LVI. Andrea Cavalcanti.
LVI
Andrea Cavalcanti.
The Count of Monte Cristo entered the adjoining salon that Baptistin had pointed out as the blue salon, and into which a young man of easy bearing, rather elegantly dressed, had just preceded him, a young man whom a hackney cabriolet had set down at the hotel door half an hour earlier. Baptistin had had no difficulty in recognizing him; it was indeed that tall young man with blond hair, a red beard, and black eyes, whose vermilion complexion and dazzlingly white skin had been described to him by his master.
When the count entered the salon, the young man was negligently stretched upon a sofa, absently switching his boot with a little cane topped with a golden knob.
At sight of Monte Cristo he rose quickly.
"You are the Count of Monte Cristo, sir?" said he.
"Yes, sir," replied the count, "and I have the honor of speaking, I believe, to the Viscount Andrea Cavalcanti?"
"The Viscount Andrea Cavalcanti," repeated the young man, accompanying the words with a salute full of nonchalance.
"You must have a letter accrediting you with me?" said Monte Cristo.
"I did not mention it to you because of the signature, which seemed strange to me."
"Sindbad the Sailor, is it not?"
"Precisely. Now, as I have never known any other Sindbad the Sailor than the one in the *Thousand and One Nights*..."
"Well, he is one of his descendants, a very rich friend of mine, an Englishman more than original, almost mad, whose real name is Lord Wilmore."
"Ah! that explains everything to me," said Andrea. "Then it is perfect. It is that same Englishman I knew... at... yes, very well!... Count, I am your servant."
"If what you do me the honor of telling me is true," replied the count with a smile, "I hope you will be good enough to give me some details about yourself and your family."
"Willingly, Count," answered the young man with a volubility that proved the solidity of his memory. "I am, as you have said, the Viscount Andrea Cavalcanti, son of Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti, descendant of the Cavalcanti inscribed in the golden book of Florence. Our family, though still very rich since my father possesses an income of half a million, has experienced many misfortunes, and I myself, sir, was carried off at the age of five or six by a faithless tutor; so that for fifteen years I have not seen the author of my days. Since I reached the age of reason, since I have been free and master of myself, I have sought him, but in vain. Finally this letter from your friend Sindbad announces to me that he is in Paris, and authorizes me to apply to you to obtain news of him."
"Indeed, sir, all that you tell me is most interesting," said the count, regarding with a dark satisfaction that easy countenance, stamped with a beauty like that of the fallen angel, "and you have done very well to conform in all things to the invitation of my friend Sindbad, for your father is indeed here and seeking you."
The count, since his entrance into the salon, had not lost sight of the young man; he had admired the assurance of his glance and the steadiness of his voice; but at these words so natural: *Your father is indeed here and seeking you*, the young Andrea gave a start and cried:
"My father! my father here?"
"Doubtless," answered Monte Cristo, "your father, Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti."
The impression of terror spread over the young man's features faded almost immediately.
"Ah! yes, it is true," said he, "Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti. And you say, Count, that he is here, that dear father."
"Yes, sir. I will even add that I have just left him, that the story he told me of that beloved son, lost long ago, touched me deeply; truly, his sorrows, his fears, his hopes on that subject would compose a moving poem. At length he received one day news which announced to him that the ravishers of his son offered to restore him, or to indicate where he was, for a rather large sum. But nothing stopped this good father; the sum was sent to the frontier of Piedmont, with a passport all visaed for Italy. You were in the South of France, I believe?"
"Yes, sir," answered Andrea with rather an embarrassed air, "yes, I was in the South of France."
"A carriage was to await you at Nice?"
"That is it exactly, sir; it conducted me from Nice to Genoa, from Genoa to Turin, from Turin to Chambery, from Chambery to Pont-de-Beauvoisin, and from Pont-de-Beauvoisin to Paris."
"Admirable! He still hoped to meet you on the way, for it was the route he himself was following; that is why your itinerary had been traced thus."
