The Count of Monte Cristo, Illustrated

by Alexandre Dumas

  Chapter 55. Major Cavalcanti

  Both the count and Baptistin had told the truth when they announced toMorcerf the proposed visit of the major, which had served Monte Cristoas a pretext for declining Albert’s invitation. Seven o’clock had juststruck, and M. Bertuccio, according to the command which had been givenhim, had two hours before left for Auteuil, when a cab stopped at thedoor, and after depositing its occupant at the gate, immediately hurriedaway, as if ashamed of its employment. The visitor was about fifty-twoyears of age, dressed in one of the green surtouts, ornamented withblack frogs, which have so long maintained their popularity all overEurope. He wore trousers of blue cloth, boots tolerably clean, but notof the brightest polish, and a little too thick in the soles, buckskingloves, a hat somewhat resembling in shape those usually worn by thegendarmes, and a black cravat striped with white, which, if theproprietor had not worn it of his own free will, might have passed for ahalter, so much did it resemble one. Such was the picturesque costume ofthe person who rang at the gate, and demanded if it was not at No. 30 inthe Avenue des Champs-Élysées that the Count of Monte Cristo lived, andwho, being answered by the porter in the affirmative, entered, closedthe gate after him, and began to ascend the steps.

  The small and angular head of this man, his white hair and thick graymoustaches, caused him to be easily recognized by Baptistin, who hadreceived an exact description of the expected visitor, and who wasawaiting him in the hall. Therefore, scarcely had the stranger time topronounce his name before the count was apprised of his arrival. He wasushered into a simple and elegant drawing-room, and the count rose tomeet him with a smiling air.

  “Ah, my dear sir, you are most welcome; I was expecting you.”

  “Indeed,” said the Italian, “was your excellency then aware of myvisit?”

  “Yes; I had been told that I should see you today at seven o’clock.”

  “Then you have received full information concerning my arrival?”

  “Of course.”

  “Ah, so much the better, I feared this little precaution might have beenforgotten.”

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  “What precaution?”

  “That of informing you beforehand of my coming.”

  “Oh, no, it has not.”

  “But you are sure you are not mistaken.”

  “Very sure.”

  “It really was I whom your excellency expected at seven o’clock thisevening?”

  “I will prove it to you beyond a doubt.”

  “Oh, no, never mind that,” said the Italian; “it is not worth thetrouble.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Monte Cristo. His visitor appeared slightly uneasy.“Let me see,” said the count; “are you not the Marquis BartolomeoCavalcanti?”

  “Bartolomeo Cavalcanti,” joyfully replied the Italian; “yes, I am reallyhe.”

  “Ex-major in the Austrian service?”

  “Was I a major?” timidly asked the old soldier.

  “Yes,” said Monte Cristo “you were a major; that is the title the Frenchgive to the post which you filled in Italy.”

  “Very good,” said the major, “I do not demand more, you understand——”

  “Your visit here today is not of your own suggestion, is it?” said MonteCristo.

  “No, certainly not.”

  “You were sent by some other person?”

  “Yes.”

  “By the excellent Abbé Busoni?”

  “Exactly so,” said the delighted major.

  “And you have a letter?”

  “Yes, there it is.”

  “Give it to me, then.” And Monte Cristo took the letter, which he openedand read. The major looked at the count with his large staring eyes, andthen took a survey of the apartment, but his gaze almost immediatelyreverted to the proprietor of the room.

  “Yes, yes, I see. ‘Major Cavalcanti, a worthy patrician of Lucca, adescendant of the Cavalcanti of Florence,’” continued Monte Cristo,reading aloud, “‘possessing an income of half a million.’”

  Monte Cristo raised his eyes from the paper, and bowed.

  “Half a million,” said he, “magnificent!”

  “Half a million, is it?” said the major.

  “Yes, in so many words; and it must be so, for the abbé knows correctlythe amount of all the largest fortunes in Europe.”

  “Be it half a million, then; but on my word of honor, I had no idea thatit was so much.”

  “Because you are robbed by your steward. You must make some reformationin that quarter.”

  “You have opened my eyes,” said the Italian gravely; “I will show thegentlemen the door.”

  Monte Cristo resumed the perusal of the letter:

  “‘And who only needs one thing more to make him happy.’”

  “Yes, indeed but one!” said the major with a sigh.

  “‘Which is to recover a lost and adored son.’”

  “A lost and adored son!”

  “‘Stolen away in his infancy, either by an enemy of his noble family orby the gypsies.’”

  “At the age of five years!” said the major with a deep sigh, and raisinghis eye to heaven.

  “Unhappy father,” said Monte Cristo. The count continued:

  “‘I have given him renewed life and hope, in the assurance that you havethe power of restoring the son whom he has vainly sought for fifteenyears.’”

  The major looked at the count with an indescribable expression ofanxiety.

  “I have the power of so doing,” said Monte Cristo. The major recoveredhis self-possession.

  “So, then,” said he, “the letter was true to the end?”

  “Did you doubt it, my dear Monsieur Bartolomeo?”

