anwhile, the older Cavalcanti had gone back to his real life, not as so high-ranking officer, but as a regular at the gambling tables in a resort town. He’d blown through every cent of the travel money he’d been given, treating it like paynt for the acting gig where he’d pretended to be Andrea’s father.
When he left, Andrea inherited all the forged docunts that "proved" he was the son of so fancy Marquis and Marchioness. Now he was loose in Parisian high society, which had a weird habit of accepting foreigners at face value. They didn’t care who you really were, only who you claid to be. And honestly? The bar was pretty low for a young foreign guy in Paris. Speak decent French, look good, know how to gamble, and most importantly, have cash to spend. They were definitely more forgiving of foreigners than their own people.
In just two weeks, Andrea had built himself a solid reputation. Everyone called him "Count" now. Word on the street was that he had an inco of 50,000 livres a year, and people kept talking about his father’s "imnse fortune" buried in so quarries. When so scholar ntioned he’d actually seen these quarries, it gave Andrea’s whole story a stamp of legitimacy that had been sketchy before.
That was the state of things when Monte Cristo decided to drop by Danglars’ place one evening. Danglars himself wasn’t ho, but the staff asked if he’d like to see the lady of the house instead. He accepted.
Ever since that dinner party and everything that happened after, Mada Danglars got anxious whenever she heard Monte Cristo’s na announced. If he didn’t show up, she’d feel this uncomfortable tension building. But when he actually appeared, with that noble face, those sharp eyes, and that smooth charm he directed even at her, all her fear would lt away. It seed impossible that soone so effortlessly pleasant could have any evil plans. Besides, even the shadiest people only suspect foul play when there’s sothing to gain from it. Pointless harm just doesn’t make sense.
When Monte Cristo walked into the sitting room where the baroness was looking at drawings with her daughter and Andrea Cavalcanti, his presence imdiately shifted the mood. The baroness greeted him with genuine smiles, though she’d been slightly thrown off by hearing his na.
Monte Cristo took in the whole scene with one glance.
The baroness was half-lying on a sofa. Eugénie sat near her, and Cavalcanti was standing. He was dressed all in black like so brooding romantic hero, with polished shoes and white silk socks. He kept running his hand through his blonde hair in this super calculated way that showed off the diamond ring on his pinky, the one Monte Cristo had specifically told him not to wear, but his vanity wouldn’t let him resist. Every gesture ca with smoldering looks aid at Eugénie, accompanied by dramatic sighs.
Eugénie remained completely unimpressed, cold, beautiful, and mocking. Every one of his looks and sighs might as well have bounced off an invisible shield. She gave Monte Cristo a cool nod and took the first opportunity to escape to her music room. Soon, cheerful voices and piano notes drifted out, making it clear that Eugénie much preferred hanging out with her singing teacher, Louise d’Armilly, over either Monte Cristo or Cavalcanti.
While chatting with Mada Danglars and appearing totally absorbed in the conversation, Monte Cristo noticed how anxious Andrea was, the way he kept listening to the music from the doorway he didn’t dare cross, trying to show how much he admired it.
The banker returned ho shortly after. His first glance went to Monte Cristo, the second to Andrea. As for his wife, he gave her one of those perfunctory nods that married n sotis give, the kind that bachelors would never understand without a whole manual on married life.
"Haven’t the ladies invited you to join them at the piano?" Danglars asked Andrea.
"Unfortunately, no, sir," Andrea replied with an even more dramatic sigh than before.
Danglars imdiately went and opened the door.
The two young won were sitting together at the piano bench, each playing with one hand, so technique they’d mastered and perford beautifully. Through the open doorway, d’Armilly and Eugénie looked like they’d stepped out of a painting. Louise was pretty in a delicate, fairy-like way, with big curls falling around her rather long neck. Her eyes looked tired, and people whispered she had a weak chest, that she’d probably die young while singing, like so tragic opera character. Monte Cristo gave the room one quick, curious look. This was his first ti seeing d’Armilly in person, though he’d heard plenty about her.
