The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas
‘Not me, but a young Corsican who was my fellow convict.’
‘What was this Corsican’s name?’
‘Benedetto.’
‘That’s a Christian name.’
‘He had no other; he was a foundling.’
‘So the young man escaped with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘We were working at Saint-Mandrier, near Toulon. Do you know Saint-Mandrier?’
‘I do.’
‘Well, while we were sleeping, from twelve to one…’
‘Convicts taking a siesta! Poor creatures!’ said the abbé.
‘Dammit,’ said Caderousse. ‘No one can work all the time. We are not dogs.’
‘Fortunately for dogs,’ said Monte Cristo.
‘So, while the others were taking a siesta, we went a little way off, sawed through our leg-irons with a file that the Englishman had got to us and escaped by swimming.’
‘What became of this Benedetto?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘But you must know.’
‘Truly, I don’t. We parted company at Hyères.’ And, to give more force to his words, Caderousse took another step towards the abbé, who remained calm and questioning, not moving from the spot.
‘You are lying!’ Abbé Busoni said, in tones of unmistakable authority.
‘Monsieur l’Abbé!’
‘You are lying! The man is still your friend, and perhaps you may even be using him as your accomplice?’
‘Oh, Monsieur l’Abbé…’
‘How have you managed to survive since you left Toulon? Answer me!’
‘As best I could.’
‘You’re lying!’ the abbé said for the third time, in an even more compelling voice. Caderousse looked at him in terror. ‘You have been living on the money he has given you,’ the count continued.
‘Yes, it’s true,’ said Caderousse. ‘Benedetto became the son of a great nobleman.’
‘How can he be the son of a great nobleman?’
‘The illegitimate son.’
‘And what is this nobleman’s name?’
‘The Count of Monte Cristo, the same in whose house we are.’
‘Benedetto is the count’s son?’ Monte Cristo asked, astonished in his turn.
‘By God, he must be, since the count has found him a false parent, the count gives him forty thousand francs a month and the count is leaving him five hundred thousand francs in his will.’
‘Ah! Ah!’ said the fake abbé, starting to understand. ‘And what name is this young man using in the meantime?’
‘He is called Andrea Cavalcanti.’
‘So, he is the young man whom my friend, the Count of Monte Cristo, receives in his home, and who is engaged to Mademoiselle Danglars?’
‘The very same.’
‘And you would allow this, you wretch! Knowing his life and his crimes?’
‘Why should I stand in the way of a comrade’s success?’
‘You are right. It is not your place to warn Monsieur Danglars, but mine.’
‘Don’t do that, father!’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you would lose us our living.’
‘Do you think that, in order to ensure a living for wretches like you, I should become a party to their deception and an accomplice in their crime?’
‘Monsieur l’Abbé!’ Caderousse said, coming still closer.
‘I shall tell everything.’
‘To whom?’
‘To Monsieur Danglars.’
‘By the devil and all his works!’ cried Caderousse, taking an open knife from under his coat and striking the count full in the chest. ‘You will say nothing, Abbé!’
To his great astonishment, instead of burying itself in the count’s chest, the dagger glanced off, blunted. At the same time, the count grasped the murderer’s wrist in his left hand and twisted it with such force that the knife fell from his numbed fingers and Caderousse gave a cry of pain. But instead of stopping at this cry, the count continued to twist the bandit’s wrist until he fell to the ground, at first on his knees, and then face downwards, his arm dislocated. The count put his foot on the man’s head and said: ‘I don’t know what is stopping me from breaking your head, scoundrel!’
‘Mercy, mercy!’ cried Caderousse.
The count took away his foot. ‘Get up!’ he said. Caderousse did as he was told.
‘Begorrah, what a grip you have, father!’ he said, rubbing an arm bruised by the sinewy vice that had gripped it. ‘By God, what a grip!’
‘Be quiet. God gives me the strength to tame a wild beast like yourself. I act in His name. Remember that, wretch; sparing you at this moment is also in accordance with the will of God.’
‘Ouch!’ said Caderousse, still in pain.
