"And I am still mourning her loss!" exclaimed the major, drawing from his pocket a checked handkerchief, and alternately wiping first the right and then the left eye.
"What would you have?" said Monte-Cristo; "we are all mortal. Now, you understand, my dear M. Cavalcanti, that it is useless for you to tell people in France that you have been separated from your son for fifteen years. Stories of gypsies who steal children are not at all in vogue in this part of the world, and would not be believed. You sent him for his education to a college in one of the provinces, and now you wish him to complete his education in the Parisian world. That is the reason which has induced you to leave Via Eeggio, where you have lived since the death of your wife. That will be sufficient."
"You think so?"
"Certainly."
"Very well, then."
"If they should hear of the separation"
"Ah, yes; what could I say?"
"That an unfaithful tutor, bought over by the enemies of your family"
"By the Corsinari?"
"Precisely. Had stolen this child away, in order that your name might become extinct."
"That will do well, since he is an only son."
"Well, now that all is arranged, do not let these newly awakened remembrances be forgotten. You have doubtless already guessed that I was preparing a surprise for you?"
"An agreeable one?" asked the Italian.
"Ah, I see the eye of a father is no more to be deceived than his heart."
"Hum!" said the major.
"Some one has told you the secret; or, perhaps, you guessed that he was here."
"That who was here?"
"Your child—your son—your Andrea!"
"I did guess it," replied the major, with the greatest sang-froid possible. "Then he is here?"
"He is," said Monte-Cristo; "when the valet-de-chambre came in just now, he told me of his arrival."
"Ah, very well, very well!" said the major, clutching the buttons of his coat at each exclamation which he made.
"My dear sir," said Monte-Cristo, "I understand all your emotion; you must have time to recover yourself. I will, in the mean time, go
