CHAPTER 229: THE BANKER’S DAUGHTER: II

"Oh, I can be direct when the situation calls for it," Danglars replied, "even if it’s not my usual style. So here it is, I’ve arranged for you to marry, not for your sake, because honestly, I wasn’t thinking about you at all when I made this decision. You wanted honesty, so there you have it. I’m marrying you off because it suits my purposes. I have certain business ventures I need to enter into, and your marriage facilitates that."

Eugénie’s expression tightened.

"It’s exactly as I’m telling you," Danglars continued. "Don’t be angry, you pushed for this disclosure. I don’t usually discuss financial mathematics with an artist like you, someone who avoids my study because she fears ’unpoetic impressions.’ But in that very same study where you happily showed up yesterday to collect your monthly allowance of a thousand francs, many important lessons can be learned. Lessons useful even for a girl who doesn’t want to marry."

He leaned forward.

"You can learn, for instance, and I’ll tell you this in the pretty drawing room, to spare your delicate nerves, that a banker’s credit is his life. Both physical and moral life. The Count of Monte Cristo once lectured me on this subject, and I’ve never forgotten it. Credit is like breath in the body. When credit fails, the body becomes a corpse. And that’s what will happen very soon to this banker who’s proud to have such a logical daughter as you."

Instead of shrinking back, Eugénie straightened under the blow.

"Ruined?" she said quietly.

"Exactly, my daughter. That’s precisely what I mean." Danglars nearly dug his nails into his chest while maintaining the smile of a heartless but clever man on his harsh features. "Ruined. Yes, that’s the word."

"Ah," Eugénie said, her voice neutral.

"Yes, ruined! Now you know the horrible secret. Now, daughter, let me tell you how you can help lessen this catastrophe, at least as it affects you."

"Oh," Eugénie said with a sharp laugh, "you’re a terrible judge of character if you think I’m upset on my own account. Me, ruined? What does that mean to me? Don’t I still have my talent? Can’t I, like Pasta, Malibran, or Grisi, earn for myself what you never would have given me regardless of your fortune? A hundred, even a hundred and fifty thousand a year, earned by my own abilities? Money accompanied by applause, by acclaim, by flowers, not handed over with your sour looks and lectures about my extravagance?"

Her voice gained strength.

"And even if I lacked that talent, which your smirk tells me you doubt I have, wouldn’t I still have my fierce love of independence? That’s worth more than wealth. In my mind, it supersedes even self-preservation. No, I don’t grieve for myself. I’ll always find a way. My books, my pencils, my piano, all things that cost little and that I can always obtain, those will remain mine."

She paused, then added coldly, "Do you think I’m worried about Mother? Don’t fool yourself. Either I’m very wrong, or she’s already protected herself against this catastrophe. It’ll pass over her without touching her. She’s taken care of herself, I hope so, anyway, since her attention certainly hasn’t been wasted watching over me. She encouraged my independence by indulging my love of freedom."

Her expression hardened.

"No, Father. From childhood, I’ve seen too much and understood too much of what happens in this house for misfortune to have power over me. From my earliest memories, I’ve been loved by no one, so much the worse. That naturally led me to love no one, so much the better. Now you have my complete philosophy."

"Then," Danglars said, his face pale with rage. Rage that had nothing to do with wounded fatherly love, "then, young lady, you persist in your determination to accelerate my ruin?"

"Your ruin? I’m accelerating your ruin? What are you talking about? I don’t understand."

"Good. Then there’s still a ray of hope. Listen to me."

"I’m listening," Eugénie said, staring at her father so intently that he struggled to endure her unrelenting gaze.

"Andrea Cavalcanti," Danglars continued, "is about to marry you. He’ll place his fortune in my hands, three million."

"How admirable," Eugénie said with supreme contempt, smoothing out her gloves with deliberate slowness.

"You think I’m going to steal your three million," Danglars said. "Don’t worry. That money is meant to generate at least ten million. A business partner and I have secured a contract for a railway, the only industrial enterprise these days that promises the kind of fabulous returns that Law once dangled before Parisians with his Mississippi scheme. A millionth share of a railway is worth far more than an acre of wasteland along the Ohio River. We’re making a deposit as collateral, which is essentially an advance. We stand to gain ten, fifteen, twenty, even a hundred times our investment in iron alone. Within a week, I need to deposit four million as my share. Those four million will produce ten or twelve, I promise you."

"But when I visited you two days ago," Eugénie replied, her tone icy, "which you seem to remember so well, I saw you preparing a deposit of five and a half million. You even showed me the treasury drafts and seemed amazed that such valuable paper didn’t dazzle me."

"Yes, but those five and a half million aren’t mine," Danglars said quickly. "They’re proof of the confidence placed in me. My reputation as a people’s banker has earned me the trust of charitable institutions. That money belongs to them. Normally, I wouldn’t hesitate to use it temporarily, but my recent losses are well known. My credit is shaky. That deposit could be withdrawn at any moment. If I used it for another purpose, it would mean disgraceful bankruptcy. I don’t despise bankruptcy, mind you, but it must be the kind that enriches, not ruins."

He locked eyes with her.

"Now, if you marry Cavalcanti and I receive the three million, or even if people simply *think* I’m going to receive it, my credit will be restored. My fortune, which over the past few months has been swallowed by inexplicable disasters, will revive. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly. You’re using me as collateral for three million."

"The higher the amount, the more flattering to your value."

"How kind. One more question, Father: do you promise to use only the *reputation* of Cavalcanti’s fortune without actually touching the money? This isn’t selfishness, it’s principle. I’m willing to help rebuild your fortune, but I won’t be an accomplice in ruining others."

"But I’m telling you," Danglars cried, "with these three million-"

"Do you expect to recover your position without touching that three million?"

"I hope so, if the marriage takes place and restores my credit."

"Will you be able to pay Cavalcanti the five hundred thousand francs you’ve promised as my dowry?"

"He’ll receive it immediately after the civil ceremony."

"Very well."

"What else?"

"I want to know if, in demanding my signature, you leave me completely free in terms of my personal life?"

"Absolutely."

"Then, as I said before, Father, very well. I’m ready to marry Andrea Cavalcanti."

"But what are you planning?"

"Ah, that’s my business. What advantage would I have if I knew your secret but told you mine?"

Danglars bit his lips in frustration.

"Then you’re ready to make the necessary formal visits?"

"Yes," Eugénie replied.

"And sign the contract in three days?"

"Yes."

"Then I also say, very well." Danglars took his daughter’s hand in his. But strangely, the father didn’t say "Thank you, my child," and the daughter didn’t smile at her father.

"Are we done?" Eugénie asked, rising from her seat.

Danglars gestured that he had nothing more to say.

Five minutes later, piano music echoed through the house, Mademoiselle d’Armilly’s fingers on the keys, and Eugénie’s voice singing Brabantio’s curse upon Desdemona. When the piece ended, Étienne appeared to announce that the carriage was ready and the baroness was waiting to make their social calls.

They visited the Villeforts first, then continued on their rounds, maintaining the charade that everything was perfectly fine.