"Where should I begin, your excellency?" Bertuccio asked.
"Wherever you wish," Monte Cristo replied. "I know nothing about your story."
"I thought Father Busoni had told you."
"Perhaps some details, but that was seven or eight years ago. I've forgotten most of it."
"Then I can speak freely without boring you."
"Go ahead, Bertuccio. You'll be better entertainment than the evening news."
"The story begins in 1815."
"Ah," Monte Cristo said, "that's quite a long time ago."
"Yes, sir, but I remember everything as clearly as if it happened yesterday. I had a brother, an older brother who served in the military under Napoleon. He'd risen to lieutenant in a regiment made up entirely of men from Corsica, my homeland. This brother was my only family. We became orphans when I was five and he was eighteen. He raised me like his own son, and in 1814, he got married.
