THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO. Alexandre Dumas

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 innkeeper, 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 innkeeper.

      “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