“The young man is better,” said Danglars.
“Yes; a little nervous, perhaps, but, upon the whole, he appeared tolerable. I was uneasy about him.”
“Why?”
“Because you met him at my house, just after his introduction into the world, as they told me. He has been travelling with a very severe tutor, and had never been to Paris before.”
“Ah, I believe noblemen marry amongst themselves, do they not?” asked Danglars carelessly; “they like to unite their fortunes.”
“It is usual, certainly; but Cavalcanti is an original who does nothing like other people. I cannot help thinking that he has brought his son to France to choose a wife.”
“Do you think so?”
“I am sure of it.”
“And you have heard his fortune mentioned?”
“Nothing else was talked of; only some said he was worth millions, and others that he did not possess a farthing.”
“And what is your opinion?”
“I ought not to influence you, because it is only my own personal impression.”
“Well, and it is that——”
“My opinion is, that all these old podestàs, these ancient condottieri,—for the Cavalcanti have commanded armies and governed provinces,—my opinion, I say, is, that they have buried their millions in corners, the secret of which they have transmitted only to their eldest sons, who have done the same from generation to generation; and the proof of this is seen in their yellow and dry appearance, like the florins of the republic, which, from being constantly gazed upon, have become reflected in them.”