Chapter 56. Andrea Cavalcanti
The Count of Monte Cristo entered the adjoining room, which Baptistinhad designated as the drawing-room, and found there a young man, ofgraceful demeanor and elegant appearance, who had arrived in a cab abouthalf an hour previously. Baptistin had not found any difficulty inrecognizing the person who presented himself at the door for admittance.He was certainly the tall young man with light hair, red beard, blackeyes, and brilliant complexion, whom his master had so particularlydescribed to him. When the count entered the room the young man wascarelessly stretched on a sofa, tapping his boot with the gold-headedcane 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 AndreaCavalcanti?”
“Count Andrea Cavalcanti,” repeated the young man, accompanying hiswords with a bow.
“You are charged with a letter of introduction addressed to me, are younot?” 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 exceptionof the one celebrated in the Thousand and One Nights——”
“Well, it is one of his descendants, and a great friend of mine; he is avery rich Englishman, eccentric almost to insanity, and his real name isLord Wilmore.”
“Ah, indeed? Then that explains everything that is extraordinary,” saidAndrea. “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 willbe kind enough to give me some account of yourself and your family?”
“Certainly, I will do so,” said the young man, with a quickness whichgave proof of his ready invention. “I am (as you have said) the CountAndrea Cavalcanti, son of Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti, a descendant ofthe Cavalcanti whose names are inscribed in the golden book at Florence.Our family, although still rich (for my father’s income amounts to halfa million), has experienced many misfortunes, and I myself was, at theage of five years, taken away by the treachery of my tutor, so that forfifteen years I have not seen the author of my existence. Since I havearrived at years of discretion and become my own master, I have beenconstantly seeking him, but all in vain. At length I received thisletter from your friend, which states that my father is in Paris, andauthorizes me to address myself to you for information respecting him.”
“Really, all you have related to me is exceedingly interesting,” saidMonte Cristo, observing the young man with a gloomy satisfaction; “andyou have done well to conform in everything to the wishes of my friendSinbad; for your father is indeed here, and is seeking you.”
The count from the moment of first entering the drawing-room, had notonce lost sight of the expression of the young man’s countenance; he hadadmired the assurance of his look and the firmness of his voice; but atthese words, so natural in themselves, “Your father is indeed here, andis seeking you,” young Andrea started, and exclaimed, “My father? Is myfather here?”
“Most undoubtedly,” replied Monte Cristo; “your father, Major BartolomeoCavalcanti.” The expression of terror which, for the moment, hadoverspread the features of the young man, had now disappeared.
“Ah, yes, that is the name, certainly. Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti. Andyou 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 thequick; indeed, his griefs, hopes, and fears on that subject mightfurnish material for a most touching and pathetic poem. At length, heone day received a letter, stating that the abductors of his son nowoffered to restore him, or at least to give notice where he might befound, 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 thefrontier of Piedmont, with a passport signed for Italy. You were in thesouth of France, I think?”
“Yes,” replied Andrea, with an embarrassed air, “I was in the south ofFrance.”
“A carriage was to await you at Nice?”
“Precisely so; and it conveyed me from Nice to Genoa, from Genoa toTurin, from Turin to Chambéry, from Chambéry to Pont-de-Beauvoisin, andfrom Pont-de-Beauvoisin to Paris.”
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“Indeed? Then your father ought to have met with you on the road, for itis exactly the same route which he himself took, and that is how we havebeen able to trace your journey to this place.”
“But,” said Andrea, “if my father had met me, I doubt if he would haverecognized 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 thatlight.”
“Now,” replied Monte Cristo “there is only one source of uneasiness leftin your father’s mind, which is this—he is anxious to know how you havebeen employed during your long absence from him, how you have beentreated by your persecutors, and if they have conducted themselvestowards you with all the deference due to your rank. Finally, he isanxious to see if you have been fortunate enough to escape the bad moralinfluence to which you have been exposed, and which is infinitely moreto be dreaded than any physical suffering; he wishes to discover if thefine abilities with which nature had endowed you have been weakened bywant of culture; and, in short, whether you consider yourself capable ofresuming and retaining in the world the high position to which your rankentitles you.”
