Part 162

40152m As the last stroke died away, the count thought he heard a slight noise in the dressing-room; this first sound, or rather this first grinding, was followed by a second, then a third; at the fourth, the count knew what to expect. A firm and well-practised hand was engaged in cutting the four sides of a pane of glass with a diamond. The count felt his heart beat more rapidly. Inured as men may be to danger, forewarned as they may be of peril, they understand, by the fluttering of the heart and the shuddering of the frame, the enormous difference between a dream and a reality, between the project and the execution. However, Monte Cristo only made a sign to apprise Ali, who, understanding that danger was approaching from the other side, drew nearer to his master. Monte Cristo was eager to ascertain the strength and number of his enemies. The window whence the noise proceeded was opposite the opening by which the count could see into the dressing-room. He fixed his eyes on that window—he distinguished a shadow in the darkness; then one of the panes became quite opaque, as if a sheet of paper were stuck on the outside, then the square cracked without falling. Through the opening an arm was passed to find the fastening, then a second; the window turned on its hinges, and a man entered. He was alone. “That’s a daring rascal,” whispered the count. At that moment Ali touched him slightly on the shoulder. He turned; Ali pointed to the window of the room in which they were, facing the street. “I see!” said he, “there are two of them; one does the work while the other stands guard.” He made a sign to Ali not to lose sight of the man in the street, and turned to the one in the dressing-room. The glass-cutter had entered, and was feeling his way, his arms stretched out before him. At last he appeared to have made himself familiar with his surroundings. There were two doors; he bolted them both. When he drew near to the bedroom door, Monte Cristo expected that he was coming in, and raised one of his pistols; but he simply heard the sound of the bolts sliding in their copper rings. It was only a precaution. The nocturnal visitor, ignorant of the fact that the count had removed the staples, might now think himself at home, and pursue his purpose with full security. Alone and free to act as he wished, the man then drew from his pocket something which the count could not discern, placed it on a stand, then went straight to the secretaire, felt the lock, and contrary to his expectation found that the key was missing. But the glass-cutter was a prudent man who had provided for all emergencies. The count soon heard the rattling of a bunch of skeleton keys, such as the locksmith brings when called to force a lock, and which thieves call nightingales, doubtless from the music of their nightly song when they grind against the bolt. “Ah, ha,” whispered Monte Cristo with a smile of disappointment, “he is only a thief.” But the man in the dark could not find the right key. He reached the instrument he had placed on the stand, touched a spring, and immediately a pale light, just bright enough to render objects distinct, was reflected on his hands and countenance. “By heavens,” exclaimed Monte Cristo, starting back, “it is——” Ali raised his hatchet. “Don’t stir,” whispered Monte Cristo, “and put down your hatchet; we shall require no arms.” 40154m Then he added some words in a low tone, for the exclamation which surprise had drawn from the count, faint as it had been, had startled the man who remained in the pose of the old knife-grinder. It was an order the count had just given, for immediately Ali went noiselessly, and returned, bearing a black dress and a three-cornered hat. Meanwhile Monte Cristo had rapidly taken off his greatcoat, waistcoat, and shirt, and one might distinguish by the glimmering through the open panel that he wore a pliant tunic of steel mail, of which the last in France, where daggers are no longer dreaded, was worn by King Louis XVI., who feared the dagger at his breast, and whose head was cleft with a hatchet. The tunic soon disappeared under a long cassock, as did his hair under a priest’s wig; the three-cornered hat over this effectually transformed the count into an abbé. The man, hearing nothing more, stood erect, and while Monte Cristo was completing his disguise had advanced straight to the secretaire, whose lock was beginning to crack under his nightingale. “Try again,” whispered the count, who depended on the secret spring, which was unknown to the picklock, clever as he might be—“try again, you have a few minutes’ work there.” And he advanced to the window. The man whom he had seen seated on a fence had got down, and was still pacing the street; but, strange as it appeared, he cared not for those who might pass from the avenue of the Champs-Élysées or by the Faubourg Saint-Honoré; his attention was engrossed with what was passing at the count’s, and his only aim appeared to be to discern every movement in the dressing-room. Monte Cristo suddenly struck his finger on his forehead and a smile passed over his lips; then drawing near to Ali, he whispered: “Remain here, concealed in the dark, and whatever noise you hear, whatever passes, only come in or show yourself if I call you.” Ali bowed in token of strict obedience. Monte Cristo then drew a lighted taper from a closet, and when the thief was deeply engaged with his lock, silently opened the door, taking care that the light should shine directly on his face. The door opened so quietly that the thief heard no sound; but, to his astonishment, the room was suddenly illuminated. He turned. “Ah, good-evening, my dear M. Caderousse,” said Monte Cristo; “what are you doing here, at such an hour?” 40156m “The Abbé Busoni!” exclaimed Caderousse; and, not knowing how this strange apparition could have entered when he had bolted the doors, he let fall his bunch of keys, and remained