The evening after the Count of Morcerf had left Danglars’s house filled with shame and anger over the rejection of the proposed marriage alliance, Andrea Cavalcanti arrived. With perfectly styled hair, an immaculate mustache, and white gloves that fit admirably, he entered the courtyard of the banker’s mansion.
He’d been in the drawing room for less than ten minutes before he drew Danglars aside into the recess of a bow window. After an eloquent introduction, he shared all his anxieties and concerns since his noble father’s departure. He acknowledged the extreme kindness shown to him by the banker’s family, where he’d been received like a son. More than that, his deepest affections had found an object to focus on: Mademoiselle Danglars herself.
Danglars listened with profound attention. He’d been expecting this declaration for the past two or three days. When it finally came, his eyes gleamed just as much as they had dimmed while listening to Morcerf. However, he wouldn’t yield immediately to the young man’s request. He raised a few conscientious objections.
"Aren’t you rather young, Monsieur Andrea, to be thinking of marriage?"
"I don’t think so, sir," Cavalcanti replied. "In Italy, the nobility generally marries young. Life is so uncertain that we should secure happiness while it’s within our reach."
"Well, sir," Danglars said, "assuming your proposals, which honor me, are accepted by my wife and daughter, who should handle the preliminary arrangements? Such an important negotiation should be conducted by the fathers of the young people, I think."
"Sir, my father is a man of great foresight and caution. Thinking I might wish to settle in France, when he left he gave me papers establishing my identity, along with a letter promising 150,000 livres annual income from the day I marry, assuming he approves of my choice. As far as I can judge, this is about a quarter of my father’s total income."
"I," said Danglars, "have always intended to give my daughter 500,000 francs as her dowry. She’s also my sole heir."
"Then everything would be easily arranged if the baroness and her daughter are willing. We’d have a combined annual income of 175,000 livres. And suppose I could persuade the marquis to give me my capital inheritance, which isn’t likely but is possible. We could place those two or three million in your hands, and your financial talent could make it earn ten percent."
"I never give more than four percent, and usually only three and a half. But to my son-in-law I would give five percent, and we’d share the profits."
"Very good, father-in-law," Cavalcanti said, his lower-class origins showing through the aristocratic polish he tried to maintain. Immediately correcting himself, he added, "Excuse me, sir. Hope alone makes me almost crazy. Imagine what reality will do!"
"But," said Danglars, who hadn’t noticed how quickly the conversation had turned from romance to business, "there’s surely a part of your fortune your father couldn’t refuse you, isn’t there?"
"Which part?" the young man asked.
"What you inherited from your mother."
"Ah yes, from my mother, Leonora Corsinari."
"How much would that be?"
"Honestly, sir," Andrea said, "I’ve never really thought about it, but I suppose it must be at least two million."
Danglars felt as overwhelmed with joy as a miser finding lost treasure, or a shipwrecked sailor feeling solid ground beneath his feet instead of the abyss that was about to swallow him.
"Well, sir," Andrea said, bowing respectfully to the banker, "may I hope?" Orıginal content can be found at novèlfire.net
"You may not only hope," Danglars replied, "but consider it settled, assuming no obstacles arise on your side."
"I’m truly overjoyed," Andrea said.
"But," Danglars added thoughtfully, "why didn’t your patron, the Count of Monte Cristo, make this proposal on your behalf?"
Andrea blushed slightly. "I just left the count, sir," he said. "He’s certainly a delightful man but incredibly peculiar in his ideas. He holds me in high regard. He even told me he has no doubt my father will give me the capital instead of just the interest from my inheritance. He promised to use his influence to help me obtain it. But he also declared that he’s never taken responsibility for making proposals on another person’s behalf, and he never would. However, I must give him credit. He assured me that if he’d ever regretted his reluctance to take such a step, it was on this occasion, because he thinks our union would be happy and suitable. Besides, while he won’t do anything officially, he’ll answer any questions you pose to him. Now," he continued with one of his most charming smiles, "having finished talking to my future father-in-law, I must address the banker."
"And what do you have to say to him?" Danglars asked, laughing.
