Chapter 26 The Pont du Gard Inn.
Such of my readers as have made a pedestrian excursion to
the south of France may perchance have noticed, about midway
between the town of Beaucaire and the village of Bellegarde,
-- a little nearer to the former than to the latter, -- a
small roadside inn, from the front of which hung, creaking
and flapping in the wind, a sheet of tin covered with a
grotesque representation of the Pont du Gard. This modern
place of entertainment stood on the left-hand side of the
post road, and backed upon the Rhone. It also boasted of
what in Languedoc is styled a garden, consisting of a small
plot of ground, on the side opposite to the main entrance
reserved for the reception of guests. A few dingy olives and
stunted fig-trees struggled hard for existence, but their
withered dusty foliage abundantly proved how unequal was the
conflict. Between these sickly shrubs grew a scanty supply
of garlic, tomatoes, and eschalots; while, lone and
solitary, like a forgotten sentinel, a tall pine raised its
melancholy head in one of the corners of this unattractive
spot, and displayed its flexible stem and fan-shaped summit
dried and cracked by the fierce heat of the sub-tropical
sun.
In the surrounding plain, which more resembled a dusty lake
than solid ground, were scattered a few miserable stalks of
wheat, the effect, no doubt, of a curious desire on the part
of the agriculturists of the country to see whether such a
thing as the raising of grain in those parched regions was
practicable. Each stalk served as a perch for a grasshopper,
which regaled the passers by through this Egyptian scene
with its strident, monotonous note.
For about seven or eight years the little tavern had been
kept by a man and his wife, with two servants, -- a
chambermaid named Trinette, and a hostler called Pecaud.
This small staff was quite equal to all the requirements,
for a canal between Beaucaire and Aiguemortes had
revolutionized transportation by substituting boats for the
cart and the stagecoach. And, as though to add to the daily
misery which this prosperous canal inflicted on the
unfortunate inn-keeper, whose utter ruin it was fast
accomplishing, it was situated between the Rhone from which
it had its source and the post-road it had depleted, not a
hundred steps from the inn, of which we have given a brief
but faithful description.
The inn-keeper himself was a man of from forty to fifty-five
years of age, tall, strong, and bony, a perfect specimen of
the natives of those southern latitudes; he had dark,
sparkling, and deep-set eyes, hooked nose, and teeth white
as those of a carnivorous animal; his hair, like his beard,
which he wore under his chin, was thick and curly, and in
spite of his age but slightly interspersed with a few
silvery threads. His naturally dark complexion had assumed a
still further shade of brown from the habit the unfortunate
man had acquired of stationing himself from morning till eve
at the threshold of his door, on the lookout for guests who
seldom came, yet there he stood, day after day, exposed to
the meridional rays of a burning sun, with no other
protection for his head than a red handkerchief twisted
around it, after the manner of the Spanish muleteers. This
man was our old acquaintance, Gaspard Caderousse. His wife,
on the contrary, whose maiden name had been Madeleine
Radelle, was pale, meagre, and sickly-looking. Born in the
neighborhood of Arles, she had shared in the beauty for
which its women are proverbial; but that beauty had
gradually withered beneath the devastating influence of the
slow fever so prevalent among dwellers by the ponds of
Aiguemortes and the marshes of Camargue. She remained nearly
always in her second-floor chamber, shivering in her chair,
or stretched languid and feeble on her bed, while her
husband kept his daily watch at the door -- a duty he
performed with so much the greater willingness, as it saved
him the necessity of listening to the endless plaints and
murmurs of his helpmate, who never saw him without breaking
out into bitter invectives against fate; to all of which her
husband would calmly return an unvarying reply, in these
philosophic words: --
"Hush, La Carconte. It is God's pleasure that things should
be so."
