“Yesterday morning, it appears, Franz declined the honor.”
“Indeed? And is the reason known?”
“No.”
“How extraordinary! And how does M. de Villefort bear it?”
“As usual. Like a philosopher.”
Danglars returned at this moment alone.
“Well,” said the baroness, “do you leave M. Cavalcanti with your daughter?”
“And Mademoiselle d’Armilly,” said the banker; “do you consider her no one?”
Then, turning to Monte Cristo, he said, “Prince Cavalcanti is a charming young man, is he not? But is he really a prince?”
“I will not answer for it,” said Monte Cristo. “His father was introduced to me as a marquis, so he ought to be a count; but I do not think he has much claim to that title.”
“Why?” said the banker. “If he is a prince, he is wrong not to maintain his rank; I do not like anyone to deny his origin.”
“Oh, you are a thorough democrat,” said Monte Cristo, smiling.
“But do you see to what you are exposing yourself?” said the baroness. “If, perchance, M. de Morcerf came, he would find M. Cavalcanti in that room, where he, the betrothed of Eugénie, has never been admitted.”
“You may well say, perchance,” replied the banker; “for he comes so seldom, it would seem only chance that brings him.”