"'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 Abbe 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 Abbe 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 Abbe 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.
"But then you yourself are known to others?"
"Yes, I am known, so that"—
"Proceed, my dear Monsieur Cavalcanti."
"So that you will remit to me these 48,000 francs?"
"Certainly, at your first request."
The major's eyes dilated with pleasing astonishment.
"But sit down," said Monte Cristo; "really I do not know what I have been thinking of—I have positively kept you standing for the last quarter of an hour."
"Don't mention it."
The major drew an arm-chair towards him, and proceeded to seat himself.
"Now," said the count, "what will you take—a glass of port, sherry, or Alicante?"
"Alicante, if you please; it is my favorite wine."
"I have some that is very good.
You will take a biscuit with it, will you not?"
"Yes, I will take a biscuit, as you are so obliging."
Monte Cristo rang; Baptistin appeared.
The count advanced to meet him.
"Well?" said he in a low voice.
"The young man is here," said the valet de chambre in the same tone.
"Into what room did you take him?"
"Into the blue drawing-room, according to your excellency's orders."
"That's right; now bring the Alicante and some biscuits."
Baptistin left the room.
"Really," said the major, "I am quite ashamed of the trouble I am giving you."
"Pray don't mention such a thing," said the count.
Baptistin re-entered with glasses, wine, and biscuits.
The count filled one glass, but in the other he only poured a few drops of the ruby-colored liquid. The bottle was covered with spiders' webs, and all the other signs which indicate the age of wine more truly than do wrinkles on a man's face.