as death.
"'I say that the diamond is real, and that this gentleman, one of the
first jewellers of Paris, will give us 50,000. francs for it. Only, in
order to satisfy himself that it really belongs to us, he wishes you to
relate to him, as I have done already, the miraculous manner in which
the diamond came into our possession. In the meantime please to sit
down, monsieur, and I will fetch you some refreshment.' The jeweller
examined attentively the interior of the inn and the apparent poverty
of the persons who were about to sell him a diamond that seemed to have
come from the casket of a prince. 'Relate your story, madame,' said he,
wishing, no doubt, to profit by the absence of the husband, so that the
latter could not influence the wife's story, to see if the two recitals
tallied.
"'Oh,' returned she, 'it was a gift of heaven. My husband was a great
friend, in 1814 or 1815, of a sailor named Edmond Dantes. This poor
fellow, whom Caderousse had forgotten, had not forgotten him, and at his
death he bequeathed this diamond to him.'--'But how did he obtain
it?' asked the jeweller; 'had he it before he was imprisoned?'--'No,
monsieur; but it appears that in prison he made the acquaintance of a
rich Englishman, and as in prison he fell sick, and Dantes took the same
care of him as if he had been his brother, the Englishman, when he was
set free, gave this stone to Dantes, who, less fortunate, died, and, in
his turn, left it to us, and charged the excellent abbe, who was here
this morning, to deliver it.'--'The same story,' muttered the jeweller;
'and improbable as it seemed at first, it may be true. There's only
the price we are not agreed about.'--'How not agreed about?' said
Caderousse. 'I thought we agreed for the price I asked.'--'That is,'
replied the jeweller, 'I offered 40,000 francs.'--'Forty thousand,'
cried La Carconte; 'we will not part with it for that sum. The abbe told
us it was worth 50,000. without the setting.'
"'What was the abbe's name?' asked the indefatigable questioner.--'The
Abbe Busoni,' said La Carconte.--'He was a foreigner?'--'An Italian,
from the neighborhood of Mantua, I believe.'--'Let me see this diamond
again,' replied the jeweller; 'the first time you are often mistaken as
to the value of a stone.' Caderousse took from his pocket a small case
of black shagreen, opened, and gave it to the jeweller. At the sight
of the diamond, which was as large as a hazel-nut, La Carconte's eyes
sparkled with cupidity."
"And what did you think of this fine story, eavesdropper?" said Monte
Cristo; "did you credit it?"
"Yes, your excellency. I did not look on Caderousse as a bad man, and I
thought him incapable of committing a crime, or even a theft."
"That did more honor to your heart than to your experience, M.
Bertuccio. Had you known this Edmond Dantes, of whom they spoke?"
"No, your excellency, I had never heard of him before, and never but
once afterwards, and that was from the Abbe Busoni himself, when I saw
him in the prison at Nimes."
"Go on."
"The jeweller took the ring, and drawing from his pocket a pair of steel
pliers and a small set of copper scales, he took the stone out of its
setting, and weighed it carefully. 'I will give you 45,000,' said he,
'but not a sou more; besides, as that is the exact value of the stone,
I brought just that sum with me.'--'Oh, that's no matter,' replied
Caderousse, 'I will go back with you to fetch the other 5,000
francs.'--'No,' returned the jeweller, giving back the diamond and the
ring to Caderousse--'no, it is worth no more, and I am sorry I offered
so much, for the stone has a flaw in it, which I had not seen. However,
I will not go back on my word, and I will give 45,000.'--'At least,
replace the diamond in the ring,' said La Carconte sharply.--'Ah, true,'
replied the jeweller, and he reset the stone.--'No matter,' observed
Caderousse, replacing the box in his pocket, 'some one else will
purchase it.'--'Yes,' continued the jeweller; 'but some one else will
not be so easy as I am, or content himself with the same story. It is
not natural that a man like you should possess such a diamond. He will
inform against you. You will have to find the Abbe Busoni; and abbes who
give diamonds worth two thousand louis are rare. The law would seize it,
and put you in prison; if at the end of three or four months you are set
at liberty, the ring will be lost, or a false stone, worth three francs,
will be given you, instead of a diamond worth 50,000 or perhaps 55,000
francs; from which you must allow that one runs considerable risk
in purchasing.' Caderousse and his wife looked eagerly at each
other.--'No,' said Caderousse, 'we are not rich enough to lose 5,000
francs.'--'As you please, my dear sir,' said the jeweller; 'I had,
however, as you see, brought you the money in bright coin.' And he drew
from his pocket a handful of gold, and held it sparkling before the
dazzled eyes of the innkeeper, and in the other hand he held a packet of
bank-notes.
