Go, then, into the drawing-room, my young friend, where you will find your father awaiting you. Andrea made a low bow to the count, and entered the adjoining room. Monte Cristo watched him till he disappeared, and then touched a spring in a panel made to look like a picture, which, in sliding partly from the frame, discovered to view a small opening, so cleverly contrived that it revealed all that was passing in the drawing-room now occupied by Cavalcanti and Andrea. The young man closed the door behind him, and advanced towards the major, who had risen when he heard steps approaching him. Ah, my dear father! said Andrea in a loud voice, in order that the count might hear him in the next room, is it really you?

How do you do, my dear son? said the major gravely.

After so many years of painful separation, said Andrea, in the same tone of voice, and glancing towards the door, what a happiness it is to meet again!

Indeed it is, after so long a separation.

Will you not embrace me, sir? said Andrea.

If you wish it, my son, said the major; and the two men embraced each other after the fashion of actors on the stage; that is to say, each rested his head on the other’s shoulder.

Then we are once more reunited? said Andrea.

Once more, replied the major.

Never more to be separated?

Why, as to that—I think, my dear son, you must be by this time so accustomed to France as to look upon it almost as a second country.

The fact is, said the young man, that I should be exceedingly grieved to leave it.

As for me, you must know I cannot possibly live out of Lucca; therefore I shall return to Italy as soon as I can.

But before you leave France, my dear father, I hope you will put me in possession of the documents which will be necessary to prove my descent.

Certainly; I am come expressly on that account; it has cost me much trouble to find you, but I had resolved on giving them into your hands, and if I had to recommence my search, it would occupy all the few remaining years of my life.

Where are these papers, then?

Here they are.

Andrea seized the certificate of his father’s marriage and his own baptismal register, and after having opened them with all the eagerness which might be expected under the circumstances, he read them with a facility which proved that he was accustomed to similar documents, and with an expression which plainly denoted an unusual interest in the contents. When he had perused the documents, an indefinable expression of pleasure lighted up his countenance, and looking at the major with a most peculiar smile, he said, in very excellent Tuscan,—Then there is no longer any such thing, in Italy as being condemned to the galleys? The major drew himself up to his full height.

Why?—what do you mean by that question?

I mean that if there were, it would be impossible to draw up with impunity two such deeds as these. In France, my dear sir, half such a piece of effrontery as that would cause you to be quickly despatched to Toulon for five years, for change of air.

Will you be good enough to explain your meaning? said the major, endeavoring as much as possible to assume an air of the greatest majesty.

My dear M. Cavalcanti, said Andrea, taking the major by the arm in a confidential manner, how much are you paid for being my father? The major was about to speak, when Andrea continued, in a low voice.

Nonsense, I am going to set you an example of confidence, they give me 50,000 francs a year to be your son; consequently, you can understand that it is not at all likely I shall ever deny my parent. The major looked anxiously around him. Make yourself easy, we are quite alone, said Andrea; besides, we are conversing in Italian.

Well, then, replied the major, they paid me 50,000 francs down.

Monsieur Cavalcanti, said Andrea, do you believe in fairy tales?

I used not to do so, but I really feel now almost obliged to have faith in them.

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 post-chaise 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 re-entering 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 their 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.