“You have, then, been induced to alter your opinion; you have had some proofs of their truth?” The major drew from his pocket a handful of gold. “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 play our respective parts. I, as a tender father”—
“And I as a dutiful son, as they choose that I shall be descended from you.”
“Whom do you mean by they?”
“Ma foi, I can hardly tell, but I was alluding to those who wrote the letter; you received one, did you not?”
“Yes.”
“From whom?”
“From a certain Abbe 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 young man’s hand. Andrea read in a low voice-
“You are poor; a miserable old age awaits you. Would you like to become rich, or at least independent? Set out immediately for Paris, and demand of the Count of Monte Cristo, Avenue des Champs Elysees, No. 30, the son whom you had by the Marchesa Corsinari, and who was taken from you at five years of age. This son is named Andrea Cavalcanti. In order that you may not doubt the kind intention of the writer of this letter, you will find enclosed an order for 2,400 francs, payable in Florence, at Signor Gozzi’s; also a letter of introduction to the Count of Monte Cristo, on whom I give you a draft of 48,000 francs. Remember to go to the Count on the 26th May at seven o’clock in the evening.
(Signed)
“Abbe 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 Abbe Busoni?”
“No.”
“From whom, then?”
“From an Englishman, called Lord Wilmore, who takes the name of Sinbad the Sailor.”
“And of whom you have no more knowledge than I of the Abbe 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 as wise 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 you wish for a name? Should you like to be rich, and your own master?’“
“Ma foi,” said the young man; “was it possible there could be two answers to such a question?”
“Take the postchaise which you will find waiting at the Porte de Genes, as you enter Nice; pass through Turin, Chambery, and Pont-de-Beauvoisin. Go to the Count of Monte Cristo, Avenue des Champs Elysees, on the 26th of May, at seven o’clock in the evening, and demand of him your father. You are the son of the Marchese Cavalcanti and the Marchesa Oliva Corsinari. The marquis will give you some papers, which will certify this fact, and authorize you to appear under that name in the Parisian world. As to your rank, an annual income of 50,000 livres will enable 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 introduction to the Count of Monte Cristo, whom I have directed to supply all your wants.
“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, and consent 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 for reentering the drawing room. On hearing the sound of his footsteps, the two men threw themselves in each other’s arms, and while they were in the midst of this embrace, the Count entered. “Well, marquis,” said Monte Cristo, “you appear to be in no way disappointed 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 young man.
“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, “and that is the necessity for my leaving Paris so soon.”
“Ah, my dear M. Cavalcanti, I trust you will not leave before I have had the 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 your confession.”
“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 it comes from him.”
“I fully appreciate his delicacy,” said Andrea, cramming the notes hastily 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 my country 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 know you, 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.
“Oh, very simply; black trousers, patent leather boots, white waistcoat, either a black or blue coat, and a long cravat. Go to Blin or Veronique for your clothes. Baptistin will tell you where, if you do not know the
ir address. The less pretension there is in your attire, the better will be the effect, as you are a rich man. If you mean to buy any horses, get them of Devedeux, and if you purchase a phaeton, go to Baptiste 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 Cavalcanti bowed 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 really related!”—then, after an instant of gloomy reflection, “Come, I will go to see the Morrels,” said he; “I think that disgust is even more sickening than hatred.”
Chapter 14. In the Lucerne Patch.
Our readers must now allow us to transport them again to the enclosure surrounding M. de Villefort’s house, and, behind the gate, half screened from view by the large chestnut-trees, which on all sides spread their luxuriant branches, we shall find some people of our acquaintance. This time Maximilian was the first to arrive. He was intently watching for a shadow to appear among the trees, and awaiting with anxiety the sound of a light step on the gravel walk. At length, the long-desired sound was heard, and instead of one figure, as he had expected, he perceived that two were approaching him. The delay had been occasioned by a visit from Madame Danglars and Eugenie, which had been prolonged beyond the time at which Valentine was expected. That she might not appear to fail in her promise to Maximilian, she proposed to Mademoiselle Danglars that they should take a walk in the garden, being anxious to show that the delay, which was doubtless a cause of vexation to him, was not occasioned by any neglect on her part. The young man, with the intuitive perception of a lover, quickly understood the circumstances in which she was involuntarily placed, and he was comforted. Besides, although she avoided coming within speaking distance, Valentine arranged so that Maximilian could see her pass and repass, and each time she went by, she managed, unperceived by her companion, to cast an expressive look at the young man, which seemed to say, “Have patience! You see it is not my fault.” And Maximilian was patient, and employed himself in mentally contrasting the two girls,—one fair, with soft languishing eyes, a figure gracefully bending like a weeping willow; the other a brunette, with a fierce and haughty expression, and as straight as a poplar. It is unnecessary to state that, in the eyes of the young man, Valentine did not suffer by the contrast. In about half an hour the girls went away, and Maximilian understood that Mademoiselle Danglars’ visit had at last come to an end. In a few minutes Valentine reentered the garden alone. For fear that any one should be observing her return, she walked slowly; and instead of immediately directing her steps towards the gate, she seated herself on a bench, and, carefully casting her eyes around, to convince herself that she was not watched, she presently arose, and proceeded quickly to join Maximilian.
“Good-evening, Valentine,” said a well-known voice.
“Good-evening, Maximilian; I know I have kept you waiting, but you saw the cause of my delay.”
“Yes, I recognized Mademoiselle Danglars. I was not aware that you were so intimate with her.”
“Who told you we were intimate, Maximilian?”
“No one, but you appeared to be so. From the manner in which you walked and talked together, one would have thought you were two schoolgirls telling your secrets to each other.”
