The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas

  ‘Caderousse and his wife exchanged a dark look: they both appeared to have the same frightful idea.

  ‘ “Very well, bon voyage!” said Caderousse.

  ‘ “Thank you,” the jeweller replied.

  ‘He took his cane, which he had set down, leaning against an old sideboard, and went out. As soon as he opened the door, there was such a gust of wind that it almost put out the lamp.

  ‘ “Ho, ho!” he said. “Lovely weather… And I have two leagues to travel in it.”

  ‘ “Don’t go,” said Caderousse. “You can sleep here.”

  ‘ “Yes, stay,” said La Carconte in a quivering voice. “We’ll take good care of you.”

  ‘ “No, I can’t. I must sleep in Beaucaire. Farewell.”

  ‘Caderousse walked slowly over to the doorway.

  ‘ “You can’t see an inch ahead,” said the jeweller, already outside. “Should I go to the right or the left?”

  ‘ “Right,” said Caderousse. “You can’t miss your way. The road is lined with trees on each side.”

  ‘ “Very well, I’m there,” said the voice, hardly audible in the distance.

  ‘ “Shut the door,” said La Carconte. “I don’t like leaving the door open when there’s thunder.”

  ‘ “Or when there’s money in the house, you mean,” said Caderousse, turning the key twice in the lock.

  ‘He came back, went over to the cupboard, took out the bag and the portfolio, and both of them started to count over their gold and their banknotes for the third time. I have never seen an expression like the one on those two faces, with the dim light of the lamp shining on their cupidity. The woman, above all, was frightful to see. Her limbs trembled feverishly, twice as much as usual, her pale face was livid and her hollow eyes blazed.

  ‘ “And why did you offer to let him sleep here?” she muttered.

  ‘Caderousse started. “Well, of course, so that he would not need to go back to Beaucaire…”

  ‘ “Ah,” the woman said, with an indescribable expression. “I thought it might be for some other reason.”

  ‘ “Wife, wife!” Caderousse cried. “Where do you get such ideas? And, if you have them, why not keep them to yourself?”

  ‘ “No matter,” La Carconte said, after a moment’s silence. “You are not a man.”

  ‘ “What do you mean?” asked Caderousse.

  ‘ “If you had been a man, he would not have left here.”

  ‘ “Wife!”

  ‘ “Or else he would never reach Beaucaire.”

  ‘ “Wife!”

  ‘ “He must follow the road, which has a bend in it, but there is a short-cut along the canal.”

  ‘ “Woman, you are offending the Good Lord. Listen…”

  ‘Indeed, as he spoke there was a fearful crash of thunder, while at the same time a bluish shaft of lightning lit up the whole room, and the thunder, fading in the distance, seemed unwilling to go away from the accursed house.

  ‘ “Jesu!” said La Carconte, making the sign of the cross.

  ‘At the same moment, in the awed silence that habitually follows a loud burst of thunder, they heard a knocking on the door. Both Caderousse and his wife shuddered and looked at one another.

  ‘ “Who goes there?” Caderousse shouted, getting up and pushing the gold and the notes, which had been spread out over the table, into a single pile and covering it with both hands.

  ‘ “It’s me!” said a voice.

  ‘ “Who are you?”

  ‘ “Who do you think? Joannès, the jeweller.”

  ‘ “What were you saying?” La Carconte said, with an awful smile. “That the Good Lord was offended? Well, look: the Good Lord has sent him back to us.”

  ‘Caderousse slipped back, white and breathless, on his chair. But La Carconte, on the other hand, got up and walked with a determined step over to the door, then opened it. “Come in, dear Monsieur Joannès,” she said.

  ‘ “I’ll be darned,” the jeweller said, dripping with rain. “It seems that the devil does not want me to go back to Beaucaire this evening. The best follies are the shortest-lived, my dear Caderousse. You offered me your hospitality; I accept and I have come back to stay the night with you.”

  ‘Caderousse muttered a few words, wiping the sweat from his brow. La Carconte double-locked the door behind the jeweller.’

  XLV

  A SHOWER OF BLOOD

  ‘As he came in, the jeweller looked around enquiringly, but nothing seemed to arouse his suspicions, if he had none so far, or to confirm any that he might have had. Caderousse was still holding his banknotes and his gold in both hands. La Carconte smiled at her guest as pleasantly as she could.

  ‘ “Ah! I see,” said the jeweller. “It appears you were afraid of having been underpaid, so you were counting your wealth after I left.”

  ‘ “Not at all,” said Caderousse. “But the events that brought us this fortune were so unexpected that we still cannot believe in it, and when we do not have the actual proof under our eyes we imagine that we may still be dreaming.”

  ‘The jeweller smiled.

  ‘ “Do you have any travellers in your inn?” he asked.

  ‘ “No,” Caderousse replied. “We do not let rooms. We are too close to the town and no one stops here.”

  ‘ “In that case, will I be a terrible nuisance to you?”

  ‘ “You! A nuisance! My dear sir,” La Carconte said amiably, “not at all, I assure you.”

  ‘ “But where will you put me?”

  ‘ “In the upstairs room.”

