"You have opened my eyes," said the Italian, gravely; "I will show the gentleman the door."
Monte-Cristo resumed the perusal of the letter:
"'And who only needs one thing more to make him happy.'"
"Yes, indeed! but one!" said the major, with a sigh.
"'Which is to recover a lost and adored son.'"
"A lost and adored son!"
"Stolen away in his infancy, either by an enemy of his noble family or by the gypsies.'"
"At the age of five years!" said the major with a deep sigh, and raising his eyes to heaven.
"Unhappy father!" said Monte-Cristo. The count continued:
"'I have given him renewed life and hope, in the assurance that you have the power of restoring the son whom he has vainly sought for fifteen years.'"
The major looked at the count with an indescribable expression of anxiety.
"I have the power of so doing," said Monte-Cristo. The major recovered his self-possession.
"Ah! ah!" said he, "the letter was true, then, to the end?"
"Did you doubt it, M. Bartolomeo?"
"No, indeed; certainly not; a good man, a man holding a religious office, as does the Abbe Busoni, could not condescend to deceive or play off a joke; but your excellency has not read all."
"Ah! true!" said Monte-Cristo, "there is a postscript."
"Yes, yes," repeated the major, "yes—there—is—a—postscript."
"'In order to save Major Cavalcanti the trouble of drawing on his banker, I send him a draft for two thousand francs to defray his traveling expenses, and credit on you for the further sum of forty-eight thousand francs, which you still owe me.'"
The major awaited the conclusion of the postscript, apparently with great anxiety.
"Very good," said the count.
"He said 'Very good,'" muttered the major. "Then—sir—replied he.
"Then what?" asked Monte-Cristo.
"Then the postscript"
"Well! what of the postscript?"
