Neither the count nor Baptistin had lied when they told Morcerf that the major from Lucca was to visit, which was Monte Cristo's excuse for refusing the invitation to dinner.

The clock had just struck seven -- M. Bertuccio, as instructed, having left for Auteuil at two o'clock -- when a cab drew up at the door, then hurried off, in what looked like shame, immediately after depositing at the gate a man of around fifty-two, wearing one of those green frock-coats, frogged in black, which seem in Europe to belong to an undying breed of garment. Wide blue trousers; boots still clean, although their polish was questionable and their sole a trifle too thick; suede gloves; a hat, in shape close to a gendarme's; and a black collar edged in white which, if its owner were not wearing it by choice, might have been mistaken for an iron yoke: such was the picturesque costume worn by the person who rang the outer bell, asking if it was not here, at number 30, Avenue des Champs-Elysées, that the Count of Monte Cristo lived; and who, on receiving the answer "Yes", closed the gate behind him and walked towards the front steps.

"Really?" said the Luccan. "Your Excellency was expecting me?"

"Yes, you are. In any case, we can make sure."

"You were informed of my arrival?"

"Yes, I was informed that you would be arriving this evening at seven."

"Quite sure."

"That of informing you in advance."

"Which one?"

"No, not at all."

"I'm so glad. I must admit, I was afraid that they had forgotten to take that little precaution."

"But are you sure you are not mistaken?"

"Precisely."

The man's small, angular head, his greying hair and his thick, grey moustache identified him to Baptistin, who had a precise description of the visitor and was waiting for him in the hall. So, no sooner had he announced his name to the intelligent servant than Monte Cristo was informed of his arrival. The stranger was introduced into the simplest drawing-room, where the count was waiting and came to greet him with a welcoming smile.

"My dear sir," he said. "Welcome. I was expecting you."

"I am really the person that Your Excellency was expecting today at seven?"

"Bartolomeo Cavalcanti," the Luccan repeated, joyfully. "That's right."

"Yes."

"In any event," said Monte Cristo, "you have not come here on your own initiative."

"Yes, a major," said Monte Cristo. "That is the name we give in France to the rank that you held in Italy."

"Very well, I ask nothing better, you understand."

"Was I a major?" the old soldier asked timidly.

"You were sent by someone."

"No, no, certainly not."

"Now, let's see," said Monte Cristo. "Aren't you the Marquis Bartolomeo Cavalcanti?"

"So, you see! Give it to me." And Monte Cristo took the letter, opened it and read it. The major watched him, his eyes wide with astonishment, then looked curiously at every part of the room, though always eventually turning back to its owner.

"By the good Abbé Busoni?"

"Yes, there is!" said Monte Cristo. The man looked faintly uneasy.

"That's right!" the major exclaimed delightedly.

"Do you have a letter?"

"Here it is."

"Formerly a major in the service of the Austrian army?"

"Oh, if you were expecting me, there is no need," said the Luccan.

"'… who was abducted in his youth either by an enemy of his noble family or by gypsies.'"

"Yes, my God! Yes, one thing," said the Luccan with a sigh.

"Does it say half a million?" the Luccan asked.

Monte Cristo continued reading: "'… and who only needs one thing for his happiness…'"

"Here we are… the dear abbé… 'Major Cavalcanti, a worthy physician of Lucca, descendant of the Cavalcantis of Florence,'" Monte Cristo said, reading, "'… who possesses a fortune of half a million in income.'" The count looked up from the paper and bowed. "'Of half a million…' I say! My dear Monsieur Cavalcanti…"

"'… To find the son he adores.'"

"Let it be half a million, then," said the Luccan. "But, on my word, I didn't think it was such a sum."

"The son he adores!"

"That's because you have a steward who robs you. What do you expect, dear Monsieur Cavalcanti, we must all go through it."

"In so many words. And it must be true, because Abbé Busoni is the man who knows most about the great fortunes of Europe."

"You have just shown me the light," the Luccan said gravely. "I shall dismiss him."

"At the age of five, Monsieur," said the Luccan, sighing deeply and raising his eyes towards heaven.

"I can," said Monte Cristo.

"Poor father!" said Monte Cristo; then continued: "'I am giving him hope, I am restoring him to life, Monsieur le Comte, by telling him that you may be able to find this son, whom he has sought in vain for fifteen years.'"