  ‘ “That is your own room, isn’t it?”

  ‘ “Don’t worry! We have a second bed in the room next door to this one.”

  ‘Caderousse looked at his wife in astonishment. The jeweller hummed a little tune while warming his back at a log which La Carconte had just lit in the fireplace so that he could dry his clothes. Meanwhile she put the meagre remnants of a dinner on one corner of the table where she had laid a cloth, adding two or three fresh eggs.

  ‘Caderousse had once more shut the notes up in his wallet, the gold in his bag and both of these in his cupboard. He was walking back and forth, grim and pensive, casting an occasional glance at the jeweller who stood steaming in front of the hearth and, when he started to dry on one side, turned to the other.

  ‘ “There you are,” said La Carconte, putting a bottle of wine down on the table. “Supper is ready, when you want it.”

  ‘ “What about you?” asked Joannès.

  ‘ “I’m not having anything,” Caderousse said.

  ‘ “We had a very late dinner,” La Carconte hastened to add.

  ‘ “Will I have to eat alone, then?”

  ‘ “We’ll serve you,” said La Carconte, with an eagerness that would have been exceptional in her, even with one of her paying guests. From time to time Caderousse gave her a rapid glance.

  ‘The storm continued.

  ‘ “Do you hear that?” La Carconte said. “My word! You did well to come back.”

  ‘ “Despite which,” said the jeweller, “if the wind does drop while I am eating my supper, I shall set out again.”

  ‘ “It’s the mistral,” Caderousse said, shaking his head. “We’ve got it now until tomorrow.” And he sighed.

  ‘ “Well I never,” said the jeweller, taking his place at the table. “Bad luck on anyone who’s outside.”

  ‘ “Yes,” said La Carconte. “They will have a rough night.”

  ‘The jeweller began to eat and La Carconte continued to fuss over him like an attentive hostess. Usually so crabby and ill-tempered, she had become a model of consideration and good manners. If the jeweller had known her earlier he would surely have been astonished by the change, which could not help arousing his suspicions. As for Caderousse, he said nothing but went on walking up and down and seemed unwilling even to look at his guest.

  ‘When supper was over, Caderousse himself went to the door.

  ‘ “I think the storm h
as passed,” he said. But at that moment, as if to contradict him, the house was shaken by an enormous clap of thunder, and a gust of rain and wind came in, blowing out the lamp. Caderousse shut the door and his wife lit a candle at the dying fire.

  ‘ “Here,” she said to the jeweller. “You must be tired. I have put clean linen on the bed. Go on up, and sleep well.”

  ‘Joannès waited for a moment longer to see whether the storm would abate, and when he was sure that the thunder and rain were only increasing in strength he said goodnight to his hosts and went up the stairs.

  ‘He passed right above my head. I could hear each stair creak beneath his feet. La Carconte looked after him hungrily, while Caderousse turned his back and did not even glance in his direction.

  ‘All these details, which I have recalled since the events, did not strike me while they were taking place before my eyes. When it comes down to it, everything that had happened was quite normal and, apart from the story of the diamond, which struck me as somewhat improbable, everything was perfectly consistent. As I was dropping with tiredness and intended myself to take advantage of the first break in the weather, I decided to sleep for a few hours, then make off while it was still dark.

  ‘In the room above my head I could hear the jeweller going about his preparations for spending as comfortable a night as he could. Shortly afterwards, the bed creaked under him: he had just got into it.

  ‘I felt my eyes closing despite myself and, as I had no suspicion of what was to come, I did not try to fight against sleep. I took one last look around the kitchen. Caderousse was sitting, beside a long table, on one of those wooden benches which they use instead of chairs in village inns. His back was turned to me, so that his face was hidden – though, even if he had been sitting on the opposite side of the table, it would still have been impossible for me to see his face, because his head was buried in his hands.

  ‘La Carconte looked at him for a time, shrugged her shoulders and went to sit opposite him.

  ‘At that moment the dying embers of the fire caught a piece of dry wood that until then had remained unconsumed, and a brighter light flared up, illuminating the dark interior of the inn. La Carconte was staring at her husband and, since he remained in the same position, I saw her reach out towards him with her gnarled hand and touch his forehead.

  ‘Caderousse started. I thought I could see the woman’s lips move, but either she was speaking in a very low voice or else I was already dulled by sleep, because the sound of her words did not reach me. In fact, I saw everything through a kind of mist, in that period of uncertainty that precedes sleep, when we feel that we are starting to dream. At length my eyes closed and I was no longer aware of my surroundings.

  ‘I was slumbering profoundly when I was awoken by a pistol-shot, followed by a dreadful cry. Someone staggered a few steps across the floor of the bedroom and an inert mass crashed on the stairs, directly above my head.

  ‘I was still not entirely master of my senses. I heard groans, then stifled cries, like those that might accompany a struggle. A final shout, lasting longer than the rest and ending in a series of moans, forced me entirely from my lethargy.

  ‘I sat up on one elbow, opened my eyes, which could see nothing in the darkness, and put my hand to my forehead, where I thought I felt a heavy shower of warm rain dripping through the boards of the stairway.

