Andrea was visibly unsettled by this.
‘I should willingly offer myself as your guarantor,’ said Monte Cristo, ‘but it is an ingrained habit with me to doubt my best friends and a necessity for me to try to instil doubt in others. So I should be playing a role outside my range, as tragic actors say, and risk being booed, which is pointless.’
‘However, Monsieur le Comte,’ Andrea said boldly, ‘considering that Lord Wilmore recommended me to you…’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘But Lord Wilmore did not disguise from me, my dear Monsieur Andrea, that you had had a somewhat tempestuous youth. Oh!’ he exclaimed, seeing Andrea’s reaction to this. ‘I am not asking you for a confession. In any case it was to ensure that you had no need of anyone that we brought your father, the Marquis Cavalcanti, from Lucca. You will see: he is a little formal, a bit starchy; but that is a matter of the uniform and, when people know that he served in the Austrian army for eighteen years, everything will be forgiven. In short, he is a very adequate father, I assure you.’
‘You are indeed reassuring me, Monsieur. It is so long since I last saw him that I have no memory of him.’
‘And, you know, a large fortune excuses a lot of things.’
‘Is my father really very rich, Monsieur?’
‘A millionaire… an income of five hundred thousand livres.’
‘So,’ the young man asked anxiously, ‘I shall find myself… comfortably off?’
‘Very comfortably, my dear sir. He will give you an income of fifty thousand livres just as long as you stay in Paris.’
‘In that case, I shall always stay here.’
‘Ah, but who can ever know what may happen, my dear fellow? Man proposes, God disposes…’
Andrea sighed and said: ‘But as long as I remain in Paris and nothing forces me to leave, this money that you just mentioned is guaranteed?’
‘Oh, yes, absolutely.’
‘By my father?’ Andrea asked uneasily.
‘Guaranteed by Lord Wilmore who, at your father’s request, has just opened a credit of five thousand francs a month for you with Monsieur Danglars, one of the most reliable bankers in Paris.’
‘And does my father intend to stay in Paris long?’ Andrea asked, still uneasy.
‘Only a few days,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘His obligations will not allow him to be absent for more than two or three weeks.’
‘Oh, the dear man,’ said Andrea, visibly delighted at this early departure.
‘Which being the case,’ Monte Cristo said, pretending to mistake the tone in which these words were uttered, ‘I do not wish to delay your reunion for a moment longer. Are you ready to embrace the worthy Monsieur Cavalcanti?’
‘I hope you do not doubt that I am.’
‘Very well, then: come into the drawing-room, my dear friend, and you will find your father waiting for you.’
Andrea bowed deeply to the count and went into the drawing-room. The count looked after him and, seeing him disappear, pressed a catch next to one of the pictures which, opening away from the frame, allowed one to look through a cleverly designed crack in the panelling, into the drawing-room. Andrea had shut the door behind him and was walking over to the major, who got up immediately he heard the sound of footsteps.
‘Monsieur! My dear father!’ Andrea said loudly, so that the count could hear him through the closed door. ‘Is it really you?’
‘Greetings, my dear son,’ the major said gravely.
‘After so many years’ separation,’ Andrea said, still looking back towards the door, ‘what happiness to meet again!’
‘The separation was indeed long.’
‘Should we not embrace, Monsieur?’ Andrea asked.
‘As you wish, my son,’ said the major.
The two men embraced as people embrace in the Théâtre Français; that is to say, each putting his head over the other’s shoulder.
‘We are reunited again!’ said Andrea.
‘Reunited,’ said the major.
‘Never again to separate?’
‘Indeed so! I think, dear son, that you now consider France a second home?’
‘The fact is,’ the young man said, ‘that I should despair were I to leave Paris.’
‘And I, you understand, could not live outside Lucca. So I shall return to Italy as soon as I can.’
‘But before you leave, my dearest father, you will no doubt give me the papers I need to prove my origins.’
‘Of course; this is the very reason I have come; and I had too much trouble in finding you, in order to give you these papers, for us to start looking for one another again. It would take the last part of my life.’
‘So, the papers?’
‘Here they are.’
Andrea avidly grasped his father’s marriage certificate and his own baptismal certificate and, after opening the packet with the eagerness natural in a good son, perused the two documents with a speed and facility that suggested both a lively interest and a highly practised eye.
When he had finished, an indefinable expression of joy crossed his face and, looking at the major with a strange smile, he said: ‘Well, I’ll be damned! Are there no galleys in Italy?’
The major drew himself up. ‘Why do you ask?’ he said.
‘Can one manufacture such documents with impunity? For half such an offence in France, my dearest father, they would send us on holiday to Toulon for five years.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ the Luccan said, trying to manage a dignified look.
‘My dear Monsieur Cavalcanti,’ Andrea said, grasping the major’s arm, ‘how much are they giving you to be my father?’
The major tried to reply.
‘Hush!’ Andrea said, lowering his voice. ‘Let me set you an example by showing my trust in you. They are giving me fifty thousand francs a year to be your son, so you understand that I am hardly likely to deny that you are my father.’
The major looked around anxiously.