"But," said Andrea, "had he met me, that dear father, I doubt he would have recognized me; I am somewhat changed since I lost sight of him."
"Oh! the voice of blood," said Monte Cristo.
"Ah! yes, it is true," resumed the young man, "I was not thinking of the voice of blood."
"Now," resumed Monte Cristo, "one thing alone troubles the Marquis Cavalcanti, it is what you have done during the time you have been away from him; it is in what manner you were treated by your persecutors; it is whether they preserved for your birth all the consideration due to it; it is, in short, whether there has not remained to you from that moral suffering to which you were exposed—a suffering a hundred times worse than physical suffering—some weakening of the faculties with which nature has so largely endowed you, and whether you yourself believe you can resume and worthily sustain in the world the rank that belongs to you."
"Sir," stammered the young man, bewildered, "I hope no false report..."
"I! I heard speak of you for the first time from my friend Wilmore, the philanthropist. I learned that he had found you in an unfortunate position, I know not which, and asked him no question: I am not curious. Your misfortunes interested him, therefore you were interesting. He told me he wished to restore you to the position you had lost in the world, that he would seek your father, that he would find him; he sought him, he found him, it appears, since he is there; finally he apprised me yesterday of your arrival, giving me at the same time some other instructions relative to your fortune; that is all. I know that he is an eccentric, my friend Wilmore, but at the same time, as he is a sure man, rich as a gold mine, who, consequently, can afford his eccentricities without their ruining him, I promised to follow his instructions. Now, sir, do not take offense at my question: as I shall be obliged to patronize you somewhat, I should like to know whether the misfortunes that befell you, misfortunes independent of your will and which in no way diminish the consideration I bear you, have not rendered you somewhat a stranger to that world in which your fortune and your name called you to cut so fine a figure."
"Sir," answered the young man, recovering his composure as the count spoke, "set your mind at rest on that point: the ravishers who removed me from my father, and who, no doubt, had for their object to sell me back to him later as they have done, calculated that, to make a good bargain of me, they must leave me all my personal value, and even increase it still, if possible; I have therefore received a rather good education, and was treated by the child-thieves much as in Asia Minor were the slaves whose masters made grammarians, physicians, and philosophers of them, to sell them dearer at the market of Rome."
Monte Cristo smiled with satisfaction; he had not, it appears, hoped so much of M. Andrea Cavalcanti.
"Besides," resumed the young man, "if there were in me some defect of education or rather of habit of the world, one would have, I suppose, the indulgence to excuse them, in consideration of the misfortunes which accompanied my birth and pursued my youth."
"Well," said Monte Cristo negligently, "you will make of it what you will, viscount, for you are master, and it concerns you; but, upon my word, on the contrary, I would not say a word of all these adventures, it is a novel, your story, and the world, which adores novels squeezed between two covers of yellow paper, strangely mistrusts those it sees bound in living vellum, were they gilded as you may be. That is the difficulty I permit myself to point out to you, M. le Vicomte; scarcely will you have told your touching story to someone, than it will run through the world completely distorted. You will be obliged to pose as an Antony, and the time of the Antonys is a little past. Perhaps you will have a success of curiosity, but everyone does not like to make himself the center of observations and the target of comments. That may weary you perhaps."
"I think you are right, Count," said the young man, turning pale in spite of himself, under the inflexible gaze of Monte Cristo; "that is a grave inconvenience."
"Oh! one must not exaggerate it either," said Monte Cristo; "for, to avoid a fault, one would fall into a folly. No, it is a simple plan of conduct to settle; and, for an intelligent man like you, this plan is so much the easier to adopt as it is conformable to your interests; it will be necessary to combat, by testimonies and by honorable friendships, all that your past may have of obscure."
Andrea visibly lost countenance.
"I should gladly offer myself to you as voucher and surety," said Monte Cristo; "but it is with me a moral habit to doubt my best friends, and a need to seek to make others doubt; also I should play there a role out of my part, as the tragedians say, and I should risk being hissed, which is useless."
