whelmed
with the weight of this pitiless logic, marking evident premeditation
and force of will, "what is your reason for this refusal, Eugenie? what
reason do you assign?"

"My reason?" replied the young girl. "Well, it is not that the man is
more ugly, more foolish, or more disagreeable than any other; no,
M. Andrea Cavalcanti may appear to those who look at men's faces and
figures as a very good specimen of his kind. It is not, either, that
my heart is less touched by him than any other; that would be a
schoolgirl's reason, which I consider quite beneath me. I actually love
no one, sir; you know it, do you not? I do not then see why, without
real necessity, I should encumber my life with a perpetual companion.
Has not some sage said, 'Nothing too much'? and another, 'I carry all my
effects with me'? I have been taught these two aphorisms in Latin and in
Greek; one is, I believe, from Phaedrus, and the other from Bias.
Well, my dear father, in the shipwreck of life--for life is an eternal
shipwreck of our hopes--I cast into the sea my useless encumbrance, that
is all, and I remain with my own will, disposed to live perfectly alone,
and consequently perfectly free."

"Unhappy girl, unhappy girl!" murmured Danglars, turning pale, for
he knew from long experience the solidity of the obstacle he had so
suddenly encountered.

"Unhappy girl," replied Eugenie, "unhappy girl, do you say, sir? No,
indeed; the exclamation appears quite theatrical and affected. Happy, on
the contrary, for what am I in want of! The world calls me beautiful.
It is something to be well received. I like a favorable reception; it
expands the countenance, and those around me do not then appear so ugly.
I possess a share of wit, and a certain relative sensibility, which
enables me to draw from life in general, for the support of mine, all I
meet with that is good, like the monkey who cracks the nut to get at its
contents. I am rich, for you have one of the first fortunes in France. I
am your only daughter, and you are not so exacting as the fathers of the
Porte Saint-Martin and Gaiete, who disinherit their daughters for not
giving them grandchildren. Besides, the provident law has deprived you
of the power to disinherit me, at least entirely, as it has also of
the power to compel me to marry Monsieur This or Monsieur That. And
so--being, beautiful, witty, somewhat talented, as the comic operas say,
and rich--and that is happiness, sir--why do you ca