The major drew himself up to his full height. "So!" he said. "So! The letter was true then from beginning to end?"

The Luccan looked at Monte Cristo with an indefinable expression of anxiety.

"Did you ever doubt it, my dear Monsieur Bartolomeo?"

"No, never. How could it be! A serious man like Abbé Busoni, a man with that aura of sanctity, could not allow himself to joke on such a matter. But you have not read everything, Excellency."

"True! There is a postscript."

"Yes," the Luccan repeated. "There is… a postscript."

"'To spare Major Cavalcanti the trouble of having to transfer funds to his banker, I am sending an order of two hundred thousand francs for his travelling expenses and a credit on you in the sum of forty-eight thousand francs which you still owe me.'"

"Carry on, Monsieur Cavalcanti!"

"So that you will give me the forty-eight thousand livres?"

"So?" Monte Cristo asked.

"But you are known…"

"He said 'good'," the Luccan muttered. "So, Monsieur…"

"Certainly. We have an arrangement, Abbé Busoni and I. I don't know if it is exactly forty-eight thousand livres that I owe him, but we are not going to quarrel about a few banknotes. Come, come! Did you attach such importance to that postscript, my dear Monsieur Cavalcanti?"

"The postscript…"

"You welcome it as favourably as the rest of the letter?"

"Good," the count said.

"I must confess," the Luccan replied, "that, full of confidence in Abbé Busoni's signature, I did not take any other funds with me so that, if this letter had failed, I should have been greatly embarrassed here in Paris."

"Heavens, not knowing anyone!" said the Luccan.

"What about the postscript?"

The major followed this postscript anxiously.

"Yes, I am known, so that…"

"Is a man like yourself ever embarrassed anywhere?" said Monte Cristo. "Come now!"

"Now," said the count, "would you like something to drink: a glass of sherry, port or alicante?"

"Alicante, since you offer it. It is my favourite wine."

"As soon as you request it." The major's eyes opened wide in astonishment. "But sit down," said Monte Cristo. "I really don't know what can have come over me. I have kept you standing for a quarter of an hour."

"With a biscuit, since you insist."

Baptistin returned with the glasses, the wine and the biscuits.

Baptistin went out.

Monte Cristo rang and Baptistin appeared. The count went over to him and whispered: "Well?"

"Please don't mention it." The major drew up a chair and sat down.

"In the blue drawing-room, as Your Excellency ordered."

"I really am embarrassed at the trouble I am giving you."

The count filled one glass and, into the second, poured only a few drops of the ruby liquid from the bottle, which was covered in cobwebs and all the other signs that indicate the age of a wine more surely than wrinkles do that of a man. The major followed the pouring out of the wine, and took the full glass and a biscuit.

"The young man is there," the valet answered, in the same manner.

"Perfect. Bring some alicante and biscuits."

"Oh, come now!" said Monte Cristo.

"Good. Have you brought him in?"

"I have some excellent alicante. With a biscuit, perhaps?"

"So, Monsieur," Monte Cristo said, "you live in Lucca, you are rich, you are noble, you enjoy universal respect: you have everything that might make a man happy."

"Which was to recover your child?"

The count ordered Baptistin to put the tray within reach of his guest's hand and the Luccan began by taking a sip of the alicante, giving a look of satisfaction, then gently dipping the biscuit into the glass.

"Everything, Excellency," the major said, devouring his biscuit. "Absolutely everything."

"There was only one thing needed to complete your happiness?"

"Only one thing."

"Ah!" said the major, taking another biscuit. "But it was a desperate need." He looked up and tried to sigh.

"Now, then, dear Monsieur Cavalcanti," Monte Cristo said. "Who was this much-loved son? Because I have been told that you remained a bachelor."

"Yes," Monte Cristo continued. "You gave credence to that belief. A youthful error that you wanted to hide from everyone."

"So people thought, Monsieur," said the major. "And I myself…"

"For his poor mother!" the Luccan muttered, trying to find out whether an effort of will might not act upon the lachrymal duct and dampen the corner of his eye with a false tear.

"Yes, Monsieur," he said. "I wanted to hide my error from everyone."

The Luccan drew himself up and adopted the calmest and most dignified air that he could, at the same time modestly lowering his eyes, either to keep up appearances or to assist his imagination, all the while looking from under his eyebrows at the count, the fixed smile on whose lips expressed the same unfailing, benevolent curiosity.

