, you are right,
for if you indulged in such reflections, you would never risk your
principal, which is to the speculator what the skin is to civilized
man. We have our clothes, some more splendid than others,--this is our
credit; but when a man dies he has only his skin; in the same way, on
retiring from business, you have nothing but your real principal of
about five or six millions, at the most; for third-rate fortunes are
never more than a fourth of what they appear to be, like the locomotive
on a railway, the size of which is magnified by the smoke and steam
surrounding it. Well, out of the five or six millions which form your
real capital, you have just lost nearly two millions, which must, of
course, in the same degree diminish your credit and fictitious fortune;
to follow out my simile, your skin has been opened by bleeding, and this
if repeated three or four times will cause death--so pay attention to
it, my dear Monsieur Danglars. Do you want money? Do you wish me to lend
you some?"

"What a bad calculator you are!" exclaimed Danglars, calling to his
assistance all his philosophy and dissimulation. "I have made money at
the same time by speculations which have succeeded. I have made up
the loss of blood by nutrition. I lost a battle in Spain, I have been
defeated in Trieste, but my naval army in India will have taken some
galleons, and my Mexican pioneers will have discovered some mine."

"Very good, very good! But the wound remains and will reopen at the
first loss."

"No, for I am only embarked in certainties," replied Danglars, with
the air of a mountebank sounding his own praises; "to involve me, three
governments must crumble to dust."

"Well, such things have been."

"That there should be a famine!"

"Recollect the seven fat and the seven lean kine."

"Or, that the sea should become dry, as in the days of Pharaoh, and even
then my vessels would become caravans."

"So much the better. I congratulate you, my dear M. Danglars," said
Monte Cristo; "I see I was deceived, and that you belong to the class of
second-rate fortunes."

"I think I may aspire to that honor," said Danglars with a smile, which
reminded Monte Cristo of the sickly moons which bad artists are so fond
of daubing into their pictures of ruins. "But, while we are speaking of
business," Danglars added, pleased to find an opportunity of changing
the subject, "tell me what I am to do for M. Cavalcanti."

"Give him money, if he is re