The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) (107 page)

‘Only one thing.’

‘Which was to recover your child?’

‘Ah!’ said the major, taking another biscuit. ‘But it was a desperate need.’ He looked up and tried to sigh.

‘Now, then, dear Monsieur Cavalcanti,’ Monte Cristo said. ‘Who was this much-loved son? Because I have been told that you remained a bachelor.’

‘So people thought, Monsieur,’ said the major. ‘And I myself…’

‘Yes,’ Monte Cristo continued. ‘You gave credence to that belief. A youthful error that you wanted to hide from everyone.’

The Luccan drew himself up and adopted the calmest and most dignified air that he could, at the same time modestly lowering his eyes, either to keep up appearances or to assist his imagination, all the while looking from under his eyebrows at the count, the fixed smile on whose lips expressed the same unfailing, benevolent curiosity.

‘Yes, Monsieur,’ he said. ‘I wanted to hide my error from everyone.’

‘Not for your sake,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘A man is above such things.’

‘Oh, no, certainly, not for my sake,’ the major said with a smile and a shake of the head.

‘But for the child’s mother,’ said the count.

‘For his mother!’ the Luccan exclaimed, taking a third biscuit. ‘For his poor mother!’

‘Have another glass, dear Monsieur Cavalcanti,’ said Monte Cristo, pouring him some more alicante. ‘The emotion is stifling you.’

‘For his poor mother!’ the Luccan muttered, trying to find out whether an effort of will might not act upon the lachrymal duct and dampen the corner of his eye with a false tear.

‘Who belonged to one of the leading families in Italy, I believe?’

‘A patrician lady from Fiesole, Monsieur le Comte; a patrician from Fiesole.’

‘Whose name was?’

‘You want to know her name?’

‘But of course!’ said Monte Cristo. ‘No need to tell me. I know it.’

‘Monsieur le Comte knows everything,’ said the Luccan, with a bow.

‘Olivia Corsinari, if I’m not mistaken?’

‘Olivia Corsinari.’

‘A marchesa?’

‘A marchesa.’

‘Whom you did eventually marry, despite the opposition of the family?’

‘Yes, eventually!’

‘So, you have got your papers,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘All signed and sealed?’

‘What papers?’ the Luccan asked.

‘Well, your marriage certificate and the child’s birth certificate.’

‘The child’s birth certificate?’

‘The birth certificate of Andrea Cavalcanti, your son. He was called Andrea, I believe?’

‘I think so,’ said the Luccan.

‘What do you mean: you think so?’

‘Well, by God, I can’t be sure. It’s so long since he disappeared.’

‘Quite so,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘And you do have all these papers?’

‘Count, I regret to say that, not having been told to obtain these documents, I forgot to bring them with me.’

‘Oh, the devil!’ said Monte Cristo.

‘Were they absolutely essential?’

‘Quite indispensable!’

The Luccan scratched his head. ‘Ah,
per Baccho
!’ he said. ‘Indispensable!’

‘Of course. If anyone here should raise any doubt as to the validity of your marriage or the legitimacy of your child… !’

‘That’s right,’ said the Luccan. ‘Doubts might be raised.’

‘It would be troublesome for the young man.’

‘It might be fatal.’

‘It could spoil a splendid match for him.’

‘O peccato!’

‘You realize that in France the authorities are strict. It is not enough, as in Italy, to go and find a priest and say: “We are in love, marry us!” There is civil marriage in France and, to be married in the eyes of the state, you must have papers to prove your identity.’

‘There’s the rub. I don’t have the papers.’

‘Luckily, I do,’ said Monte Cristo.

‘You do?’

‘Yes.’

‘You have them?’

‘I have them.’

‘Well I never!’ the Luccan exclaimed, having seen the object of his journey threatened by the absence of his papers and fearing that the omission might put some barrier between him and his forty-eight thousand
livres
. ‘Well I never! How fortunate! Yes,’ he continued, ‘how very fortunate, because I should never have thought of it myself.’

‘Good Lord, I suppose not. One cannot think of everything. But, luckily, Abbé Busoni thought of it for you.’

‘You see: the dear abbé!’

‘A cautious man.’

‘An admirable one,’ said the Luccan. ‘Did he send the papers to you?’

‘Here they are.’

The Luccan clapped his hands in admiration.

‘You married Olivia Corsinari in the Church of Santa Paula at Monte Catini. Here is the priest’s certificate.’

‘Yes, by gad! There it is!’ the major said, looking at it.

‘And here is the certificate of baptism of Andrea Cavalcanti, issued by the priest in Saravezza.’

‘All in order,’ said the major.

‘So, take these papers, which are of no use to me, and give them to your son who will keep them carefully.’

‘He certainly will! Because if he were to lose them…’

‘If he were to lose them?’ Monte Cristo asked.

‘Well, we would have to write off to Italy,’ said the Luccan. ‘It would take a long time to get replacements.’

‘Difficult, in fact,’ said Monte Cristo.

‘Almost impossible,’ said the major.

‘I can see that you appreciate the value of these papers.’

‘I consider them priceless.’

‘Now,’ said Monte Cristo, ‘regarding the young man’s mother?’

‘The young man’s mother…’ the major said anxiously.

‘Marchioness Corsinari?’

‘Good Lord!’ said the Luccan, who seemed to see new pitfalls constantly opening in front of his feet. ‘Will we need her?’

‘No, Monsieur,’ Monte Cristo replied. ‘In any case, is she not…’

‘Yes, yes,’ said the major. ‘She did…’

‘Pay her debt to nature?’

‘Alas, yes!’ the Luccan said eagerly.

‘As I knew,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘She died ten years ago.’