  “No, indeed; certainly not; a good man, a man holding religious office,as does the Abbé Busoni, could not condescend to deceive or play off ajoke; but your excellency has not read all.”

  “Ah, true,” said Monte Cristo “there is a postscript.”

  “Yes, yes,” repeated the major, “yes—there—is—a—postscript.”

  “‘In order to save Major Cavalcanti the trouble of drawing on hisbanker, I send him a draft for 2,000 francs to defray his travellingexpenses, and credit on you for the further sum of 48,000 francs, whichyou still owe me.’”

  The major awaited the conclusion of the postscript, apparently withgreat anxiety.

  “Very good,” said the count.

  “He said ‘very good,’” muttered the major, “then—sir——” replied he.

  “Then what?” asked Monte Cristo.

  “Then the postscript——”

  “Well; what of the postscript?”

  “Then the postscript is as favorably received by you as the rest of theletter?”

  “Certainly; the Abbé Busoni and myself have a small account open betweenus. I do not remember if it is exactly 48,000 francs, which I am stillowing him, but I dare say we shall not dispute the difference. Youattached great importance, then, to this postscript, my dear MonsieurCavalcanti?”

  “I must explain to you,” said the major, “that, fully confiding in thesignature of the Abbé Busoni, I had not provided myself with any otherfunds; so that if this resource had failed me, I should have foundmyself very unpleasantly situated in Paris.”

  “Is it possible that a man of your standing should be embarrassedanywhere?” said Monte Cristo.

  “Why, really I know no one,” said the major.

  “But then you yourself are known to others?”

  “Yes, I am known, so that——”

  “Proceed, my dear Monsieur Cavalcanti.”

  “So that you will remit to me these 48,000 francs?”

  “Certainly, at your first request.” The major’s eyes dilated withpleasing astonishment. “But sit down,” said Monte Cristo; “really I donot know what I have been thinking of—I have positively kept youstanding for the last quarter of an hour.”

  “Don’t mention it.” The major drew an armchair towards him, andproceeded to seat himself.
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  “Now,” said the count, “what will you take—a glass of sherry, port, orAlicante?”

  “Alicante, if you please; it is my favorite wine.”

  “I have some that is very good. You will take a biscuit with it, willyou not?”

  “Yes, I will take a biscuit, as you are so obliging.”

  Monte Cristo rang; Baptistin appeared. The count advanced to meet him.

  “Well?” said he in a low voice.

  “The young man is here,” said the valet de chambre in the same tone.

  “Into what room did you take him?”

  “Into the blue drawing-room, according to your excellency’s orders.”

  “That’s right; now bring the Alicante and some biscuits.”

  Baptistin left the room.

  “Really,” said the major, “I am quite ashamed of the trouble I am givingyou.”

  “Pray don’t mention such a thing,” said the count. Baptistin re-enteredwith glasses, wine, and biscuits. The count filled one glass, but in theother he only poured a few drops of the ruby-colored liquid. The bottlewas covered with spiders’ webs, and all the other signs which indicatethe age of wine more truly than do wrinkles on a man’s face. The majormade a wise choice; he took the full glass and a biscuit. The count toldBaptistin to leave the plate within reach of his guest, who began bysipping the Alicante with an expression of great satisfaction, and thendelicately steeped his biscuit in the wine.

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  “So, sir, you lived at Lucca, did you? You were rich, noble, held ingreat esteem—had all that could render a man happy?”

  “All,” said the major, hastily swallowing his biscuit, “positively all.”

  “And yet there was one thing wanting in order to complete yourhappiness?”

  “Only one thing,” said the Italian.

  “And that one thing, your lost child.”

  “Ah,” said the major, taking a second biscuit, “that consummation of myhappiness was indeed wanting.” The worthy major raised his eyes toheaven and sighed.

  “Let me hear, then,” said the count, “who this deeply regretted son was;for I always understood you were a bachelor.”

  “That was the general opinion, sir,” said the major, “and I——”

  “Yes,” replied the count, “and you confirmed the report. A youthfulindiscretion, I suppose, which you were anxious to conceal from theworld at large?”

  The major recovered himself, and resumed his usual calm manner, at thesame time casting his eyes down, either to give himself time to composehis countenance, or to assist his imagination, all the while giving anunder-look at the count, the protracted smile on whose lips stillannounced the same polite curiosity.

  “Yes,” said the major, “I did wish this fault to be hidden from everyeye.”

  “Not on your own account, surely,” replied Monte Cristo; “for a man isabove that sort of thing?”

  “Oh, no, certainly not on my own account,” said the major with a smileand a shake of the head.

  “But for the sake of the mother?” said the count.

  “Yes, for the mother’s sake—his poor mother!” cried the major, taking athird biscuit.

  “Take some more wine, my dear Cavalcanti,” said the count, pouring outfor him a second glass of Alicante; “your emotion has quite overcomeyou.”

  “His poor mother,” murmured the major, trying to get the lachrymal glandin operation, so as to moisten the corner of his eye with a false tear.

