THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO. Alexandre Dumas

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 innkeeper.

      “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 innkeeper 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