‘And I mourn her still, Monsieur,’ said the major, taking a check handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing the left eye, then the right.

‘There is nothing to be done about it,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘We are all mortal. Now, my dear Monsieur Cavalcanti, you understand that it is not necessary for anyone in France to know that you have been separated from your son for fifteen years. All those stories of gypsies who steal children are not fashionable here. You sent him to be educated in a provincial college and you want him to finish his education in Parisian society. That is why you left Via Reggio, where you have been living since the death of your wife. That’s all you need say.’

‘You think so?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Very well, then.’

‘If anyone found out about the separation…’

‘Oh, yes! What should I say then?’

‘That a faithless tutor, paid by the enemies of your family…’

‘The Corsinari?’

‘Yes, certainly… had abducted the child to ensure the death of the name.’

‘That is plausible, since he is an only child.’

‘Well, now that we have settled everything and your memory has been refreshed, so that it will not let you down, you will no doubt have guessed that I have a surprise for you?’

‘A pleasant one?’ asked the Luccan.

‘Ah!’ said Monte Cristo. ‘I can see that one cannot deceive either the eye or the heart of a father.’

‘Hum!’ said the major.

‘Someone has revealed something to you indiscreetly, or else you guessed that he was there.’

‘Who was there?’

‘Your son, your child, your Andrea.’

‘I guessed so,’ the Luccan replied, with the greatest coolness imaginable. ‘So, he is here?’

‘In this very house,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘The valet informed me of his arrival when he came in a moment ago.’

‘Good! Oh, very good! Very, very good!’ the major said, grasping the frogging on his coat with each exclamation.

‘My dear sir,’ said Monte Cristo, ‘I understand your feelings. You must take time to compose yourself. I should also like to prepare the young man for this long-awaited interview, because I should imagine he is as impatient as you are.’

‘I imagine so,’ said Cavalcanti.

‘Well, then; we shall join you in a quarter of an hour.’

‘You will bring him to me then? Does your generosity extend to introducing him to me yourself?’

‘No, I should not like to stand between a father and his son. You will be alone, major. But have no fear, even should the call of blood itself be silenced, you cannot be mistaken: he will come through this door. He is a handsome, fair-haired young man, with delightful manners. You will see.’

‘By the way,’ the major said, ‘you know that I only brought with me the two thousand francs that the good Abbé Busoni gave me. They paid for my journey and…’

‘You need money… Of course you do, dear Monsieur Cavalcanti. Here, for a start, are eight thousand-franc notes.’

The major’s eyes shone like emeralds. ‘In that way I still owe you forty thousand francs,’ said Monte Cristo.

‘Would Your Excellency like a receipt?’ the major asked, slipping the notes into the inner pocket of his greatcoat.

‘For what purpose?’ said the count.

‘To settle your debt with Abbé Busoni?’

‘Well, then, give me a general receipt when you have the last forty thousand francs. Between honest men such precautions are unnecessary.’

‘Of course,’ said the major. ‘Between honest men.’

‘Now, one last thing, Marquis.’

‘What?’

‘Would you permit me to make a small suggestion?’

‘What is it? Just tell me.’

‘It might not be a bad idea to take off your greatcoat.’

‘Really!’ said the major, looking at the garment with some affection.

‘Yes, though it may still be worn in Via Reggio, in Paris that style of dress, elegant though it may be, has long since gone out of fashion.’

‘How annoying,’ said the Luccan.

‘Oh, if you are really attached to it, pick it up on your way out.’

‘But what can I put on?’

‘You will find something in your luggage.’

‘What do you mean: in my luggage? I only have a portmanteau.’

‘With you, of course. Why weigh oneself down? In any case, an old soldier likes to travel light.’

‘Which is precisely why…’

‘But you are a careful man, so you sent your trunks on in advance. They arrived yesterday at the Hôtel des Princes, in the Rue Richelieu. That is where you are booked in.’

‘And in the trunks?’

‘I assume you took the precaution of getting your valet to pack everything you need: city clothes, uniform. On important occasions, you will wear your uniform: it makes a good impression. Don’t forget your cross. People sneer at it in France, but they always wear it.’

‘Yes, very well, very well!’ the major said, mounting from one level of astonishment to another.

‘And now,’ Monte Cristo said, ‘when your heart has been strengthened against any too violent emotion, prepare, Monsieur Cavalcanti, to see your son Andrea.’ At which, giving a delightful bow to the Luccan, enchanted, ecstatic, Monte Cristo disappeared behind the hangings.

The Count of Monte Cristo went into the neighbouring room which Baptistin had dubbed the blue drawing-room; he had been preceded there by a young man with a casual air and quite elegantly dressed, whom a cab had set down half an hour before at the door of the house. Baptistin had not had any difficulty in recognizing him. He was the tall young man, with blond hair and a reddish beard and black eyes, whose rosy colouring and fine white skin had been described to him by his master.

When the count entered the room, the young man was stretched
out on a sofa, idly tapping his boot with a slender, gold-topped cane. When he saw Monte Cristo, he leapt to his feet.

‘Is Monsieur the Count of Monte Cristo?’ he asked.

‘Yes, Monsieur,’ the latter replied. ‘I think I have the honour of addressing Viscount Andrea Cavalcanti?’

‘Viscount Andrea Cavalcanti, at your service,’ the young man repeated, with an extremely offhand bow.

‘You must have a letter accrediting you to me?’

‘I did not mention it to you because of the signature, which seemed strange.’

‘Sinbad the Sailor, I believe?’

‘Precisely; and as I do not know any Sinbad outside the
Thousand and One Nights
…’

‘It’s one of his descendants, a very rich friend of mine, a most eccentric, almost mad Englishman, whose real name is Lord Wilmore.’