Part 44

0335m “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 armchair, into which she fell as though exhausted. “Well,” asked the abbé, 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 abbé. “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 abbé 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 clenched 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. Chapter 27. The Story First, sir,” said Caderousse, “you must make me a promise.” “What is that?” inquired the abbé. “Why, if you ever make use of the details I am about to give you, that you will never let anyone know that it was I who supplied them; for the persons of whom I am about to talk are rich and powerful, and if they only laid the tips of their fingers on me, I should break to pieces like glass.” “Make yourself easy, my friend,” replied the abbé. “I am a priest, and confessions die in my breast. Recollect, our only desire is to carry out, in a fitting manner, the last wishes of our friend. Speak, then, without reserve, as without hatred; tell the truth, the whole truth; I do not know, never may know, the persons of whom you are about to speak; besides, I am an Italian, and not a Frenchman, and belong to God, and not to man, and I shall shortly retire to my convent, which I have only quitted to fulfil the last wishes of a dying man.” This positive assurance seemed to give Caderousse a little courage. “Well, then, under these circumstances,” said Caderousse, “I will, I even believe I ought to undeceive you as to the friendship which poor Edmond thought so sincere and unquestionable.” “Begin with his father, if you please.” said the abbé; “Edmond talked to me a great deal about the old man for whom he had the deepest love.” “The history is a sad one, sir,” said Caderousse, shaking his head; “perhaps you know all the earlier part of it?” “Yes.” answered the abbé; “Edmond related to me everything until the moment when he was arrested in a small cabaret close to Marseilles.” “At La Réserve! Oh, yes; I can see it all before me this moment.” “Was it not his betrothal feast?” “It was and the feast that began so gayly had a very sorrowful ending; a police commissary, followed by four soldiers, entered, and Dantès was arrested.” “Yes, and up to this point I know all,” said the priest. “Dantès himself only knew that which personally concerned him, for he never beheld again the five persons I have named to you, or heard mention of anyone of them.” “Well, when Dantès was arrested, Monsieur Morrel hastened to obtain the particulars, and they were very sad. The old man returned alone to his home, folded up his wedding suit with tears in his eyes, and paced up and down his chamber the whole day, and would not go to bed at all, for I was underneath him and heard him walking the whole night; and for myself, I assure you I could not sleep either, for the grief of the poor father gave me great uneasiness, and every step he took went to my heart as really as if his foot had pressed against my breast. “The next day Mercédès came to implore the protection of M. de Villefort; she did not obtain it, however, and went to visit the old man; when she saw him so miserable and heart-broken, having passed a sleepless night, and not touched food since the previous day, she wished him to go with her that she might take care of him; but the old man would not consent. ‘No,’ was the old man’s reply, ‘I will not leave this house, for my poor dear boy loves me better than anything in the world; and if he gets out of prison he will come and see me the first thing, and what would he think if I did not wait here for him?’ I heard all this from the window, for I was anxious that Mercédès should persuade the old man to accompany her, for his footsteps over my head night and day did not leave me a moment’s repose.” “But did you not go upstairs and try to console the poor old man?” asked the abbé. “Ah, sir,” replied Caderousse, “we cannot console those who will not be consoled, and he was one of these; besides, I know not why, but he seemed to dislike seeing me. One night, however, I heard his sobs, and I could not resist my desire to go up to him, but when I reached his door he was no longer weeping but praying. I cannot now repeat to you, sir, all the eloquent words and imploring language he made use of; it was more than piety, it was more than grief, and I, who am no canter, and hate the Jesuits, said then to myself, ‘It is really well, and I am very glad that I have not any children; for if I were a father and felt such excessive grief as the old man does, and did not find in my memory or heart all he is now saying, I should throw myself into the sea at once, for I could not bear it.’” “Poor father!” murmured the priest. “From day to day he lived on alone, and more and more solitary. M. Morrel and Mercédès came to see him, but his door was closed; and, although I was certain he was at home, he would not make any answer. One day, when, contrary to his custom, he had admitted Mercédès, and the poor girl, in spite of her own grief and despair, endeavored to console him, he said to her,—‘Be assured, my dear daughter, he is dead; and instead of expecting him, it is he who is awaiting us; I am quite happy, for I am the oldest, and of course shall see him first.’ “However well disposed a person may be, why, you see we leave off after a time seeing persons who are in sorrow, they make one melancholy; and so at last old Dantès was left all to himself, and I only saw from time to time strangers go up to him and come down again with some bundle they tried to hide; but I guessed what these bundles were, and that he sold by degrees what he had to pay for his subsistence. At length the poor old fellow reached the end of all he had; he owed three quarters’ rent, and they threatened to turn him out; he begged for another week, which was granted to him. I know this, because the landlord came into my apartment when he left his. “For the first three days I heard him walking about as usual, but, on the fourth I heard nothing. I then resolved to go up to him at all risks. The door was closed, but I looked through the keyhole, and saw him so pale and haggard, that believing him very ill, I went and told M. Morrel and then ran on to Mercédès. They both came immediately, M. Morrel bringing a doctor, and the doctor said it was inflammation of the bowels, and ordered him a limited diet. I was there, too, and I never shall forget the old man’s smile at this prescription. “From that time he received all who came; he had an excuse for not eating any more; the doctor had put him on a diet.” The abbé uttered a kind of groan. “The story interests you, does it not, sir?” inquired Caderousse. “Yes,” replied the abbé, “it is very affecting.” “Mercédès came again, and she found him so altered that she was even more anxious than before to have him taken to her own home. This was M. Morrel’s wish also, who would fain have conveyed the old man against his consent; but the old man resisted, and cried so that they were actually frightened. Mercédès remained, therefore, by his bedside, and M. Morrel went away, making a sign to the Catalan that he had left his purse on the chimney-piece; but, availing himself of the doctor’s order, the old man would not take any sustenance; at length (after nine days of despair and fasting), the old man died, cursing those who had caused his misery, and saying to Mercédès, ‘If you ever see my Edmond again, tell him I die blessing him.’” The abbé rose from his chair, made two turns round the chamber, and pressed his trembling hand against his parched throat. “And you believe he died——” “Of hunger, sir, of hunger,” said Caderousse. “I am as certain of it as that we two are Christians.” The abbé, with a shaking hand, seized a glass of water that was standing by him half-full, swallowed it at one gulp, and then resumed his seat, with red eyes and pale cheeks. “This was, indeed, a horrid event,” said he in a hoarse voice. “The more so, sir, as it was men’s and not God’s doing.” “Tell me of those men,” said the abbé, “and remember too,” he added in an almost menacing tone, “you have promised to tell me everything. Tell me, therefore, who are these men who killed the son with despair, and the father with famine?” “Two men jealous of him, sir; one from love, and the other from ambition,—Fernand and Danglars.” “How was this jealousy manifested? Speak on.” “They denounced Edmond as a Bonapartist agent.” “Which of the two denounced him? Which was the real delinquent?” “Both, sir; one with a letter, and the other put it in the post.” “And where was this letter written?” “At La Réserve, the day before the betrothal feast.” “’Twas so, then—’twas so, then,” murmured the abbé. “Oh, Faria, Faria, how well did you judge men and things!” “What did you please to say, sir?” asked Caderousse. “Nothing, nothing,” replied the priest; “go on.” “It was Danglars who wrote the denunciation with his left hand, that his writing might not be recognized, and Fernand who put it in the post.” “But,” exclaimed the abbé suddenly, “you were there yourself.” “I!” said Caderousse, astonished; “who told you I was there?” The abbé saw he had overshot the mark, and he added quickly,—“No one; but in order to have known everything so well, you must have been an eye-witness.” “True, true!” said Caderousse in a choking voice, “I was there.” “And did you not remonstrate against such infamy?” asked the abbé; “if not, you were an accomplice.” “Sir,” replied Caderousse, “they had made me drink to such an excess that I nearly lost all perception. I had only an indistinct understanding of what was passing around me. I said all that a man in such a state could say; but they both assured me that it was a jest they were carrying on, and perfectly harmless.”