“Indeed, my dear sir,” said Monte Cristo, “you are revoltingly foppish.”
“I foppish? how do you mean?”
“Yes; pray take a cigar, and cease to defend yourself, and to struggle to escape marrying Mademoiselle Danglars. Let things take their course; perhaps you may not have to retract.”
“Bah!” said Albert, staring.
“Doubtless, my dear viscount, you will not be taken by force; and seriously, do you wish to break off your engagement?”
“I would give a hundred thousand francs to be able to do so.”
“Then make yourself quite easy. M. Danglars would give double that sum to attain the same end.”
“Am I, indeed, so happy?” said Albert, who still could not prevent an almost imperceptible cloud passing across his brow. “But, my dear count, has M. Danglars any reason?”
“Ah! there is your proud and selfish nature. You would expose the self-love of another with a hatchet, but you shrink if your own is attacked with a needle.”
“But yet, M. Danglars appeared——”
“Delighted with you, was he not? Well, he is a man of bad taste, and is still more enchanted with another. I know not whom; look and judge for yourself.”
“Thank you, I understand. But my mother—no, not my mother; I mistake—my father intends giving a ball.”
“A ball at this season?”
“Summer balls are fashionable.”
“If they were not, the countess has only to wish it, and they would become so.”
“You are right; You know they are select affairs; those who remain in Paris in July must be true Parisians. Will you take charge of our invitation to Messieurs Cavalcanti?”