“True, Dantès, I forgot that there was at the Catalans someone who expects you no less impatiently than your father—the lovely Mercédès.”
Dantès blushed.
“Ah, ha,” said the shipowner, “I am not in the least surprised, for she has been to me three times, inquiring if there were any news of the Pharaon . Peste! Edmond, you have a very handsome mistress!”
“She is not my mistress,” replied the young sailor, gravely; “she is my betrothed.”
“Sometimes one and the same thing,” said Morrel, with a smile.
“Not with us, sir,” replied Dantès.
“Well, well, my dear Edmond,” continued the owner, “don’t let me detain you. You have managed my affairs so well that I ought to allow you all the time you require for your own. Do you want any money?”
“No, sir; I have all my pay to take—nearly three months’ wages.”
“You are a careful fellow, Edmond.”
“Say I have a poor father, sir.”
“Yes, yes, I know how good a son you are, so now hasten away to see your father. I have a son too, and I should be very wroth with those who detained him from me after a three months’ voyage.”
“Then I have your leave, sir?”
“Yes, if you have nothing more to say to me.”
“Nothing.”
“Captain Leclère did not, before he died, give you a letter for me?”