The sobriquet of La Carconte had been bestowed on Madeleine
Radelle from the fact that she had been born in a village,
so called, situated between Salon and Lambesc; and as a
custom existed among the inhabitants of that part of France
where Caderousse lived of styling every person by some
particular and distinctive appellation, her husband had
bestowed on her the name of La Carconte in place of her
sweet and euphonious name of Madeleine, which, in all
probability, his rude gutteral language would not have
enabled him to pronounce. Still, let it not be supposed that
amid this affected resignation to the will of Providence,
the unfortunate inn-keeper did not writhe under the double
misery of seeing the hateful canal carry off his customers
and his profits, and the daily infliction of his peevish
partner's murmurs and lamentations.
Like other dwellers in the south, he was a man of sober
habits and moderate desires, but fond of external show,
vain, and addicted to display. During the days of his
prosperity, not a festivity took place without himself and
wife being among the spectators. He dressed in the
picturesque costume worn upon grand occasions by the
inhabitants of the south of France, bearing equal
resemblance to the style adopted both by the Catalans and
Andalusians; while La Carconte displayed the charming
fashion prevalent among the women of Arles, a mode of attire
borrowed equally from Greece and Arabia. But, by degrees,
watch-chains, necklaces, parti-colored scarfs, embroidered
bodices, velvet vests, elegantly worked stockings, striped
gaiters, and silver buckles for the shoes, all disappeared;
and Gaspard Caderousse, unable to appear abroad in his
pristine splendor, had given up any further participation in
the pomps and vanities, both for himself and wife, although
a bitter feeling of envious discontent filled his mind as
the sound of mirth and merry music from the joyous revellers
reached even the miserable hostelry to which he still clung,
more for the shelter than the profit it afforded.
Caderousse, then, was, as usual, at his place of observation
before the door, his eyes glancing listlessly from a piece
of closely shaven grass -- on which some fowls were
industriously, though fruitlessly, endeavoring to turn up
some grain or insect suited to their palate -- to the
deserted road, which led away to the north and south, when
he was aroused by the shrill voice of his wife, and
grumbling to himself as he went, he mounted to her chamber,
first taking care, however, to set the entrance door wide
open, as an invitation to any chance traveller who might be
passing.
At the moment Caderousse quitted his sentry-like watch
before the door, the road on which he so eagerly strained
his sight was void and lonely as a desert at mid-day. There
it lay stretching out into one interminable line of dust and
sand, with its sides bordered by tall, meagre trees,
altogether presenting so uninviting an appearance, that no
one in his senses could have imagined that any traveller, at
liberty to regulate his hours for journeying, would choose
to expose himself in such a formidable Sahara. Nevertheless,
had Caderousse but retained his post a few minutes longer,
he might have caught a dim outline of something approaching
from the direction of Bellegarde; as the moving object drew
nearer, he would easily have perceived that it consisted of
a man and horse, between whom the kindest and most amiable
understanding appeared to exist. The horse was of Hungarian
breed, and ambled along at an easy pace. His rider was a
priest, dressed in black, and wearing a three-cornered hat;
and, spite of the ardent rays of a noonday sun, the pair
came on with a fair degree of rapidity.
Having arrived before the Pont du Gard, the horse stopped,
but whether for his own pleasure or that of his rider would
have been difficult to say. However that might have been,
the priest, dismounting, led his steed by the bridle in
search of some place to which he could secure him. Availing
himself of a handle that projected from a half-fallen door,
he tied the animal safely and having drawn a red cotton
handkerchief, from his pocket, wiped away the perspiration
that streamed from his brow, then, advancing to the door,
struck thrice with the end of his iron-shod stick. At this
unusual sound, a huge black dog came rushing to meet the
daring assailant of his ordinarily tranquil abode, snarling
and displaying his sharp white teeth with a determined
hostility that abundantly proved how little he was
accustomed to society. At that moment a heavy footstep was
heard descending the wooden staircase that led from the
upper floor, and, with many bows and courteous smiles, mine
host of the Pont du Gard besought his guest to enter.