"Oh, no, certainly, not for my sake," the major said with a smile and a shake of the head.

"Not for your sake," said Monte Cristo. "A man is above such things."

"For his mother!" the Luccan exclaimed, taking a third biscuit. "For his poor mother!"

"Have another glass, dear Monsieur Cavalcanti," said Monte Cristo, pouring him some more alicante. "The emotion is stifling you."

"But for the child's mother," said the count.

"Who belonged to one of the leading families in Italy, I believe?"

"Well, by God, I can't be sure. It's so long since he disappeared."

"A patrician lady from Fiesole, Monsieur le Comte; a patrician from Fiesole."

"Olivia Corsinari."

"What papers?" the Luccan asked.

"The child's birth certificate?"

"A marchesa."

"Whose name was?"

"Yes, eventually!"

"A marchesa?"

"I think so," said the Luccan.

"Olivia Corsinari, if I'm not mistaken?"

"Monsieur le Comte knows everything," said the Luccan, with a bow.

"So, you have got your papers," said Monte Cristo. "All signed and sealed?"

"What do you mean: you think so?"

"Well, your marriage certificate and the child's birth certificate."

"Count, I regret to say that, not having been told to obtain these documents, I forgot to bring them with me."

"Whom you did eventually marry, despite the opposition of the family?"

"You want to know her name?"

"The birth certificate of Andrea Cavalcanti, your son. He was called Andrea, I believe?"

"Quite so," said Monte Cristo. "And you do have all these papers?"

"But of course!" said Monte Cristo. "No need to tell me. I know it."

"You do?"

"Of course. If anyone here should raise any doubt as to the validity of your marriage or the legitimacy of your child…!"

The Luccan scratched his head. "Ah, per Baccho!" he said. "Indispensable!"

"O peccato!"

"That's right," said the Luccan. "Doubts might be raised."

"Luckily, I do," said Monte Cristo.

"There's the rub. I don't have the papers."

"Were they absolutely essential?"

"Oh, the devil!" said Monte Cristo.

"You realize that in France the authorities are strict. It is not enough, as in Italy, to go and find a priest and say: 'We are in love, marry us!' There is civil marriage in France and, to be married in the eyes of the state, you must have papers to prove your identity."

"It could spoil a splendid match for him."

"It might be fatal."

"Yes."

"It would be troublesome for the young man."

"Quite indispensable!"

"You have them?"

"I have them."

"Well I never!" the Luccan exclaimed, having seen the object of his journey threatened by the absence of his papers and fearing that the omission might put some barrier between him and his forty-eight thousand livres. "Well I never! How fortunate! Yes," he continued, "how very fortunate, because I should never have thought of it myself."

"Good Lord, I suppose not. One cannot think of everything. But, luckily, Abbé Busoni thought of it for you."

"Almost impossible," said the major.

"He certainly will! Because if he were to lose them…"

"Here they are."

"You see: the dear abbé!"

The Luccan clapped his hands in admiration.

"I can see that you appreciate the value of these papers."

"If he were to lose them?" Monte Cristo asked.

"You married Olivia Corsinari in the Church of Santa Paula at Monte Catini. Here is the priest's certificate."

"Yes, by gad! There it is!" the major said, looking at it.

"All in order," said the major.

"An admirable one," said the Luccan. "Did he send the papers to you?"

"So, take these papers, which are of no use to me, and give them to your son who will keep them carefully."

"Well, we would have to write off to Italy," said the Luccan. "It would take a long time to get replacements."

"And here is the certificate of baptism of Andrea Cavalcanti, issued by the priest in Saravezza."

"A cautious man."

"Difficult, in fact," said Monte Cristo.

"And I mourn her still, Monsieur," said the major, taking a check handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing the left eye, then the right.

"I consider them priceless."

"No, Monsieur," Monte Cristo replied. "In any case, is she not…"

"Yes, yes," said the major. "She did…"

"Good Lord!" said the Luccan, who seemed to see new pitfalls constantly opening in front of his feet. "Will we need her?"

"Marchioness Corsinari?"

"Now," said Monte Cristo, "regarding the young man's mother?"

"Alas, yes!" the Luccan said eagerly.

