“Take some more wine, my dear Cavalcanti,” said the count, pouring out for him a second glass of Alicante; “your emotion has quite overcome you.”
“His poor mother,” murmured the major, trying to get the lachrymal gland in operation, so as to moisten the corner of his eye with a false tear.
“She belonged to one of the first families in Italy, I think, did she not?”
“She was of a noble family of Fiesole, count.”
“And her name was——”
“Do you desire to know her name——?”
“Oh,” said Monte Cristo “it would be quite superfluous for you to tell me, for I already know it.”
“The count knows everything,” said the Italian, bowing.
“Oliva Corsinari, was it not?”
“Oliva Corsinari!”
“A marchioness?”
“A marchioness!”
“And you married her at last, notwithstanding the opposition of her family?”
“Yes, that was the way it ended.”
“And you have doubtless brought all your papers with you?” said Monte Cristo.
“What papers?”
“The certificate of your marriage with Oliva Corsinari, and the register of your child’s birth.”
“The register of my child’s birth?”
“The register of the birth of Andrea Cavalcanti—of your son; is not his name Andrea?”
“I believe so,” said the major.
“What? You believe so?”
“I dare not positively assert it, as he has been lost for so long a time.”
“Well, then,” said Monte Cristo “you have all the documents with you?”
“Your excellency, I regret to say that, not knowing it was necessary to come provided with these papers, I neglected to bring them.”