“M. Cavalcanti’s?” asked Beauchamp.
“Yes; do you not know that this is a young man whom the count is introducing?” said Morcerf.
“Let us not misunderstand each other,” replied Monte Cristo; “I introduce no one, and certainly not M. Cavalcanti.”
“And who,” said Albert with a forced smile, “is to marry Mademoiselle Danglars instead of me, which grieves me cruelly.”
“What? Cavalcanti is going to marry Mademoiselle Danglars?” asked Beauchamp.
“Certainly! do you come from the end of the world?” said Monte Cristo; “you, a journalist, the husband of renown? It is the talk of all Paris.”
“And you, count, have made this match?” asked Beauchamp.
“I? Silence, purveyor of gossip, do not spread that report. I make a match? No, you do not know me; I have done all in my power to oppose it.”
“Ah, I understand,” said Beauchamp, “on our friend Albert’s account.”
“On my account?” said the young man; “oh, no, indeed, the count will do me the justice to assert that I have, on the contrary, always entreated him to break off my engagement, and happily it is ended. The count pretends I have not him to thank;—so be it—I will erect an altar Deo ignoto.”