“I am going to give you a proof,” replied the count, and he rang the bell.
“Humph,” said Morcerf, “this is the second time you have refused to dine with my mother; it is evident that you wish to avoid her.”
Monte Cristo started. “Oh, you do not mean that,” said he; “besides, here comes the confirmation of my assertion.”
Baptistin entered, and remained standing at the door.
“I had no previous knowledge of your visit, had I?”
“Indeed, you are such an extraordinary person, that I would not answer for it.”
“At all events, I could not guess that you would invite me to dinner.”
“Probably not.”
“Well, listen, Baptistin, what did I tell you this morning when I called you into my laboratory?”
“To close the door against visitors as soon as the clock struck five,” replied the valet.
“What then?”
“Ah, my dear count,” said Albert.
“No, no, I wish to do away with that mysterious reputation that you have given me, my dear viscount; it is tiresome to be always acting Manfred. I wish my life to be free and open. Go on, Baptistin.”
“Then to admit no one except Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti and his son.”
“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 The Inferno, you remember it, do you not? Then there is his son, Andrea, a charming young man, about your own age, viscount, bearing the same title as yourself, and who is making his entry 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 proves himself worthy of it, I will do what I can to advance his interests. You will assist me in the work, will you not?”