"Pay her debt to nature?"

"As I knew," said Monte Cristo. "She died ten years ago."

"The young man's mother…" the major said anxiously.

"There is nothing to be done about it," said Monte Cristo. "We are all mortal. Now, my dear Monsieur Cavalcanti, you understand that it is not necessary for anyone in France to know that you have been separated from your son for fifteen years. All those stories of gypsies who steal children are not fashionable here. You sent him to be educated in a provincial college and you want him to finish his education in Parisian society. That is why you left Via Reggio, where you have been living since the death of your wife. That's all you need say."

"In this very house," said Monte Cristo. "The valet informed me of his arrival when he came in a moment ago."

"I guessed so," the Luccan replied, with the greatest coolness imaginable. "So, he is here?"

"Oh, yes! What should I say then?"

"If anyone found out about the separation…"

"Yes, certainly… had abducted the child to ensure the death of the name."

"Hum!" said the major.

"A pleasant one?" asked the Luccan.

"Your son, your child, your Andrea."

"Certainly."

"Well, now that we have settled everything and your memory has been refreshed, so that it will not let you down, you will no doubt have guessed that I have a surprise for you?"

"The Corsinari?"

"Ah!" said Monte Cristo. "I can see that one cannot deceive either the eye or the heart of a father."

"Someone has revealed something to you indiscreetly, or else you guessed that he was there."

"That is plausible, since he is an only child."

"Who was there?"

"Very well, then."

"That a faithless tutor, paid by the enemies of your family…"

"You think so?"

"You will bring him to me then? Does your generosity extend to introducing him to me yourself?"

"Well, then; we shall join you in a quarter of an hour."

"My dear sir," said Monte Cristo, "I understand your feelings. You must take time to compose yourself. I should also like to prepare the young man for this long-awaited interview, because I should imagine he is as impatient as you are."

"Good! Oh, very good! Very, very good!" the major said, grasping the frogging on his coat with each exclamation.

"No, I should not like to stand between a father and his son. You will be alone, major. But have no fear, even should the call of blood itself be silenced, you cannot be mistaken: he will come through this door. He is a handsome, fair-haired young man, with delightful manners. You will see."

"You need money… Of course you do, dear Monsieur Cavalcanti. Here, for a start, are eight thousand-franc notes."

"I imagine so," said Cavalcanti.

"By the way," the major said, "you know that I only brought with me the two thousand francs that the good Abbé Busoni gave me. They paid for my journey and…"

"For what purpose?" said the count.

The major's eyes shone like emeralds.

"Oh, if you are really attached to it, pick it up on your way out."

"What is it? Just tell me."

"How annoying," said the Luccan.

"What?"

"Well, then, give me a general receipt when you have the last forty thousand francs. Between honest men such precautions are unnecessary."

"Now, one last thing, Marquis."

"Would you permit me to make a small suggestion?"

"Really!" said the major, looking at the garment with some affection.

"Of course," said the major. "Between honest men."

"In that way I still owe you forty thousand francs," said Monte Cristo.

"To settle your debt with Abbé Busoni?"

"It might not be a bad idea to take off your greatcoat."

"But what can I put on?"

"Yes, though it may still be worn in Via Reggio, in Paris that style of dress, elegant though it may be, has long since gone out of fashion."

"Would Your Excellency like a receipt?" the major asked, slipping the notes into the inner pocket of his greatcoat.

"You will find something in your luggage."

"Which is precisely why…"

"But you are a careful man, so you sent your trunks on in advance. They arrived yesterday at the Hôtel des Princes, in the Rue Richelieu. That is where you are booked in."

"With you, of course. Why weigh oneself down? In any case, an old soldier likes to travel light."

"And in the trunks?"

"What do you mean: in my luggage? I only have a portmanteau."

"I assume you took the precaution of getting your valet to pack everything you need: city clothes, uniform. On important occasions, you will wear your uniform: it makes a good impression. Don't forget your cross. People sneer at it in France, but they always wear it."

"Yes, very well, very well!" the major said, mounting from one level of astonishment to another.

"And now," Monte Cristo said, "when your heart has been strengthened against any too violent emotion, prepare, Monsieur Cavalcanti, to see your son Andrea." At which, giving a delightful bow to the Luccan, enchanted, ecstatic, Monte Cristo disappeared behind the hangings.