"Your Italian prince?"
"Not so fast; M. Andrea only calls himself count."
"Calls himself, do you say?"
"Yes, calls himself."
"Is he not a count?"
"What can I know of him I He calls himself so. I, of course, him the same title, and every one else does the same."
"What a strange man you are! What next? You say M. Danglars dined here?"
"Yes, with Count Cavalcanti, the marquis his father, Mme. Danglars, M. and Mme. de Villefort, charming people, M. Debray, Maximilian Morrel, and M. Chateau-Renaud."
"Did they speak of me?"
"Not a word."
"So much the worse."
"Why so? I thought you wished them to forget you?"
"If they did not speak of me, I am sure they thought about me, and I am in despair."
"How will that affect you, since Mademoiselle Danglars was not among the number here who thought of you? Truly, she might have thought of you at home."
"I have no fear of that; or, if she did, it was only in the same way in which I think of her."
"Touching sympathy! so you hate each other?" said the count.
"Listen!" said Morcerf—"if Mademoiselle Danglars were disposed to take pity on my supposed martyrdom on her account, and would dispense with all matrimonial formalities between our two familiar. I am ready to agree to the arrangement. In a word, Mademoiselle Danglars would make a charming mistress—but a wife, diable!"
"And this," said Monte-Cristo, "is your opinion of your intended spouse?"
"Yes; it is rather unkind, I acknowledge, but it is true. But as this dream cannot be realized, since Mademoiselle Danglars must become my lawful wife, live perpetually with me, sing to me, compose verses and music within ten paces of me, and that for my whole life, it frightens me. One may forsake a mistress, but a wife, good heavens! is a very different affair. There she must always be; and to have Mademoiselle Danglars always there would be awful."
"You are difficult to please, viscount."
"Yes, for I often wish for what is impossible."
"What is that?"
"To find such a wife as my father found."
