“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.”