“Do you think that I sorrow for Madame Danglars? Undeceive yourself again; either I am greatly mistaken, or she has provided against the catastrophe which threatens you, and, which will pass over without affecting her. She has taken care for herself,—at least I hope so,—for her attention has not been diverted from her projects by watching over me. She has fostered my independence by professedly indulging my love for liberty. Oh, no, sir; from my childhood I have seen too much, and understood too much, of what has passed around me, for misfortune to have an undue power over me. From my earliest recollections, I have been beloved by no one—so much the worse; that has naturally led me to love no one—so much the better—now you have my profession of faith.”
“Then,” said Danglars, pale with anger, which was not at all due to offended paternal love,—“then, mademoiselle, you persist in your determination to accelerate my ruin?”
“Your ruin? I accelerate your ruin? What do you mean? I do not understand you.”
“So much the better, I have a ray of hope left; listen.”
“I am all attention,” said Eugénie, looking so earnestly at her father that it was an effort for the latter to endure her unrelenting gaze.
“M. Cavalcanti,” continued Danglars, “is about to marry you, and will place in my hands his fortune, amounting to three million livres.”
“That is admirable!” said Eugénie with sovereign contempt, smoothing her gloves out one upon the other.