"You are welcome, sir, most welcome!" repeated the
astonished Caderousse. "Now, then, Margotin," cried he,
speaking to the dog, "will you be quiet? Pray don't heed
him, sir! -- he only barks, he never bites. I make no doubt
a glass of good wine would be acceptable this dreadfully hot
day." Then perceiving for the first time the garb of the
traveller he had to entertain, Caderousse hastily exclaimed:
"A thousand pardons! I really did not observe whom I had the
honor to receive under my poor roof. What would the abbe
please to have? What refreshment can I offer? All I have is
at his service."
The priest gazed on the person addressing him with a long
and searching gaze -- there even seemed a disposition on his
part to court a similar scrutiny on the part of the
inn-keeper; then, observing in the countenance of the latter
no other expression than extreme surprise at his own want of
attention to an inquiry so courteously worded, he deemed it
as well to terminate this dumb show, and therefore said,
speaking with a strong Italian accent, "You are, I presume,
M. Caderousse?"
"Yes, sir," answered the host, even more surprised at the
question than he had been by the silence which had preceded
it; "I am Gaspard Caderousse, at your service."
"Gaspard Caderousse," rejoined the priest. "Yes, --
Christian and surname are the same. You formerly lived, I
believe in the Allees de Meillan, on the fourth floor?"
"I did."
"And you followed the business of a tailor?"
"True, I was a tailor, till the trade fell off. It is so hot
at Marseilles, that really I believe that the respectable
inhabitants will in time go without any clothing whatever.
But talking of heat, is there nothing I can offer you by way
of refreshment?"
"Yes; let me have a bottle of your best wine, and then, with
your permission, we will resume our conversation from where
we left off."
"As you please, sir," said Caderousse, who, anxious not to
lose the present opportunity of finding a customer for one
of the few bottles of Cahors still remaining in his
possession, hastily raised a trap-door in the floor of the
apartment they were in, which served both as parlor and
kitchen. Upon issuing forth from his subterranean retreat at
the expiration of five minutes, he found the abbe seated
upon a wooden stool, leaning his elbow on a table, while
Margotin, whose animosity seemed appeased by the unusual
command of the traveller for refreshments, had crept up to
him, and had established himself very comfortably between
his knees, his long, skinny neck resting on his lap, while
his dim eye was fixed earnestly on the traveller's face.
"Are you quite alone?" inquired the guest, as Caderousse
placed before him the bottle of wine and a glass.
"Quite, quite alone," replied the man -- "or, at least,
practically so, for my poor wife, who is the only person in
the house besides myself, is laid up with illness, and
unable to render me the least assistance, poor thing!"
"You are married, then?" said the priest, with a show of
interest, glancing round as he spoke at the scanty
furnishings of the apartment.
"Ah, sir," said Caderousse with a sigh, "it is easy to
perceive I am not a rich man; but in this world a man does
not thrive the better for being honest." The abbe fixed on
him a searching, penetrating glance.
"Yes, honest -- I can certainly say that much for myself,"
continued the inn-keeper, fairly sustaining the scrutiny of
the abbe's gaze; "I can boast with truth of being an honest
man; and," continued he significantly, with a hand on his
breast and shaking his head, "that is more than every one
can say nowadays."
"So much the better for you, if what you assert be true,"
said the abbe; "for I am firmly persuaded that, sooner or
later, the good will be rewarded, and the wicked punished."
"Such words as those belong to your profession," answered
Caderousse, "and you do well to repeat them; but," added he,
with a bitter expression of countenance, "one is free to
believe them or not, as one pleases."
"You are wrong to speak thus," said the abbe; "and perhaps I
may, in my own person, be able to prove to you how
completely you are in error."
"What mean you?" inquired Caderousse with a look of
surprise.
"In the first place, I must be satisfied that you are the
person I am in search of."
"What proofs do you require?"
