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 curate
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 curate 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"--
"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.
"Some one 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 Abbe 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 Abbe 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 Hotel 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?"
"Yes," replied Andrea, with an embarrassed air, "I was in the south of
France."
"A carriage was to await you at Nice?"
"Precisely so; and it conveyed me from Nice to Genoa, from Genoa to
Turin, from Turin to Chambery, from Chambery to Pont-de-Beauvoisin, and
from Pont-de-Beauvoisin to Paris."
"Indeed? Then your father ought to have met with you on the road, for it
is exactly the same route which he himself took, and that is how we have
been able to trace your journey to this place."
"But," said Andrea, "if my father had met me, I doubt if he would have
recognized me; I must be somewhat altered since he last saw me."
"Oh, the voice of nature," said Monte Cristo.
"True," interrupted the young man, "I had not looked upon it in that
light."
"Now," replied Monte Cristo "there is only one source of uneasiness left
in your father's mind, which is this--he is anxious to know how you
have been employed during your long absence from him, how you have
been treated by your persecutors, and if they have conducted themselves
towards you with all the deference due to your rank. Finally, he is
anxious to see if you have been fortunate enough to escape the bad moral
influence to which you have been exposed, and which is infinitely more
to be dreaded than any physical suffering; he wishes to discover if the
fine abilities with which nature had endowed you have been weakened by
want of culture; and, in short, whether you consider yourself capable of
resuming and retaining in the world the high position to which your rank
entitles you."
"Sir!" exclaimed the young man, quite astounded, "I hope no false
report"--
"As for myself, I first heard you spoken of by my friend Wilmore, the
philanthropist. I believe he found you in some unpleasant position, but
do not know of what nature, for I did not ask, not being inquisitive.
