as the comic operas say, and rich — and that is happiness, sir —
why do you call me unhappy?"
Danglars, seeing his daughter smiling, and proud even to
insolence, could not entirely repress his brutal feelings, but they
betrayed themselves only by an exclamation. Under the fixed and
inquiring gaze levelled at him from under those beautiful black
eyebrows, he prudently turned away, and calmed himself immediately,
daunted by the power of a resolute mind. "Truly, my daughter,"
replied he with a smile, "you are all you boast of being, excepting
one thing; I will not too hastily tell you which, but would rather
leave you to guess it." Eugenie looked at Danglars, much surprised
that one flower of her crown of pride, with which she had so
superbly decked herself, should be disputed. "My daughter,"
continued the banker, "you have perfectly explained to me the
sentiments which influence a girl like you, who is determined she
will not marry; now it remains for me to tell you the motives of a
father like me, who has decided that his daughter shall marry."
Eugenie bowed, not as a submissive daughter, but as an adversary
prepared for a discussion.
"My daughter," continued Danglars, "when a father asks his
daughter to choose a husband, he has always some reason for wishing
her to marry. Some are affected with the mania of which you spoke
just now, that of living again in their grandchildren. This is not
my weakness, I tell you at once; family joys have no charm for me.
I may acknowledge this to a daughter whom I know to be
philosophical enough to understand my indifference, and not to
impute it to me as a crime."
"This is not to the purpose," said Eugenie; "let us speak
candidly, sir; I admire candor."
"Oh," said Danglars, "I can, when circumstances render it
desirable, adopt your system, although it may not be my general
practice. I will therefore proceed. I have proposed to you to
marry, not for your sake, for indeed I did not think of you in the
least at the moment (you admire candor, and will now be satisfied,least at the moment (you admire candor, and will now be satisfied,
I hope); but because it suited me to marry you as soon as possible,
on account of certain commercial speculations I am desirous of
entering into." Eugenie became uneasy.
"It is just as I tell you, I assure you, and you must not be
angry with me, for you have sought this disclosure. I do not
willingly enter into arithmetical explanations with an artist like
you, who fears to enter my study lest she should imbibe
disagreeable or anti-poetic impressions and sensations. But in that
same banker's study, where you very willingly presented yourself
yesterday to ask for the thousand francs I give you monthly for
pocket-money, you must know, my dear young lady, that many things
may be learned, useful even to a girl who will not marry. There one
may learn, for instance, what, out of regard to your nervous
susceptibility, I will inform you of in the drawing-room, namely,
that the credit of a banker is his physical and moral life; that
credit sustains him as breath animates the body; and M. de Monte
Cristo once gave me a lecture on that subject, which I have never
forgotten. There we may learn that as credit sinks, the body
becomes a corpse, and this is what must happen very soon to the
banker who is proud to own so good a logician as you for his
daughter." But Eugenie, instead of stooping, drew herself up under
the blow. "Ruined?" said she.
"Exactly, my daughter; that is precisely what I mean," said
Danglars, almost digging his nails into his breast, while he
preserved on his harsh features the smile of the heartless though
clever man; "ruined — yes, that is it."
"Ah!" said Eugenie.
"Yes, ruined! Now it is revealed, this secret so full of horror,
as the tragic poet says. Now, my daughter, learn from my lips how
you may alleviate this misfortune, so far as it will affect
you."
"Oh," cried Eugenie, "you are a bad physiognomist, if you
imagine I deplore on my own account the catastrophe of which youimagine I deplore on my own account the catastrophe of which you
warn me. I ruined? and what will that signify to me? Have I not my
talent left? Can I not, like Pasta, Malibran, Grisi, acquire for
myself what you would never have given me, whatever might have been
your fortune, a hundred or a hundred and fifty thousand livres per
annum, for which I shall be indebted to no one but myself; and
which, instead of being given as you gave me those poor twelve
thousand francs, with sour looks and reproaches for my prodigality,
will be accompanied with acclamations, with bravos, and with
flowers? And if I do not possess that talent, which your smiles
prove to me you doubt, should I not still have that ardent love of
independence, which will be a substitute for wealth, and which in
my mind supersedes even the instinct of self-preservation? No, I
grieve not on my own account, I shall always find a resource; my
books, my pencils, my piano, all the things which cost but little,
and which I shall be able to procure, will remain my own.
"Do you think that I sorrow for Madame Danglars? Undeceive
yourself again; either I am greatly mistaken, or she has provided
against the catastrophe which threatens you, and, which will pass
over without affecting her. She has taken care for herself, — at
least I hope so, — for her attention has not been diverted from her
projects by watching over me. She has fostered my independence by
professedly indulging my love for liberty. Oh, no, sir; from my
childhood I have seen too much, and understood too much, of what
has passed around me, for misfortune to have an undue power over
me. From my earliest recollections, I have been beloved by no one —
so much the worse; that has naturally led me to love no one — so
much the better — now you have my profession of faith."
"Then," said Danglars, pale with anger, which was not at all due
to offended paternal love, — "then, mademoiselle, you persist in
your determination to accelerate my ruin?"
"Your ruin? I accelerate your ruin? What do you mean? I do not