The Count of Monte Cristo

“Mercédès came again, and she found him so altered that she was even more anxious than before to have him taken to her own abode. This was M. Morrel’s wish also, who would fain have conveyed the old man against his consent; but the old man resisted and cried so, that they were actually frightened. Mercédès remained, therefore, by his bedside, and M. Morrel went away, making a sign to the Catalan that he had left his purse on the chimney-piece. But availing himself of the doctor’s order, the old man would not take any sustenance; at length (after nine days’ despair and fasting), the old man died, cursing those who had caused his misery, and saying to Mercédès:

“‘If you ever see my Edmond again, tell him I die blessing him.’”

The abbé rose from his chair, made two turns round the chamber, and pressed his trembling hand against his parched throat.

“And you believe he died———”

“Of hunger, sir, of hunger,” said Caderousse; “I am as certain of it as that we two are Christians.”

The abbé with a shaking hand seized a glass of water that was standing by him half full, swallowed it at one gulp, and then resumed his seat with red eyes and pale cheeks.

“This was, indeed, a horrid event,” said he, in a hoarse voice.

“The more so, sir, as it was men’s and not God’s doing.”

“Tell me of those men,” said the abbé, “and remember, too,” he added, in a voice that was nearly menacing in its tone, “you have promised to tell me everything. Tell me, therefore, who are these men who have killed the son with despair, and the father with famine?”

“Two men jealous of him, sir; one from love, and the other ambition,—Fernand and Danglars.”

“Say, how was this jealousy manifested?”

“They denounced Edmond as a Bonapartist agent.”

“Which of the two denounced him? which was the real delinquent?”

“Both, sir; one with a letter, and the other put it in the post.”

“And where was this letter written?”

“At La Réserve, the day before the festival of the betrothing.”

“‘Twas so, then—‘twas so, then,” murmured the abbé; “oh! Faria! Faria! how well did you judge men and things!”

“What did you please to say, sir?” asked Caderousse.

“Nothing, nothing,” replied the priest, “go on.”

“It was Danglars who wrote the denunciation with his left hand, that his writing might not be recognised, and Fernand who put it in the post.”

“But,” exclaimed the abbé suddenly, “you were there yourself.”

“I!” said Caderousse, astonished; “who told you I was there?”

The abbé saw he had overshot the mark, and he added quickly:

“No one; but in order to have known everything so well, you must have been an eye-witness.”

“True! true!” said Caderousse, in a choking voice, “I was there.”

“And did you not remonstrate against such infamy?” asked the abbé; “if not, you were an accomplice.”

“Sir,” replied Caderousse, “they had made me drink to such an excess that I nearly lost all perception. I had only an indistinct understanding of what was passing around me. I said all that a man in such a state could say; but they both assured me that it was a jest they were carrying on, and perfectly harmless.”

“Next day,—next day, sir, you must have seen plain enough what they had been doing, yet you said nothing, though you were present when Dantès was arrested.”

“Yes, sir, I was there, and very anxious to speak; but Danglars restrained me.”

“‘If he should really be guilty,’ said he, ‘and did really put into the isle of Elba; if he is really charged with a letter for the Bonapartist committee at Paris, and if they find this letter upon him, those who have supported him will pass for his accomplice.’”

“I confess I had my fears in the state in which politics then were, and I held my tongue; it was cowardly, I confess, but it was not criminal.”

“I comprehend—you allowed matters to take their course, that was all.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Caderousse, “and my remorse preys on me night and day. I often ask pardon of God, I swear to you, because this action, the only one with which I have seriously to reproach myself with in all my life, is no doubt the cause of my abject condition. I am expiating a moment of selfishness, and thus it is I always say to Carconte, when she complains, ‘Hold your tongue, woman, it is the will of God.’”

And Caderousse bowed his head with every sign of real repentance.

“Well, sir,” said the abbé, “you have spoken unreservedly, and thus to accuse yourself is to deserve pardon.”

“Unfortunately Edmond is dead, and has not pardoned me.”

“He was ignorant,” said the abbé.

“But he knows it all now,” interrupted Caderousse; “they say the dead know everything.”

There was a brief silence; the abbé rose and paced up and down pensively, and then resumed his seat.

“You have two or three times mentioned a M. Morrel,” he said; “who was he?”

“The owner of the Pharaon and patron of Dantès.”

“And what part did he play in this sad drama?” inquired the abbé.

“The part of an honest man, full of courage and real regard. Twenty times he interceded for Edmond. When the emperor returned, he wrote, implored, threatened, and so energetically, that on the second restoration he was persecuted as a Bonapartist. Ten times, as I told you, he came to see Dantès’ father, and offered to receive him in his own house; and the night or two before his death, as I have already said, he left his purse on the mantelpiece, with which they paid the old man’s debts, and buried him decently, and then Edmond’s father died as he had lived, without doing harm to any one. I have the purse still by me, a large one, made of red silk.”

“And,” asked the abbé, “is M. Morrel still alive?”

“Yes,” replied Caderousse.

“In this case,” replied the abbé, “he should be rich, happy.”

Caderousse smiled bitterly.

“Yes, happy as myself,” said he.

“What! M. Morrel unhappy!” exclaimed the abbé.

“He is reduced almost to the last extremity,—nay, he is almost at the point of dishonour.”