"Did you, in the year 1814 or 1815, know anything of a young
sailor named Dantes?"
"Dantes? Did I know poor dear Edmond? Why, Edmond Dantes and
myself were intimate friends!" exclaimed Caderousse, whose
countenance flushed darkly as he caught the penetrating gaze
of the abbe fixed on him, while the clear, calm eye of the
questioner seemed to dilate with feverish scrutiny.
"You remind me," said the priest, "that the young man
concerning whom I asked you was said to bear the name of
Edmond."
"Said to bear the name!" repeated Caderousse, becoming
excited and eager. "Why, he was so called as truly as I
myself bore the appellation of Gaspard Caderousse; but 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 pallor followed the flush on the countenance of
Caderousse, who turned away, and the priest saw him wiping
the tears from his eyes with the corner of the red
handkerchief twisted round his head.
"Poor fellow, poor fellow!" murmured Caderousse. "Well,
there, sir, 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
colored 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 Dantes,"
observed the abbe, 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, sir, 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 abbe was employed in scrutinizing the agitated
features of the inn-keeper.
"You knew the poor lad, then?" continued Caderousse.
"I was called to see him 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 imprisonment?" Caderousse wiped away the
large beads of perspiration that gathered on his brow.
"But the strangest part of the story is," resumed the abbe,
"that Dantes, even in his dying moments, swore by his
crucified Redeemer, that he was utterly ignorant of the
cause of his detention."
"And so he was," murmured Caderousse. "How should he have
been otherwise? Ah, sir, 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 abbe, becoming more and more fixed,
seemed to rest with ill-concealed satisfaction on the gloomy
depression which was rapidly spreading over the countenance
of Caderousse.
"A rich Englishman," continued the abbe, "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 jewel he bestowed on Dantes upon himself
quitting the prison, as a mark of his gratitude for the
kindness and brotherly care with which Dantes had nursed him
in a severe illness he underwent during his confinement.
Instead of employing this diamond in attempting to bribe his
jailers, who might only have taken it and then betrayed him
to the governor, Dantes carefully preserved it, that in the
event of his getting out of prison he might have wherewithal
to live, for the sale 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 abbe. "To one in
Edmond's position the diamond certainly was of great value.
It was estimated at fifty thousand francs."
"Bless me!" exclaimed Caderousse, "fifty thousand francs!
Surely the diamond was as large as a nut to be worth all
that."
"No," replied the abbe, "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
location of the treasure. Calmly drawing forth from his
pocket a small box covered with black shagreen, the abbe
opened it, and displayed to the dazzled 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 fifty
thousand francs?"
"It is, without the setting, which is also valuable,"
replied the abbe, 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 inn-keeper.
"But how comes the diamond in your possession, sir? Did
Edmond make you his heir?"
"No, merely his testamentary executor. `I once possessed
four dear and faithful friends, besides the maiden to whom I
was betrothed' he said; `and I feel convinced they have all
unfeignedly grieved over my loss. The name of one of the
four friends is Caderousse.'" The inn-keeper shivered.
"`Another of the number,'" continued the abbe, without
seeming to notice the emotion of Caderousse, "`is called
Danglars; and the third, in 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 abbe'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 abbe, "I have
forgotten what he called her."
"Mercedes," said Caderousse eagerly.
"True," said the abbe, with a stifled sigh, "Mercedes it
was."
"Go on," urged Caderousse.
"Bring me a carafe of water," said the abbe.
Caderousse quickly performed the stranger's bidding; and
after pouring some into a glass, and slowly swallowing its
contents, the abbe, resuming his usual placidity of manner,
said, as he placed his empty glass on the table, -- "Where
did we leave off?"
"The name of Edmond's betrothed was Mercedes."
"To be sure. `You will go to Marseilles,' said Dantes, --
for you understand, I repeat his words just as he uttered
them. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly."
