‘To have Monsieur le Comte’s door closed when five o’clock struck.’
‘Then?’
‘Oh, Monsieur le Comte…’ said Albert.
‘No, no. I am quite determined to get rid of this mysterious reputation that you have given me, my dear Viscount. It is too hard to have to play Manfred the whole time. I want to live in a house of glass. Then… Carry on, Baptistin.’
‘Only to admit Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti and his son.’
‘Do you hear: Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti, a gentleman from the oldest noble family in Italy, for whom Dante acted as d’Hozier3 – I don’t know if you remember: in the tenth canto of the Inferno. In addition, his son, a charming young man of about your age, Viscount, with the same title as you, who is making his debut in Parisian society with his father’s millions. This evening, the major will be bringing me his son Andrea, the contino, as we call him in Italy. He is entrusting him to me. I shall advance him, if he has any merit; and you will help me, won’t you?’
‘Of course. So is this Major Cavalcanti an old friend of yours?’ Albert asked.
‘Not at all. He’s a worthy aristocrat, very polite, very unassuming and very discreet, as there are many in Italy – descendants of old families who have descended a very long way. I have seen him several times, in Florence, or in Bologna, or in Lucca, and he told me he was coming here. Acquaintances made on journeys are demanding. They require of you, in any place whatsoever, the same friendship that you showed them once, by chance; as if a civilized man, who can pass an hour with anyone, did not always have some reservations! The good Major Cavalcanti wants to revisit Paris, which he has only seen once, during the empire, when he passed through on his way to catch a cold in Moscow. I shall give him a good dinner, he will leave me his son. I shall promise to look after the boy, then I’ll let him commit whatever folly he wishes and we shall be quits.’
‘Perfectly so!’ said Albert. ‘I can see that you are a fine tutor. Farewell, then, we shall return on Sunday. Oh, by the way, I have heard from Franz.’
‘Really!’ Monte Cristo said. ‘Is he still enjoying Italy?’
‘I think so. However, he misses you. He says that you were the sunshine of Rome and without you the skies are grey. I think he may even have said that it’s raining there.’
‘So, he has changed his opinion of me, your friend Franz?’
‘On the contrary, he insists on thinking you a highly fantastic creature, that’s why he misses you.’
‘What a delightful young man!’ said Monte Cristo. ‘I felt a liking for him the first evening I met him, looking for a supper, when he was good enough to accept mine. He is, I believe, the son of General d’Epinay?’
‘Precisely.’
‘The one who was so disgracefully assassinated in 1815?’
‘By the Bonapartists.’
‘That’s it! By heaven, I like him! Is there not also some marriage planned for him?’
‘Yes, he is to marry Mademoiselle de Villefort.’
‘Is that true?’
‘As true as that I am to marry Mademoiselle Danglars,’ Albert said with a laugh.
‘Did you laugh?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I think there is as much enthusiasm for that marriage as there is from here for the match between Mademoiselle Danglars and me. But, honestly, my dear Count, we are speaking about women as women speak about men. That’s unforgivable!’ And Albert got up.
‘Are you leaving?’
‘What a question! I have been boring you for the past two hours, and you are kind enough to ask if I’m leaving! Really, Count, you are the most civil man on earth! And your servants, how well trained they are! Above all, Monsieur Baptistin! I have never been able to find one like that. Mine always seem to model themselves on the ones in the Théâtre Français who, just because they have only one word to say, always come and say it in front of the footlights. So, if you ever want to get rid of Monsieur Baptistin, please give me first refusal.’
‘Agreed, Vicomte.’
‘Wait, that’s not all. Convey my compliments to your discreet Luccan, Signor Cavalcanti dei Cavalcanti; and if by chance he wants to settle his son, find him a woman who is very rich and very noble, at least on her mother’s side, and a baroness on her father’s. I’ll willingly help.’
‘Dear, oh dear!’ the count replied. ‘Are things really that bad? You can never tell.’
‘Oh, Count,’ Morcerf cried. ‘What a favour you would do me and how I would love you a hundred times more if, thanks to you, I were to remain a bachelor, if only for ten years.’
‘Nothing is impossible,’ Monte Cristo replied gravely. And, having said goodbye to Albert, he came back inside and rang three times. Bertuccio appeared.
‘Monsieur Bertuccio,’ the count said. ‘You know that on Saturday I am having guests at my house in Auteuil.’
Bertuccio shuddered slightly. ‘Very well, Monsieur,’ he said.
‘I need you,’ the count went on, ‘to get everything ready. The house is very beautiful, or might be so.’
‘A lot of changes will have to be made to achieve that, Monsieur le Comte; all the materials are worn.’
