two
hundred years beneath these almost impervious depths, for a revolution
carried away the emperor who wished to make the trial, and only left the
documents proving the manufacture of the jars and their descent into the
sea. At the end of two hundred years the documents were found, and they
thought of bringing up the jars. Divers descended in machines, made
expressly on the discovery, into the bay where they were thrown; but of
ten three only remained, the rest having been broken by the waves. I am
fond of these jars, upon which, perhaps, misshapen, frightful monsters
have fixed their cold, dull eyes, and in which myriads of small fish
have slept, seeking a refuge from the pursuit of their enemies."
Meanwhile, Danglars, who had cared little for curiosities, was
mechanically tearing off the blossoms of a splendid orange-tree, one
after another. When he had finished with the orange-tree, he began at
the cactus; but this, not being so easily plucked as the orange-tree,
pricked him dreadfully. He shuddered, and rubbed his eyes as though
awaking from a dream.

"Sir," said Monte Cristo to him, "I do not recommend my pictures to you,
who possess such splendid paintings; but, nevertheless, here are two
by Hobbema, a Paul Potter, a Mieris, two by Gerard Douw, a Raphael, a
Vandyke, a Zurbaran, and two or three by Murillo, worth looking at."

"Stay," said Debray; "I recognize this Hobbema."

"Ah, indeed!"

"Yes; it was proposed for the Museum."

"Which, I believe, does not contain one?" said Monte Cristo.

"No; and yet they refused to buy it."

"Why?" said Chateau-Renaud.

"You pretend not to know,--because government was not rich enough."

"Ah, pardon me," said Chateau-Renaud; "I have heard of these things
every day during the last eight years, and I cannot understand them
yet."

"You will, by and by," said Debray.

"I think not," replied Chateau-Renaud.

"Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti and Count Andrea Cavalcanti," announced
Baptistin. A black satin stock, fresh from the maker's hands, gray
moustaches, a bold eye, a major's uniform, ornamented with three medals
and five crosses--in fact, the thorough bearing of an old soldier--such
was the appearance of Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti, that tender father
with whom we are already acquainted. Close to him, dressed in entirely
new clothes, advanced smilingly Count Andrea Cavalcanti, the dutiful
son, whom we also know. The three young people were talking together. On
the e