The Count of Monte Cristo Alexandre Dumas (classic novels to read TXT) 📖

of the sickly moons which bad artists are so fond of daubing into their pictures of ruins. “But, while we are speaking of business,” Danglars added, pleased to find an opportunity of changing the subject, “tell me what I am to do for M. Cavalcanti.”

“Give him money, if he is recommended to you, and the recommendation seems good.”

“Excellent; he presented himself this morning with a bond of 40,000 francs, payable at sight, on you, signed by Busoni, and returned by you to me, with your endorsement⁠—of course, I immediately counted him over the forty banknotes.”

Monte Cristo nodded his head in token of assent.

“But that is not all,” continued Danglars; “he has opened an account with my house for his son.”

“May I ask how much he allows the young man?”

“Five thousand francs per month.”

“Sixty thousand francs per year. I thought I was right in believing that Cavalcanti to be a stingy fellow. How can a young man live upon 5,000 francs a month?”

“But you understand that if the young man should want a few thousands more⁠—”

“Do not advance it; the father will never repay it. You do not know these ultramontane millionaires; they are regular misers. And by whom were they recommended to you?”

“Oh, by the house of Fenzi, one of the best in Florence.”

“I do not mean to say you will lose, but, nevertheless, mind you hold to the terms of the agreement.”

“Would you not trust the Cavalcanti?”

“I? oh, I would advance ten millions on his signature. I was only speaking in reference to the second-rate fortunes we were mentioning just now.”

“And with all this, how unassuming he is! I should never have taken him for anything more than a mere major.”

“And you would have flattered him, for certainly, as you say, he has no manner. The first time I saw him he appeared to me like an old lieutenant who had grown mouldy under his epaulets. But all the Italians are the same; they are like old Jews when they are not glittering in Oriental splendor.”

“The young man is better,” said Danglars.

“Yes; a little nervous, perhaps, but, upon the whole, he appeared tolerable. I was uneasy about him.”

“Why?”

“Because you met him at my house, just after his introduction into the world, as they told me. He has been travelling with a very severe tutor, and had never been to Paris before.”

“Ah, I believe noblemen marry amongst themselves, do they not?” asked Danglars carelessly; “they like to unite their fortunes.”

“It is usual, certainly; but Cavalcanti is an original who does nothing like other people. I cannot help thinking that he has brought his son to France to choose a wife.”

“Do you think so?”

“I am sure of it.”

“And you have heard his fortune mentioned?”

“Nothing else was talked of; only some said he was worth millions, and others that he did not possess a farthing.”

“And what is your opinion?”

“I ought not to influence you, because it is only my own personal impression.”

“Well, and it is that⁠—”

“My opinion is, that all these old podestàs, these ancient condottieri⁠—for the Cavalcanti have commanded armies and governed provinces⁠—my opinion, I say, is, that they have buried their millions in corners, the secret of which they have transmitted only to their eldest sons, who have done the same from generation to generation; and the proof of this is seen in their yellow and dry appearance, like the florins of the republic, which, from being constantly gazed upon, have become reflected in them.”

“Certainly,” said Danglars, “and this is further supported by the fact of their not possessing an inch of land.”

“Very little, at least; I know of none which Cavalcanti possesses, excepting his palace in Lucca.”

“Ah, he has a palace?” said Danglars, laughing; “come, that is something.”

“Yes; and more than that, he lets it to the Minister of Finance while he lives in a simple house. Oh, as I told you before, I think the old fellow is very close.”

“Come, you do not flatter him.”

“I scarcely know him; I think I have seen him three times in my life; all I know relating to him is through Busoni and himself. He was telling me this morning that, tired of letting his property lie dormant in Italy, which is a dead nation, he wished to find a method, either in France or England, of multiplying his millions, but remember, that though I place great confidence in Busoni, I am not responsible for this.”

“Never mind; accept my thanks for the client you have sent me. It is a fine name to inscribe on my ledgers, and my cashier was quite proud of it when I explained to him who the Cavalcanti were. By the way, this is merely a simple question, when this sort of people marry their sons, do they give them any fortune?”

“Oh, that depends upon circumstances. I know an Italian prince, rich as a gold mine, one of the noblest families in Tuscany, who, when his sons married according to his wish, gave them millions; and when they married against his consent, merely allowed them thirty crowns a month. Should Andrea marry according to his father’s views, he will, perhaps, give him one, two, or three millions. For example, supposing it were the daughter of a banker, he might take an interest in the house of the father-in-law of his son; then again, if he disliked his choice, the major takes the key, double-locks his coffer, and Master Andrea would be obliged to live like the sons of a Parisian family, by shuffling cards or rattling the dice.”

“Ah, that boy will find out some Bavarian or Peruvian princess; he will want a crown, an El Dorado, and Potosí.”

“No; these grand lords on the other side of the Alps frequently marry into plain families; like Jupiter, they like to cross the race. But do you wish to marry Andrea, my dear M. Danglars, that you are asking so many questions?”

“Ma foi,” said Danglars, “it would not be a bad speculation, I fancy, and you know I am a