"The day after tomorrow I’ll need to draw about four thousand francs from you. But the count, realizing that my bachelor’s income wouldn’t cover this month’s expenses, has offered me a draft for twenty thousand francs. It bears his signature, as you can see, which is more than sufficient."
"Bring me a million drafts like that," Danglars said, "and I’ll be delighted." He tucked the draft into his pocket. "Choose your time for tomorrow, and my cashier will visit you with a check for eighty thousand francs."
"Ten o’clock then, if you don’t mind. I’d like it early since I’m going to the countryside tomorrow."
"Very well, ten o’clock. You’re still at the Hotel des Princes?"
The following morning, with the banker’s usual punctuality, the eighty thousand francs were placed in the young man’s hands just as he was about to leave. He’d already set aside two hundred francs for Caderousse. He went out mainly to avoid this dangerous enemy and returned as late as possible that evening.
But he’d barely stepped out of his carriage when the doorman approached him with a package.
"Sir," the doorman said, "that man was here."
"What man?" Andrea asked carelessly, pretending to forget someone he remembered all too well.
"The one your excellency pays that small annuity to."
"Oh," Andrea said, "my father’s old servant. Well, did you give him the two hundred francs I left for him?"
"Yes, your excellency."
Andrea had expressed a preference for being addressed this way.
"But," the doorman continued, "he wouldn’t take the money."
Andrea went pale, though in the darkness his pallor wasn’t visible. "What? He wouldn’t take it?" he said with barely concealed alarm.
"No, he wanted to speak to your excellency. I told him you’d gone out. After some argument, he believed me and gave me this letter, which he’d brought already sealed."
"Give it to me," Andrea said. He read by the light of his carriage lamp:
You know where I live. I expect you tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.
Andrea examined the letter carefully to determine if it had been opened or if any prying eyes had seen its contents. But it was so carefully folded that no one could have read it, and the seal was perfect.
"Very well," he said. "Poor man, he’s a good soul."
He left the doorman pondering these words, unable to decide which to admire more: the master or the servant.
"Take out the horses quickly and come up to my room," Andrea told his groom.
In seconds, the young man reached his room and burned Caderousse’s letter. The servant entered just as he finished.
"You’re about my height, Pierre," Andrea said.
"I have that honor, your excellency."
"You got a new uniform yesterday?"
"I have plans with a pretty girl this evening and don’t want to be recognized. Lend me your uniform until tomorrow. I might sleep at an inn."
Pierre obeyed. Five minutes later, Andrea left the hotel completely disguised. He took a cab and ordered the driver to take him to the Red Horse Inn at Picpus.
The next morning, he left that inn just as he’d left the Hotel des Princes, without being noticed. He walked through the working-class neighborhood, along the boulevard to Menilmontant Street, stopping at the door of the third house on the left. He looked around for someone to ask, since there was no doorman.
"Who are you looking for, young man?" asked the fruit seller across the street.
"Monsieur Pailletin, if you please, good woman," Andrea replied.
"The retired baker?" the fruit seller asked.
"He lives at the end of the courtyard, on the left, third floor."
Andrea went as directed. On the third floor, he found a rabbit’s paw door knocker, which he pulled with evident bad temper, ringing the bell hastily. A moment later, Caderousse’s face appeared at the door grating.
"Ah, you’re punctual," Caderousse said as he opened the door.
"Damn you and your punctuality!" Andrea snapped, throwing himself into a chair as if he’d rather have thrown it at his host’s head.
"Now, now, my young friend, don’t be angry. Look, I’ve been thinking of you. See what a good breakfast we’re going to have! Nothing but your favorites."
Andrea did notice the scent of something cooking, which wasn’t unwelcome since he was hungry. It was that mixture of fat and garlic characteristic of lower-class southern French cooking, combined with dried fish, and above all, the pungent smell of herbs and spices. These aromas escaped from two deep covered dishes on a stove and from a copper pan in an old iron pot.
In the next room, Andrea saw a reasonably clean table set for two, two sealed wine bottles, one with a green seal, one with yellow, a decanter of brandy, and some fruit arranged cleverly on an earthenware plate with a cabbage leaf.