“That is just what I find fault with. That gentleman appears to be well dressed for the first time in his life.”
“Who are those gentlemen?” asked Danglars of Monte Cristo.
“You heard—Cavalcanti.”
“That tells me their name, and nothing else.”
“Ah! true. You do not know the Italian nobility; the Cavalcanti are all descended from princes.”
“Have they any fortune?”
“An enormous one.”
“What do they do?”
“Try to spend it all. They have some business with you, I think, from what they told me the day before yesterday. I, indeed, invited them here today on your account. I will introduce you to them.”
“But they appear to speak French with a very pure accent,” said Danglars.
“The son has been educated in a college in the south; I believe near Marseilles. You will find him quite enthusiastic.”
“Upon what subject?” asked Madame Danglars.
“The French ladies, madame. He has made up his mind to take a wife from Paris.”
“A fine idea that of his,” said Danglars, shrugging his shoulders. Madame Danglars looked at her husband with an expression which, at any other time, would have indicated a storm, but for the second time she controlled herself.