“Sir!” exclaimed the young man, quite astounded, “I hope no falsereport——”
“As for myself, I first heard you spoken of by my friend Wilmore, thephilanthropist. I believe he found you in some unpleasant position, butdo not know of what nature, for I did not ask, not being inquisitive.Your misfortunes engaged his sympathies, so you see you must have beeninteresting. He told me that he was anxious to restore you to theposition which you had lost, and that he would seek your father until hefound him. He did seek, and has found him, apparently, since he is herenow; and, finally, my friend apprised me of your coming, and gave me afew other instructions relative to your future fortune. I am quite awarethat my friend Wilmore is peculiar, but he is sincere, and as rich as agold mine, consequently, he may indulge his eccentricities without anyfear of their ruining him, and I have promised to adhere to hisinstructions. Now, sir, pray do not be offended at the question I amabout to put to you, as it comes in the way of my duty as your patron. Iwould wish to know if the misfortunes which have happened toyou—misfortunes entirely beyond your control, and which in no degreediminish my regard for you—I would wish to know if they have not, insome measure, contributed to render you a stranger to the world in whichyour fortune and your name entitle you to make a conspicuous figure?”
“Sir,” returned the young man, with a reassurance of manner, “make yourmind easy on this score. Those who took me from my father, and whoalways intended, sooner or later, to sell me again to my originalproprietor, as they have now done, calculated that, in order to make themost of their bargain, it would be politic to leave me in possession ofall my personal and hereditary worth, and even to increase the value, ifpossible. I have, therefore, received a very good education, and havebeen treated by these kidnappers very much as the slaves were treated inAsia Minor, whose masters made them grammarians, doctors, andphilosophers, in order that they might fetch a higher price in the Romanmarket.”
Monte Cristo smiled with satisfaction; it appeared as if he had notexpected so much from M. Andrea Cavalcanti.
“Besides,” continued the young man, “if there did appear some defect ineducation, or offence against the established forms of etiquette, Isuppose it would be excused, in consideration of the misfortunes whichaccompanied my birth, and followed me through my
youth.”
“Well,” said Monte Cristo in an indifferent tone, “you will do as youplease, count, for you are the master of your own actions, and are theperson most concerned in the matter, but if I were you, I would notdivulge a word of these adventures. Your history is quite a romance, andthe world, which delights in romances in yellow covers, strangelymistrusts those which are bound in living parchment, even though they begilded like yourself. This is the kind of difficulty which I wished torepresent to you, my dear count. You would hardly have recited yourtouching history before it would go forth to the world, and be deemedunlikely and unnatural. You would be no longer a lost child found, butyou would be looked upon as an upstart, who had sprung up like amushroom in the night. You might excite a little curiosity, but it isnot everyone who likes to be made the centre of observation and thesubject of unpleasant remark.”
“I agree with you, monsieur,” said the young man, turning pale, and, inspite of himself, trembling beneath the scrutinizing look of hiscompanion, “such consequences would be extremely unpleasant.”
“Nevertheless, you must not exaggerate the evil,” said Monte Cristo,“for by endeavoring to avoid one fault you will fall into another. Youmust resolve upon one simple and single line of conduct, and for a manof your intelligence, this plan is as easy as it is necessary; you mustform honorable friendships, and by that means counteract the prejudicewhich may attach to the obscurity of your former life.”
Andrea visibly changed countenance.
“I would offer myself as your surety and friendly adviser,” said MonteCristo, “did I not possess a moral distrust of my best friends, and asort of inclination to lead others to doubt them too; therefore, indeparting from this rule, I should (as the actors say) be playing a partquite out of my line, and should, therefore, run the risk of beinghissed, which would be an act of folly.”
“However, your excellency,” said Andrea, “in consideration of LordWilmore, by whom I was recommended to you——”
“Yes, certainly,” interrupted Monte Cristo; “but Lord Wilmore did notomit to inform me, my dear M. Andrea, that the season of your youth wasrather a stormy one. Ah,” said the count, watching Andrea’s countenance,“I do not demand any confession from you; it is precisely to avoid thatnecessity that your father was sent for from Lucca. You shall soon seehim. He is a little stiff and pompous in his manner, and he isdisfigured by his uniform; but when it becomes known that he has beenfor eighteen years in the Austrian service, all that will be pardoned.We are not generally very severe with the Austrians. In short, you willfind your father a very presentable person, I assure you.”