‘So, change it all, except for one thing: the bedroom with the red damask. That must be left exactly as it is.’
Bertuccio bowed.
‘And don’t touch the garden. But do what you like in the courtyard, and so on. I shall even be glad if it is unrecognizable.’
‘I shall do everything I can to please Monsieur le Comte. However, I should be easier in my mind if Monsieur le Comte will tell me what he intends by this dinner.’
‘Really, my dear Monsieur Bertuccio,’ the count said, ‘I find that since we have been in Paris you are nervous and seem out of place. Don’t you know me by now?’
‘But Your Excellency might tell me who is to be invited!’
‘I don’t know yet, and you have no reason to know either. Lucullus dines with Lucullus, that’s all.’
Bertuccio bowed and went out.
LV
MAJOR CAVALCANTI
Neither the count nor Baptistin had lied when they told Morcerf that the major from Lucca was to visit, which was Monte Cristo’s excuse for refusing the invitation to dinner.
The clock had just struck seven – M. Bertuccio, as instructed, having left for Auteuil at two o’clock – when a cab drew up at the door, then hurried off, in what looked like shame, immediately after depositing at the gate a man of around fifty-two, wearing one of those green frock-coats, frogged in black, which seem in Europe to belong to an undying breed of garment. Wide blue trousers; boots still clean, although their polish was questionable and their sole a trifle too thick; suede gloves; a hat, in shape close to a gendarme’s; and a black collar edged in white which, if its owner were not wearing it by choice, might have been mistaken for an iron yoke: such was the picturesque costume worn by the person who rang the outer bell, asking if it was not here, at number 30, Avenue des Champs-Elysées, that the Count of Monte Cristo lived; and who, on receiving the answer ‘Yes’, closed the gate behind him and walked towards the front steps.
The man’s small, angular head, his greying hair and his thick, grey moustache identified him to Baptistin, who had a precise description of the visitor and was waiting for him in the hall. So, no sooner had he announced his name to the intelligent servant than Monte Cristo was informed of his arrival. The stranger was introduced into the simplest drawing-room, where the count was waiting and came to greet him with a welcoming smile.
‘My dear sir,’ he said. ‘Welcome. I was expecting you.’
‘Really?’ said the Luccan. ‘Your Excellency was expecting me?’
‘Yes, I was informed that you would be arriving this evening at seven.’
‘You were informed of my arrival?’
‘Precisely.’
‘I’m so glad. I must admit, I was afraid that they had forgotten to take that little precaution.’
‘Whic
h one?’
‘That of informing you in advance.’
‘No, not at all.’
‘But are you sure you are not mistaken?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘I am really the person that Your Excellency was expecting today at seven?’
‘Yes, you are. In any case, we can make sure.’
‘Oh, if you were expecting me, there is no need,’ said the Luccan.
‘Yes, there is!’ said Monte Cristo. The man looked faintly uneasy.
‘Now, let’s see,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘Aren’t you the Marquis Bartolomeo Cavalcanti?’
‘Bartolomeo Cavalcanti,’ the Luccan repeated, joyfully. ‘That’s right.’
‘Formerly a major in the service of the Austrian army?’
‘Was I a major?’ the old soldier asked timidly.
‘Yes, a major,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘That is the name we give in France to the rank that you held in Italy.’
‘Very well, I ask nothing better, you understand.’
‘In any event,’ said Monte Cristo, ‘you have not come here on your own initiative.’
‘No, no, certainly not.’
‘You were sent by someone.’
‘Yes.’
‘By the good Abbé Busoni?’
‘That’s right!’ the major exclaimed delightedly.
‘Do you have a letter?’
‘Here it is.’
‘So, you see! Give it to me.’ And Monte Cristo took the letter, opened it and read it. The major watched him, his eyes wide with astonishment, then looked curiously at every part of the room, though always eventually turning back to its owner.
‘Here we are… the dear abbé… “Major Cavalcanti, a worthy physician of Lucca, descendant of the Cavalcantis of Florence,” ’ Monte Cristo said, reading, ‘ “… who possesses a fortune of half a million in income.” ’ The count looked up from the paper and bowed. ‘ “Of half a million…” I say! My dear Monsieur Cavalcanti…’
‘Does it say half a million?’ the Luccan asked.
‘In so many words. And it must be true, because Abbé Busoni is the man who knows most about the great fortunes of Europe.’
‘Let it be half a million, then,’ said the Luccan. ‘But, on my word, I didn’t think it was such a sum.’
‘That’s because you have a steward who robs you. What do you expect, dear Monsieur Cavalcanti, we must all go through it.’
