"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 arm-chair, into which she
fell as though exhausted.
"Well," asked the abbe, 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 abbe.
"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 abbe 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 clinched 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 abbe.
"Why, if you ever make use of the details I am about to give you, that
you will never let any one 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 abbe. "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 abbe; "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 abbe; "Edmond related to me everything until the
moment when he was arrested in a small cabaret close to Marseilles."
"At La Reserve! 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 Dantes was
arrested."
"Yes, and up to this point I know all," said the priest. "Dantes 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 any one of
them."
"Well, when Dantes 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
Mercedes 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 Mercedes 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 up-stairs and try to console the poor old man?"
asked the abbe.
"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 Mercedes 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 Mercedes, 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 Dantes 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 Mercedes. 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 abbe uttered a kind of groan.
"The story interests you, does it not, sir?" inquired Caderousse.
"Yes," replied the abbe, "it is very affecting."
"Mercedes 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. Mercedes 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 Mercedes, 'If you ever see my Edmond again, tell him I die
blessing him.'" The abbe 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 abbe, 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 abbe, "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 Reserve, the day before the betrothal feast."
"'Twas so, then--'twas so, then," murmured the abbe. "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 abbe suddenly, "you were there yourself."
"I!" said Caderousse, astonished; "who told you I was there?"
The abbe 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 abbe; "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."
"Next day--next day, sir, you must have seen plain enough what they had
been doing, yet you said nothing, though you were present when Dantes
was arrested."
"Yes, sir, I was there, and very anxious to speak; but Danglars
restrained me. 'If he should really be guilty,' said he, 'and did really
put in to the Island of Elba; if he is really charged with a letter for
the Bonapartist committee at Paris, and if they find this letter upon
him, those who have supported him will pass for his accomplices.' I
confess I had my fears, in the state in which politics then were, and I
held my tongue. It was cowardly, I confess, but it was not criminal."
"I understand--you allowed matters to take their course, that was all."
"Yes, sir," answered Caderousse; "and remorse preys on me night and day.
I often ask pardon of God, I swear to you, because this action, the only
one with which I have seriously to reproach myself in all my life, is
no doubt the cause of my abject condition. I am expiating a moment of
selfishness, and so I always say to La Carconte, when she complains,
'Hold your tongue, woman; it is the will of God.'" And Caderousse bowed
his head with every sign of real repentance.
"Well, sir," said the abbe, "you have spoken unreservedly; and thus to
accuse yourself is to deserve pardon."
"Unfortunately, Edmond is dead, and has not pardoned me."
"He did not know," said the abbe.
