“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 banker, I send him a draft for 2,000 francs to defray his travelling expenses, and credit on you for the further sum of 48,000 francs, which you still owe me.’ ”
The major awaited the conclusion of the postscript, apparently with great anxiety.
“Very good,” said the count.
“He said ‘very good,’ ” muttered the major, “then—sir—” replied he.
“Then what?” asked Monte Cristo.
“Then the postscript—”
“Well; what of the postscript?”
“Then the postscript is as favorably received by you as the rest of the letter?”