The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) (44 page)

When they reached the door, they stopped: it would have been difficult to decide whether it was the horse that stopped the man or the man who stopped the horse. In any event, the rider dismounted and, leading the horse by its bridle, attached it to the knob of a dilapidated shutter that was hanging by a single hinge. The priest then went across to the door, wiping his dripping brow with a red cotton handkerchief, and knocked three times with the iron tip of his cane.

A large black dog immediately got up and took a few steps forward, barking and baring its sharp white teeth; this show of hostility only demonstrated how unused it was to receiving company.

At once, the wooden stairway running along the wall shook with a heavy tread: the landlord of the mean lodging-house at whose door the priest was standing was coming down, bent over and walking backwards.

‘Here I am,’ Caderousse said in astonishment. ‘Here I am! Be quiet, Margottin! Don’t worry, Monsieur, he barks but he doesn’t bite. Would you like some wine? How hot it is! It’s a right little strumpet of a day… Oh! I beg your pardon,’ he said, when he saw what kind of traveller this was. ‘I didn’t know whom I had the honour to serve. What can I get you? What would you like, Monsieur l’Abbé? I am at your command.’

The priest looked at the man for two or three seconds with unusual concentration, even appearing to want to draw the innkeeper’s attention to himself. Then, since the other’s face expressed nothing but surprise at not having an answer to his question, the newcomer decided it was time to put an end to the delay and said, with a very heavy Italian accent:

‘Aren’t you Monsieur Caderousse?’

‘Yes, sir,’ the innkeeper said, perhaps even more surprised by the question than he had been by the silence which preceded it. ‘I am indeed. Gaspard Caderousse, at your service.’

‘Gaspard Caderousse… Yes, I think that is the name. Did you once live in the Allées de Meilhan, on the fourth floor?’

‘That is correct.’

‘Where you exercised the profession of tailor?’

‘Yes, but the profession went downhill. It’s so hot in that damned
Marseille that I honestly believe in the end people there won’t dress at all. But talking of heat, wouldn’t you like to take some refreshment, Monsieur l’Abbé?’

‘Certainly; bring me a bottle of your best wine, then we can carry on the conversation where we left off, if you would be so good.’

‘However you like, Monsieur l’Abbé,’ said Caderousse. And, not wishing to miss this opportunity of selling one of the last bottles of Cahors wine that remained to him, he hastened to lift a trapdoor in the boards of this same ground-floor room which served as both dining-room and kitchen.

When he reappeared, five minutes later, he found the abbé sitting on a stool, with his elbow on a long table, while Margottin’s scrawny neck rested on his thigh and the dog was looking at him with a languid eye, apparently having made his peace with this unusual traveller when he understood that, contrary to custom, he was going to partake of refreshment.

‘Are you alone?’ the abbé asked his host, who put a bottle and glass in front of him.

‘My God, yes! Or almost, Monsieur l’Abbé. I have my wife who can’t help me at all, because she’s always ill, poor Carconte.’

‘Ah, you are married?’ the priest said, with some interest, looking around as if assessing the meagre value of the couple’s poor furniture.

‘You are thinking that I’m not rich, eh, Monsieur l’Abbé?’ Caderousse said with a sigh. ‘What do you expect! It is not enough to be honest to prosper in this world.’

The abbé stared hard at him.

‘Yes, honest. That I can boast of, Monsieur,’ the innkeeper said, returning his stare with one hand on his heart and nodding his head. ‘And, nowadays, not everyone can say as much.’

‘So much the better, if what you boast of is true,’ said the abbé. ‘Because I am convinced that, sooner or later, a righteous man is rewarded and a wicked one punished.’

‘You’re a man of the cloth, Monsieur l’Abbé,’ said Caderousse with a bitter look, ‘and it’s your job to say that. But everyone is free to disbelieve what you claim.’

‘You are wrong to say that, Monsieur,’ said the abbé, ‘for I myself may well be, in your own case, the proof of what I am saying.’

‘How do you mean?’ asked Caderousse in astonishment.