‘You have just shown me the light,’ the Luccan said gravely. ‘I shall dismiss him.’
Monte Cristo continued reading: ‘ “… and who only needs one thing for his happiness…” ’
‘Yes, my God! Yes, one thing,’ said the Luccan with a sigh.
‘ “… To find the son he adores.” ’
‘The son he adores!’
‘ “… who was abducted in his youth either by an enemy of his noble family or by gypsies.” ’
‘At the age of five, Monsieur,’ said the Luccan, sighing deeply and raising his eyes towards heaven.
‘Poor father!’ said Monte Cristo; then continued: ‘ “I am giving him hope, I am restoring him to life, Monsieur le Comte, by telling him that you may be able to find this son, whom he has sought in vain for fifteen years.” ’
The Luccan looked at Monte Cristo with an indefinable expression of anxiety.
‘I can,’ said Monte Cristo.
The major drew himself up to his full height. ‘So!’ he said. ‘So! The letter was true then from beginning to end?’
‘Did you ever doubt it, my dear Monsieur Bartolomeo?’
‘No, never. How could it be! A serious man like Abbé Busoni, a man with that aura of sanctity, could not allow himself to joke on such a matter. But you have not read everything, Excellency.’
‘True! There is a postscript.’
‘Yes,’ the Luccan repeated. ‘There is… a postscript.’
‘ “To spare Major Cavalcanti the trouble of having to transfer funds to his banker, I am sending an order of two hundred thousand francs for his travelling expenses and a credit on you in the sum of forty-eight thousand francs which you still owe me.” ’
The major followed this postscript anxiously.
‘Good,’ the count said.
‘He said “good”,’ the Luccan muttered. ‘So, Monsieur…’
‘So?’ Monte Cristo asked.
‘The postscript…’
‘What about the postscript?’
‘You welcome it as favourably as the rest of the letter?’
‘Certainly. We have an arrangement, Abbé Busoni and I. I don’t know if it is exactly forty-eight thousand livres that I owe him, but we are not going to quarrel about a few banknotes. Come, come! Did you attach such importance to that postscript, my dear Monsieur Cavalcanti?’
‘I must confess,’ the Luccan replied, ‘that, full of confidence in Abbé Busoni’s signature, I did not take any other funds with me so that, if this letter had failed, I should have been greatly embarrassed here in Paris.’
‘Is a man like yourself ever embarrassed anywhere?’ said Monte Cristo. ‘Come now!’
‘Heavens, not knowing anyone!’ said the Luccan.
‘But you are known…’
‘Yes, I am known, so that…’
‘Carry on, Monsieur Cavalcanti!’
‘So that you will give me the forty-eight thousand livres?’
‘As soon as you request it.’
The major’s eyes opened wide in astonishment.
‘But sit down,’ said Monte Cristo. ‘I really don’t know what can have come over me. I have kept you standing for a quarter of an hour.’
‘Please don’t mention it.’ The major drew up a chair and sat down.
‘Now,’ said the count, ‘would you like something to drink: a glass of sherry, port or alicante?’
‘Alicante, since you offer it. It is my favourite wine.’
‘I have some excellent alicante. With a biscuit, perhaps?’
‘With a biscuit, since you insist.’
Monte Cristo rang and Baptistin appeared. The count went over to him and whispered: ‘Well?’
‘The young man is there,’ the valet answered, in the same manner.
‘Good. Have you brought him in?’
‘In the blue drawing-room, as Your Excellency ordered.’
‘Perfect. Bring some alicante and biscuits.’ Baptistin went out.
‘I really am embarrassed at the trouble I am giving you.’
‘Oh, come now!’ said Monte Cristo. Baptistin returned with the glasses, the wine and the biscuits.
The count filled one glass and, into the second, poured only a few drops of the ruby liquid from the bottle, which was covered in cobwebs and all the other signs that indicate the age of a wine more surely than wrinkles do that of a man. The major followed the pouring out of the wine, and took the full glass and a biscuit.
The count ordered Baptistin to put the tray within reach of his guest’s hand and the Luccan began by taking a sip of the alicante, giving a look of satisfaction, then gently dipping the biscuit into the glass.
‘So, Monsieur,’ Monte Cristo said, ‘you live in Lucca, you are rich, you are noble, you enjoy universal respect: you have everything that might make a man happy.’
‘Everything, Excellency,’ the major said, devouring his biscuit. ‘Absolutely everything.’
‘There was only one thing needed to complete your happiness?’
‘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 eve
ryone.’
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.’
The Count of Monte Cristo (Penguin Classics eBook) Page 79
