“My dear sir,” said Monte Cristo, “I understand your emotion; you must have time to recover yourself. I will, in the meantime, go and prepare the young man for this much-desired interview, for I presume that he is not less impatient for it than yourself.”
“I should quite imagine that to be the case,” said Cavalcanti.
“Well, in a quarter of an hour he shall be with you.”
“You will bring him, then? You carry your goodness so far as even to present him to me yourself?”
“No; I do not wish to come between a father and son. Your interview will be private. But do not be uneasy; even if the powerful voice of nature should be silent, you cannot well mistake him; he will enter by this door. He is a fine young man, of fair complexion—a little too fair, perhaps—pleasing in manners; but you will see and judge for yourself.”
“By the way,” said the major, “you know I have only the 2,000 francs which the Abbé Busoni sent me; this sum I have expended upon travelling expenses, and—”
“And you want money; that is a matter of course, my dear M. Cavalcanti. Well, here are 8,000 francs on account.”
The major’s eyes sparkled brilliantly.
“It is 40,000 francs which I now owe you,” said Monte Cristo.
“Does your excellency wish for a receipt?” said the major, at the same time slipping the money into the inner pocket of his coat.
“For what?” said the count.
“I thought you might want it to show the Abbé Busoni.”