‘Take this pen and paper and write what I tell you.’
‘I can’t write, Monsieur l’Abbé.’
‘You are lying. Take the pen and write.’
Caderousse, overwhelmed by this superior power, sat down and wrote:
Monsieur, the man whom you are receiving in your house and to whom you intend to give your daughter’s hand, is a former convict, who escaped with me from the prison at Toulon. His number was 59 and mine 58. He was called Benedetto, but he does not himself know his real name, having never known his parents.
‘Sign!’ the count ordered.
‘But do you want to ruin me?’
‘If I wanted to ruin you, idiot, I should take you to the first officer of the watch. In any case, it is likely that by the time the letter reaches the person to whom it is addressed, you will have nothing more to fear. So sign it.’
Caderousse signed.
‘The address: To Monsieur le Baron Danglars, banker, rue de la Chaussée-d’Antin.’
Caderousse wrote the address.
The abbé took the letter. ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘Now, go.’
‘Which way?’
‘The way you came.’
‘Are you asking me to leave by this window?’
‘You came in by it.’
‘Are you planning something against me, father?’
‘You fool, what could I be planning?’
‘Then why not open the door to me?’
‘What is the point in waking the concierge?’
‘Monsieur l’Abbé, tell me that you don’t want me dead.’
‘I want what God wants.’
‘But swear to me that you will not strike me while I am going down.’
‘You are an idiot and a coward.’
‘What do you want to do with me?’
‘I’m asking you. I tried to make you into a happy man, and I only created a murderer!’
‘Monsieur l’Abbé,’ said Caderousse. ‘Try one last time.’
‘Very well,’ said the count. ‘You know I am a man of my word?’
‘Yes,’ said Caderousse.
‘If you return home safe and sound…’
‘Whom do I have to fear, except you?’
‘If you return home safe and sound, leave Paris, leave France; and wherever you are, as long as you live an honest life, I shall ensure that you receive a small salary. Because, if you get home safe and sound, well, then…’
‘Well, then?’ Caderousse asked, trembling.
‘Well, I shall think that God has pardoned you and I shall do the same.’
‘As true as I’m a Christian,’ Caderousse stammered, shrinking back, ‘you’re scaring me to death!’
‘Go!’ said the count, pointing to the window. Though still not entirely reassured by the promise, Caderousse climbed out of the window and put his foot on the ladder. There he paused, shivering.
‘Now, go down it,’ said the abbé, folding his arms. Caderousse started to realize that he had nothing to fear from that side, and went down. As he did so, the count held up the candle, so that from the Champs-Elysées one could see this man coming out of the window, lit by another.
Monte Cristo went back into his bedroom and glanced quickly from the garden to the street. First of all he saw Caderousse, after reaching the ground, walk around the garden and place his ladder at the far end of the wall, so as to leave by a different place from the one where he had entered. Then, looking from the garden to the street, he saw the man, who had seemed to be waiting there, run along the street on the far side of the wall and station himself at the very corner near which Caderousse was about to descend.
Caderousse slowly climbed the ladder and, reaching the top rungs, put his head above the parapet to make sure that the street was empty. No one was to be seen, no sound to be heard. One o’clock struck at the Invalides.
At that, Caderousse sat astride the top of the wall and, drawing the ladder up, passed it over to the other side and prepared to go down; or, rather, to slide down the two uprights, which he did with a degree of skill that proved how accustomed he was to the operation.
However, once he had started to let himself slide, he was unable to stop. When he was half-way down, he saw a man dash out of the shadows – but to no avail; he saw an arm raised at the very moment he reached the ground – but to no avail: before he could defend himself, the arm struck him so savagely in the back that he let go of the ladder and he cried out: ‘Help!’ A second blow followed almost immediately, striking him in the side, and he fell down, crying: ‘Murder!’ And finally, as he writhed on the ground, his adversary grasped his hair and struck him another blow on the chest. This time Caderousse tried to cry out again, but could do no more than groan: he groaned, and three streams of blood flowed from his three stab wounds.
