The Count of Monte Cristo entered the adjoining room, which
Baptistin had designated as the drawing-room, and found
there a young man, of graceful demeanor and elegant
appearance, who had arrived in a cab about half an hour
previously. Baptistin had not found any difficulty in
recognizing the person who presented himself at the door for
admittance. He was certainly the tall young man with light
hair, red beard, black eyes, and brilliant complexion, whom
his master had so particularly described to him. When the
count entered the room the young man was carelessly
stretched on a sofa, tapping his boot with the gold-headed
cane which he held in his hand. On perceiving the count he
rose quickly. "The Count of Monte Cristo, I believe?" said
he.
"Yes, sir, and I think I have the honor of addressing Count
Andrea Cavalcanti?"
"Count Andrea Cavalcanti," repeated the young man,
accompanying his words with a bow.
"You are charged with a letter of introduction addressed to
me, are you not?" said the count.
"I did not mention that, because the signature seemed to me
so strange."
"The letter signed `Sinbad the Sailor,' is it not?"
"Exactly so. Now, as I have never known any Sinbad, with the
exception of the one celebrated in the `Thousand and One
Nights'" —
"Well, it is one of his descendants, and a great friend of
mine; he is a very rich Englishman, eccentric almost to
insanity, and his real name is Lord Wilmore."
"Ah, indeed? Then that explains everything that is
extraordinary," said Andrea. "He is, then, the same
Englishman whom I met — at — ah — yes, indeed. Well,
monsieur, I am at your service."
"If what you say be true," replied the count, smiling,
"perhaps you will be kind enough to give me some account of
yourself and your family?"
"Certainly, I will do so," said the young man, with a
quickness which gave proof of his ready invention. "I am (as
you have said) the Count Andrea Cavalcanti, son of Major
Bartolomeo Cavalcanti, a descendant of the Cavalcanti whose
names are inscribed in the golden book at Florence. Our
family, although still rich (for my father's income amounts
to half a million), has experienced many misfortunes, and I
myself was, at the age of five years, taken away by the
treachery of my tutor, so that for fifteen years I have not
seen the author of my existence. Since I have arrived at
years of discretion and become my own master, I have been
constantly seeking him, but all in vain. At length I
received this letter from your friend, which states that my
father is in Paris, and authorizes me to address myself to
you for information respecting him.
... Нет, я не верю! Неужели Я - бедное дитя ущелий, И мой отец - простой пастух, Раз небеса столь мощный дух В моей груди запечатлели? Он так величествен и смел, И я такие дали вижу, Что мне несносен мой удел. Всех, кто вокруг, я ненавижу И жажду знаменитых дел. Вчера(конечно, произвол Толкует сны, приукрашая) Мне снилось, будто бы орел Ко мне спустился и, венчая, Чело мне лаврами оплел. Гордыню в сердце затая, Я верю, хоть судьба моя Мне не сулит нигде исхода, Что иль обмолвилась природа, Иль я - не то, чем стала я. Умчитесь, ветры! Тишиной Оденьте землю! Не клоните Траву, омытую зарей! Ручьи, утихните, молчите, Уймите резвый говор свой! Смиритесь, угадав желанья, Давно таимые в тиши! Замрите, полные вниманья! Ведь не Нарциссы ли души - Те, кто влюблен в свои мечтанья? Когда б велел творец высот, Чтобы мечта, что в нас живет, В наглядный облик воплотилась, Я бы в мечту свою влюбилась, Узрев ее в кристалле вод.
