“And does my father mean to remain long in Paris?” asked Andrea.
“Only a few days,” replied Monte Cristo. “His service does not allow him to absent himself more than two or three weeks together.”
“Ah, my dear father!” exclaimed Andrea, evidently charmed with the idea of his speedy departure.
“Therefore,” said Monte Cristo feigning to mistake his meaning—“therefore I will not, for another instant, retard the pleasure of your meeting. Are you prepared to embrace your worthy father?”
“I hope you do not doubt it.”
“Go, then, into the drawing-room, my young friend, where you will find your father awaiting you.”
Andrea made a low bow to the count, and entered the adjoining room. Monte Cristo watched him till he disappeared, and then touched a spring in a panel made to look like a picture, which, in sliding partly from the frame, discovered to view a small opening, so cleverly contrived that it revealed all that was passing in the drawing-room now occupied by Cavalcanti and Andrea. The young man closed the door behind him, and advanced towards the major, who had risen when he heard steps approaching him.
“Ah, my dear father!” said Andrea in a loud voice, in order that the count might hear him in the next room, “is it really you?”
“How do you do, my dear son?” said the major gravely.
“After so many years of painful separation,” said Andrea, in the same tone of voice, and glancing towards the door, “what a happiness it is to meet again!”