"You hear: Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti; a man who ranks amongst the most ancient nobility of Italy, whose name Dante has celebrated in the tenth canto of 'l'Inferno,'—you remember it, do you not I Then there is his son, a charming young man, about your own age, viscount, bearing the same title as yourself, and who is making his entrée into the Parisian world, aided by his father's millions. The major will bring his son with him this evening, the contino, as we say in Italy; he confides him to my care. If he prove himself worthy, I will push him on; you will assist me, will you not?"
"Most undoubtedly! This Major Cavalcanti is an old friend of yours, then?"
"By no means. He is a perfect nobleman, very polite, modest, and agreeable, such as may be found constantly in Italy, descendants of very ancient families. I have met him several times at Florence, Bologna, and Lucca, and he has now communicated to me the fact of his arrival in this place. The acquaintances one makes in traveling have a sort of claim on one: they everywhere expect to receive the same attention which you once paid them by chance; as though the civilities of a passing hour were likely to awaken any lasting interest in favor of the man in whose society you may happen to be thrown in the course of your journey. This good Major Cavalcanti is come to take a second view of Paris, which he only saw in passing through in the time of the Empire, when he was on his way to be frozen at Moscow. I shall give him a good dinner; he will confide his son to my care; I will promise to watch over him; I shall let him follow in whatever path his folly may lead him, and then I shall have done my part."
"Certainly; I see you are a precious Mentor," said Albert. "Good bye, we shall return on Sunday. By the way, I have received news of Franz."
"Have you f Is he still amusing himself in Italy?"
"I believe so; however, he regrets your absence extremely. He says you were the sun of Rome, and without you all appears cloudy; I do not know if he does not even go so far as to say that it rains."
"His opinion of me is altered for the better, then?"
"No, he still persists in looking upon you as the most incomprehensible and mysterious of beings."
"He is a charming young man," said Monte-Cristo, "and I felt a lively interest in him the very first evening of my introduction, when I met him in search of a supper, and prevailed upon him to accept a portion of mine. He is, I think, the son of General d'Epinay?"
"He is."
"The same who was so miserably assassinated in 1815?"
