“The same who was so shamefully assassinated in 1815?”
“By the Bonapartists.”
“Yes. Really I like him extremely; is there not also a matrimonial engagement contemplated for him?”
“Yes, he is to marry Mademoiselle de Villefort.”
“Indeed?”
“And you know I am to marry Mademoiselle Danglars,” said Albert, laughing.
“You smile.”
“Yes.”
“Why do you do so?”
“I smile because there appears to me to be about as much inclination for the consummation of the engagement in question as there is for my own. But really, my dear count, we are talking as much of women as they do of us; it is unpardonable.”
Albert rose.
“Are you going?”
“Really, that is a good idea!—two hours have I been boring you to death with my company, and then you, with the greatest politeness, ask me if I am going. Indeed, count, you are the most polished man in the world. And your servants, too, how very well behaved they are; there is quite a style about them. Monsieur Baptistin especially; I could never get such a man as that. My servants seem to imitate those you sometimes see in a play, who, because they have only a word or two to say, aquit themselves