in misfortune, but had been released from prison during the second
restoration, was possessed of a diamond of immense value; this jewel he
bestowed on Dantes upon himself quitting the prison, as a mark of his
gratitude for the kindness and brotherly care with which Dantes had
nursed him in a severe illness he underwent during his confinement.
Instead of employing this diamond in attempting to bribe his jailers,
who might only have taken it and then betrayed him to the governor,
Dantes carefully preserved it, that in the event of his getting out of
prison he might have wherewithal to live, for the sale of such a diamond
would have quite sufficed to make his fortune."
"Then, I suppose," asked Caderousse, with eager, glowing looks, "that it
was a stone of immense value?"
"Why, everything is relative," answered the abbe. "To one in Edmond's
position the diamond certainly was of great value. It was estimated at
fifty thousand francs."
"Bless me!" exclaimed Caderousse, "fifty thousand francs! Surely the
diamond was as large as a nut to be worth all that."
"No," replied the abbe, "it was not of such a size as that; but you
shall judge for yourself. I have it with 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 inn-keeper.
"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 inn-keeper
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 of Caderousse.
"Do I? No one better."
"Speak out then, say what it was!"
"Gaspard!" cried La Carconte, "do as you will; you are master--but if
you take my advice you'll hold your tongue."
"Well, wife," replied Caderousse, "I don't know but what you're right!"
"So you will say nothing?" asked the abbe.
"Why, what good would it do?" asked Caderousse. "If the poor lad were
living, and came to me and begged that I would candidly tell which
were his true and which his false friends, why, perhaps, I should not
hesitate. But you tell me he is no more, and therefore can have nothing
to do with hatred or revenge, so let all such feeling be buried with
him."
"You prefer, then," said the abbe, "that I should bestow on men you say
are false and treacherous, the reward intended for faithful friendship?"
"That is true enough," returned Caderousse. "You say truly, the gift
of poor Edmond was not meant for such traitors as Fernand and Danglars;
besides, what would it be to them? no more than a drop of water in the
ocean."
"Remember," chimed in La Carconte, "those two could crush you at a
single blow!"
"How so?" inquired the abbe. "Are these persons, then, so rich and
powerful?"
"Do you not know their history?"
"I do not. Pray relate it to me!" Caderousse seemed to reflect for a few
moments, then said, "No, truly, it would take up too much time."
"Well, my good friend," returned the abbe, in a tone that indicated
utter indifference on his part, "you are at liberty, either to speak or
be silent, just as you please; for my own part, I respect your scruples
and admire your sentiments; so let the matter end. I shall do my duty
as conscientiously as I can, and fulfil my promise to the dying man. My
first business will be to dispose of this diamond." So saying, the abbe
again draw the small box from his pocket, opened it, and contrived to
hold it in such a light, that a bright flash of brilliant hues passed
before the dazzled gaze of Caderousse.
"Wife, wife!" cried he in a hoarse voice, "come here!"
"Diamond!" exclaimed La Carconte, rising and descending to the chamber
with a tolerably firm step; "what diamond are you talking about?"
"Why, did you not hear all we said?" inquired Caderousse. "It is a
beautiful diamond left by poor Edmond Dantes, to be sold, and the money
divided between his father, Mercedes, his betrothed bride, Fernand,
Danglars, and myself. The jewel is worth at least fifty thousand
francs."
"Oh, what a magnificent jewel!" cried the astonished woman.
"The fifth part of the profits from this stone belongs to us then, does
it not?" asked Caderousse.
"It does," replied the abbe; "with the addition of an equal division
of that part intended for the elder Dantes, which I believe myself at
liberty to divide equally with the four survivors."
"And why among us four?" inquired Caderousse.
"As being the friends Edmond esteemed most faithful and devoted to him."
"I don't call those friends who betray and ruin you," murmured the wife
in her turn, in a low, muttering voice.
"Of course not!" rejoined Caderousse quickly; "no more do I, and that
was what I was observing to this gentleman just now. I said I looked
upon it as a sacrilegious profanation to reward treachery, perhaps
crime."
"Remember," answered the abbe calmly, as he replaced the jewel and its
case in the pocket of his cassock, "it is your fault, not mine, that I
do so. You will have the goodness to furnish me with the address of both
Fernand and Danglars, in order that I may execute Edmond's last
wishes." The agitation of Caderousse became extreme, and large drops of
perspiration rolled from his heated brow. As he saw the abbe rise from
his seat and go towards the door, as though to ascertain if his horse
were sufficiently refreshed to continue his journey, Caderousse and his
wife exchanged looks of deep meaning.
"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!"
