“But you cannot break it off in this way; the Morcerfs are depending on this union.”
“Indeed.”
“Positively.”
“Then let them explain themselves; you should give the father a hint, you are so intimate with the family.”
“I?—where the devil did you find out that?”
“At their ball; it was apparent enough. Why, did not the countess, the proud Mercédès, the disdainful Catalane, who will scarcely open her lips to her oldest acquaintances, take your arm, lead you into the garden, into the private walks, and remain there for half an hour?”
“Ah, baron, baron,” said Albert, “you are not listening—what barbarism in a megalomaniac like you!”
“Oh, don’t worry about me, Sir Mocker,” said Danglars; then turning to Monte Cristo he said:
“But will you undertake to speak to the father?”
“Willingly, if you wish it.”
“But let it be done explicitly and positively. If he demands my daughter, let him fix the day—declare his conditions; in short, let us either understand each other, or quarrel. You understand—no more delay.”
“Yes, sir, I will give my attention to the subject.”
“I do not say that I await with pleasure his decision, but I do await it. A banker must, you know, be a slave to his promise.” And Danglars sighed as M. Cavalcanti had done half an hour before.