‘I mean that I must first of all ensure that you are the person I think you are.’

‘What proof can I give you?’

‘Did you in 1814 or 1815 know a sailor called Dantès?’

‘Dantès! Yes, I knew poor Edmond! I certainly knew him: he was one of my best friends!’ Caderousse exclaimed, his face turning deep purple, while the abbé’s clear, confident eyes seemed to dilate and embrace every detail of the man opposite him.

‘Yes, I do believe he was called Edmond.’

‘He certainly was! I should know, if anyone: Edmond was his name as sure as my name is Gaspard Caderousse. But what happened to him, Monsieur, to poor Edmond?’ the innkeeper continued. ‘Did you know him? Is he still alive? Is he free? Is he happy?’

‘He died a prisoner, more forlorn and despondent than the convicts who wear their shackles in the penal colony in Toulon.’

The redness which had first swept over Caderousse’s face was replaced by a deathly pallor. He turned aside and the abbé saw him wipe away a tear with a corner of the red handkerchief that he wore to cover his head.

‘The poor boy!’ Caderousse muttered. ‘Well, that just goes to show what I was saying, Monsieur l’Abbé: the Good Lord is only good to the wicked. Ah,’ he went on, with the exaggerated language usual to Southerners, ‘the world is going from bad to worse. If only the sky would rain gunpowder for two days and fire for an hour, and we could have done with it all!’

‘You seem to have been sincerely attached to the young man, Monsieur,’ said the abbé.

‘I was indeed,’ said Caderousse, ‘though I have to confess that for a moment I did envy him his good fortune. Since then, I swear, on the honour of a Caderousse, I truly pitied him his terrible fate.’

There was a moment’s silence, during which the abbé continued to direct a penetrating gaze at the innkeeper’s changing expression.

‘And did you know him, this poor lad?’ Caderousse went on.

‘I was called to his deathbed to offer him the last rites of the Church,’ the abbé replied.

‘And how did he die?’ Caderousse asked, in a barely audible voice.

‘Of prison itself: how else do you die in prison when you are thirty years old?’

Caderousse wiped the sweat off his streaming brow.

‘What is odd in all this,’ the abbé said, ‘is that Dantès, on his deathbed, as he kissed the feet of the crucifix, always swore to me that he did not know the true reason for his imprisonment.’

‘That’s true, that’s true,’ Caderousse muttered. ‘There was no way he could know. No, Monsieur l’Abbé, the poor young man was not lying.’

‘And it was for that reason that he asked me to find out the truth about this misfortune, on which he was himself unable to shed any light, and to rehabilitate his name, if it had been blackened in any way.’

The abbé’s gaze became increasingly fixed on the almost grim look that spread over Caderousse’s face.

‘A rich Englishman,’ he continued, ‘his companion in misfortune, was released from prison at the Second Restoration
²
and owned a diamond of considerable worth. When he was ill, Dantès had cared for him like a brother and, when he left prison, he wanted to give some token of his gratitude by leaving Dantès this diamond. Instead of using it to bribe his jailers, who might in any case have taken it and afterwards betrayed him, he kept it preciously in the hope that he might be released. If he was, the sale of this single diamond would ensure his fortune.’

‘So, you are saying,’ Caderousse asked, his eyes lighting up, ‘that this was a very valuable stone?’

‘Everything is relative,’ the abbé answered. ‘Very valuable to Edmond: its worth was estimated at fifty thousand francs.’

‘Fifty thousand francs!’ Caderousse exclaimed. ‘It must have been as big as a walnut!’

‘Not quite,’ said the abbé. ‘But you can judge for yourself, because I have it with me.’

Caderousse seemed to be looking straight through the abbé’s clothes for the object.

The abbé took a small black shagreen box out of his pocket, opened it and displayed before Caderousse’s astonished eyes the shining jewel set on a finely wrought ring.

‘This is worth fifty thousand francs?’

‘Without the setting, which is itself quite valuable,’ said the abbé. And he closed the box and returned the diamond to his pocket, though it continued to shine in Caderousse’s head.

