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