"There was evidently a severe struggle in the mind of Caderousse; it was
plain that the small shagreen case, which he turned over and over in
his hand, did not seem to him commensurate in value to the enormous
sum which fascinated his gaze. He turned towards his wife. 'What do you
think of this?' he asked in a low voice.--'Let him have it--let him have
it,' she said. 'If he returns to Beaucaire without the diamond, he will
inform against us, and, as he says, who knows if we shall ever again see
the Abbe Busoni?--in all probability we shall never see him.'--'Well,
then, so I will!' said Caderousse; 'so you may have the diamond for
45,000 francs. But my wife wants a gold chain, and I want a pair of
silver buckles.' The jeweller drew from his pocket a long flat box,
which contained several samples of the articles demanded. 'Here,' he
said, 'I am very straightforward in my dealings--take your choice.' The
woman selected a gold chain worth about five louis, and the husband a
pair of buckles, worth perhaps fifteen francs.--'I hope you will not
complain now?' said the jeweller.
"'The abbe told me it was worth 50,000 francs,' muttered Caderousse.
'Come, come--give it to me! What a strange fellow you are,' said
the jeweller, taking the diamond from his hand. 'I give you 45,000
francs--that is, 2,500 livres of income,--a fortune such as I wish I had
myself, and you are not satisfied!'--'And the five and forty thousand
francs,' inquired Caderousse in a hoarse voice, 'where are they?
Come--let us see them.'--'Here they are,' replied the jeweller, and he
counted out upon the table 15,000. francs in gold, and 30,000 francs in
bank-notes.
"'Wait while I light the lamp,' said La Carconte; 'it is growing dark,
and there may be some mistake.' In fact, night had come on during this
conversation, and with night the storm which had been threatening for
the last half-hour. The thunder growled in the distance; but it was
apparently not heard by the jeweller, Caderousse, or La Carconte,
absorbed as they were all three with the demon of gain. I myself felt; a
strange kind of fascination at the sight of all this gold and all these
bank-notes; it seemed to me that I was in a dream, and, as it always
happens in a dream, I felt myself riveted to the spot. Caderousse
counted and again counted the gold and the notes, then handed them to
his wife, who counted and counted them again in her turn. During this
time, the jeweller made the diamond play and sparkle in the lamplight,
and the gem threw out jets of light which made him unmindful of those
which--precursors of the storm--began to play in at the windows. 'Well,'
inquired the jeweller, 'is the cash all right?'
"'Yes,' said Caderousse. 'Give me the pocket-book, La Carconte, and find
a bag somewhere.'
"La Carconte went to a cupboard, and returned with an old leathern
pocket-book and a bag. From the former she took some greasy letters, and
put in their place the bank-notes, and from the bag took two or three
crowns of six livres each, which, in all probability, formed the entire
fortune of the miserable couple. 'There,' said Caderousse; 'and now,
although you have wronged us of perhaps 10,000 francs, will you have
your supper with us? I invite you with good-will.'--'Thank you,'
replied the jeweller, 'it must be getting late, and I must return to
Beaucaire--my wife will be getting uneasy.' He drew out his watch, and
exclaimed, 'Morbleu, nearly nine o'clock--why, I shall not get back to
Beaucaire before midnight! Good-night, my friends. If the Abbe Busoni
should by any accident return, think of me.'--'In another week you will
have left Beaucaire.' remarked Caderousse, 'for the fair ends in a few
days.'--'True, but that makes no difference. Write to me at Paris, to
M. Joannes, in the Palais Royal, arcade Pierre, No. 45. I will make the
journey on purpose to see him, if it is worth while.' At this moment
there was a tremendous clap of thunder, accompanied by a flash of
lightning so vivid, that it quite eclipsed the light of the lamp.