The murderer, seeing that he could no longer cry out, lifted his head by the hair. Caderousse’s eyes were closed and his mouth twisted. The murderer, thinking he was dead, let his head fall back and vanished.
Caderousse, hearing the footsteps fade in the distance, lifted himself on his elbow and, making one final effort, cried faintly: ‘Murder! I am dying! Help me, Monsieur l’Abbé!’
This mournful cry pierced the darkness. The door to the hidden stairway flew open, then the little door into the garden, and Ali and his master hurried out, carrying lights.
LXXXIII
THE HAND OF GOD
Caderousse continued to cry out in a pitiful voice: ‘Monsieur l’Abbé, help me! Help me!’
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Monte Cristo.
‘Help,’ said Caderousse. ‘I’ve been murdered.’
‘We’re here. Don’t worry.’
‘No, it’s all over. You’ve come too late, in time only to see me die. What wounds! What blood!’ And he passed out.
Ali and his master lifted the wounded man and carried him inside. There, Monte Cristo signed to Ali to undress him and they found the three dreadful wounds that had struck him down.
‘Oh, God,’ said Monte Cristo, ‘your vengeance may sometimes be slow in coming, but I think that then it is all the more complete.’
Ali looked at his master, as if to ask what should be done.
‘Go and find the crown prosecutor, Villefort, who lives in the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, and bring him here. On the way, wake up the porter and tell him to go and fetch a doctor.’
Ali obeyed and left the false abbé alone with Caderousse, who was still unconscious. When the unfortunate man re-opened his eyes, the count, seated a short distance away from him, was giving him a sombre, pious look, his lips moving, apparently muttering a prayer.
‘A doctor, Monsieur l’Abbé! Fetch a doctor!’ said Caderousse.
‘Someone has already gone for one,’ said the abbé.
‘I know that it is too late to save my life, but he might perhaps give me the strength to make my statement.’
‘About what?’
‘About my murderer.’
‘Do you know who it was?’
‘Of course I do! Yes, I know him: it was Benedetto.’
‘The young Corsican?’
‘The same.’
‘Your comrade?’
‘Yes. After giving me plans of the count’s house, no doubt expecting that I would kill him and so allow Benedetto to inherit, or else that he would kill me and Benedetto would be rid of me, he waited for me in the street and killed me himself.’
‘As well as the doctor, I sent for the crown prosecutor.’
‘He will be too late, too late…’ said Caderousse. ‘I can feel my life’s blood running out.’
‘Wait,’ said Monte Cristo. He left then returned, five minutes later, with a flask. While he was away, the dying man, his eyes staring horribly, had not taken them off the door through which he instinctively guessed that help would come.
‘Hurry, father, hurry!’ he said. ‘I feel myself fainting again.’
Monte Cristo bent down and poured two or three drops of the liquid in the flask on to the wounded man’s purple lips. Caderousse sighed. ‘Oh, that is life you are giving me. More, more…’
‘Another two drops would kill you,’ the abbé replied.
‘If only someone would come so that I could denounce the wretch!’
‘Would you like me to write out your statement?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Caderousse, his eyes shining at the idea of this posthumous revenge.
Monte Cristo wrote: ‘I die, murdered by the Corsican Benedetto, my fellow-prisoner in Toulon under the number 59.’
‘Hurry, hurry!’ said Caderousse. ‘Or I shall not be able to sign.’
Monte Cristo gave him the pen, and Caderousse gathered all his strength, signed it and fell back on the bed, saying: ‘You can tell them the rest, father. Say that he is calling himself Andrea Cavalcanti, that he is living at the Hôtel des Princes, that… Oh, God! Oh! I am dying!’ And once more he fainted. The abbé made him breathe the scent from the flask, and the wounded man opened his eyes. The desire for revenge had not left him while he was unconscious.
‘You will say all that, won’t you, father?’
‘All that and much more.’
‘What more?’
‘I shall say that he doubtless gave you the plan of this house in the hope that the count would kill you. I will say that he sent a letter to the count to warn him, and I shall say that, in the count’s absence, I received this letter and lay in wait for you.’
