“What papers?”
“The certificate of your marriage with Oliva Corsinari, and the register of your child’s birth.”
“The register of my child’s birth?”
“The register of the birth of Andrea Cavalcanti—of your son; is not his name Andrea?”
“I believe so,” said the major.
“What? You believe so?”
“I dare not positively assert it, as he has been lost for so long a time.”
“Well, then,” said Monte Cristo, “you have all the documents with you?”
“Your excellency, I regret to say that, not knowing it was necessary to come provided with these papers, I neglected to bring them.”
“That is unfortunate,” returned Monte Cristo.
“Were they, then, so necessary?”
“They were indispensable.”
The major passed his hand across his brow. “Ah, perbacco , indispensable, were they?”
“Certainly they were; supposing there were to be doubts raised as to the validity of your marriage or the legitimacy of your child?”
“True,” said the major, “there might be doubts raised.”
“In that case your son would be very unpleasantly situated.”
“It would be fatal to his interests.”