"Vicomte," said Monte-Leone, enraged and rising, "do not make me forget my intimacy with you of five years' duration."
"You will not forget it—you will like me all the better for what I am about to say. Besides it is nothing but humanity. You would not let the poor woman die when you can save her?"
"Again I ask you to stop," said Monte-Leone.
"You are too late," said the Vicomte, taking another glass of wine. "I drink to the Attala, the Ariana, the Psyche of our illustrious host, to a charming widow we all admire, to Madame de Bruneval."
One shout of joy burst from all. Monte-Leone felt a burden of trouble lifted from him, and Taddeo breathed more freely.
"Gentlemen," said Monte-Leone, resuming his sangfroid, "I protest that I was not aware of the happiness with which I am menaced. Though I do justice to the precious qualities of Mme. de Bruneval—to her lofty virtue, with which all of you are familiar—I should be afraid of following in the footsteps of the illustrious dead. Since, however, the widow has been spoken of, I will propose a toast to the speedy cure of her heart, provided I am not expected to become its surgeon."
All drank; and amid the sound of their laughter, Giacomo entered, and on a salver handed the Count a letter. "It is from Naples," said he; and having opened, he read it. As he did so he grew pale.
"Any bad news?" said Matheus.
"No," said Monte-Leone, with an effort to restrain himself; "no, my friends"—taking advantage of the temporary absence of the servants, who had placed the dessert on the table, and who then retired, as is the custom in all well regulated households—"No bad news to our cause. This letter is on private business. I have another toast," said he, in a lower tone. "To the brethren who are my guests to-day!"
"To the absent!" said Taddeo.