"`You will sell this diamond; you will divide the money into
five equal parts, and give an equal portion to these good
friends, 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 abbe, making
a strong effort to appear indifferent; "but from the length
of time that has elapsed since the death of the elder
Dantes, I was unable to obtain any particulars of his end.
Can you enlighten me on that point?"
"I do not know who could if I could not," said Caderousse.
"Why, I lived almost on the same floor with the poor old
man. Ah, yes, about a year after the disappearance of his
son the poor old man died."
"Of what did he die?"
"Why, the doctors called his complaint gastro-enteritis, I
believe; his acquaintances say he died of grief; but I, who
saw him in his dying moments, I say he died of" --
Caderousse paused.
"Of what?" asked the priest, anxiously and eagerly.
"Why, of downright starvation."
"Starvation!" exclaimed the abbe, springing from his seat.
"Why, the vilest animals are not suffered to die by such a
death as that. The very dogs that wander houseless and
homeless in the streets find some pitying hand to cast them
a mouthful of bread; and that a man, a Christian, should be
allowed to perish of hunger in the midst of other men who
call themselves Christians, is too horrible for belief. Oh,
it is impossible -- utterly impossible!"
"What I have said, I have said," answered Caderousse.
"And you are a fool for having said anything about it," said
a voice from the top of the stairs. "Why should you meddle
with what does not concern you?"
The two men turned quickly, and saw the sickly countenance
of La Carconte peering between the baluster rails; attracted
by the sound of voices, she had feebly dragged herself down
the stairs, and, seated on the lower step, head on knees,
she had listened to the foregoing conversation. "Mind your
own business, wife," replied Caderousse sharply. "This
gentleman asks me for information, which common politeness
will not permit me to refuse."
"Politeness, you simpleton!" retorted La Carconte. "What
have you to do with politeness, I should like to know?
Better study a little common prudence. How do you know the
motives that person may have for trying to extract all he
can from you?"
"I pledge you my word, madam," said the abbe, "that my
intentions are good; and that you husband can incur no risk,
provided he answers me candidly."
"Ah, that's all very fine," retorted the woman. "Nothing is
easier than to begin with fair promises and assurances of
nothing to fear; but when poor, silly folks, like my husband
there, have been persuaded to tell all they know, the
promises and assurances of safety are quickly forgotten; and
at some moment when nobody is expecting it, behold trouble
and misery, and all sorts of persecutions, are heaped on the
unfortunate wretches, who cannot even see whence all their
afflictions come."
"Nay, nay, my good woman, make yourself perfectly easy, I
beg of you. Whatever evils may befall you, they will not be
occasioned by my instrumentality, that I solemnly promise
you."
La Carconte muttered a few inarticulate words, then let her
head again drop upon her knees, and went into a fit of ague,
leaving the two speakers to resume the conversation, but
remaining so as to be able to hear every word they uttered.
Again the abbe had been obliged to swallow a draught of
water to calm the emotions that threatened to overpower him.
When he had sufficiently recovered himself, he said, "It
appears, then, that the miserable old man you were telling
me of was forsaken by every one. Surely, had not such been
the case, he would not have perished by so dreadful a
death."
"Why, he was not altogether forsaken," continued Caderousse,
"for Mercedes the Catalan and Monsieur Morrel were very kind
to him; but somehow the poor old man had contracted a
profound hatred for Fernand -- the very person," added
Caderousse with a bitter smile, "that you named just now as
being one of Dantes' faithful and attached friends."
"And was he not so?" asked the abbe.
"Gaspard, Gaspard!" murmured the woman, from her seat on the
stairs, "mind what you are saying!" Caderousse made no reply
to these words, though evidently irritated and annoyed by
the interruption, but, addressing the abbe, said, "Can a man
be faithful to another whose wife he covets and desires for
himself? But Dantes was so honorable and true in his own
nature, that he believed everybody's professions of
friendship. Poor Edmond, he was cruelly deceived; but it was
fortunate that he never knew, or he might have found it more
difficult, when on his deathbed, to pardon his enemies. And,
whatever people may say," continued Caderousse, in his
native language, which was not altogether devoid of rude
poetry, "I cannot help being more frightened at the idea of
the malediction of the dead than the hatred of the living."
