"I mean that M. de Nargonne, your first husband, being neither a philosopher nor a banker, or perhaps being both, and seeing there was nothing to be got out of a procureur du roi, died of grief or anger at finding, after an absence of nine months, that you had been enceinte six. I am brutal,—I not only allow it, but boast of it; it is one of the reasons of my success in business. Why did he kill himself instead of you? Because he had no cash to save. My life belongs to my cash-box. My associate M. Debray has made me lose seven hundred thousand francs; let him bear his share of the loss, and we will go on as before; if not, let him become bankrupt for the one hundred and seventy-five thousand livres, and do as all bankrupts do—disappear. He is a charming fellow, I allow, when his news is correct; but when it is not, there are fifty others in the world who would do better than him."
Madame Danglars was rooted to the spot; she made a violent effort to reply to this last attack; but she fell upon a chair, thinking of Villefort or the dinner scene, of the strange series of misfortunes which had taken place in her house during the last few days, and changed the usual calm of her establishment to a scene of scandalous debate.
Danglars did not even look at her, though she tried all she could to faint. He shut the bedroom-door after him, without adding another word, and returned to his apartments; and when Madame Danglars recovered from her half-fainting condition, she could almost believe she had had a disagreeable dream.
