“You must attribute it only to natural scruples under similar circumstances.”

“Well,” said Andrea, “let it be as you wish. This evening, then, at nine o’clock.”

“Adieu till then.”

Notwithstanding a slight resistance on the part of Monte Cristo, whose lips turned pale, but who preserved his ceremonious smile, Andrea seized the count’s hand, pressed it, jumped into his phaeton, and disappeared.

The four or five remaining hours before nine o’clock arrived, Andrea employed in riding, paying visits⁠—designed to induce those of whom he had spoken to appear at the banker’s in their gayest equipages⁠—dazzling them by promises of shares in schemes which have since turned every brain, and in which Danglars was just taking the initiative.