  “She belonged to one of the first families in Italy, I think, did shenot?”

  “She was of a noble family of Fiesole, count.”

  “And her name was——”

  “Do you desire to know her name——?”

  “Oh,” said Monte Cristo “it would be quite superfluous for you to tellme, for I already know it.”

  “The count knows everything,” said the Italian, bowing.

  “Oliva Corsinari, was it not?”

  “Oliva Corsinari!”

  “A marchioness?”

  “A marchioness!”

  “And you married her at last, notwithstanding the opposition of herfamily?”

  “Yes, that was the way it ended.”

  “And you have doubtless brought all your papers with you?” said MonteCristo.

  “What papers?”

  “The certificate of your marriage with Oliva Corsinari, and the registerof your child’s birth.”

  “The register of my child’s birth?”

  “The register of the birth of Andrea Cavalcanti—of your son; is not hisname Andrea?”

  “I believe so,” said the major.

  “What? You believe so?”

  “I dare not positively assert it, as he has been lost for so long atime.”

  “Well, then,” said Monte Cristo “you have all the documents with you?”

  “Your excellency, I regret to say that, not knowing it was necessary tocome provided with these papers, I neglected to bring them.”

  “That is unfortunate,” returned Monte Cristo.

  “Were they, then, so necessary?”

  “They were indispensable.”

  The major passed his hand across his brow. “Ah, perbacco, indispensable,were they?”

  “Certainly they were; supposing there were to be doubts raised as to thevalidity of your marriage or the legitimacy of your child?”

  “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 loveeach other, and want you to marry us.’ Marriage is a civil affair inFrance, and in order to marry in an orthodox manner you must have paperswhich 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 journeyfrustrated by the absence of the papers, feared also that hisforgetfulness might give rise to some difficulty concerning the 48,000francs—“ah, indeed, that is a fortunate circumstance; yes, that reallyis 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 withastonishment.

  “And here is Andrea Cavalcanti’s baptismal register, given by the curéof Saravezza.”

  “All quite correct.”

  “Take these documents, then; they do not concern me. You will give themto 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 tothe curé for duplicates, and it would be some time before they could beobtained.”

  “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 paper
s.”

  “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, withanxiety.

  “As regards the Marchesa Corsinari——”

  “Really,” said the major, “difficulties seem to thicken upon us; willshe be wanted in any way?”

  “No, sir,” replied Monte Cristo; “besides, has she not——”

  “Yes, sir,” said the major, “she has——”

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  “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 fromhis pocket a checked handkerchief, and alternately wiping first the leftand then the right eye.

  “What would you have?” said Monte Cristo; “we are all mortal. Now, youunderstand, my dear Monsieur Cavalcanti, that it is useless for you totell people in France that you have been separated from your son forfifteen years. Stories of gypsies, who steal children, are not at all invogue in this part of the world, and would not be believed. You sent himfor his education to a college in one of the provinces, and now you wishhim to complete his education in the Parisian world. That is the reasonwhich has induced you to leave Via Reggio, where you have lived sincethe 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 mightbecome extinct.”

  “That is reasonable, since he is an only son.”

  “Well, now that all is arranged, do not let these newly awakenedremembrances be forgotten. You have, doubtless, already guessed that Iwas 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 hisheart.”

  “Hum!” said the major.

  “Someone has told you the secret; or, perhaps, you guessed that he washere.”

  “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 hiscoat at each exclamation.

  “My dear sir,” said Monte Cristo, “I understand your emotion; you musthave time to recover yourself. I will, in the meantime, go and preparethe young man for this much-desired interview, for I presume that he isnot 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 topresent him to me yourself?”

  “No; I do not wish to come between a father and son. Your interview willbe private. But do not be uneasy; even if the powerful voice of natureshould be silent, you cannot well mistake him; he will enter by thisdoor. 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 francswhich the Abbé Busoni sent me; this sum I have expended upon travellingexpenses, 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 sametime 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 areceipt in full. Between honest men such excessive precaution is, Ithink, 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 completesatisfaction.

  “Yes. It may be worn at Via Reggio; but that costume, however elegant initself, has long been out of fashion in Paris.”

  “That’s unfortunate.”

  “Oh, if you really are attached to your old mode of dress; you caneasily 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 boringone’s self with so many things? Besides an old soldier always likes tomarch 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 yourluggage on before you. It has arrived at the Hôtel des Princes, Rue deRichelieu. 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 allyou are likely to need,—your plain clothes and your uniform. On grandoccasions you must wear your uniform; that will look very well. Do notforget your crosses. They still laugh at them in France, and yet alwayswear them, for all that.”

  “Very well, very well,” said the major, who was in ecstasy at theattention paid him by the count.

  “Now,” said Monte Cristo, “that you have fortified yourself against allpainful excitement, prepare yourself, my dear M. Cavalcanti, to meetyour lost Andrea.”

  Saying which Monte Cristo bowed, and disappeared behind the tapestry,leaving the major fascinated beyond expression with the delightfulreception which he had received at the hands of the count.