‘But how did you come into possession of this diamond, Monsieur l’Abbé?’ he asked. ‘Did Edmond make you his heir?’

‘No, but the executor of his will. “I had three good friends and a fiancée,” he told me. “I am sure that all four of them must feel my loss bitterly. One of those good friends was called Caderousse.” ’

Caderousse shuddered.

‘ “The other”,’ the abbé went on, appearing not to notice Caderousse’s reaction, ‘ “was called Danglars. And the third,” he added, “even though he was my rival, also loved me.” ’

A diabolical smile passed over Caderousse’s face and he made as if to interrupt the speaker.

‘Wait,’ said the abbé, ‘let me finish. Then, if you have any remarks to make, you can do so later. “The third, even though he was my rival, also loved me; he was called Fernand. As for my fiancée, her name was…” Ah! I don’t remember the fiancée’s name,’ said the abbé.

‘Mercédès,’ said Caderousse.

‘Mercédès! That’s it,’ the abbé agreed, suppressing a sigh.

‘Well?’ said Caderousse.

‘Give me a jug of water,’ said the abbé.

Caderousse hastened to do as he was asked. The abbé poured himself some water and took a few sips.

‘Now, where were we?’ he asked, putting down the glass.

‘The fiancée was called Mercédès.’

‘That’s right. “You will go to Marseille…” – it’s still Dantès speaking, you understand?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘ “You will sell this diamond, divide the proceeds into five and share them among these good friends, the only creatures on earth who ever loved me!” ’

‘Why five shares?’ said Caderousse. ‘You mentioned only four people.’

‘Because the fifth is dead, or so they tell me… The fifth was Dantès’ father.’

‘Alas, yes,’ said Caderousse, torn between conflicting feelings. ‘Alas, yes, poor man! He died.’

‘I learned this in Marseille,’ the abbé replied, making an effort to appear unconcerned. ‘But the event took place so long ago that I could learn nothing further about it. Do you happen to know anything about the man’s end?’

‘Who could know better than I?’ said Caderousse. ‘I lived right next door to him. Heaven help us! It was hardly a year after his son’s disappearance that the old man died!’

‘What did he die of?’

‘The doctors called it… gastro-enteritis, I think. Those who knew him said he died of grief. But I – and I almost saw him die, myself – I would say that he died…’

Caderousse paused.

‘Died of what?’ the priest repeated, anxiously.

‘To tell the truth – of starvation!’

‘Starvation!’ cried the abbé, leaping up from his stool. ‘Starvation! The lowest creature does not die of starvation! Even a dog roaming the streets may find a pitying hand to throw it a crust of bread. Yet you say this man, a Christian, died of hunger in the midst of other men who also call themselves Christians! Impossible! It’s impossible!’

‘I only know what I know,’ Caderousse said.

‘And you are wrong,’ said a voice from the staircase. ‘What has it to do with you?’

The two men turned and saw La Carconte’s sickly features staring through the banisters. She had dragged herself down to the foot of the staircase and was listening to their conversation, sitting on the stair with her head on her knees.

‘And what has it to do with you, wife?’ asked Caderousse. ‘The gentleman wants some information. It’s only polite to give it to him.’

‘Yes, and it’s only common sense to refuse. Who says what his purpose is in making you talk, you idiot?’

‘An excellent purpose, Madame, I promise you,’ said the abbé. ‘Your husband has nothing to fear, as long as he answers me frankly.’

‘Huh! Nothing to fear… They always start with fine promises, then afterwards tell you that you have nothing to fear; then, off they go, without keeping their word, and one fine morning misfortune comes to poor people, without them knowing where it comes from…’

‘Have no fear, my good woman, no misfortune will come to you from me, I guarantee it.’

La Carconte muttered a few inaudible words, let her head fall back on her knees and continued to shiver feverishly, leaving her husband free to continue the conversation, but seated in such a way that she would not miss a word.

Meanwhile the abbé had taken a few more sips of water and recovered his composure.

‘But,’ he went on, ‘was this poor old man so totally abandoned by everyone that he could die in such a manner?’