‘Have no fear!’ said Andrea. ‘We are alone. In any case, we are speaking Italian.’
‘Well,’ said the Luccan. ‘I am getting a single payment of fifty thousand francs.’
‘Monsieur Cavalcanti, do you believe in fairy tales?’
‘I didn’t, but I have to now.’
‘You have proof?’
The major took a fistful of gold out of his pocket. ‘Palpable proof, as you see.’
‘So you think I can trust the promises I have been made?’
‘I believe you can.’
‘And that the good count will keep his word?’
‘In every respect. But, you understand, for that we must play our parts.’
‘What?’
‘I as the doting father…’
‘And I as the dutiful son.’
‘Since they want you to be my descendant…’
‘Who: they?’
‘Truly, I don’t know. The people who wrote to you.’
‘Didn’t you get a letter?’
‘Yes.’
‘From whom?’
‘One Abbé Busoni.’
‘Who is unknown to you?’
‘I have never seen him.’
‘What did your letter say?’
‘You will not betray me?’
‘It is hardly likely. Our interests are identical…’
‘Then read it.’
The major passed a letter to the young man, who read it out in a low voice:
You are poor and an unhappy old age awaits you. Would you like to become rich, or at least independent?
Leave for Paris immediately, and go to the Count of Monte Cristo at number thirty, Avenue des Champs-Elysées to claim the son you had by the Marchionesse di Corsinari, who was abducted from you at the age of five.
This son is called Andrea Cavalcanti.
To ensure that you entertain no doubt about the undersigned’s desire to serve you, you will find herein: 1. An order for 2,400 Tuscan lire, payable at Signor Gozzi’s i
n Florence; 2. A letter of introduction to the Count of Monte Cristo in which I accredit you for the sum of 48,000 francs.
Be at the count’s house on 26 May at seven o’clock in the evening.
Signed: ABBÉ BUSONI
‘That’s it.’
‘What do you mean, that’s it?’ the major asked.
‘I mean that I had an almost identical letter.’
‘You did?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘From Abbé Busoni?’
‘No.’
‘From whom?’
‘From an Englishman, a certain Lord Wilmore, who uses the name “Sinbad the Sailor”.’
‘But you are no more acquainted with him than I am with Abbé Busoni?’
‘Yes, there I am further ahead than you.’
‘You have seen him?’
‘Yes, once.’
‘Where?’
‘Ah, that’s just what I cannot tell you. You would know as much as I do and there would be no sense in that.’
‘And the letter told you…’
‘Read it.’
‘ “You are poor and your future looks bleak. Would you like to have a name, to be free and to be rich?” ’
‘Huh!’ the young man said, rocking back on his heels. ‘What a question!’
Take the post chaise which you will find ready harnessed on leaving Nice via the Genoa gate. Go via Turin, Chambéry and Pont-de-Beauvoisin. Present yourself to the Count of Monte Cristo, in the Avenue des Champs-Elysées, on 26 May at seven o’clock in the evening and ask to see your father.
You are the son of Marquis Bartolomeo Cavalcanti and his wife, Olivia Corsinari. This will be confirmed in the papers that will be handed to you by the marquis and which will allow you to present yourself under this name in Parisian society.
An income of 50,000 francs a year will allow you to live in a style appropriate to your rank.
Enclosed is an order for 5,000 livres payable at Monsieur Ferrea’s, banker, in Nice, and a letter of introduction to the Count of Monte Cristo, who is instructed by me to supply all your needs.
SINBAD THE SAILOR
‘Hum,’ said the major. ‘Very fine!’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘Have you seen the count?’
‘I have just left him.’
‘And he confirmed this?’
‘All of it.’
‘Do you understand what’s going on?’
‘Good heavens, no.’
‘All this is designed to fool someone.’
‘But not you or me, in any case?’
‘No, surely not.’
‘So, what’s to be done?’
‘Why worry?’
‘Exactly. Let’s go through with it and not show our hand.’
‘Agreed. You will see that I’m a worthy ally.’
‘I never doubted it for a moment, my dear father.’
‘I am honoured by your trust, my dear son.’
Monte Cristo chose this moment to come into the room. Hearing his footsteps, the two men threw themselves into each other’s arms, and the count came in to find them enlaced.
‘Well, Marquis,’ he said, ‘you seem happy with the son you have found?’
‘Oh, Monsieur le Comte, I am overcome with joy.’
‘And you, young man?’
‘Oh, Monsieur le Comte, I am overwhelmed with happiness.’
‘Fortunate father! Fortunate child!’ said the count.
‘Only one thing makes me sad,’ said the major. ‘And that is that I have to leave Paris so soon.’
‘Oh, my dear Monsieur Cavalcanti,’ said Monte Cristo, ‘I hope you will not leave before I have had time to introduce you to a few friends.’
‘I am at Monsieur le Comte’s disposal,’ the major said.
‘Now, young man, make your confession.’
‘To whom?’
‘To your father, of course. Tell him about the state of your finances.’
‘Oh, dear me,’ said Andrea. ‘That’s a sore spot.’
‘You hear, Major?’
‘Of course I hear.’
‘Yes, but do you understand?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘The dear child says he is in need of money.’