"However, Count," said Andrea with boldness, "in consideration of Lord Wilmore who recommended me to you..."
"Yes, certainly," resumed Monte Cristo; "but Lord Wilmore has not left me ignorant, dear M. Andrea, that you had had a somewhat stormy youth. Oh!" said the count, seeing the movement Andrea made, "I do not ask you for a confession; besides, it is so that you may need no one that M. the Marquis Cavalcanti, your father, has been brought from Lucca. You are going to see him; he is a little stiff, a little formal; but that is a question of uniform, and when it is known that for eighteen years he has been in the service of Austria, all will be excused; we are not, in general, exacting toward the Austrians. In short, he is a quite sufficient father, I assure you."
"Ah! you reassure me, sir; I had left him so long ago, that I had no recollection of him."
"And then, you know, a great fortune makes many things pass."
"My father is then really rich, sir?"
"Millionnaire... five hundred thousand livres income."
"Then," asked the young man anxiously, "I am going to find myself in a... pleasant position?"
"One of the most pleasant, my dear sir; he allows you fifty thousand livres income a year during all the time you remain in Paris."
"But I shall remain there always, then."
"Hem! who can answer for circumstances, my dear sir? man proposes and God disposes..."
Andrea sighed.
"But finally," said he, "all the time I remain in Paris, and... that no circumstance forces me to go away, is the money of which you spoke to me just now assured to me?"
"Oh! perfectly."
"By my father?" asked Andrea with uneasiness.
"Yes, but guaranteed by Lord Wilmore, who, at the request of your father, has opened you a credit of five thousand francs a month with M. Danglars, one of the surest bankers in Paris."
"And my father counts on staying long in Paris?" asked Andrea with uneasiness.
"Only a few days," answered Monte Cristo, "his service does not permit him to be absent more than two or three weeks."
"Oh! that dear father!" said Andrea, visibly enchanted at this prompt departure.
"Also," said Monte Cristo, pretending to mistake the accent of these words, "also I do not wish to delay by an instant the hour of your reunion. Are you prepared to embrace that worthy M. Cavalcanti?"
"You do not doubt it, I hope?"
"Well, then, enter the salon, my dear friend, and you will find your father, who awaits you."
Andrea made a profound bow to the count and entered the salon.
The count followed him with his eyes, and, having seen him disappear, pressed a spring corresponding to a picture, which, receding from the frame, left, by a skillfully contrived slit, the view to penetrate into the salon.
Andrea closed the door behind him and advanced toward the major, who rose as soon as he heard the sound of approaching steps.
"Ah! sir and dear father," said Andrea aloud and in a manner that the count might hear him through the closed door, "is it indeed you?"
"Good day, my dear son," said the major gravely.
"After so many years of separation," said Andrea, continuing to look toward the door, "what happiness to see each other again!"
"Indeed, the separation has been long."
"Shall we not embrace, sir?" resumed Andrea.
"As you wish, my son," said the major.
And the two men embraced as one embraces at the Théâtre-Français, that is to say, passing the head over the shoulder.
"Thus, here we are reunited!" said Andrea.
"Here we are reunited," resumed the major.
"Never to separate again?"
"On the contrary; I believe, my dear son, that you now regard France as a second country?"
"The fact is," said the young man, "that I should be in despair to leave Paris."
"And I, you understand, I could not live out of Lucca. I shall therefore return to Italy as soon as I can."
"But before departing, very dear father, you will doubtless give me papers by means of which it will be easy for me to establish the blood from which I spring."
"Without any doubt, for I come expressly for that, and I had too much trouble to meet you, in order to give them to you, for us to begin again to seek each other; that would take the last part of my life."
"And these papers?"
"Here they are."
Andrea seized avidly the marriage certificate of his father, his own baptismal certificate, and, after having opened the whole with an avidity natural to a good son, he ran through the two documents with a rapidity and a habit which denoted the most practiced eye at the same time as the liveliest interest.
