guests who seldom came, yet there he stood, day after day, exposed to
the meridional rays of a burning sun, with no other protection for his
head than a red handkerchief twisted around it, after the manner of
the Spanish muleteers. This man was our old acquaintance, Gaspard
Caderousse. His wife, on the contrary, whose maiden name had been
Madeleine Radelle, was pale, meagre, and sickly-looking. Born in the
neighborhood of Arles, she had shared in the beauty for which its women
are proverbial; but that beauty had gradually withered beneath the
devastating influence of the slow fever so prevalent among dwellers
by the ponds of Aiguemortes and the marshes of Camargue. She remained
nearly always in her second-floor chamber, shivering in her chair, or
stretched languid and feeble on her bed, while her husband kept his
daily watch at the door--a duty he performed with so much the greater
willingness, as it saved him the necessity of listening to the endless
plaints and murmurs of his helpmate, who never saw him without breaking
out into bitter invectives against fate; to all of which her husband
would calmly return an unvarying reply, in these philosophic words:--
"Hush, La Carconte. It is God's pleasure that things should be so."
The sobriquet of La Carconte had been bestowed on Madeleine Radelle
from the fact that she had been born in a village, so called, situated
between Salon and Lambesc; and as a custom existed among the inhabitants
of that part of France where Caderousse lived of styling every person by
some particular and distinctive appellation, her husband had bestowed on
her the name of La Carconte in place of her sweet and euphonious name of
Madeleine, which, in all probability, his rude gutteral language would
not have enabled him to pronounce. Still, let it not be supposed
that amid this affected resignation to the will of Providence, the
unfortunate inn-keeper did not writhe under the double misery of seeing
the hateful canal carry off his customers and his profits, and the daily
infliction of his peevish partner's murmurs and lamentations.
Like other dwellers in the south, he was a man of sober habits and
moderate desires, but fond of external show, vain, and addicted to
display. During the days of his prosperity, not a festivity took place
without himself and wife being among the spectators. He dressed in the
picturesque costume worn upon grand occasions by the inhabitants of the
south of France, bearing equal resemblance to the style adopted both by
the Catalans and Andalusians; while La Carconte displayed the charming
fashion prevalent among the women of Arles, a mode of attire borrowed
equally from Greece and Arabia. But, by degrees, watch-chains,
necklaces, parti-colored scarfs, embroidered bodices, velvet vests,
elegantly worked stockings, striped gaiters, and silver buckles for the
shoes, all disappeared; and Gaspard Caderousse, unable to appear abroad
in his pristine splendor, had given up any further participation in the
pomps and vanities, both for himself and wife, although a bitter feeling
of envious discontent filled his mind as the sound of mirth and merry
music from the joyous revellers reached even the miserable hostelry to
which he still clung, more for the shelter than the profit it afforded.
Caderousse, then, was, as usual, at his place of observation before
the door, his eyes glancing listlessly from a piece of closely shaven
grass--on which some fowls were industriously, though fruitlessly,
endeavoring to turn up some grain or insect suited to their palate--to
the deserted road, which led away to the north and south, when he was
aroused by the shrill voice of his wife, and grumbling to himself as he
went, he mounted to her chamber, first taking care, however, to set the
entrance door wide open, as an invitation to any chance traveller who
might be passing.
At the moment Caderousse quitted his sentry-like watch before the door,
the road on which he so eagerly strained his sight was void and
lonely as a desert at mid-day. There it lay stretching out into one
interminable line of dust and sand, with its sides bordered by tall,
meagre trees, altogether presenting so uninviting an appearance, that no
one in his senses could have imagined that any traveller, at liberty
to regulate his hours for journeying, would choose to expose himself in
such a formidable Sahara. Nevertheless, had Caderousse but retained
his post a few minutes longer, he might have caught a dim outline of
something approaching from the direction of Bellegarde; as the moving
object drew nearer, he would easily have perceived that it consisted of
a man and horse, between whom the kindest and most amiable understanding
appeared to exist. The horse was of Hungarian breed, and ambled along
at an easy pace. His rider was a priest, dressed in black, and wearing a
three-cornered hat; and, spite of the ardent rays of a noonday sun, the
pair came on with a fair degree of rapidity.
Having arrived before the Pont du Gard, the horse stopped, but whether
for his own pleasure or that of his rider would have been difficult
to say. However that might have been, the priest, dismounting, led his
steed by the bridle in search of some place to which he could secure
him. Availing himself of a handle that projected from a half-fallen
door, he tied the animal safely and having drawn a red cotton
handkerchief, from his pocket, wiped away the perspiration that streamed
from his brow, then, advancing to the door, struck thrice with the end
of his iron-shod stick. At this unusual sound, a huge black dog came
rushing to meet the daring assailant of his ordinarily tranquil
abode, snarling and displaying his sharp white teeth with a determined
hostility that abundantly proved how little he was accustomed to
society. At that moment a heavy footstep was heard descending the
wooden staircase that led from the upper floor, and, with many bows and
courteous smiles, mine host of the Pont du Gard besought his guest to
enter.
"You are welcome, sir, most welcome!" repeated the astonished
Caderousse. "Now, then, Margotin," cried he, speaking to the dog, "will
you be quiet? Pray don't heed him, sir!--he only barks, he never bites.
I make no doubt a glass of good wine would be acceptable this dreadfully
hot day." Then perceiving for the first time the garb of the traveller
he had to entertain, Caderousse hastily exclaimed: "A thousand pardons!
I really did not observe whom I had the honor to receive under my poor
roof. What would the abbe please to have? What refreshment can I offer?
All I have is at his service."
The priest gazed on the person addressing him with a long and searching
gaze--there even seemed a disposition on his part to court a similar
scrutiny on the part of the inn-keeper; then, observing in the
countenance of the latter no other 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
inn-keeper, 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 inn-keeper.
"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
