“Exactly so,” said the delighted major.
“And you have a letter?”
“Yes, there it is.”
“Give it to me, then.” And Monte Cristo took the letter, which he opened and read. The major looked at the count with his large staring eyes, and then took a survey of the apartment, but his gaze almost immediately reverted to the proprietor of the room.
“Yes, yes, I see. ‘Major Cavalcanti, a worthy patrician of Lucca, a descendant of the Cavalcanti of Florence,’” continued Monte Cristo, reading aloud, “‘possessing an income of half a million.’”
Monte Cristo raised his eyes from the paper, and bowed.
“Half a million,” said he, “magnificent!”
“Half a million, is it?” said the major.
“Yes, in so many words; and it must be so, for the abbé knows correctly the amount of all the largest fortunes in Europe.”
“Be it half a million, then; but on my word of honor, I had no idea that it was so much.”
“Because you are robbed by your steward. You must make some reformation in that quarter.”
“You have opened my eyes,” said the Italian gravely; “I will show the gentlemen the door.”
Monte Cristo resumed the perusal of the letter:
“‘And who only needs one thing more to make him happy.’”
“Yes, indeed but one!” said the major with a sigh.
“‘Which is to recover a lost and adored son.’”
“A lost and adored son!”
“‘Stolen away in his infancy, either by an enemy of his noble family or by the gypsies.’”
“At the age of five years!” said the major with a deep sigh, and raising his eye to heaven.
“Unhappy father,” said Monte Cristo. The count continued:
“‘I have given him renewed life and hope, in the assurance that you have the power of restoring the son whom he has vainly sought for fifteen years.’”
The major looked at the count with an indescribable expression of anxiety.
“I have the power of so doing,” said Monte Cristo. The major recovered his self-possession.
“So, then,” said he, “the letter was true to the end?”
“Did you doubt it, my dear Monsieur Bartolomeo?”
“No, indeed; certainly not; a good man, a man holding religious office, as does the Abbé Busoni, could not condescend to deceive or play off a joke; but your excellency has not read all.”
“Ah, true,” said Monte Cristo “there is a postscript.”
“Yes, yes,” repeated the major, “yes—there—is—a—postscript.”
“‘In order to save Major Cavalcanti the trouble of drawing on his banker, I send him a draft for 2,000 francs to defray his travelling expenses, and credit on you for the further sum of 48,000 francs, which you still owe me.’”
The major awaited the conclusion of the postscript, apparently with great anxiety.
“Very good,” said the count.
“He said ‘very good,’” muttered the major, “then—sir——” replied he.
“Then what?” asked Monte Cristo.
“Then the postscript——”
“Well; what of the postscript?”
“Then the postscript is as favorably received by you as the rest of the letter?”
“Certainly; the Abbé Busoni and myself have a small account open between us. I do not remember if it is exactly 48,000 francs, which I am still owing him, but I dare say we shall not dispute the difference. You attached great importance, then, to this postscript, my dear Monsieur Cavalcanti?”
“I must explain to you,” said the major, “that, fully confiding in the signature of the Abbé Busoni, I had not provided myself with any other funds; so that if this resource had failed me, I should have found myself very unpleasantly situated in Paris.”
“Is it possible that a man of your standing should be embarrassed anywhere?” said Monte Cristo.
“Why, really I know no one,” said the major.