When he had finished, an indefinable expression of joy shone upon his brow; and looking at the major with a strange smile:
"Ah, now!" said he in excellent Tuscan, "there are then no galleys in Italy?..."
The major drew himself up.
"And why so?" said he.
"That one may with impunity fabricate such pieces? For half of that, my very dear father, in France they would send us to take the air at Toulon for five years."
"What say you?" said the Lucchese, trying to assume a majestic air.
"My dear M. Cavalcanti," said Andrea, pressing the major's arm, "how much do they give you for being my father?"
The major tried to speak.
"Hush!" said Andrea, lowering his voice, "I am going to give you the example of confidence; they give me fifty thousand francs a year for being your son: consequently, you understand well that it is not I who shall be disposed to deny that you are my father."
The major looked uneasily around him.
"Eh! be easy, we are alone," said Andrea, "besides, we are speaking Italian."
"Well, for my part," said the Lucchese, "they give me fifty thousand francs paid once for all."
"M. Cavalcanti," said Andrea, "do you believe in fairy tales?"
"No, not formerly, but now one must needs believe in them."
"You have then had proofs?"
The major drew from his fob a handful of gold.
"Palpable, as you see."
"You think then that I may believe the promises that have been made me?"
"I believe it."
"And that this good man of a count will keep them?"
"To the letter; but, you understand, to arrive at that end, we must play our role."
"How then?..."
"I, the tender father...."
"I, the respectful son."
"Since they desire that you descend from me...."
"Who, *they*?"
"Why, I know nothing of it, those who wrote to you; did you not receive a letter?"
"Yes, indeed."
"From whom?"
"From a certain Abbé Busoni."
"Whom you do not know?"
"Whom I have never seen."
"What did that letter say to you?"
"You will not betray me?"
"I shall take good care not to; our interests are the same."
"Then read."
And the major passed a letter to the young man.
Andrea read in a low voice:
"You are poor, an unhappy old age awaits you. Will you become, if not rich, at least independent?
"Set out for Paris this instant, and go claim from M. the Count of Monte Cristo, avenue des Champs-Élysées, No. 30, the son you had of the Marquise de Corsinari, and who was taken from you at the age of five years.
"This son is named Andrea Cavalcanti.
"So that you may not doubt the attention the undersigned has to please you, you will find herein:
"1. A note of two thousand four hundred Tuscan livres, payable at M. Gozzi's, in Florence;
"2. A letter of introduction to M. the Count of Monte Cristo, on whom I credit you with a sum of forty-eight thousand francs.
"Be at the count's on the 26th of May, at seven o'clock in the evening.
"*Signed*: ABBÉ BUSONI."
"That is it."
"How, that is it? What do you mean?" asked the major.
"I say that I received about the like."
"You?"
"Yes, I."
"From the Abbé Busoni?"
"No."
"From whom, then?"
"From an Englishman, a certain Lord Wilmore, who takes the name of Sindbad the Sailor."
"And whom you know no more than I know the Abbé Busoni?"
"Yes, indeed; I am more advanced than you."
"You have seen him?"
"Yes, once."
"Where was that?"
"Ah! precisely that is what I cannot tell you; you would be as learned as I, and that is useless."
"And this letter said to you?..."
"Read."
"You are poor, and you have but a miserable future: will you have a name, be free, be rich?"
"Egad!" said the young man, balancing on his heels, as if such a question were asked!
"Take the post-chaise which you will find all harnessed on leaving Nice by the Genoa gate. Pass by Turin, Chambery, and Pont-de-Beauvoisin. Present yourself at M. the Count of Monte Cristo's, avenue des Champs-Élysées, on the 26th of May, at seven o'clock in the evening, and ask him for your father.
"You are the son of the Marquis Bartolomeo Cavalcanti and of the Marquise Olivia Corsinari, as will be established by the papers which will be given you by the marquis, and which will permit you to present yourself under that name in Parisian society.
