“Yes, yes, I know what you mean,—the railway, of which he has obtained the grant, is it not?”
“Precisely; it is generally believed he will gain ten millions by that affair.”
“Ten millions! Do you think so? It is magnificent!” said Cavalcanti, who was quite confounded at the metallic sound of these golden words.
“Without reckoning,” replied Monte Cristo, “that all his fortune will come to you, and justly too, since Mademoiselle Danglars is an only daughter. Besides, your own fortune, as your father assured me, is almost equal to that of your betrothed. But enough of money matters. Do you know, M. Andrea, I think you have managed this affair rather skilfully?”
“Not badly, by any means,” said the young man; “I was born for a diplomatist.”
“Well, you must become a diplomatist; diplomacy, you know, is something that is not to be acquired; it is instinctive. Have you lost your heart?”
“Indeed, I fear it,” replied Andrea, in the tone in which he had heard Dorante or Valère reply to Alceste at the Théâtre Français.
“Is your love returned?”
“I suppose so,” said Andrea with a triumphant smile, “since I am accepted. But I must not forget one grand point.”
“Which?”
“That I have been singularly assisted.”
“Nonsense.”
“I have, indeed.”
“By circumstances?”
“No; by you.”
“By me? Not at all, prince,” said Monte Cristo laying a marked stress on the title, “what have I done for you? Are not your name, your social position, and your merit sufficient?”