“He is well educated.”
“Hem,” said Monte Cristo in his turn.
“He is a musician.”
“So are all Italians.”
“Come, count, you do not do that young man justice.”
“Well, I acknowledge it annoys me, knowing your connection with the Morcerf family, to see him throw himself in the way.” Danglars burst out laughing.
“What a Puritan you are!” said he; “that happens every day.”
“But you cannot break it off in this way; the Morcerfs are depending on this union.”
“Indeed.”
“Positively.”
“Then let them explain themselves; you should give the father a hint, you are so intimate with the family.”
“I?—where the devil did you find out that?”
“At their ball; it was apparent enough. Why, did not the countess, the proud Mercédès, the disdainful Catalane, who will scarcely open her lips to her oldest acquaintances, take your arm, lead you into the garden, into the private walks, and remain there for half an hour?”
“Ah, baron, baron,” said Albert, “you are not listening—what barbarism in a megalomaniac like you!”
“Oh, don’t worry about me, Sir Mocker,” said Danglars; then turning to Monte Cristo he said:
“But will you undertake to speak to the father?”
“Willingly, if you wish it.”
“But let it be done explicitly and positively. If he demands my daughter let him fix the day—declare his conditions; in short, let us either understand each other, or quarrel. You understand—no more delay.”
“Yes, sir, I will give my attention to the subject.”