Chapter 68
* * *
A Summer Ball.
The same day during the interview between Madame Danglars and the procureur, a travelling-carriage entered the Rue du Helder, passed through the gateway of No. 27, and stopped in the yard. In a moment the door was opened, and Madame de Morcerf alighted, leaning on her son’s arm. Albert soon left her, ordered his horses, and having arranged his toilet, drove to the Champs Elysees, to the house of Monte Cristo. The count received him with his habitual smile. It was a strange thing that no one ever appeared to advance a step in that man’s favor. Those who would, as it were, force a passage to his heart, found an impassable barrier. Morcerf, who ran towards him with open arms, was chilled as he drew near, in spite of the friendly smile, and simply held out his hand. Monte Cristo shook it coldly, according to his invariable practice. “Here I am, dear count.”
“Welcome home again.”
“I arrived an hour since.”
“From Dieppe?”
“No, from Treport.”
“Indeed?”
“And I have come at once to see you.”
“That is extremely kind of you,” said Monte Cristo with a tone of perfect indifference.
“And what is the news?”
“You should not ask a stranger, a foreigner, for news.”
“I know it, but in asking for news, I mean, have you done anything for me?”
“Had you commissioned me?” said Monte Cristo, feigning uneasiness.
“Come, come,” said Albert, “do not assume so much indifference. It is said, sympathy travels rapidly, and when at Treport, I felt the electric shock; you have either been working for me or thinking of me.”
“Possibly,” said Monte Cristo, “I have indeed thought of you, but the magnetic wire I was guiding acted, indeed, without my knowledge.”
“Indeed? Pray tell me how it happened?”
“Willingly. M. Danglars dined with me.”
“I know it; to avoid meeting him, my mother and I left town.”
“But he met here M. Andrea Cavalcanti.”
“Your Italian prince?”
“Not so fast; M. Andrea only calls himself count.”
“Calls himself, do you say?”
“Yes, calls himself.”
“Is he not a count?”
“What can I know of him? He calls himself so. I, of course, give him the same title, and every one else does likewise.”
“What a strange man you are! What next? You say M. Danglars dined here?”
“Yes, with Count Cavalcanti, the marquis his father, Madame Danglars, M. and Madame de Villefort, — charming people, — M. Debray, Maximilian Morrel, and M. de Chateau-Renaud.”
“Did they speak of me?”
“Not a word.”
“So much the worse.”
“Why so? I thought you wished them to forget you?”
“If they did not speak of me, I am sure they thought about me, and I am in despair.”
“How will that affect you, since Mademoiselle Danglars was not among the number here who thought of you? Truly, she might have thought of you at home.”
“I have no fear of that; or, if she did, it was only in the same way in which I think of her.”
“Touching sympathy! So you hate each other?” said the count.
“Listen,” said Morcerf —“if Mademoiselle Danglars were disposed to take pity on my supposed martyrdom on her account, and would dispense with all matrimonial formalities between our two families, I am ready to agree to the arrangement. In a word, Mademoiselle Danglars would make a charming mistress — but a wife — diable!”
“And this,” said Monte Cristo, “is your opinion of your intended spouse?”
“Yes; it is rather unkind, I acknowledge, but it is true. But as this dream cannot be realized, since Mademoiselle Danglars must become my lawful wife, live perpetually with me, sing to me, compose verses and music within ten paces of me, and that for my whole life, it frightens me. One may forsake a mistress, but a wife, — good heavens! There she must always be; and to marry Mademoiselle Danglars would be awful.”
“You are difficult to please, viscount.”
“Yes, for I often wish for what is impossible.”
“What is that?”
“To find such a wife as my father found.” Monte Cristo turned pale, and looked at Albert, while playing with some magnificent pistols.