‘And he will be guillotined, won’t he?’ said Caderousse. ‘Promise me he will be guillotined. I die in that hope; it will help me to die.’
‘I shall say,’ the count continued, ‘that he followed you here, that he watched you all the time and that when he saw you coming out, he ran up and hid behind a corner of the wall.’
‘Did you see all that, then?’
‘Remember what I said: “If you return home safe and sound, I shall believe that God has pardoned you and I shall do the same.” ’
‘And you didn’t warn me?’ Caderousse cried, trying to lift himself on his elbow. ‘You knew that I would be killed when I left here, and you didn’t warn me?’
‘No, because I saw the hand of Benedetto as the justice of God, and I thought I should be committing a sacrilege if I were to interfere with Fate.’
‘The justice of God! Don’t speak to me of that, Monsieur l’Abbé. If there was any divine justice, you know as well as anyone that there are people who would be punished but who are not.’
‘Patience!’ said the abbé, in a tone of voice that made the dying man shudder. ‘Be patient!’ Caderousse looked at him in amazement.
‘And then,’ the abbé continued, ‘God is full of mercy for everyone, as He has been towards you. He is a father before He is a judge.’
‘Oh, so you believe in God, do you?’ Caderousse asked.
‘Even if I were so unfortunate as not to have believed in Him up to now, I should do
Caderousse raised his clasped hands to heaven.
‘Listen,’ the abbé went on, extending a hand above the wounded man as if ordering him to believe. ‘Here is what He did for you, this God whom you refuse to recognize even in your last hour. He gave you health, strength, secure work and even friends; in short, life as it must appear sweet to a man, offering an easy conscience and the satisfaction of his natural desires. But, instead of making use of these gifts of the Lord, which He so rarely grants in all their fullness, what did you do? You abandoned yourself to idleness and drunkenness, and in your drunkenness you betrayed one of your best friends.’
‘Help!’ cried Caderousse. ‘It’s not a priest I need, but a doctor. Perhaps I am not mortally wounded, perhaps I am not yet going to die, perhaps I can be saved!’
‘You are mortally wounded, and so much so that, without the three drops of liquid which I gave you just now, you would already be dead. So listen.’
‘Oh!’ groaned Caderousse. ‘What a strange priest you are, who puts despair instead of comfort into a dying man’s heart.’
‘Listen,’ the abbé continued. ‘When you had betrayed your friend, God began, not by striking you down, but by warning you. You lapsed into poverty and you knew hunger. You had spent half a life in envy that you could have spent in profitable toil, and you were already thinking about crime when God offered you a miracle, when God, by my hands, sent you a fortune in the midst of your deprivation – a fortune that was splendid for you, who had never possessed anything. But this unexpected, unhoped-for, unheard-of fortune was not enough for you, as soon as you owned it. You wanted to double it. How? By murder. You did double it, and God took it away from you by bringing you to human justice.’
‘I didn’t want to kill the Jew,’ said Caderousse. ‘It was La Carconte.’
‘Yes,’ Monte Cristo replied. ‘So God, who is always – I shall not say “just” this time, because His justice would have awarded you death; but God, who is always merciful, allowed your judges to be touched by your words and let you live.’
‘Huh! To condemn me to prison for life! A fine pardon that was!’
‘You wretch: you did at least consider it a pardon when it was given. Your cowardly heart, trembling at the prospect of death, leapt with joy at the announcement of your perpetual shame because, like all convicts, you said to yourself: prisons have doors, the tomb has none. You were right, because the door to your prison opened unexpectedly. An Englishman, visiting Toulon, has made a vow to free two men from infamy. He chooses you and your companion. A second fortune drops on you from heaven, you regain both money and ease, and you can once more live the life of other men, after having been condemned to live that of a convict. And at this, you wretch, you begin to tempt God for a third time. “I haven’t got enough,” you say, when you have more than you ever possessed, and you commit a third crime, motiveless, inexcusable. But God had grown tired; He has punished you.’