motionless and stupefied. The count placed himself between Caderousse and the window, thus cutting off from the thief his only chance of retreat. “The Abbé Busoni!” repeated Caderousse, fixing his haggard gaze on the count. “Yes, undoubtedly, the Abbé Busoni himself,” replied Monte Cristo. “And I am very glad you recognize me, dear M. Caderousse; it proves you have a good memory, for it must be about ten years since we last met.” This calmness of Busoni, combined with his irony and boldness, staggered Caderousse. “The abbé, the abbé!” murmured he, clenching his fists, and his teeth chattering. “So you would rob the Count of Monte Cristo?” continued the false abbé. “Reverend sir,” murmured Caderousse, seeking to regain the window, which the count pitilessly blocked—“reverend sir, I don’t know—believe me—I take my oath——” “A pane of glass out,” continued the count, “a dark lantern, a bunch of false keys, a secretaire half forced—it is tolerably evident——” Caderousse was choking; he looked around for some corner to hide in, some way of escape. “Come, come,” continued the count, “I see you are still the same,—an assassin.” “Reverend sir, since you know everything, you know it was not I—it was La Carconte; that was proved at the trial, since I was only condemned to the galleys.” “Is your time, then, expired, since I find you in a fair way to return there?” “No, reverend sir; I have been liberated by someone.” “That someone has done society a great kindness.” “Ah,” said Caderousse, “I had promised——” “And you are breaking your promise!” interrupted Monte Cristo. “Alas, yes!” said Caderousse very uneasily. “A bad relapse, that will lead you, if I mistake not, to the Place de Grève. So much the worse, so much the worse—_diavolo!_ as they say in my country.” “Reverend sir, I am impelled——” “Every criminal says the same thing.” “Poverty——” “Pshaw!” said Busoni disdainfully; “poverty may make a man beg, steal a loaf of bread at a baker’s door, but not cause him to open a secretaire in a house supposed to be inhabited. And when the jeweller Johannes had just paid you 45,000 francs for the diamond I had given you, and you killed him to get the diamond and the money both, was that also poverty?” “Pardon, reverend sir,” said Caderousse; “you have saved my life once, save me again!” “That is but poor encouragement.” “Are you alone, reverend sir, or have you there soldiers ready to seize me?” “I am alone,” said the abbé, “and I will again have pity on you, and will let you escape, at the risk of the fresh miseries my weakness may lead to, if you tell me the truth.” “Ah, reverend sir,” cried Caderousse, clasping his hands, and drawing nearer to Monte Cristo, “I may indeed say you are my deliverer!” “You mean to say you have been freed from confinement?” “Yes, that is true, reverend sir.” “Who was your liberator?” “An Englishman.” “What was his name?” “Lord Wilmore.” “I know him; I shall know if you lie.” “Ah, reverend sir, I tell you the simple truth.” “Was this Englishman protecting you?” “No, not me, but a young Corsican, my companion.” “What was this young Corsican’s name?” “Benedetto.” “Is that his Christian name?” “He had no other; he was a foundling.” “Then this young man escaped with you?” “He did.” “In what way?” “We were working at Saint-Mandrier, near Toulon. Do you know Saint-Mandrier?” “I do.” “In the hour of rest, between noon and one o’clock——” “Galley-slaves having a nap after dinner! We may well pity the poor fellows!” said the abbé. “Nay,” said Caderousse, “one can’t always work—one is not a dog.” “So much the better for the dogs,” said Monte Cristo. “While the rest slept, then, we went away a short distance; we severed our fetters with a file the Englishman had given us, and swam away.” “And what is become of this Benedetto?” “I don’t know.” “You ought to know.” “No, in truth; we parted at Hyères.” And, to give more weight to his protestation, Caderousse advanced another step towards the abbé, who remained motionless in his place, as calm as ever, and pursuing his interrogation. “You lie,” said the Abbé Busoni, with a tone of irresistible authority. “Reverend sir!” “You lie! This man is still your friend, and you, perhaps, make use of him as your accomplice.” 40160m “Oh, reverend sir!” “Since you left Toulon what have you lived on? Answer me!” “On what I could get.” “You lie,” repeated the abbé a third time, with a still more imperative tone. Caderousse, terrified, looked at the count. “You have lived on the money he has given you.” “True,” said Caderousse; “Benedetto has become the son of a great lord.” “How can he be the son of a great lord?” “A natural son.” “And what is that great lord’s name?” “The Count of Monte Cristo, the very same in whose house we are.” “Benedetto the count’s son?” replied Monte Cristo, astonished in his turn. “Well, I should think so, since the count has found him a false father—since the count gives him four thousand francs a month, and leaves him 500,000 francs in his will.” “Ah, yes,” said the factitious abbé, who began to understand; “and what name does the young man bear meanwhile?” “Andrea Cavalcanti.” “Is it, then, that young man whom my friend the Count of Monte Cristo has received into his house, and who is going to marry Mademoiselle Danglars?” “Exactly.” “And you suffer that, you wretch!—you, who know his life and his crime?” “Why should I stand in a comrade’s way?” said Caderousse. “You are right; it is not you who should apprise M. Danglars, it is I.” “Do not do so, reverend sir.” “Why not?” “Because you would bring us to ruin.” “And you think that to save such villains as you I will become an abettor of their plot, an accomplice in their crimes?” “Reverend sir,” said Caderousse, drawing still nearer. “I will expose all.” “To whom?” “To M. Danglars.” “By Heaven!” cried Caderousse, drawing from his waistcoat an open knife, and striking the count in the breast, “you shall disclose nothing, reverend sir!”