“Since you left Toulon what have you lived on? Answer me!”
“On what I could get.”
“You lie,” repeated the abbé a third time, with a still more imperative tone. Caderousse, terrified, looked at the count. “You have lived on the money he has given you.”
“True,” said Caderousse; “Benedetto has become the son of a great lord.”
“How can he be the son of a great lord?”
“A natural son.”
“And what is that great lord’s name?”
“The Count of Monte Cristo, the very same in whose house we are.”
“Benedetto the count’s son?” replied Monte Cristo, astonished in his turn.
“Well, I should think so, since the count has found him a false father—since the count gives him four thousand francs a month, and leaves him 500,000 francs in his will.”
“Ah, yes,” said the factitious abbé, who began to understand; “and what name does the young man bear meanwhile?”
“Andrea Cavalcanti.”
“Is it, then, that young man whom my friend the Count of Monte Cristo has received into his house, and who is going to marry Mademoiselle Danglars?”
“Exactly.”