“You are not thinking of Mademoiselle Danglars, I hope; you would not like poor Andrea to have his throat cut by Albert?”
“Albert,” repeated Danglars, shrugging his shoulders; “ah, well; he would care very little about it, I think.”
“But he is betrothed to your daughter, I believe?”
“Well, M. de Morcerf and I have talked about this marriage, but Madame de Morcerf and Albert—”
“You do not mean to say that it would not be a good match?”
“Indeed, I imagine that Mademoiselle Danglars is as good as M. de Morcerf.”
“Mademoiselle Danglars’ fortune will be great, no doubt, especially if the telegraph should not make any more mistakes.”
“Oh, I do not mean her fortune only; but tell me—”
“What?”
“Why did you not invite M. and Madame de Morcerf to your dinner?”
“I did so, but he excused himself on account of Madame de Morcerf being obliged to go to Dieppe for the benefit of sea air.”
“Yes, yes,” said Danglars, laughing, “it would do her a great deal of good.”
“Why so?”
“Because it is the air she always breathed in her youth.”
Monte Cristo took no notice of this ill-natured remark.