Part 113

“True,” said the major, “there might be doubts raised.” “In that case your son would be very unpleasantly situated.” “It would be fatal to his interests.” “It might cause him to fail in some desirable matrimonial alliance.” “_O peccato!_” “You must know that in France they are very particular on these points; it is not sufficient, as in Italy, to go to the priest and say, ‘We love each other, and want you to marry us.’ Marriage is a civil affair in France, and in order to marry in an orthodox manner you must have papers which undeniably establish your identity.” “That is the misfortune! You see I have not these necessary papers.” “Fortunately, I have them, though,” said Monte Cristo. “You?” “Yes.” “You have them?” “I have them.” “Ah, indeed?” said the major, who, seeing the object of his journey frustrated by the absence of the papers, feared also that his forgetfulness might give rise to some difficulty concerning the 48,000 francs—“ah, indeed, that is a fortunate circumstance; yes, that really is lucky, for it never occurred to me to bring them.” “I do not at all wonder at it—one cannot think of everything; but, happily, the Abbé Busoni thought for you.” “He is an excellent person.” “He is extremely prudent and thoughtful.” “He is an admirable man,” said the major; “and he sent them to you?” “Here they are.” The major clasped his hands in token of admiration. “You married Oliva Corsinari in the church of San Paolo del Monte-Cattini; here is the priest’s certificate.” “Yes indeed, there it is truly,” said the Italian, looking on with astonishment. “And here is Andrea Cavalcanti’s baptismal register, given by the curé of Saravezza.” “All quite correct.” “Take these documents, then; they do not concern me. You will give them to your son, who will, of course, take great care of them.” “I should think so, indeed! If he were to lose them——” “Well, and if he were to lose them?” said Monte Cristo. “In that case,” replied the major, “it would be necessary to write to the curé for duplicates, and it would be some time before they could be obtained.” “It would be a difficult matter to arrange,” said Monte Cristo. “Almost an impossibility,” replied the major. “I am very glad to see that you understand the value of these papers.” “I regard them as invaluable.” “Now,” said Monte Cristo “as to the mother of the young man——” “As to the mother of the young man——” repeated the Italian, with anxiety. “As regards the Marchesa Corsinari——” “Really,” said the major, “difficulties seem to thicken upon us; will she be wanted in any way?” “No, sir,” replied Monte Cristo; “besides, has she not——” “Yes, sir,” said the major, “she has——” 30127m “Paid the last debt of nature?” “Alas, yes,” returned the Italian. “I knew that,” said Monte Cristo; “she has been dead these ten years.” “And I am still mourning her loss,” exclaimed the major, drawing from his pocket a checked handkerchief, and alternately wiping first the left and then the right eye. “What would you have?” said Monte Cristo; “we are all mortal. Now, you understand, my dear Monsieur Cavalcanti, that it is useless for you to tell people in France that you have been separated from your son for fifteen years. Stories of gypsies, who steal children, are not at all in vogue in this part of the world, and would not be believed. You sent him for his education to a college in one of the provinces, and now you wish him to complete his education in the Parisian world. That is the reason which has induced you to leave Via Reggio, where you have lived since the death of your wife. That will be sufficient.” “You think so?” “Certainly.” “Very well, then.” “If they should hear of the separation——” “Ah, yes; what could I say?” “That an unfaithful tutor, bought over by the enemies of your family——” “By the Corsinari?” “Precisely. Had stolen away this child, in order that your name might become extinct.” “That is reasonable, since he is an only son.” “Well, now that all is arranged, do not let these newly awakened remembrances be forgotten. You have, doubtless, already guessed that I was preparing a surprise for you?” “An agreeable one?” asked the Italian. “Ah, I see the eye of a father is no more to be deceived than his heart.” “Hum!” said the major. “Someone has told you the secret; or, perhaps, you guessed that he was here.” “That who was here?” “Your child—your son—your Andrea!” “I did guess it,” replied the major with the greatest possible coolness. “Then he is here?” “He is,” said Monte Cristo; “when the valet de chambre came in just now, he told me of his arrival.” “Ah, very well, very well,” said the major, clutching the buttons of his coat at each exclamation. “My dear sir,” said Monte Cristo, “I understand your emotion; you must have time to recover yourself. I will, in the meantime, go and prepare the young man for this much-desired interview, for I presume that he is not less impatient for it than yourself.” “I should quite imagine that to be the case,” said Cavalcanti. “Well, in a quarter of an hour he shall be with you.” “You will bring him, then? You carry your goodness so far as even to present him to me yourself?” “No; I do not wish to come between a father and son. Your interview will be private. But do not be uneasy; even if the powerful voice of nature should be silent, you cannot well mistake him; he will enter by this door. He is a fine young man, of fair complexion—a little too fair, perhaps—pleasing in manners; but you will see and judge for yourself.” “By the way,” said the major, “you know I have only the 2,000 francs which the Abbé Busoni sent me; this sum I have expended upon travelling expenses, and——” “And you want money; that is a matter of course, my dear M. Cavalcanti. Well, here are 8,000 francs on account.” The major’s eyes sparkled brilliantly. “It is 40,000 francs which I now owe you,” said Monte Cristo. “Does your excellency wish for a receipt?” said the major, at the same time slipping the money into the inner pocket of his coat. “For what?” said the count. “I thought you might want it to show the Abbé Busoni.” “Well, when you receive the remaining 40,000, you shall give me a receipt in full. Between honest men such excessive precaution is, I think, quite