The Count of Monte Cristo

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Cavalcanti,--whom the banker persisted in calling prince,--a fresh
breeze was stirring the leaves in the little garden in front of the
Count of Monte Cristo's house, and the count was preparing to go out.
While his horses were impatiently pawing the ground,--held in by the
coachman, who had been seated a quarter of an hour on his box,--the
elegant phaeton with which we are familiar rapidly turned the angle of
the entrance-gate, and cast out on the doorsteps M. Andrea Cavalcanti,
as decked up and gay as if he were going to marry a princess. He
inquired after the count with his usual familiarity, and ascending
lightly to the second story met him at the top of the stairs. The count
stopped on seeing the young man. As for Andrea, he was launched, and
when he was once launched nothing stopped him. "Ah, good morning,
my dear count," said he. "Ah, M. Andrea," said the latter, with his
half-jesting tone; "how do you do."

"Charmingly, as you see. I am come to talk to you about a thousand
things; but, first tell me, were you going out or just returned?"