"As to your rank, an income of fifty thousand livres a year will enable you to sustain it.
"Herein a note of five thousand livres payable on M. Ferrea, banker at Nice, and a letter of introduction to the Count of Monte Cristo, charged by me with providing for your needs.
"SIMBAD THE SAILOR."
"Hum!" said the major, "that is very fine!"
"Is it not?"
"You have seen the count?"
"I have just left him."
"And he ratified?"
"Everything."
"Do you understand anything in all that?"
"Faith, no."
"There is a dupe in all that."
"At all events, it is neither you nor I?"
"No, certainly."
"Well, then!..."
"What matters it to us, is it not?"
"Exactly, that is what I wished to say; let us go to the end and play close."
"Be it so; you will see that I am worthy to make your party."
"I have not doubted it for a single instant, my dear father."
"You do me honor, my dear son."
Monte Cristo chose this moment to re-enter the salon. At the sound of his steps, the two men threw themselves into each other's arms; the count found them embraced.
"Well! M. le Marquis," said Monte Cristo, "it appears you have found a son after your own heart?"
"Ah! M. le Comte, I suffocate with joy."
"And you, young man?"
"Ah! M. le Comte, I am stifling with happiness."
"Happy father! happy child!" said the count.
"One thing alone saddens me," said the major; "it is the necessity in which I am of leaving Paris so soon."
"Oh! dear M. Cavalcanti," said Monte Cristo, "you will not depart, I hope, before I have presented you to some friends."
"I am at the orders of M. le Comte," said the major.
"Now, come, young man, confess."
"To whom?"
"Why, to M. your father; tell him a few words of the state of your finances."
"Ah! the devil," said Andrea, "you touch the sensitive chord."
"Do you hear, major?" said Monte Cristo.
"Doubtless I hear."
"Yes, but do you understand?"
"Perfectly."
"He says he needs money, that dear child."
"What would you have me do about it?"
"That you give him some, egad!"
"I?"
"Yes, you."
Monte Cristo passed between the two men.
"Here!" said he to Andrea, slipping a packet of banknotes into his hand.
"What is that?"
"Your father's answer."
"My father's?"
"Yes. Did you not just let it be understood that you needed money?"
"Yes. Well?"
"Well! he charges me to give you this."
"On account of my revenues?"
"No, for your installation expenses."
"Oh! dear father!"
"Silence," said Monte Cristo, "you see well that he does not wish me to say it comes from him."
"I appreciate that delicacy," said Andrea, thrusting his banknotes into the fob of his trousers.
"That is well," said Monte Cristo; "now, go!"
"And when shall we have the honor of seeing M. le Comte again?" asked Cavalcanti.
"Ah! yes," asked Andrea, "when shall we have that honor?"
"Saturday, if you will... yes... see here... Saturday. I have to dine at my house at Auteuil, Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28, several persons, and among others M. Danglars, your banker; I will present you to him, he must needs know you both to count you your money."
"Full dress?" asked the major half-voice.
"Full dress: uniform, cross, knee-breeches."
"And I?" asked Andrea.
"Oh! you, very simply: black trousers, varnished boots, white waistcoat, black or blue coat, long cravat; take Blin or Véronique to dress you. If you do not know their addresses, Baptistin will give them to you. The less pretension you affect in your attire, being as rich as you are, the better effect it will produce. If you buy horses, take them of Devedeux; if you buy a phaeton, go to Baptiste."
"At what hour may we present ourselves?" asked the young man.
"Why, about half-past six."
"That is well, we shall be there," said the major, carrying his hand to his hat.
The two Cavalcanti saluted the count and went out. The count approached the window, and saw them crossing the court arm in arm.
"Truly," said he, "there are two great scoundrels! What a pity they are not truly father and son!"
Then, after a moment of dark reflection:
"Let us go to the Morrels'," said he; "I think disgust sickens me still more than hatred."}
“Stories of the world, in your language.”