“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 11 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.”

Monte Cristo looked inquiringly at his guests. Madame de Villefort rose, Monte Cristo did the same, and the rest followed their example. Villefort and Madame Danglars remained for a moment, as if rooted to their seats; they questioned each other with vague and stupid glances.

“Did you hear?” said Madame Danglars.

“We must go,” replied Villefort, offering his arm.