The Count of Monte Cristo

  ‘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.

  LVI

  ANDREA CAVALCANTI

  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.’

  ‘That explains everything,’ Andrea said. ‘That’s perfect. It is the same Englishman I met in… Yes, very good! Monsieur le Comte, at your service!’

  ‘If what you do me the honour to say is true,’ the count replied with a smile, ‘I hope that you will be good enough to let me have some details about yourself and your family.’

  ‘Happily, Monsieur le Comte,’ the young man said, with a volubility that demonstrated how reliable his memory was. ‘As you said, I am Viscount Andrea Cavalcanti, son of Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti, a descendant of the Cavalcantis whose name is written in the golden book of Florence. Our family, though still very rich, since my father possesses an income of half a million, has suffered greatly down the years and even I, Monsieur, was carried off at the age of five or six by a treacherous tutor, so that it is now fifteen years since I saw my parents. Since reaching the age of reason, and being free and my own master, I have been looking for him, but in vain. Finally, a letter from your friend Sinbad informed me that he was in Paris, and suggested that I address myself to you for news.’

  ‘Well, well, Monsieur, everything you tell me is most interesting,’ said the count, looking with sombre satisfaction at the man’s relaxed features, which were stamped with a beauty similar to that of the fallen angel. ‘You have done well to follow my friend Sinbad’s suggestion precisely, because your father is here and looking for you.’

  Since coming into the room, the count had not taken his eyes off the young man. He had admired the self-assurance in his look and the firmness of his voice; but at these quite natural words: ‘your father is here and looking for you’, young Andrea started violently and exclaimed: ‘My father? My father… here?’

  ‘Of course,’ Monte Cristo replied. ‘Your father, Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti.’

  Almost at once, the look of terror that had spread across the young man’s features disappeared. ‘Oh… oh, yes. Of course,’ he said. ‘Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti. And, Monsieur le Comte, you tell me he is here, my dear father?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur. I might add that I have just left him, and that the story he told me, about his dear long-lost son, moved me deeply. In truth, there is a most touching poem in his agonies, his fears and his hopes on the subject. Finally, one day, he received news that his child’s abductors had offered to return him, or to state where he was, for a rather large sum of money. But nothing was too much for the good father. The money was dispatched to the frontier of Piedmont, with a passport and visas for Italy. You were in the south of France, I believe?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur,’ Andrea replied, with a slightly uneasy air. ‘Yes, I was in the south of France.’

  ‘A carriage was to wait for you in Nice?’

  ‘That’s right, Monsieur. It took me from Nice to Genoa, from Genoa to Turin, from Turin to Chambéry, from Chambéry to Pont-de-Beauvoisin, and from Pont-de-Beauvoisin to Paris.’

  ‘Perfectly! He kept hoping to meet you on the way, because he followed the same route himself; that is why you were given the same itinerary.’

  ‘But if he had met me,’ said Andrea, ‘this dear father of mine, I doubt whether he would have recognized me. I have changed somewhat since I lost touch with him.’

  ‘Ah, but the call of blood!’ said Monte Cristo.

  ‘Yes, that’s true. I didn’t think of the call of blood.’

  ‘Now,’ said Monte Cristo, ‘there is just one last thing troubling the Marquis Cavalcanti, which is what you did while you were separated from him, how you were treated by your persecutors, whether they treated you with all the consideration due to your noble birth and, finally, whether the moral torments to which you have been subjected, torments which are a hundred times worse than those caused by physical suffering, have not left you with some weakening of the faculties with which you were so generously endowed by nature, and if you yourself feel ready to take up the rank in society that belongs to you and to maintain it worthily.’

  ‘Monsieur,’ the young man stammered, stupefied, ‘I hope that no false rumour…’

  ‘I insist that I heard speak of you for the first time by my friend Wilmore, the philanthropist. I learned that he had discovered you in difficult circumstances, I don’t know what precisely, and I did not question him about it. I am not curious. Your misfortunes interested him, so you were interesting. He told me that he wanted to restore you to the position in society that you had lost, that he was looking for your father and that he would find him. He looked, and apparently he found, since he is here. Finally, he advised me yesterday of your arrival, giving me some other instructions concerning your fortune. That’s all. I know that my friend Wilmore is an eccentric, but at the same time, as he is a reliable man, rich as a gold mine and, consequently, one who had indulged his eccentricities without ruining himself, I promised to follow his instructions. Now, Monsieur, please do not be offended if I ask you one question: as I shall be obliged to sponsor you to some extent, I should like to know if the misfortunes you have suffered – misfortunes for which you were not responsible and which in no way diminish my resp
ect for you – have not made you something of an outsider in this world where your fortune and your name should entitle you to shine?’

  ‘Monsieur,’ said the young man, who had been regaining his composure as the count spoke, ‘have no worries on that score. The abductors who took me away from my father – and who, no doubt, intended eventually to sell me back to him, as they have done – judged that, if they were to profit by me, they must conserve all the value of my person and even, if possible, enhance it. I consequently received quite a good education and I was treated by the robbers more or less as slaves were in Asia Minor, whose masters turned them into grammarians, doctors and philosophers, so that they might get a better price for them in the market in Rome.’

  Monte Cristo smiled. He had not expected so much, apparently, of M. Andrea Cavalcanti.

  ‘In any event,’ the young man continued, ‘if my education – or, rather, my familiarity with the ways of society – were deficient in some respects, I suppose people would be good enough to forgive it, in view of the misfortunes surrounding my birth and my youth.’

  ‘Ah, now,’ the count said casually, ‘you must do as you wish, Viscount, because this is your business and you are in charge; but I must say that in your place I should say nothing of all these adventures. Your life story is a novel; and people, though they love novels bound between two yellow paper covers, are oddly suspicious of those which come to them in living vellum, even when they are as gilded as you are capable of being. Allow me to point out this difficulty to you, Monsieur le Vicomte, which is that no sooner will you have told your touching story to someone, than it will travel all round society, completely distorted. You will have to play the part of Antony,1 and Antony’s day has passed somewhat. You might perhaps enjoy the reputation of a curiosity, but not everyone likes to be the centre of attention and the butt of comment. It might possibly fatigue you.’

  ‘I think you are right, Count,’ the young man said, going pale in spite of himself under Monte Cristo’s unwavering gaze. ‘It would be very inconvenient.’

  ‘Oh, but not to be exaggerated, either,’ said the count. ‘For, to avoid a folly, one might commit an error. No, there is just a simple plan of conduct to be settled on and, for a man as intelligent as you are, the plan will be all the easier to follow since it is in your own interests. You must do all you can, through the evidence of witnesses and through cultivating honourable friends, to overcome everything that may seem obscure in your past.’