The Count of Monte Cristo. Alexandre Dumas
but, M. l’Abbé, tell me, I pray, what has become of poor Edmond. Did you know him? Is he alive and at liberty? Is he prosperous and happy?”
“He died a more wretched, hopeless, heart-broken prisoner than the felons who pay the penalty of their crimes at the galleys of Toulon.”
A deadly paleness succeeded the deep suffusion which had before spread itself over the countenance of Caderousse, who turned away, but not so much so as to prevent the priest’s observing him wiping away the tears from his eyes with a corner of the red handkerchief twisted round his head.
“Poor fellow! poor fellow!” murmured Caderousse. “Well, there, M. l’Abbé, is another proof that good people are never rewarded on this earth, and that none but the wicked prosper. Ah,” continued Caderousse, speaking in the highly-coloured language of the South, “the world grows worse and worse. Why does not God if he really hates the wicked, as he is said to do, send down brimstone and fire and consume them altogether?”
“You speak as though you had loved this young Dantès!” observed the abbé, without taking any notice of his companion’s vehemence.
“And so I did,” replied Caderousse; “though once, I confess I envied him his good fortune; but I swear to you, M. l’Abbé, I swear to you, by everything a man holds dear, I have since then deeply and sincerely lamented his unhappy fate.”
There was a brief silence, during which the fixed, searching eye of the abbé was employed in scrutinising the agitated features of the innkeeper.
“You knew the poor lad, then?” continued Caderousse.
“Nay, I was merely called to see him when on his dying bed, that I might administer to him the consolations of religion.”
“And of what did he die?” asked Caderousse, in a choking voice.
“Of what think you do young and strong men die in prison, when they have scarcely numbered their thirtieth year, unless it be of the horrors of that prison which has spread its stony walls against their breathing the air of heaven, or participating in the secret affections a gracious Creator permitted to find growth within the human breast? Edmond Dantès died in prison of sorrow and a broken heart.”
Caderousse wiped away the large drops of perspiration that gathered on his brow.
“But the strangest part of the story is,” resumed the abbé, “that Dantès, even in his dying moments, swore by his crucified Redeemer, that he was utterly ignorant of the cause of his imprisonment.”
“And so he was!” murmured Caderousse. “How should he have been otherwise? Ah, M. l’Abbé, the poor fellow told you the truth.”
“And for that reason he besought me to try and clear up a mystery he had never been able to penetrate, and to clear his memory should any foul spot or stain have fallen on it.”
And here the look of the abbé, becoming more and more fixed, seemed to rest with ill-concealed satisfaction on the gloomy depression which seemed rapidly spreading over the countenance of Caderousse.
“A rich Englishman,” continued the abbé, “who had been his companion in misfortune, but had been released from prison during the second restoration, was possessed of a diamond of immense value: this precious jewel he bestowed on Dantès upon himself quitting the prison, as a mark of his gratitude for the kindness and brotherly care with which Dantès had nursed him in a severe illness he underwent during his confinement. Instead of employing this diamond in attempting to bribe his gaolers, who might only have taken it and then betrayed him to the governor, Dantès carefully preserved it, that in the event of his getting out of prison he might have wherewithal to live, for the produce of such a diamond would have quite sufficed to make his fortune.”
“Then, I suppose,” asked Caderousse, with eager, glowing looks, “that it was a stone of immense value?”
“Why, everything is relative,” answered the abbé. “To one in Edmond’s position the diamond certainly was of great value. It was estimated at 50,000 francs.”
“Bless me!” exclaimed Caderousse, “what a sum! 50,000 francs! Surely the diamond was as large as a nut to be worth all that!”
“No,” replied the abbé, “it was not of such a size as that; but you shall judge for yourself. I have it with me.”
The sharp gaze of Caderousse was instantly directed towards the priest’s garments, as though hoping to discover the talked-of treasure.
Calmly drawing forth from his pocket a small box covered with black shagreen, the abbé opened it, and displayed to the delighted eyes of Caderousse the sparkling jewel it contained, set in a ring of admirable workmanship.
“And that diamond,” cried Caderousse, almost breathless with eager admiration, “you say, is worth 50,000 francs?”
“It is, without the setting, which is also valuable,” replied the abbé, as he closed the box, and returned it to his pocket, while its brilliant hues seemed still to dance before the eyes of the fascinated innkeeper.
“But how comes this diamond in your possession, M. l’Abbé? Did Edmond make you his heir?”
“No; merely his testamentary executor. When dying, the unfortunate youth said to me, ‘I once possessed four dear and faithful friends, besides the maiden to whom I was betrothed; and I feel convinced they have all unfeignedly grieved over my loss. The name of one of the four friends I allude to is Caderousse.’”
The innkeeper shivered as though he felt the dead cold hand of the betrayed Edmond grasping his own.
“‘Another of the number,’” continued the abbé, without seeming to notice the emotion of Caderousse, “‘is called Danglars; and the third, spite of being my rival, entertained a very sincere affection for me.’”
A fiendish smile played over the features of Caderousse, who was about to break in upon the abbé’s speech, when the latter waving his hand, said:
“Allow me to finish first, and then if you have any observations to make, you can do so afterwards.
“‘The third of my friends, although my rival, was much attached to me,—his name was Fernand: that of my betrothed was———’ Stay, stay,” continued the abbé, “I have forgotten what he called her.”
“Mercédès!” cried Caderousse eagerly.
“True,” said the abbé, with a stifled sigh. “Mercédès it was.”
“Go on,” urged Caderousse.
“Bring me a carafe of water,” said the abbé.
Caderousse quickly performed the stranger’s bidding; and after pouring some into a glass, and slowly swallowing its contents, the abbé, resuming his usual placidity of manner, said, as he placed his empty glass on the table:
“Where did we leave off?”
“Oh, that the betrothed of Edmond was called Mercédès!”
“To be sure. ‘Well, then,’ said Dantès—for you understand I repeat his words just as he uttered them—‘you will go to Marseilles.’ Do you understand?”
“Perfectly.”
“‘For the purpose of selling this diamond; the produce of which you will divide into five equal parts, and give an equal portion to the only persons who have loved me upon earth.’”
“But why into five parts?” asked Caderousse; “you only mentioned four persons.”
“Because the fifth is dead, as I hear. The fifth sharer in Edmond’s bequest was his own father.”
“Too true, too true!” ejaculated Caderousse, almost suffocated by the contending passions which assailed him, “the poor old man did die!”
“I learned so much at Marseilles,” replied the abbé, making a strong effort to appear indifferent;