"Imbecile!" exclaimed La Carconte.
"Do you, then, know in what manner Fernand injured Dantes?"
inquired the abbe of Caderousse.
"Do I? No one better."
"Speak out then, say what it was!"
"Gaspard!" cried La Carconte, "do as you will; you are
master -- but if you take my advice you'll hold your
tongue."
"Well, wife," replied Caderousse, "I don't know but what
you're right!"
"So you will say nothing?" asked the abbe.
"Why, what good would it do?" asked Caderousse. "If the poor
lad were living, and came to me and begged that I would
candidly tell which were his true and which his false
friends, why, perhaps, I should not hesitate. But you tell
me he is no more, and therefore can have nothing to do with
hatred or revenge, so let all such feeling be buried with
him."
"You prefer, then," said the abbe, "that I should bestow on
men you say are false and treacherous, the reward intended
for faithful friendship?"
"That is true enough," returned Caderousse. "You say truly,
the gift of poor Edmond was not meant for such traitors as
Fernand and Danglars; besides, what would it be to them? no
more than a drop of water in the ocean."
"Remember," chimed in La Carconte, "those two could crush
you at a single blow!"
"How so?" inquired the abbe. "Are these persons, then, so
rich and powerful?"
"Do you not know their history?"
"I do not. Pray relate it to me!" Caderousse seemed to
reflect for a few moments, then said, "No, truly, it would
take up too much time."
"Well, my good friend," returned the abbe, in a tone that
indicated utter indifference on his part, "you are at
liberty, either to speak or be silent, just as you please;
for my own part, I respect your scruples and admire your
sentiments; so let the matter end. I shall do my duty as
conscientiously as I can, and fulfil my promise to the dying
man. My first business will be to dispose of this diamond."
So saying, the abbe again draw the small box from his
pocket, opened it, and contrived to hold it in such a light,
that a bright flash of brilliant hues passed before the
dazzled gaze of Caderousse.
"Wife, wife!" cried he in a hoarse voice, "come here!"
"Diamond!" exclaimed La Carconte, rising and descending to
the chamber with a tolerably firm step; "what diamond are
you talking about?"
"Why, did you not hear all we said?" inquired Caderousse.
"It is a beautiful diamond left by poor Edmond Dantes, to be
sold, and the money divided between his father, Mercedes,
his betrothed bride, Fernand, Danglars, and myself. The
jewel is worth at least fifty thousand francs."
"Oh, what a magnificent jewel!" cried the astonished woman.
"The fifth part of the profits from this stone belongs to us
then, does it not?" asked Caderousse.
"It does," replied the abbe; "with the addition of an equal
division of that part intended for the elder Dantes, which I
believe myself at liberty to divide equally with the four
survivors."
"And why among us four?" inquired Caderousse.
"As being the friends Edmond esteemed most faithful and
devoted to him."
"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 abbe 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 brow. As he saw the abbe
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.
"There, you see, wife," said the former, "this splendid
diamond might all be 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 body
convulsed with chills, and her teeth rattling in her head,
in 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 arm-chair, into which she fell as though
exhausted.
"Well," asked the abbe, 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 please 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 hope it may be so," replied Caderousse, his face flushed
with cupidity.
"I am all attention," said the abbe.
"Stop a minute," answered Caderousse; "we might be
interrupted in the most interesting part of my story, 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 abbe had
chosen his place for listening at his ease. 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 clinched together, he prepared to give his whole
attention to Caderousse, who seated himself on the little
stool, exactly opposite to him.
"Remember, this is no affair of mine," 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." And he began
his story.
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