"'See here,' exclaimed Caderousse. 'You cannot think of going out in
such weather as this.'--'Oh, I am not afraid of thunder,' said the
jeweller.--'And then there are robbers,' said La Carconte. 'The road
is never very safe during fair time.'--'Oh, as to the robbers,' said
Joannes, 'here is something for them,' and he drew from his pocket a
pair of small pistols, loaded to the muzzle. 'Here,' said he, 'are dogs
who bark and bite at the same time, they are for the two first who shall
have a longing for your diamond, Friend Caderousse.'
"Caderousse and his wife again interchanged a meaning look. It seemed
as though they were both inspired at the same time with some
horrible thought. 'Well, then, a good journey to you,' said
Caderousse.--'Thanks,' replied the jeweller. He then took his cane,
which he had placed against an old cupboard, and went out. At the moment
when he opened the door, such a gust of wind came in that the lamp was
nearly extinguished. 'Oh,' said he, 'this is very nice weather, and two
leagues to go in such a storm.'--'Remain,' said Caderousse. 'You can
sleep here.'--'Yes; do stay,' added La Carconte in a tremulous voice;
'we will take every care of you.'--'No; I must sleep at Beaucaire. So,
once more, good-night.' Caderousse followed him slowly to the threshold.
'I can see neither heaven nor earth,' said the jeweller, who was outside
the door. 'Do I turn to the right, or to the left hand?'--'To the
right,' said Caderousse. 'You cannot go wrong--the road is bordered by
trees on both sides.'--'Good--all right,' said a voice almost lost in
the distance. 'Close the door,' said La Carconte; 'I do not like open
doors when it thunders.'--'Particularly when there is money in the
house, eh?' answered Caderousse, double-locking the door.
"He came into the room, went to the cupboard, took out the bag and
pocket-book, and both began, for the third time, to count their gold and
bank-notes. I never saw such an expression of cupidity as the flickering
lamp revealed in those two countenances. The woman, especially,
was hideous; her usual feverish tremulousness was intensified, her
countenance had become livid, and her eyes resembled burning coals.
'Why,' she inquired in a hoarse voice, 'did you invite him to sleep here
to-night?'--'Why?' said Caderousse with a shudder; 'why, that he might
not have the trouble of returning to Beaucaire.'--'Ah,' responded the
woman, with an expression impossible to describe; 'I thought it was
for something else.'--'Woman, woman--why do you have such ideas?'
cried Caderousse; 'or, if you have them, why don't you keep them to
yourself?'--'Well,' said La Carconte, after a moment's pause, 'you are
not a man.'--'What do you mean?' added Caderousse.--'If you had been a
man, you would not have let him go from here.'--'Woman!'--'Or else
he should not have reached Beaucaire.'--'Woman!'--'The road takes a
turn--he is obliged to follow it--while alongside of the canal there is
a shorter road.'--'Woman!--you offend the good God. There--listen!' And
at this moment there was a tremendous peal of thunder, while the livid
lightning illumined the room, and the thunder, rolling away in the
distance, seemed to withdraw unwillingly from the cursed abode. 'Mercy!'
said Caderousse, crossing himself.
"At the same moment, and in the midst of the terrifying silence which
usually follows a clap of thunder, they heard a knocking at the door.
Caderousse and his wife started and looked aghast at each other. 'Who's
there?' cried Caderousse, rising, and drawing up in a heap the gold
and notes scattered over the table, and which he covered with his two
hands.--'It is I,' shouted a voice.--'And who are you?'--'Eh, pardieu,
Joannes, the jeweller.'--'Well, and you said I offended the good God,'
said La Carconte with a horrid smile. 'Why, the good God sends him back
again.' Caderousse sank pale and breathless into his chair. La Carconte,