“Ah, sir, you have given me confidence; it is so long since we wereseparated, that I have not the least remembrance of him, and, besides,you know that in the eyes of the world a large fortune covers alldefects.”
“He is a millionaire—his income is 500,000 francs.”
“Then,” said the young man, with anxiety, “I shall be sure to be placedin an agreeable position.”
“One of the most agreeable possible, my dear sir; he will allow you anincome of 50,000 livres per annum during the whole time of your stay inParis.”
“Then in that case I shall always choose to remain there.”
“You cannot control circumstances, my dear sir; ‘man proposes, and Goddisposes.’” Andrea sighed.
“But,” said he, “so long as I do remain in Paris, and nothing forces meto quit it, do you mean to tell me that I may rely on receiving the sumyou just now mentioned to me?”
“You may.”
“Shall I receive it from my father?” asked Andrea, with some uneasiness.
“Yes, you will receive it from your father personally, but Lord Wilmorewill be the security for the money. He has, at the request of yourfather, opened an account of 5,000 francs a month at M. Danglars’, whichis one of the safest banks in Paris.”
“And does my father mean to remain long in Paris?” asked Andrea.
“Only a few days,” replied Monte Cristo. “His service does not allow himto absent himself more than two or three weeks together.”
“Ah, my dear father!” exclaimed Andrea, evidently charmed with the ideaof his speedy departure.
“Therefore,” said Monte Cristo feigning to mistake hismeaning—“therefore I will not, for another instant, retard the pleasureof your meeting. Are you prepared to embrace your worthy father?”
“I hope you do not doubt it.”
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“Go, then, into the drawing-room, my young friend, where you will findyour father awaiting you.”
Andrea made a low bow to the count, and entered the adjoining room.Monte Cristo watched him till he disappeared, and then touched a springin a panel made to look like a picture, which, in sliding partly fromthe frame, discovered to view a small opening, so cleverly contrivedthat it revealed all that was passing in the drawing-room now occupiedby Cavalcanti and Andrea. The young man closed the door behind him, andadvanced towards the major, who had risen when he heard stepsapproaching him.
“Ah, my dear father!” said Andrea in a loud voice, in order that thecount might hear him in the next room, “is it really you?”
“How do you do, my dear son?” said the major gravely.
“After so many years of painful separation,” said Andrea, in the sametone of voice, and glancing towards the door, “what a happiness it is tomeet again!”
“Indeed it is, after so long a separation.”
“Will you not embrace me, sir?” said Andrea.
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“If you wish it, my son,” said the major; and the two men embraced eachother after the fashion of actors on the stage; that is to say, eachrested his head on the other’s shoulder.
“Then we are once more reunited?” said Andrea.
“Once more,” replied the major.
“Never more to be separated?”
“Why, as to that—I think, my dear son, you must be by this time soaccustomed to France as to look upon it almost as a second country.”
“The fact is,” said the young man, “that I should be exceedingly grievedto leave it.”
“As for me, you must know I cannot possibly live out of Lucca; thereforeI shall return to Italy as soon as I can.”
“But before you leave France, my dear father, I hope you will put me inpossession of the documents which will be necessary to prove mydescent.”
“Certainly; I am come expressly on that account; it has cost me muchtrouble to find you, but I had resolved on giving them into your hands,and if I had to recommence my search, it would occupy all the fewremaining years of my life.”
“Where are these papers, then?”
“Here they are.”
Andrea seized the certificate of his father’s marriage and his ownbaptismal register, and after having opened them with all the eagernesswhich might be expected under the circumstances, he read them with afacility which proved that he was accustomed to similar documents, andwith an expression which plainly denoted an unusual interest in thecontents. When he had perused the documents, an indefinable expressionof pleasure lighted up his countenance, and looking at the major with amost peculiar smile, he said, in very excellent Tuscan:
“Then there is no longer any such thing, in Italy as being condemned tothe galleys?”
The major drew himself up to his full height.
“Why?—what do you mean by that question?”
