The Count of Monte Cristo. Alexandre Dumas
this moment one of the greatest ladies in Paris,” replied Caderousse.
“Go on,” said the abbé, “it seems as if I were hearing the recital of a dream. But I have seen things so extraordinary, that those you mention to me seem less astonishing.”
“Mercédès was at first in the deepest despair at the blow which deprived her of Edmond. I have told you of her attempts to propitiate M. de Villefort, her devotion to the father of Dantès. In the midst of her despair, a fresh trouble overtook her; this was the departure of Fernand, of Fernand whose crime she did not know, and whom she regarded as her brother. Fernand went, and Mercédès remained alone. Three months passed and found her all tears; no news of Edmond, no news of Fernand, nothing before her but an old man who was dying with despair. One evening, after having been seated, as was her custom, all day at the angle of two roads that lead to Marseilles from the Catalans, she returned to her home more depressed than ever; neither her lover nor her friend returned by either of these roads, and she had no intelligence of one or the other. Suddenly she heard a step she knew, turned round anxiously; the door opened, and Fernand, dressed in the uniform of a sublieutenant, stood before her. It was not the half of that she bewailed, but it was a portion of her past life that returned to her.
“Mercédès seized Fernand’s hands with a transport, which he took for love, but which was only joy at being no longer alone in the world, and seeing at last a friend after long hours of solitary sorrow. And then, it must be confessed, Fernand had never been hated, he was only not precisely loved. Another possessed all Mercédès’ heart; that other was absent, had disappeared, perhaps was dead. At this last idea Mercédès burst into a flood of tears, and wrung her hands in agony: but this idea, which she had always repelled before, when it was suggested to her by another, came now in full force upon her mind; and then too, old Dantès incessantly said to her, ‘Our Edmond is dead; if he were not he would return to us.’ The old man died, as I have told you; had he lived, Mercédès, perchance, had not become the wife of another, for he would have been there to reproach her infidelity. Fernand saw this, and when he learned the old man’s death he returned. He was now a lieutenant. At his first coming he had not said a word of love to Mercédès, at the second he reminded her that he loved her. Mercédès begged for six months more to expect and bewail Edmond.”
“So that,” said the abbé, with a bitter smile, “that makes eighteen months in all; what more could the most devoted lover desire?”
Then he murmured the words of the English poet:
“‘Frailty, thy name is woman.’”
“Six months afterwards,” continued Caderousse, “the marriage took place in the church of Accoules.”
“The very church in which she was to have married Edmond,” murmured the priest; “there was only a change of bridegroom.”
“Well, Mercédès was married,” proceeded Caderousse, “but although in the eyes of the world she appeared calm, she nearly fainted as she passed La Réserve, where, eighteen months before, the betrothal had been celebrated with him whom she would have seen she still loved had she looked at the bottom of her heart. Fernand, more happy, but not more at his ease,—for I saw at this time he was in constant dread of Edmond’s return,—Fernand was very anxious to get his wife away and to depart himself. There were too many dangers and recollections associated with the Catalans, and eight days after the wedding they left Marseilles.”
“Did you ever see Mercédès again?” inquired the priest.
“Yes, during the war of Spain at Perpignan, where Fernand had left her; she was attending to the education of her son.”
The abbé started.
“Her son?” said he.
“Yes,” replied Caderousse, “little Albert.”
“But, then, to be able to instruct her child,” continued the abbé, “she must have received an education herself. I understood from Edmond that she was the daughter of a simple fisherman, beautiful but uneducated.”
“Oh!” replied Caderousse, “did he know so little of his lovely betrothed? Mercédès might have been a queen, sir, if the crown were to be placed on the heads of the loveliest and most intelligent. Fernand’s fortune already became greater, and she became greater with his growing fortune. She learned drawing, music, everything. Besides, I believe, between ourselves, she did this in order to distract her mind, that she might forget; and she only filled her head thus in order to alleviate the weight on her heart. But now everything must be told,” continued Caderousse; “no doubt, fortune and honours have comforted her. She is rich, a countess, and yet———”
Caderousse paused.
“Yet what?” asked the abbé.
“Yet, I am sure, she is not happy,” said Caderousse.
“What makes you believe this?”
“Why, when I found myself very wretched, I thought my old friends would, perhaps, assist me. So I went to Danglars, who would not even receive me. I called on Fernand, who sent me a hundred francs by his valet-de-chambre.”
“Then you did not see either of them?”
“No; but Madame de Morcerf saw me.”
“How was that?”
“As I went away, a purse fell at my feet—it contained five-and-twenty louis; I raised my head quickly, and saw Mercédès, who shut the blind directly.”
“And M. de Villefort?” asked the abbé.
“Oh! he was never a friend of mine; I did not know him, and I had nothing to ask of him.”
“Do you not know what became of him, and the share he had in Edmond’s misfortunes?”
“No. I only know that some time after having arrested him, he married Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran, and soon after left Marseilles; no doubt but he has been as lucky as the rest; no doubt he is as rich as Danglars, as high in station as Fernand. I only, as you see, have remained poor, wretched, and forgotten.”
“You are mistaken, my friend,” replied the abbé; “God may seem sometimes to forget for a while, whilst his justice reposes, but there always comes a moment when he remembers—and behold! a proof.”
As he spoke, the abbé took the diamond from his pocket, and giving it to Caderousse, said:
“Here, my friend, take this diamond, it is yours.”
“What! for me only?” cried Caderousse; “ah, sir, do not jest with me!”
“This diamond was to have been shared amongst his friends. Edmond had one friend only, and thus it cannot be divided. Take the diamond then, and sell it: it is worth fifty thousand francs (£2000), and I repeat my wish that this sum may suffice to release you from your wretchedness.”
“Oh, sir,” said Caderousse, putting out one hand timidly, and with the other wiping away the perspiration which bedewed his brow,—“oh, sir, do not make a jest of the happiness or despair of a man.”
“I know what happiness and what despair are, and I never make a jest of such feelings. Take it, then, but in exchange———”
Caderousse, who touched the diamond, withdrew his hand.
The abbé smiled.
“In exchange,” he continued, “give me the red silk purse that M. Morrel left on old Dantès’ chimney-piece, and which you tell me is still in your hands.”
Caderousse, more and more astonished, went towards a large oaken cupboard, opened it, and gave the abbé a long purse of faded red silk, round which were two copper runners that had once been gilt. The abbé took it, and in return gave Caderousse the diamond.
“Oh! you are a man of God, sir,” cried Caderousse; “for no one knew that Edmond had given you this diamond, and you might have kept it.”
“Which,”