"Yes," the major said finally. "I did wish to keep this error hidden from everyone."
"Surely not for your own sake?" Monte Cristo replied. "A man is above that sort of thing, after all."
"Oh no, certainly not for my own sake," the major said with a smile and a shake of his head.
"But for the sake of the mother?" the count suggested.
"Yes, for the mother’s sake, his poor mother!" the major cried, taking a third biscuit.
"Have so more wine, my dear Cavalcanti," the count said, pouring him a second glass. "Your emotions have quite overco you."
"His poor mother," the major murmured, trying unsuccessfully to produce an actual tear.
"She belonged to one of the finest families in Italy, I believe?"
"She was from a noble family in Fiesole, count."
"And her na was..."
"Do you need to know her na?"
"Oh," Monte Cristo said, "it would be quite unnecessary for you to tell . I already know it."
"The count knows everything," the Italian said, bowing.
"Oliva Corsinari, wasn’t it?"
"Oliva Corsinari!"
"A marchioness?"
"A marchioness!"
"And you married her eventually, despite her family’s opposition?"
"Yes, that’s how it ended."
"And you’ve brought all your docunts with you, of course?" Monte Cristo asked.
"What docunts?"
"The certificate of your marriage to Oliva Corsinari, and your child’s birth certificate."
"My child’s birth certificate?"
"The birth certificate of Andrea Cavalcanti, your son. His na is Andrea, isn’t it?"
"I believe so," the major said.
"What? You believe so?"
"I can’t say for certain, since he’s been lost for so long."
"Well then," Monte Cristo said, "you have all the docunts with you?"
"Your excellency, I regret to say that I didn’t know it was necessary to bring these papers, so I neglected to pack them."
"That is unfortunate," Monte Cristo said.
"Were they really that necessary?"
"They were absolutely essential."
The major rubbed his forehead. "Ah, damn, essential, were they?"
"Certainly. Suppose soone raised doubts about the validity of your marriage or the legitimacy of your child?"
"True," the major admitted. "There could be doubts."
"In that case, your son would be in a very unpleasant situation."
"It would be disastrous for his future."
"It could prevent him from making a good marriage."
"Oh no!"
"You must understand that in France, people are very particular about these matters. It’s not like in Italy, where you can just go to a priest and say, ’We love each other and want you to marry us.’ Marriage is a legal matter in France. To marry properly, you must have papers that undeniably establish your identity."
"That’s the problem! I don’t have these necessary papers."
"Fortunately, I have them," Monte Cristo said.
"You?"
"Yes."
"You have them?"
"I have them."
"Really?" the major said. Having feared his lack of docunts would derail both his mission and the forty-eight thousand francs, he was relieved. "That’s very fortunate! Yes, that’s really lucky, because it never occurred to to bring them."
"I’m not surprised, no one can think of everything. But fortunately, Father Busoni thought ahead for you."
"He’s an excellent person."
"He’s extrely careful and thoughtful."
"He’s an admirable man," the major agreed. "And he sent them to you?"
"Here they are."
The major clasped his hands in amazent.
"You married Oliva Corsinari in the church of San Paolo del Monte-Cattini. Here’s the priest’s certificate."
"Yes, there it is!" the Italian said, staring in astonishnt.
"And here’s Andrea Cavalcanti’s baptismal certificate, issued by the priest of Saravezza."
"All correct."
"Take these docunts. They don’t concern . You’ll give them to your son, who will naturally take excellent care of them."
"I should think so! If he were to lose them-"
"Well, what if he did lose them?" Monte Cristo asked.
"In that case," the major replied, "we’d have to write to the priest for duplicates, and that would take so ti."
"It would be difficult to arrange," Monte Cristo agreed.
"Almost impossible," the major confird.
"I’m glad you understand the value of these papers."
"I consider them priceless."
"Now," Monte Cristo said, "regarding the young man’s mother-"
"Regarding the young man’s mother?" the Italian repeated anxiously.
"Regarding the Marchioness Corsinari-"
"Really," the major said, "the difficulties seem to be piling up. Will she be needed for anything?"
"No, sir," Monte Cristo replied. "Besides, hasn’t she-"
"Yes, sir," the major said. "She has..."
"Passed away?"
"Alas, yes," the Italian confird.
"I knew that," Monte Cristo said. "She’s been dead for ten years."
"And I still mourn her loss," the major exclaid, pulling out a checkered handkerchief and alternately wiping his left eye and then his right.
