“That, perhaps, might not be considered a large sum, in Paris especially,” said the count; “but everything does not depend on wealth, and it is a fine thing to have a good name, and to occupy a high station in society. Your name is celebrated, your position magnificent; and then the Comte de Morcerf is a soldier, and it is pleasing to see the integrity of a Bayard united to the poverty of a Duguesclin; disinterestedness is the brightest ray in which a noble sword can shine. As for me, I consider the union with Mademoiselle Danglars a most suitable one; she will enrich you, and you will ennoble her.” Albert shook his head, and looked thoughtful. “There is still something else,” said he.
“I confess,” observed Monte Cristo, “that I have some difficulty in comprehending your objection to a young lady who is both rich and beautiful.”
“Oh,” said Morcerf, “this repugnance, if repugnance it may be called, is not all on my side.”
“Whence can it arise, then? for you told me your father desired the marriage.”
“It is my mother who dissents; she has a clear and penetrating judgment, and does not smile on the proposed union. I cannot account for it, but she seems to entertain some prejudice against the Danglars.”
“Ah,” said the count, in a somewhat forced tone, “that may be easily explained; the Comtesse de Morcerf, who is aristocracy and refinement itself, does not relish the idea of being allied by your marriage with one of ignoble birth; that is natural enough.”
“I do not know if that is her reason,” said Albert, “but one thing I do know, that if this marriage be consummated, it will render her quite miserable. There was to have been a meeting six weeks ago in order to talk over and settle the affair; but I had such a sudden attack of indisposition” —
“Real?” interrupted the count, smiling.
“Oh, real enough, from anxiety doubtless, — at any rate they postponed the matter for two months. There is no hurry, you know. I am not yet twenty-one, and Eugenie is only seventeen; but the two months expire next week. It must be done. My dear count, you cannot imagine now my mind is harassed. How happy you are in being exempt from all this!”
“Well, and why should not you be free, too? What prevents you from being so?”
“Oh, it will be too great a disappointment to my father if I do not marry Mademoiselle Danglars.”
“Marry her then,” said the count, with a significant shrug of the shoulders.
“Yes,” replied Morcerf, “but that will plunge my mother into positive grief.”
“Then do not marry her,” said the count.
“Well, I shall see. I will try and think over what is the best thing to be done; you will give me your advice, will you not, and if possible extricate me from my unpleasant position? I think, rather than give pain to my dear mother, I would run the risk of offending the count.” Monte Cristo turned away; he seemed moved by this last remark. “Ah,” said he to Debray, who had thrown himself into an easy-chair at the farthest extremity of the salon, and who held a pencil in his right hand and an account book in his left, “what are you doing there? Are you making a sketch after Poussin?”
“Oh, no,” was the tranquil response; “I am too fond of art to attempt anything of that sort. I am doing a little sum in arithmetic.”
“In arithmetic?”
“Yes; I am calculating — by the way, Morcerf, that indirectly concerns you — I am calculating what the house of Danglars must have gained by the last rise in Haiti bonds; from 206 they have risen to 409 in three days, and the prudent banker had purchased at 206; therefore he must have made 300,000 livres.”
“That is not his biggest scoop,” said Morcerf; “did he not make a million in Spaniards this last year?”
“My dear fellow,” said Lucien, “here is the Count of Monte Cristo, who will say to you, as the Italians do, —
“‘Danaro e santita, Meta della meta.’9
“When they tell me such things, I only shrug my shoulders and say nothing.”