“Here I am, dear count.”
“Welcome home again.”
“I arrived an hour since.”
“From Dieppe?”
“No, from Tréport.”
“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 Tréport, 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 everyone 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 Château-Renaud.”