“Here they are.”
The major clasped his hands in token of admiration.
“You married Oliva Corsinari in the church of San Paolo del Monte-Cattini; here is the priest’s certificate.”
“Yes indeed, there it is truly,” said the Italian, looking on with astonishment.
“And here is Andrea Cavalcanti’s baptismal register, given by the curé of Saravezza.”
“All quite correct.”
“Take these documents, then; they do not concern me. You will give them to your son, who will, of course, take great care of them.”
“I should think so, indeed! If he were to lose them—”
“Well, and if he were to lose them?” said Monte Cristo.
“In that case,” replied the major, “it would be necessary to write to the curé for duplicates, and it would be some time before they could be obtained.”
“It would be a difficult matter to arrange,” said Monte Cristo.
“Almost an impossibility,” replied the major.
“I am very glad to see that you understand the value of these papers.”
“I regard them as invaluable.”
“Now,” said Monte Cristo, “as to the mother of the young man—”
“As to the mother of the young man—” repeated the Italian, with anxiety.