"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?"
"The Abbe 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 Abbe Busoni!" repeated
Caderousse, fixing his haggard gaze on the count.
"Yes, undoubtedly, the Abbe 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 abbe, the abbe!" murmured he, clinching his fists, and his teeth
chattering.
"So you would rob the Count of Monte Cristo?" continued the false abbe.
"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 secretary 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 some one."
"That some one 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
Greve. 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 secretary
in a house supposed to be inhabited. And when the jeweller Johannes had
just paid you 40,000. 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 abbe, "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 St. Mandrier, near Toulon. Do you know St.
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 abbe.
"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 Hyeres." And, to give more weight to his
protestation, Caderousse advanced another step towards the abbe, who
remained motionless in his place, as calm as ever, and pursuing
his interrogation. "You lie," said the Abbe 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."
"Oh, reverend sir!"
"Since you left Toulon what have you lived on? Answer me!"
"On what I could get."
"You lie," repeated the abbe 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 abbe, 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!" To Caderousse's great astonishment, the knife, instead of
piercing the count's breast, flew back blunted. At the same moment the
count seized with his left hand the assassin's wrist, and wrung it
with such strength that the knife fell from his stiffened fingers, and
Caderousse uttered a cry of pain. But the count, disregarding his cry,
continued to wring the bandit's wrist, until, his arm being dislocated,
he fell first on his knees, then flat on the floor. The count then
placed his foot on his head, saying, "I know not what restrains me from
crushing thy skull, rascal."
"Ah, mercy--mercy!" cried Caderousse. The count withdrew his foot.
"Rise!" said he. Caderousse rose.
"What a wrist you have, reverend sir!" said Caderousse, stroking his
arm, all bruised by the fleshy pincers which had held it; "what a
wrist!"
"Silence! God gives me strength to overcome a wild beast like you; in
the name of that God I act,--remember that, wretch,--and to spare thee
at this moment is still serving him."
"Oh!" said Caderousse, groaning with pain.
"Take this pen and paper, and write what I dictate."
"I don't know how to write, reverend sir."
"You lie! Take this pen, and write!" Caderousse, awed by the superior
power of the abbe, sat down and wrote:--
Sir,--The man whom you are receiving at your house, and to whom you
intend to marry your daughter, is a felon who escaped with me from
confinement at Toulon. He was No. 59, and I No. 58. He was called
Benedetto, but he is ignorant of his real name, having never known his
parents.
"Sign it!" continued the count.
"But would you ruin me?"
"If I sought your ruin, fool, I should drag you to the first
guard-house; besides, when that note is delivered, in all probability
you will have no more to fear. Sign it, then!"
Caderousse signed it. "The address, 'To monsieur the Baron Danglars,
banker, Rue de la Chaussee d'Antin.'" Caderousse wrote the address. The
abbe took the note. "Now," said he, "that suffices--begone!"
"Which way?"
"The way you came."
"You wish me to get out at that window?"
"You got in very well."
"Oh, you have some design against me, reverend sir."
"Idiot! what design can I have?"
"Why, then, not let me out by the door?"
"What would be the advantage of waking the porter?"--
"Ah, reverend sir, tell me, do you wish me dead?"
"I wish what God wills."
"But swear that you will not strike me as I go down."
"Cowardly fool!"
"What do you intend doing with me?"
"I ask you what can I do? I have tried to make you a happy man, and you
have turned out a murderer."
"Oh, monsieur," said Caderousse, "make one more attempt--try me once
more!"
"I will," said the count. "Listen--you know if I may be relied on."
"Yes," said Caderousse.
"If you arrive safely at home"--
"What have I to fear, except from you?"
"If you reach your home safely, leave Paris, leave France, and wherever
you may be, so long as you conduct yourself well, I will send you a
small annuity; for, if you return home safely, then"--
"Then?" asked Caderousse, shuddering.
"Then I shall believe God has forgiven you, and I will forgive you too."
"As true as I am a Christian," stammered Caderousse, "you will make me
die of fright!"
"Now begone," said the count, pointing to the window.
Caderousse, scarcely yet relying on this promise, put his legs out
of the window and stood on the ladder. "Now go down," said the abbe,
folding his arms. Understanding he had nothing more to fear from him,
Caderousse began to go down. Then the count brought the taper to the
window, that it might be seen in the Champs-Elysees that a man was
getting out of the window while another held a light.
"What are you doing, reverend sir? Suppose a watchman should pass?" And
he blew out the light. He then descended, but it was only when he felt
his foot touch the ground that he was satisfied of his safety.
Monte Cristo returned to his bedroom, and, glancing rapidly from the
garden to the street, he saw first Caderousse, who after walking to the
end of the garden, fixed his ladder against the wall at a different part
from where he came in. The count then looking over into the street, saw
the man who appeared to be waiting run in the same direction, and place
himself against the angle of the wall where Caderousse would come over.
Caderousse climbed the ladder slowly, and looked over the coping to see
if the street was quiet. No one could be seen or heard. The clock of
the Invalides struck one. Then Caderousse sat astride the coping, and
drawing up his ladder passed it over the wall; then he began to descend,
or rather to slide down by the two stanchions, which he did with an ease
which proved how accustomed he was to the exercise. But, once started,
he could not stop. In vain did he see a man start from the shadow when
he was halfway down--in vain did he see an arm raised as he touched the
ground. Before he could defend himself that arm struck him so violently
in the back that he let go the ladder, crying, "Help!" A second blow
struck him almost immediately in the side, and he fell, calling, "Help,
murder!" Then, as he rolled on the ground, his adversary seized him by
the hair, and struck him a third blow in the chest. This time Caderousse
endeavored to call again, but he could only utter a groan, and he
shuddered as the blood flowed from his three wounds. The assassin,
finding that he no longer cried out, lifted his head up by the hair; his
eyes were closed, and the mouth was distorted. The murderer, supposing
him dead, let fall his head and disappeared. Then Caderousse, feeling
that he was leaving him, raised himself on his elbow, and with a dying
voice cried with great effort, "Murder! I am dying! Help, reverend