unnecessary.” “Yes, so it is, between perfectly upright people.” “One word more,” said Monte Cristo. “Say on.” “You will permit me to make one remark?” “Certainly; pray do so.” “Then I should advise you to leave off wearing that style of dress.” “Indeed,” said the major, regarding himself with an air of complete satisfaction. “Yes. It may be worn at Via Reggio; but that costume, however elegant in itself, has long been out of fashion in Paris.” “That’s unfortunate.” “Oh, if you really are attached to your old mode of dress; you can easily resume it when you leave Paris.” “But what shall I wear?” “What you find in your trunks.” “In my trunks? I have but one portmanteau.” “I dare say you have nothing else with you. What is the use of boring one’s self with so many things? Besides an old soldier always likes to march with as little baggage as possible.” “That is just the case—precisely so.” “But you are a man of foresight and prudence, therefore you sent your luggage on before you. It has arrived at the Hôtel des Princes, Rue de Richelieu. It is there you are to take up your quarters.” “Then, in these trunks——” “I presume you have given orders to your valet de chambre to put in all you are likely to need,—your plain clothes and your uniform. On grand occasions you must wear your uniform; that will look very well. Do not forget your crosses. They still laugh at them in France, and yet always wear them, for all that.” “Very well, very well,” said the major, who was in ecstasy at the attention paid him by the count. “Now,” said Monte Cristo, “that you have fortified yourself against all painful excitement, prepare yourself, my dear M. Cavalcanti, to meet your lost Andrea.” Saying which Monte Cristo bowed, and disappeared behind the tapestry, leaving the major fascinated beyond expression with the delightful reception which he had received at the hands of the count. Chapter 56. Andrea Cavalcanti The Count of Monte Cristo entered the adjoining room, which Baptistin had designated as the drawing-room, and found there a young man, of graceful demeanor and elegant appearance, who had arrived in a cab about half an hour previously. Baptistin had not found any difficulty in recognizing the person who presented himself at the door for admittance. He was certainly the tall young man with light hair, red beard, black eyes, and brilliant complexion, whom his master had so particularly described to him. When the count entered the room the young man was carelessly stretched on a sofa, tapping his boot with the gold-headed cane which he held in his hand. On perceiving the count he rose quickly. “The Count of Monte Cristo, I believe?” said he. “Yes, sir, and I think I have the honor of addressing Count Andrea Cavalcanti?” “Count Andrea Cavalcanti,” repeated the young man, accompanying his words with a bow. “You are charged with a letter of introduction addressed to me, are you not?” said the count. “I did not mention that, because the signature seemed to me so strange.” “The letter signed ‘Sinbad the Sailor,’ is it not?” “Exactly so. Now, as I have never known any Sinbad, with the exception of the one celebrated in the _Thousand and One Nights_——” “Well, it is one of his descendants, and a great friend of mine; he is a very rich Englishman, eccentric almost to insanity, and his real name is Lord Wilmore.” “Ah, indeed? Then that explains everything that is extraordinary,” said Andrea. “He is, then, the same Englishman whom I met—at—ah—yes, indeed. Well, monsieur, I am at your service.” “If what you say be true,” replied the count, smiling, “perhaps you will be kind enough to give me some account of yourself and your family?” “Certainly, I will do so,” said the young man, with a quickness which gave proof of his ready invention. “I am (as you have said) the Count Andrea Cavalcanti, son of Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti, a descendant of the Cavalcanti whose names are inscribed in the golden book at Florence. Our family, although still rich (for my father’s income amounts to half a million), has experienced many misfortunes, and I myself was, at the age of five years, taken away by the treachery of my tutor, so that for fifteen years I have not seen the author of my existence. Since I have arrived at years of discretion and become my own master, I have been constantly seeking him, but all in vain. At length I received this letter from your friend, which states that my father is in Paris, and authorizes me to address myself to you for information respecting him.” “Really, all you have related to me is exceedingly interesting,” said Monte Cristo, observing the young man with a gloomy satisfaction; “and you have done well to conform in everything to the wishes of my friend Sinbad; for your father is indeed here, and is seeking you.” The count from the moment of first entering the drawing-room, had not once lost sight of the expression of the young man’s countenance; he had admired the assurance of his look and the firmness of his voice; but at these words, so natural in themselves, “Your father is indeed here, and is seeking you,” young Andrea started, and exclaimed, “My father? Is my father here?” “Most undoubtedly,” replied Monte Cristo; “your father, Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti.” The expression of terror which, for the moment, had overspread the features of the young man, had now disappeared. “Ah, yes, that is the name, certainly. Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti. And you really mean to say; monsieur, that my dear father is here?” “Yes, sir; and I can even add that I have only just left his company. The history which he related to me of his lost son touched me to the quick; indeed, his griefs, hopes, and fears on that subject might furnish material for a most touching and pathetic poem. At length, he one day received a letter, stating that the abductors of his son now offered to restore him, or at least to give notice where he might be found, on condition of receiving a large sum of money, by way of ransom. Your father did not hesitate an instant, and the sum was sent to the frontier of Piedmont, with a passport signed for Italy. You were in the south of France, I think?”