“I mean that if there were, it would be impossible to draw up withimpunity two such deeds as these. In France, my dear sir, half such apiece of effrontery as that would cause you to be quickly despatched toToulon for five years, for change of air.”
“Will you be good enough to explain your meaning?” said the major,endeavoring as much as possible to assume an air of the greatestmajesty.
“My dear M. Cavalcanti,” said Andrea, taking the major by the arm in aconfidential manner, “how much are you paid for being my father?”
The major was about to speak, when Andrea co
ntinued, in a low voice:
“Nonsense, I am going to set you an example of confidence, they give me50,000 francs a year to be your son; consequently, you can understandthat it is not at all likely I shall ever deny my parent.”
The major looked anxiously around him.
“Make yourself easy, we are quite alone,” said Andrea; “besides, we areconversing in Italian.”
“Well, then,” replied the major, “they paid me 50,000 francs down.”
“Monsieur Cavalcanti,” said Andrea, “do you believe in fairy tales?”
“I used not to do so, but I really feel now almost obliged to have faithin them.”
“You have, then, been induced to alter your opinion; you have had someproofs of their truth?” The major drew from his pocket a handful ofgold.
“Most palpable proofs,” said he, “as you may perceive.”
“You think, then, that I may rely on the count’s promises?”
“Certainly I do.”
“You are sure he will keep his word with me?”
“To the letter, but at the same time, remember, we must continue to playour respective parts. I, as a tender father——”
“And I as a dutiful son, as they choose that I shall be descended fromyou.”
“Whom do you mean by they?”
“Ma foi, I can hardly tell, but I was alluding to those who wrote theletter; you received one, did you not?”
“Yes.”
“From whom?”
“From a certain Abbé Busoni.”
“Have you any knowledge of him?”
“No, I have never seen him.”
“What did he say in the letter?”
“You will promise not to betray me?”
“Rest assured of that; you well know that our interests are the same.”
“Then read for yourself;” and the major gave a letter into the youngman’s hand. Andrea read in a low voice:
“‘You are poor; a miserable old age awaits you. Would you like to becomerich, or at least independent? Set out immediately for Paris, and demandof the Count of Monte Cristo, Avenue des Champs-Élysées, No. 30, the sonwhom you had by the Marchesa Corsinari, and who was taken from you atfive years of age. This son is named Andrea Cavalcanti. In order thatyou may not doubt the kind intention of the writer of this letter, youwill find enclosed an order for 2,400 francs, payable in Florence, atSignor Gozzi’s; also a letter of introduction to the Count of MonteCristo, on whom I give you a draft of 48,000 francs. Remember to go tothe count on the 26th May at seven o’clock in the evening.
“(Signed) ‘Abbé Busoni.’”
“It is the same.”
“What do you mean?” said the major.
“I was going to say that I received a letter almost to the same effect.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“From the Abbé Busoni?”
“No.”
“From whom, then?”
“From an Englishman, called Lord Wilmore, who takes the name of Sinbadthe Sailor.”
“And of whom you have no more knowledge than I of the Abbé Busoni?”
“You are mistaken; there I am ahead of you.”
“You have seen him, then?”
“Yes, once.”
“Where?”
“Ah, that is just what I cannot tell you; if I did, I should make you aswise as myself, which it is not my intention to do.”
“And what did the letter contain?”
“Read it.”
“‘You are poor, and your future prospects are dark and gloomy. Do youwish for a name? should you like to be rich, and your own master?’”
“Parbleu!” said the young man; “was it possible there could be twoanswers to such a question?”
“‘Take the post-chaise which you will find waiting at the Porte deGênes, as you enter Nice; pass through Turin, Chambéry, and Pont-de-Beauvoisin. Go to the Count of Monte Cristo, Avenue des Champs-Élysées,on the 26th of May, at seven o’clock in the evening, and demand of himyour father. You are the son of the Marchese Cavalcanti and the MarchesaOliva Corsinari. The marquis will give you some papers which willcertify this fact, and authorize you to appear under that name in theParisian world. As to your rank, an annual income of 50,000 livres willenable you to support it admirably. I enclose a draft for 5,000 livres,payable on M. Ferrea, banker at Nice, and also a letter of introductionto the Count of Monte Cristo, whom I have directed to supply all yourwants.