“We were having a confidential conversation,” returned Valentine; “she was owning to me her repugnance to the marriage with M. de Morcerf; and I, on the other hand, was confessing to her how wretched it made me to think of marrying M. d’Epinay.”
“Dear Valentine!”
“That will account to you for the unreserved manner which you observed between me and Eugenie, as in speaking of the man whom I could not love, my thoughts involuntarily reverted to him on whom my affections were fixed.”
“Ah, how good you are to say so, Valentine! You possess a quality which can never belong to Mademoiselle Danglars. It is that indefinable charm which is to a woman what perfume is to the flower and flavor to the fruit, for the beauty of either is not the only quality we seek.”
“It is your love which makes you look upon everything in that light.”
“No, Valentine, I assure you such is not the case. I was observing you both when you were walking in the garden, and, on my honor, without at all wishing to depreciate the beauty of Mademoiselle Danglars, I cannot understand how any man can really love her.”
“The fact is, Maximilian, that I was there, and my presence had the effect of rendering you unjust in your comparison.”
“No; but tell me—it is a question of simple curiosity, and which was suggested by certain ideas passing in my mind relative to Mademoiselle Danglars”—
“I dare say it is something disparaging which you are going to say. It only proves how little indulgence we may expect from your sex,” interrupted Valentine.
“You cannot, at least, deny that you are very harsh judges of each other.”
“If we are so, it is because we generally judge under the influence of excitement. But return to your question.”
“Does Mademoiselle Danglars object to this marriage with M. de Morcerf on account of loving another?”
“I told you I was not on terms of strict intimacy with Eugenie.”
“Yes, but girls tell each other secrets without being particularly intimate; own, now, that you did question her on the subject. Ah, I see you are smiling.”
“If you are already aware of the conversation that passed, the wooden partition which interposed between us and you has proved but a slight security.”
“Come, what did she say?”
“She told me that she loved no one,” said Valentine; “that she disliked the idea of being married; that she would infinitely prefer leading an independent and unfettered life; and that she almost wished her father might lose his fortune, that she might become an artist, like her friend, Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly.”
“Ah, you see”—
“Well, what does that prove?” asked Valentine.
“Nothing,” replied Maximilian.
“Then why did you smile?”
“Why, you know very well that you are reflecting on yourself, Valentine.”
“Do you want me to go away?”
“Ah, no, no. But do not let us lose time; you are the subject on which I wish to speak.”
“True, we must be quick, for we have scarcely ten minutes more to pass together.”
“Ma foi,” said Maximilian, in consternation.
“Yes, you are right; I am but a poor friend to you. What a life I cause you to lead, poor Maximilian, you who are formed for happiness! I bitterly reproach myself, I assure you.”
“Well, what does it signify, Valentine, so long as I am satisfied, and feel that even this long and painful suspense is amply repaid by five minutes of your society, or two words from your lips? And I have also a deep conviction that heaven would not have created two hearts, harmonizing as ours do, and almost miraculously brought us together, to separate us at last.”
“Those are kind and cheering words. You must hope for us both, Maximilian; that will make me at least partly happy.”
“But why must you leave me so soon?”
“I do not know particulars. I can only tell you that Madame de Villefort sent to request my presence, as she had a communication to make on which a part of my fortune depended. Let them take my fortune, I am already too rich; and, perhaps, when they have taken it, they will leave me in peace and quietness. You would love me as much if I were poor, would you not, Maximilian?”
“Oh, I shall always love you. What should I care for either riches or poverty, if my Valentine was near me, and I felt certain that no one could deprive me of her? But do you not fear that this communication may relate to your marriage?”
“I do not think that is the case.”
“However it may be, Valentine, you must not
be alarmed. I assure you that, as long as I live, I shall never love anyone else!”
“You think to reassure me when you say that, Maximilian.”
“Pardon me, you are right. I am a brute. But I was going to tell you that I met M. de Morcerf the other day.”
“Well?”
“Monsieur Franz is his friend, you know.”
“What then?”
“Monsieur de Morcerf has received a letter from Franz, announcing his immediate return.” Valentine turned pale, and leaned her hand against the gate. “Ah heavens, if it were that! But no, the communication would not come through Madame de Villefort.”
“Why not?”
“Because—I scarcely know why—but it has appeared as if Madame de Villefort secretly objected to the marriage, although she did not choose openly to oppose it.”
“Is it so? Then I feel as if I could adore Madame de Villefort.”
“Do not be in such a hurry to do that,” said Valentine, with a sad smile.
“If she objects to your marrying M. d’Epinay, she would be all the more likely to listen to any other proposition.”
“No, Maximilian, it is not suitors to which Madame de Villefort objects, it is marriage itself.”
“Marriage? If she dislikes that so much, why did she ever marry herself?”
“You do not understand me, Maximilian. About a year ago, I talked of retiring to a convent. Madame de Villefort, in spite of all the remarks which she considered it her duty to make, secretly approved of the proposition, my father consented to it at her instigation, and it was only on account of my poor grandfather that I finally abandoned the project. You can form no idea of the expression of that old man’s eye when he looks at me, the only person in the world whom he loves, and, I had almost said, by whom he is beloved in return. When he learned my resolution, I shall never forget the reproachful look which he cast on me, and the tears of utter despair which chased each other down his lifeless cheeks. Ah, Maximilian, I experienced, at that moment, such remorse for my intention, that, throwing myself at his feet, I exclaimed,— ‘Forgive me, pray forgive me, my dear grandfather; they may do what they will with me, I will never leave you.’ When I had ceased speaking, he thankfully raised his eyes to heaven, but without uttering a word. Ah, Maximilian, I may have much to suffer, but I feel as if my grandfather’s look at that moment would more than compensate for all.”
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