“Was I a major?” timidly asked the old soldier.
“Yes,” said Monte Cristo, “you were a major; that is the title the French give to the post which you filled in Italy.”
“Very good,” said the major, “I do not demand more, you understand—”
“Your visit here today is not of your own suggestion, is it?” said Monte Cristo.
“No, certainly not.”
“You were sent by some other person?”
“Yes.”
“By the excellent Abbé Busoni?”
“Exactly so,” said the delighted major.
“And you have a letter?”
“Yes, there it is.”
“Give it to me, then.” And Monte Cristo took the letter, which he opened and read. The major looked at the count with his large staring eyes, and then took a survey of the apartment, but his gaze almost immediately reverted to the proprietor of the room.
“Yes, yes, I see. ‘Major Cavalcanti, a worthy patrician of Lucca, a descendant of the Cavalcanti of Florence,’ ” continued Monte Cristo, reading aloud, “ ‘possessing an income of half a million.’ ”
Monte Cristo raised his eyes from the paper, and bowed.
“Half a million,” said he, “magnificent!”
“Half a million, is it?” said the major.