The Count of Monte Cristo

“I don’t call those friends who betray and ruin you,” murmured the wife, in her turn, in a low, muttering voice.

“Of course not!” rejoined Caderousse quickly, “no more do I; and that was what I was observing to this gentleman just now. I said I looked upon it as a sacrilegious profanation to reward treachery, perhaps crime.”

“Remember,” answered the abbé calmly, as he replaced the jewel and its case in the pocket of his cassock, “it is your fault, not mine, that I do so. You will have the goodness to furnish me with the address of both Fernand and Danglars, in order that I may execute Edmond’s last wishes!”

The agitation of Caderousse became extreme, and large drops of perspiration rolled from his heated brows. As he saw the abbé rise from his seat and go towards the door, as though to ascertain if his horse were sufficiently refreshed to continue his journey, Caderousse and his wife exchanged looks of deep meaning with each other.

“There you see, wife,” said the former, “this splendid diamond might be all ours if we chose!”

“Do you believe it?”

“Why, surely a man of his holy profession would not deceive us!”

“Well,” replied La Carconte, “do as you like. For my part I wash my hands of the affair.”

So saying, she once more climbed the staircase leading to her chamber, her frame shuddering with aguish chills, and her teeth rattling in her head, spite of the intense heat of the weather. Arrived at the top stair, she turned round, and called out in a warning tone to her husband:

“Gaspard, consider well what you are about to do!”

“I have both reflected and decided,” answered he.

La Carconte then entered her chamber, the flooring of which creaked beneath her heavy, uncertain tread, as she proceeded towards her armchair, into which she fell as though exhausted.

“Well,” asked the abbé, as he returned to the apartment below, “what have you made up your mind to do?”

“To tell you all I know,” was the reply.

“I certainly think you act wisely in so doing,” said the priest. “Not because I have the least desire to learn anything you may desire to conceal from me, but simply that if, through your assistance, I could distribute the legacy according to the wishes of the testator, why so much the better, that is all.”

“I trust, indeed, such will be the case, and that poor Edmond’s dying bequest will be given only to such as you shall be convinced are his faithful and attached friends,” replied Caderousse, his eyes sparkling and his face flushed with the hope of obtaining all himself.

“Now, then, begin, if you please,” said the abbé, “I am all attention.”

“Stop a minute,” answered Caderousse, “we might be interrupted in the most interesting part of my recital, which would be a pity, and it is as well that your visit hither should be made known only to ourselves.”

With these words he went stealthily to the door, which he closed, and by way of still greater precaution, bolted and barred it as he was accustomed to do at night. During this time the abbé had chosen his place for listening to the painful recital he expected Caderousse’s would prove; he removed his seat into a corner of the room, where he himself would be in deep shadow, while the light would be fully thrown on the narrator; then, with head bent down and hands clasped or rather clenched together, he prepared to give his whole attention to Caderousse, who seated himself on the little stool, exactly opposite to him.

“Remember, I did not urge you to this,” said the trembling voice of La Carconte, as though through the flooring of her chamber she viewed the scene that was enacting below.

“Enough, enough!” replied Caderousse, “say no more about it; I will take all the consequences upon myself.”

He then commenced as follows.

27 The Tale (#ulink_40a53e17-c55c-5a2e-9bc3-d44a4836dc6f)

“FIRST,” SAID CADEROUSSE, “sir, you must make me a promise.”

“What is that?” inquired the abbé.

“Why, if you ever make use of the details I am about to give you, that you will never let any one know that it was I who supplied them, for the persons of whom I am about to talk are rich and powerful, and if they only laid the tips of their fingers on me, I should break to pieces like glass.”

“Make yourself easy, my friend,” replied the abbé; “I am a priest, and confessions die in my breast; recollect our only desire is to carry out in a fitting manner the last wishes of our friend. Speak, then, without reserve as without hatred; tell the truth, the whole truth; I do not know, never may know, the persons of whom you are about to speak; besides, I am an Italian and not a Frenchman, and belong to God and not to man, and I retire to my convent, which I have only quitted to fulfil the last wishes of a dying man.”

This last assurance seemed to give Caderousse courage.

“Well, then, under these circumstances,” said Caderousse, “I will; indeed, I ought to undeceive you as to the friendship which poor Edmond believed so sincere and unquestionable.”

