The Count of Monte Cristo entered the adjoining salon which Baptistine had designated under the name of the blue salon, and where a young man of loose form, fairly elegantly dressed, had just preceded him, and that a cabriolet of place had, a half -hour before, thrown at the door of the hotel. Baptistin had no difficulty in recognizing him; it was that tall young man with blond hair, red beard, black eyes, whose ruddy complexion and dazzling white skin had been pointed out to him by his master. was lying casually on a sofa, distractedly whipping his boot with a little bangle with a golden apple. On seeing Monte Cristo, he rose quickly. "Monsieur is the Comte de Monte-Cristo?" he said. "Yes, sir," replied the latter, "and I have the honor to speak, I believe to Monsieur le Vicomte Andrea Cavalcanti? "" Viscount Andrea Cavalcanti, "repeated the young man, accompanying these words with a casual salute." You must have a letter which accredits you to me? said Monte-Cristo. "I didn't mention it to you because of the signature, which struck me as strange." Simbad the sailor, isn't it? "" Exactly. Now, as I have never known another Simbad the sailor than that of Thousand and One Nights .... original, almost mad, whose real name is Lord Wilmore. - Ah! that explains everything to me, said Andrea. So it is going wonderfully. It is this same Englishman whom I knew ... at ... yes, very well! ... Monsieur le Comte, I am your servant. "" If what you do me the honor to tell me is true, replied the count, smiling, I hope you will be good enough to give me some details about you and your family. "" Willingly, Monsieur le Comte, "replied the young man with a volubility which proved the solidity of his memory. I am, as you said, Viscount Andrea Cavalcanti, son of Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti descendant of the Cavalcanti registered in the Florence Golden Book. Our family, although still very rich since my father has an income of half a million, has experienced many misfortunes, and myself, sir, at the age of five or six I was kidnapped by an unfaithful governor; so that for fifteen years I have not seen the author of my days. Since I have the age of reason, since I have been free and in control of myself, I have been looking for him, but in vain. Finally this letter from your friend Simbad tells me that he is in Paris,