tell you a secret.”
“What is it?”
“But remember—”
“Ah! pardieu! mute as a carp.”
“Well, I think—”
Andrea stopped and looked around.
“You think? Do not fear; pardieu! we are alone.”
“I think I have discovered my father.”
“Your true father?”
“Yes.”
“Not old Cavalcanti?”
“No, for he has gone again; the true one, as you say.”
“And that father is—”
“Well, Caderousse, it is Monte Cristo.”
“Bah!”
“Yes, you understand, that explains all. He cannot acknowledge me openly, it appears, but he does it through M. Cavalcanti, and gives him fifty thousand francs for it.”
“Fifty thousand francs for being your father? I