‘What can I do about it?’
‘Well, give him some, for heaven’s sake!’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you.’
Monte Cristo walked between the two men.
‘Here!’ he told Andrea, slipping a sheaf of banknotes into his hand.
‘What’s that?’
‘Your father’s reply.’
‘My father’s?’
‘Of course. Didn’t you just tell him that you needed money?’
‘Yes. So?’
‘Well, he has asked me to give you this.’
‘An advance on my income?’
‘No, to cover the cost of settling in.’
‘Oh, my dear father!’
‘Ssh!’ Monte Cristo said. ‘Can’t you see that he doesn’t want me to tell you that it comes from him?’
‘I appreciate such delicacy,’ said Andrea, thrusting the banknotes into the pocket of his trousers.
‘Very well,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘Now, go!’
‘When will we have the honour of seeing Monsieur le Comte again?’ Cavalcanti asked.
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Andrea. ‘When will we have that honour?’
‘On Saturday, if you like… Yes, let’s see… Saturday. I have invited several people to dine with me at my house in Auteuil, at number twenty-eight Rue de la Fontaine, including Monsieur Danglars, your banker. I will present you to him. He must know you both if he is to pay you your money.’
‘Formal dress?’ whispered the major.
‘Formal dress: uniform, medals, breeches.’
‘And for me?’ asked Andrea.
‘Oh, you… Very simple: black trousers, polished boots, white waistcoat, black or blue jacket, long cravat. Get Blin or Véronique to dress you. If you don’t know their addresses, Baptistin will give them to you. The less pretentious your manner of dressing, being rich as you are, the better impression it will give. If you buy horses, get them from Devedeux. If you buy a phaeton, go to Baptiste.’
‘At what time should we arrive?’ asked the young man.
‘Around half-past six.’
‘We shall be there,’ said the major, reaching for his hat. And the two Cavalcantis bowed to the count and left.
The count went across to the window and saw them crossing the courtyard, arm in arm. ‘Good Lord!’ he said. ‘There go two miserable creatures. What a shame they aren’t really father and son!’ Then, after a moment of grim reflection, he added: ‘Time to go to the Morrels. I do believe that disgust makes me sicker than hatred.’
LVII
THE ALFALFA FIELD
Our readers must allow us to take them back to the patch of ground next to M. de Villefort’s house where, behind the fence overhung by chestnut trees, we shall find some people we know.
This time, Maximilien has arrived first. He is the one with his eye pressed to the gap in the board, waiting for a shadow to slip between the trees from the far end of the garden and the crunch of a silk shoe on the gravel path.
At last, it came, this long-awaited sound, but, instead of one shadow, two approached. Valentine had been delayed by a visit from Mme Danglars and Eugénie, which had continued beyond the time of Valentine’s rendez-vous. So, not to miss the meeting, the girl had suggested to Mlle Danglars that they take a walk in the garden, hoping in this way to show Maximilien that she was not to be blamed for the wait that he had to endure.
The young man understood all this with the rapid intuition peculiar to lovers, and his heart was eased. In addition, while not coming within earshot, Valentine arranged her walk so that Maximilien would be able to see her go back and forth, and each time that she did so, a glance – unobserved by her companion, but tossed beyond the gate and caught by the young man –
told him: ‘Be patient, my friend; you see that it is not my fault.’
Maximilien was, indeed, patient and meanwhile admired the contrast between the two girls: the blonde with the languid eyes and willowy figure, and the brunette with the proud eyes and stance as upright as a poplar. Needless to say, the comparison between these two opposite natures was, in the heart of the young man, entirely favourable to Valentine.
After half-an-hour’s walk, the two girls disappeared. Maximilien understood that Mme Danglars’ visit was coming to an end; and, sure enough, an instant later, Valentine reappeared by herself. Fearing that some inquisitive eyes might be following her, she walked slowly and, instead of going directly to the fence, she went and sat down on a bench, after unobtrusively scrutinizing each tuft of greenery and looking all the way along every path.
Having done that, she ran across to the gate.
‘Greetings, Valentine,’ a voice said.
‘Greetings, Maximilien. I kept you waiting. I hope you saw why?’
‘I recognized Mademoiselle Danglars. I didn’t think you were a friend of hers.’
‘Who said we were friends, Maximilien?’
‘No one, but that is how I interpreted the way that you were walking, arm in arm, and talking: one would have thought you were two boarding-school girls telling each other their secrets.’
‘We did confide in one another, as it happens,’ Valentine said. ‘She told me how disgusted she was at the idea of marrying Monsieur de Morcerf and I admitted how little I want to marry Monsieur d’Epinay.’
‘Dear Valentine!’
‘That, my friend, is why you saw that apparent intimacy between me and Eugénie: while I was talking about the man I cannot love, I was thinking of the man whom I do love.’
‘How perfect you are in every respect, Valentine. You have something that Mademoiselle Danglars will never have: an indefinable charm which is to a woman what its scent is to a flower and its flavour to a fruit; for it is not enough for a flower to be beautiful or for a fruit to be fine-looking.’
‘It is love that makes you see things in this way, Maximilien.’