“Certainly,” he said, “your receipt is money.”
“Oh dear, yes; and if you were at Rome, the house of Thomson & French would make no more difficulty about paying the money on my receipt than you have just done.”
“Pardon me, count, pardon me.”
“Then I may keep this money?”
“Yes,” said Danglars, while the perspiration started from the roots of his hair. “Yes, keep it—keep it.”
Monte Cristo replaced the notes in his pocket with that indescribable expression which seemed to say, “Come, reflect; if you repent there is still time.”
“No,” said Danglars, “no, decidedly no; keep my signatures. But you know none are so formal as bankers in transacting business; I intended this money for the charity fund, and I seemed to be robbing them if I did not pay them with these precise bonds. How absurd—as if one crown were not as good as another. Excuse me;” and he began to laugh loudly, but nervously.
“Certainly, I excuse you,” said Monte Cristo graciously, “and pocket them.” And he placed the bonds in his pocket-book.
“But,” said Danglars, “there is still a sum of one hundred thousand francs?”