“Begin with his father, if you please,” said the abbé; “Edmond talked to me a great deal about the old man, for whom he had the deepest love.”

“The history is a sad one, sir,” said Caderousse, shaking his head; “perhaps you know all the earlier part of it?”

“Yes,” answered the abbé, “Edmond related to me everything until the moment when he was arrested in a small cabaret close to Marseilles.”

“At La Réserve! oh, yes! I can see it all before me this moment.”

“Was it not his betrothal feast?”

“It was; and the feast that began so gaily had a very sorrowful ending: a commissary of police, followed by four soldiers, entered and Dantès was arrested.”

“Yes, and up to this point I know all,” said the priest. “Dantès himself only knew that which personally concerned him, for he never beheld again the five persons I have named to you, nor heard mention of any one of them.”

“Well, when Dantès was arrested, M. Morrel hastened to obtain the particulars, and they were very sad. The old man returned alone to his home, folded up his wedding suit with tears in his eyes, and paced up and down his chamber the whole day, and would not go to bed at all, for I was underneath him and heard him walking the whole night; and for myself, I assure you I could not sleep either, for the grief of the poor father gave me great uneasiness, and every step he took went to my heart as really as if his foot had pressed against my breast.

“The next day, Mercédès came to implore the protection of M. de Villefort; she did not obtain it, however, and went to visit the old man; when she saw him so miserable and heart-broken, having passed a sleepless night, and not touched food since the previous day, she wished him to go with her that she might take care of him; but the old man would not consent.

“‘No,’ was the old man’s reply, ‘I will not leave this house, for my poor dear boy loves me better than anything in the world; and if he gets out of prison he will come and see me the first thing, and what would he think if I did not wait here for him?’

“I heard all this from the window, for I was anxious that Mercédès should persuade the old man to accompany her, for his footsteps over my head night and day did not leave me a moment’s repose.”

“But did you not go upstairs and try to console the poor old man?” asked the abbé.

“Ah, sir!” replied Caderousse, “we cannot console those who will not be consoled, and he was one of these; besides, I know not why, but he seemed to dislike seeing me. One night, however, I heard his sobs, and I could not resist my desire to go up to him; but when I reached his door he was no longer weeping, but praying: I cannot now repeat to you, sir, all the eloquent words and imploring language he made use of; it was more than piety, it was more than grief: and I, who am no canter and hate the Jesuits, said then to myself, ‘It is really well, and I am very glad that I have not any children, for if I were a father and felt such excessive grief as the old man does, and did not find in my memory or heart all he is now saying, I should throw myself into the sea at once, for I could not bear it.’”

“Poor father!” murmured the priest.

“From day to day he lived on alone, and more and more solitary. M. Morrel and Mercédès came to see him, but his door was closed; and although I was certain he was at home he would not make any answer. One day, when, contrary to his custom, he had admitted Mercédès, and the poor girl, in spite of her own grief and despair, endeavoured to console him, he said to her:

“‘Be assured, my dear daughter, he is dead; and instead of expecting him, it is he who is awaiting us; I am quite happy, for I am the oldest, and of course shall see him first.’

“However well disposed one may be, after a time one leaves off seeing people who are in sorrow; they make one melancholy: and so at last, old Dantès was left all to himself. I only saw from time to time strangers go up to him and come down again with some bundle they tried to hide; but I guessed what these bundles were, and he sold by degrees what he had to pay for his subsistence.

“At length, the poor old fellow reached the end of all he had; he owed three quarters’ rent, and they threatened to turn him out; he begged for another week, which was granted to him. I know this, because the landlord came into my apartment when he left his. For the three first days I heard him walking about as usual, but on the fourth I heard him no longer. I then resolved to go up to him at all risks. The door was closed, but I looked through the keyhole, and saw him so pale and haggard, that believing him very ill I went and told M. Morrel, and then ran on to Mercédès. They both came immediately. M. Morrel brought a doctor, and the doctor said it was an affection of the stomach, and ordered him a limited diet. I was there, too, and I never shall forget the old man’s smile at this prescription. From that time he opened his door; he had an excuse for not eating any more, as the doctor had put him on a diet.”

The abbé uttered a kind of groan.

“The story interests you, does it not, sir?” inquired Caderousse.

“Yes,” replied the abbé, “it is very affecting.”