore a coat midway between military uniform and civilian dress; and beneath that coat, his good looks, further enhanced by joy and by the beauty of his bride, were perfect.

Mercédès was beautiful as one of those Greek women of Cyprus or Ceos, with ebony eyes and coral lips. She walked with the free and frank step of Arlésiennes and Andalusians. A town-bred girl might perhaps have tried to hide her joy beneath a veil or at least beneath the velvet of her eyelids, but Mercédès smiled and looked at all who surrounded her, and her smile and her glance said as frankly as her words could have said: If you are my friends, rejoice with me, for in truth I am very happy!

As soon as the betrothed and those who accompanied them came in sight of the Réserve, M. Morrel descended and advanced in his turn to meet them, followed by the sailors and soldiers with whom he had remained, and to whom he had renewed the promise already made to Dantès that he should succeed Captain Leclère. On seeing him come, Edmond left his bride's arm and passed it under that of M. Morrel. The shipowner and the young girl then set the example by mounting first the wooden staircase leading to the room where dinner was served, and which creaked for five minutes beneath the heavy tread of the guests.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”