“Why?” said Château-Renaud.
“You pretend not to know,—because government was not rich enough.”
“Ah, pardon me,” said Château-Renaud; “I have heard of these things every day during the last eight years, and I cannot understand them yet.”
“You will, by and by,” said Debray.
“I think not,” replied Château-Renaud.
“Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti and Count Andrea Cavalcanti,” announced Baptistin.
A black satin stock, fresh from the maker’s hands, gray moustaches, a bold eye, a major’s uniform, ornamented with three medals and five crosses—in fact, the thorough bearing of an old soldier—such was the appearance of Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti, that tender father with whom we are already acquainted. Close to him, dressed in entirely new clothes, advanced smilingly Count Andrea Cavalcanti, the dutiful son, whom we also know. The three young people were talking together. On the entrance of the new-comers, their eyes glanced from father to son, and then, naturally enough, rested on the latter, whom they began criticising.
“Cavalcanti!” said Debray.
“A fine name,” said Morrel.
“Yes,” said Château-Renaud, “these Italians are well named and badly dressed.”