"Well," the banker said to his daughter, "are we all being excluded?" He led Andrea into the room, and either by accident or on purpose, the door was left partially closed behind them. From where they sat, neither Monte Cristo nor the baroness could see anything. But since the banker had gone with Andrea, Mada Danglars didn’t seem concerned.
Soon Monte Cristo heard Andrea singing so regional song, accompanied by piano. While Monte Cristo smiled at the music, which reminded him of soone from Andrea’s past, Mada Danglars was bragging about her husband’s ntal toughness. Apparently, that very morning he’d lost three or four hundred thousand francs when so business deal in Milan fell through. The praise was deserved because if Monte Cristo hadn’t heard it directly from her, or through his other information channels, he never would’ve guessed from Danglars’ expression.
Interesting, Monte Cristo thought. A month ago he was bragging about his losses. Now he’s hiding them.
Out loud, he said, "Oh, Mada, Mr. Danglars is so skilled, I’m sure he’ll make back on the stock market what he loses elsewhere."
"I see you share a common misconception," Mada Danglars said.
"What’s that?"
"That my husband speculates. He never does."
"Really? I recall Mr. Debray ntioning sothing... speaking of which, what’s happened to him? I haven’t seen him in three or four days."
"Neither have I," Mada Danglars said. "But you started to say sothing and didn’t finish."
"Did I?"
"About Mr. Debray..."
"Ah, yes! He told it was you who liked to play the speculation ga."
"I used to enjoy it, but I don’t anymore."
"Then you’re making a mistake, Mada. Fortune is unpredictable. If I were a woman married to a banker, no matter how much I trusted my husband’s financial skills, I’d still know there’s always risk in speculation. So I’d make sure to secure my own independent fortune, even if it ant putting my money in investnts my husband knew nothing about."
Mada Danglars blushed despite trying to hide it.
"Anyway," Monte Cristo continued as if he hadn’t noticed her reaction, "I heard soone made a killing yesterday on Neapolitan bonds."
"I don’t have any, never have. But really, we’ve been talking about money forever, Count. We sound like two stockbrokers! Have you heard about the terrible things happening to the Villefort family?"
"What happened?" Monte Cristo asked, playing completely ignorant.
"You know the Marquis of Saint-Méran died just days after leaving for Paris, and the marchioness died days after arriving?"
"Yes, I heard about that. But as soone once said, it’s the natural order, parents die before their children, who mourn them, and then the children die before their children, who mourn in turn."
"But that’s not everything."
"There’s more?"
"They were planning to have their daughter marry-"
"Franz d’Epinay, right? Is it off?"
"This morning, apparently, Franz backed out."
"Really? Does anyone know why?"
"No."
"How strange! And how is Villefort taking it?"
"Like always. Like a philosopher."
Danglars returned just then, alone.
"So," the baroness asked, "you’re leaving Mr. Cavalcanti alone with our daughter?"
"And d’Armilly," the banker said. "Don’t you count her?" Turning to Monte Cristo, he added, "Prince Cavalcanti is quite charming, isn’t he? But is he really a prince?"
"I can’t vouch for it," Monte Cristo said. "His father was introduced to as a marquis, so Andrea should technically be a count. But I don’t think he has much claim to that title either."
"Why not?" the banker asked. "If he’s a prince, he shouldn’t be hiding it. I don’t like people denying their heritage."
"Ah, you’re quite the democratic idealist," Monte Cristo said with a smile.
"But don’t you see the problem?" the baroness cut in. "What if Albert de Morcerf shows up? He’d find Cavalcanti in that room, where he, Eugénie’s actual fiancé, has never been allowed."
"You said ’if,’" the banker replied. "He cos so rarely, it’s basically by chance when he does show up."
"But if he ca and found that young man with your daughter, he might not like it."
"Him? You’re mistaken. Albert wouldn’t do us the honor of being jealous, he doesn’t care about Eugénie enough for that. Besides, I don’t care about his displeasure."
"Still, given our situation-"
"You know what happened at his mother’s ball? He danced with Eugénie once, while Cavalcanti danced with her three tis, and Albert didn’t even notice."
The servant announced: "Viscount Albert de Morcerf."
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