"What can you do?" Monte Cristo said philosophically. "We’re all mortal. Now, my dear Mr. Cavalcanti, you must understand that it would be pointless to tell people in France that you’ve been separated from your son for fifteen years. Stories about criminals who steal children aren’t popular here and wouldn’t be believed. Instead, the story is this: you sent him to a boarding school in the provinces for his education, and now you want him to complete his education in Parisian society. That’s the reason you left your hotown, where you’ve lived since your wife’s death. That explanation will be sufficient."
"You think so?"
"Definitely."
"Very well, then."
"If anyone asks about the separation-"
"Ah yes, what should I say?"
"That a corrupt tutor, bribed by your family’s enemies."
"The Corsinari family?"
"Exactly. This tutor kidnapped the child so that your family line would die out."
"That makes sense, since he’s an only son."
"Good. Now that everything is arranged, don’t let these newly refreshed mories slip away. You’ve probably already guessed that I was preparing a surprise for you?"
"A pleasant one?" the Italian asked.
"Ah, I see a father’s instinct can’t be fooled any more than his heart can."
"Hmm," the major said.
"Soone told you the secret, or perhaps you guessed that he was here."
"That who was here?"
"Your child, your son, your Andrea!"
"I did guess it," the major replied with remarkable coolness.
"So he’s here?"
"He is," Monte Cristo said. "When the butler ca in earlier, he told about his arrival."
"Ah, very well, very well," the major said, fidgeting with the buttons on his coat.
"My dear sir," Monte Cristo said, "I understand your emotion. You need ti to compose yourself. anwhile, I’ll go prepare the young man for this long-awaited eting. I assu he’s just as eager for it as you are."
"I imagine so," Cavalcanti agreed.
"Well, in fifteen minutes he’ll be with you."
"You’ll bring him yourself? You’re kind enough to introduce him to personally?"
"No, I don’t want to intrude on a father and son’s reunion. Your eting will be private. But don’t worry, even if natural instinct fails you, you can’t mistake him. He’ll enter through this door. He’s a handso young man with a fair complexion, perhaps a bit too fair, and pleasing manners. But you’ll see and judge for yourself."
"By the way," the major said, "you know I only have the two thousand francs Father Busoni sent , and I’ve already spent that on travel expenses, so-"
"And you need money. That’s perfectly natural, my dear Mr. Cavalcanti. Here are eight thousand francs as an advance."
The major’s eyes sparkled brilliantly.
"That makes forty thousand I still owe you," Monte Cristo said.
"Does your excellency need a receipt?" the major asked while smoothly slipping the money into his inside coat pocket.
"For what?" the count asked.
"I thought you might want it to show Father Busoni."
"Well, when you receive the remaining forty thousand, you can give a receipt for the full amount. Between honest n, such excessive precautions are unnecessary, don’t you think?"
"Yes, between truly honest people, absolutely."
"One more thing," Monte Cristo said.
"Go ahead."
"May I make a suggestion?"
"Of course, please do."
"I’d advise you to stop wearing that style of clothing."
"Really?" the major said, examining himself with complete satisfaction.
"Yes. It might be fine in your hotown, but that outfit, however elegant in itself, has been out of fashion in Paris for years."
"That’s unfortunate."
"Oh, if you’re really attached to your old wardrobe, you can always go back to it when you leave Paris."
"But what should I wear?"
"What’s in your luggage."
"My luggage? I only have one suitcase with ."
"I’m sure that’s all you brought. Why burden yourself with too many things? Besides, an old soldier always prefers to travel light."
"That’s exactly right, precisely so."
"But you’re a man of foresight and caution, so you sent your main luggage ahead. It’s already arrived at the Hotel des Princes on Rue de Richelieu. That’s where you’ll be staying."
"So in that luggage-"
"I assu you ordered your valet to pack everything you’d need, your regular clothes and your military uniform. You must wear your uniform on formal occasions. That will make an excellent impression. Don’t forget your dals and decorations. People here still laugh at them sotis, but everyone wears them anyway."
"Very well, very well," the major said, ecstatic at the count’s attention to every detail.
"Now," Monte Cristo said, "since you’ve fortified yourself against any emotional shock, prepare yourself, my dear Mr. Cavalcanti, to et your lost Andrea."
With that, Monte Cristo bowed and disappeared behind the tapestry, leaving the major utterly fascinated by the delightful reception he’d received from the count.
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