Too Long; Didn't Read
The evening of the day on which the Count of Morcerf had left Danglars’ house with feelings of shame and anger at the rejection of the projected alliance, M. Andrea Cavalcanti, with curled hair, moustaches in perfect order, and white gloves which fitted admirably, had entered the courtyard of the banker’s house in Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin. He had not been more than ten minutes in the drawing-room before he drew Danglars aside into the recess of a bow-window, and, after an ingenious preamble, related to him all his anxieties and cares since his noble father’s departure. He acknowledged the extreme kindness which had been shown him by the banker’s family, in which he had been received as a son, and where, besides, his warmest affections had found an object on which to centre in Mademoiselle Danglars.
Danglars listened with the most profound attention; he had expected this declaration for the last two or three days, and when at last it came his eyes glistened as much as they had lowered on listening to Morcerf. He would not, however, yield immediately to the young man’s request, but made a few conscientious objections.
“Are you not rather young, M. Andrea, to think of marrying?”
“I think not, sir,” replied M. Cavalcanti; “in Italy the nobility generally marry young. Life is so uncertain, that we ought to secure happiness while it is within our reach.”
“Well, sir,” said Danglars, “in case your proposals, which do me honor, are accepted by my wife and daughter, by whom shall the preliminary arrangements be settled? So important a negotiation should, I think, be conducted by the respective fathers of the young people.”
“Sir, my father is a man of great foresight and prudence. Thinking that I might wish to settle in France, he left me at his departure, together with the papers establishing my identity, a letter promising, if he approved of my choice, 150,000 livres per annum from the day I was married. So far as I can judge, I suppose this to be a quarter of my father’s revenue.”