The banker saw the carriage of the count enter the court yard, and advanced to meet him with a sad, though affable smile. “Well,” said he, extending his hand to Monte Cristo, “I suppose you have come to sympathize with me, for indeed misfortune has taken possession of my house. When I perceived you, I was just asking myself whether I had not wished harm towards those poor Morcerfs, which would have justified the proverb of ‘He who wishes misfortunes to happen to others experiences them himself.’ Well, on my word of honor, I answered, ‘No!’ I wished no ill to Morcerf; he was a little proud, perhaps, for a man who like myself has risen from nothing; but we all have our faults. Do you know, count, that persons of our time of life — not that you belong to the class, you are still a young man, — but as I was saying, persons of our time of life have been very unfortunate this year. For example, look at the puritanical procureur, who has just lost his daughter, and in fact nearly all his family, in so singular a manner; Morcerf dishonored and dead; and then myself covered with ridicule through the villany of Benedetto; besides” —
“Besides what?” asked the Count.
“Alas, do you not know?”
“What new calamity?”
“My daughter” —
“Mademoiselle Danglars?”
“Eugenie has left us!”
“Good heavens, what are you telling me?”
“The truth, my dear count. Oh, how happy you must be in not having either wife or children!”
“Do you think so?”
“Indeed I do.”
“And so Mademoiselle Danglars” —
“She could not endure the insult offered to us by that wretch, so she asked permission to travel.”
“And is she gone?”
“The other night she left.”
“With Madame Danglars?”
“No, with a relation. But still, we have quite lost our dear Eugenie; for I doubt whether her pride will ever allow her to return to France.”
“Still, baron,” said Monte Cristo, “family griefs, or indeed any other affliction which would crush a man whose child was his only treasure, are endurable to a millionaire. Philosophers may well say, and practical men will always support the opinion, that money mitigates many trials; and if you admit the efficacy of this sovereign balm, you ought to be very easily consoled — you, the king of finance, the focus of immeasurable power.”
Danglars looked at him askance, as though to ascertain whether he spoke seriously. “Yes,” he answered, “if a fortune brings consolation, I ought to be consoled; I am rich.”
“So rich, dear sir, that your fortune resembles the pyramids; if you wished to demolish them you could not, and if it were possible, you would not dare!” Danglars smiled at the good-natured pleasantry of the count. “That reminds me,” he said, “that when you entered I was on the point of signing five little bonds; I have already signed two: will you allow me to do the same to the others?”
“Pray do so.”
There was a moment’s silence, during which the noise of the banker’s pen was alone heard, while Monte Cristo examined the gilt mouldings on the ceiling. “Are they Spanish, Haitian, or Neapolitan bonds?” said Monte Cristo. “No,” said Danglars, smiling, “they are bonds on the bank of France, payable to bearer. Stay, count,” he added, “you, who may he called the emperor, if I claim the title of king of finance, have you many pieces of paper of this size, each worth a million?” The count took into his hands the papers, which Danglars had so proudly presented to him, and read: —
“To the Governor of the Bank. Please pay to my order, from the fund deposited by me, the sum of a million, and charge the same to my account.
“Baron Danglars.”
“One, two, three, four, five,” said Monte Cristo; “five millions — why what a Croesus you are!”
“This is how I transact business,” said Danglars.
“It is really wonderful,” said the count; “above all, if, as I suppose, it is payable at sight.”
“It is, indeed, said Danglars.
“It is a fine thing to have such credit; really, it is only in France these things are done. Five millions on five little scraps of paper! — it must be seen to be believed.”