“‘Sinbad the Sailor.’”
“Humph,” said the major; “very good. You have seen the count, you say?”
“I have only just left him.”
“And has he conformed to all that the letter specified?”
“He has.”
“Do you understand it?”
“Not in the least.”
“There is a dupe somewhere.”
“At all events, it is neither you nor I.”
“Certainly not.”
“Well, then——”
“Why, it does not much concern us, do you think it does?”
“No; I agree with you there. We must play the game to the end, andconsent to be blindfolded.”
“Ah, you shall see; I promise you I will sustain my part to admiration.”
“I never once doubted your doing so.” Monte Cristo chose this moment forre-entering the drawing-room. On hearing the sound of his footsteps, thetwo men threw themselves in each other’s arms, and while they were inthe midst of this embrace, the count entered.
“Well, marquis,” said Monte Cristo, “you appear to be in no waydisappointed in the son whom your good fortune has restored to you.”
“Ah, your excellency, I am overwhelmed with delight.”
“And what are your feelings?” said Monte Cristo, turning to the youngman.
“As for me, my heart is overflowing with happiness.”
“Happy father, happy son!” said the count.
“There is only one thing which grieves me,” observed the major, “andthat is the necessity for my leaving Paris so soon.”
“Ah, my dear M. Cavalcanti, I trust you will not leave before I have hadthe honor of presenting you to some of my friends.”
“I am at your service, sir,” replied the major.
“Now, sir,” said Monte Cristo, addressing Andrea, “make yourconfession.”
“To whom?”
“Tell M. Cavalcanti something of the state of your finances.”
“Ma foi! monsieur, you have touched upon a tender chord.”
“Do you hear what he says, major?”
“Certainly I do.”
“But do you understand?”
“I do.”
“Your son says he requires money.”
“Well, what would you have me do?” said the major.
“You should furnish him with some of course,” replied Monte Cristo.
“I?”
“Yes, you,” said the count, at the same time advancing towards Andrea,and slipping a packet of bank-notes into the young man’s hand.
“What is this?”
“It is from your father.”
“From my father?”
“Yes; did you not tell him just now that you wanted money? Well, then,he deputes me to give you this.”
“Am I to consider this as part of my income on account?”
“No, it is for the first expenses of your settling in Paris.”
“Ah, how good my dear father is!”
“Silence,” said Monte Cristo; “he does not wish you to know that itcomes from him.”
“I fully appreciate his delicacy,” said Andrea, cramming the noteshastily into his pocket.
“And now, gentlemen, I wish you good-morning,” said Monte Cristo.
“And when shall we have the honor of seeing you again, your excellency?”asked Cavalcanti.
“Ah,” said Andrea, “when may we hope for that pleasure?”
“On Saturday, if you will—Yes.—Let me see—Saturday—I
am to dine at mycountry house, at Auteuil, on that day, Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28.Several persons are invited, and among others, M. Danglars, your banker.I will introduce you to him, for it will be necessary he should knowyou, as he is to pay your money.”
“Full dress?” said the major, half aloud.
“Oh, yes, certainly,” said the count; “uniform, cross, knee-breeches.”
“And how shall I be dressed?” demanded Andrea.
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“Oh, very simply; black trousers, patent leather boots, white waistcoat,either a black or blue coat, and a long cravat. Go to Blin or Véroniquefor your clothes. Baptistin will tell you where, if you do not knowtheir address. The less pretension there is in your attire, the betterwill be the effect, as you are a rich man. If you mean to buy anyhorses, get them of Devedeux, and if you purchase a phaeton, go toBaptiste for it.”
“At what hour shall we come?” asked the young man.
“About half-past six.”
“We will be with you at that time,” said the major. The two Cavalcantibowed to the count, and left the house. Monte Cristo went to the window,and saw them crossing the street, arm in arm.
“There go two miscreants;” said he, “it is a pity they are not reallyrelated!” Then, after an instant of gloomy reflection, “Come, I will goto see the Morrels,” said he; “I think that disgust is even moresickening than hatred.”
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The Count of Monte Cristo, Illustrated Page 57