  ‘The horrid sounds had given way to the most profound silence. Then I heard a man’s footsteps above my head and the creak of the stairs. He came into the downstairs room, went across to the fireplace and lit a candle. It was Caderousse. His face was livid and his nightshirt covered in blood. Once he had lit the candle, he hurried back upstairs and I heard him moving about there again, with rapid and uneasy steps.

  ‘After a short while he came back. He was holding the box in his hand and making sure that the diamond was inside. Then he paused for a moment, trying to decide which of his pockets to put it in. Finally, having no doubt concluded that his pocket was not a secure enough hiding-place, he wrapped it in the red kerchief around his neck.

  ‘Then he hurried across to the cupboard, took out his banknotes and the gold, putting the first in the fob pocket of his trousers and the second in his jacket, seized two or three shirts and, running across to the door, disappeared into the darkness. It was only now that everything became clear to me. I felt responsible for what had happened, as though I were really the guilty party. I thought I could hear someone moaning. Perhaps the unfortunate jeweller was not dead and it was within my power to go to his aid and make up for some of the evil that I had, if not done, at least allowed to be done… I thrust my shoulder against one of the ill-fitting planks which separated the sort of cubby-hole, in which I was hiding, from the downstairs room. The planks gave way and I was inside the house.

  ‘I hastened to pick up the candlestick and ran to the stairs. A body was lying across them: it was La Carconte.

  ‘The pistol-shot that I heard had been fired at her. Her throat was shot through and, as well as this double wound that was bleeding copiously, there was blood coming from her mouth. She was stone dead. I stepped over the body and went upstairs.

  ‘The bedroom was a shambles. Some of the furniture had been overturned and the sheets, which the unfortunate jeweller had clasped on to, were spread across the room. He himself was lying on the floor, his head resting against the wall and bathed in a pool of blood still flowing from three gaping wounds in his chest. In a fourth was embedded a long kitchen knife, of which only the handle could be seen.

  ‘I went over to the second pistol, which had not been fired, probably because the powder was damp.

  ‘Then I approached the jeweller. In fact he was not yet dead. Hearing the sound that I made and, still more, the shaking of the floor, he opened his wildly staring eyes, managed to focus them on me for a moment, moved his lips as though to speak, and expired.

  ‘At this frightful scene, I almost fainted. Now that there was no assistance I could give anyone, I felt only one need, which was to be away from there. I plunged down the stairs, grasping my hair with my hands and giving a roar of terror.

  ‘In the lower room there were five or six Customs men and two or three gendarmes: a small squad of armed men.

  ‘They seized me. I made no attempt to resist, because I was no longer in command of my senses. I merely tried to speak and gave some inarticulate cries. Then I saw that the officers were pointing at me. I looked down and saw that I was covered in blood. The warm shower that I had felt rain down on me through the boards of the staircase was La Carconte’s blood.

  ‘I pointed to the place where I had been hiding.

  ‘ “What is he trying to say?” a gendarme asked.

  ‘One of the customs men went to look.

  ‘ “He’s telling us that he came through here,” he answered, pointing to the hole which had indeed been my means of entry.

  ‘On this, I realized that they thought I was the assassin. I recovered my voice and my strength and broke away from the two men who were holding me, shouting: “It wasn’t me, it wasn’t me!”

  ‘Two gendarmes levelled their carbines at me: “Don’t move,” they said, “or you’re dead!”

  ‘ “But I tell you, it wasn’t me!” I cried.

  ‘ “You can tell your little story to the judges in Nîmes,” they replied. “For the time being, follow us – and, we warn you, don’t try to resist.”

  ‘I had no intention of doing so; I was overwhelmed with amazement and terror. They put handcuffs on me, attached me to the tail of a horse and led me into Nîmes.

  ‘I had been followed by a Customs man. He had lost sight of me somewhere near the inn and guessed that I would spend the night there. He went to fetch his comrades, and they arrived just in time to hear the pistol-shot and to arrest me, amid all that evidence of guilt. I realized at once how hard it would be to convince anyone of my innocence.

  ‘For this reason, I clung to just one thing: my first request from the exami
ning magistrate was to beg him to have them search everywhere for a certain Abbé Busoni who had stopped during the day at the inn of the Pont du Gard. If Caderousse had made up the story and the abbé did not exist, I was clearly lost, unless Caderousse himself was arrested and confessed everything.

  ‘Two months passed in which – be it said to the magistrate’s credit – every effort was made to find the witness I had requested. I had already lost all hope. Caderousse had not been caught. I was to be tried at the next assizes when, on September the eighth, that is to say three months and five days after the event, Abbé Busoni, of whom I had quite given up hope, presented himself at the prison, saying that he had been told a prisoner wanted to speak to him. He said that he had learned of this in Marseille and hastened to comply with my request.

  ‘You can imagine how eagerly I welcomed him. I told him everything that I had witnessed. I was reluctant to embark on the story of the diamond but, against all my expectations, it proved to be true, point by point, and – also to my surprise – he gave complete credence to everything that I told him. Whereupon, encouraged by his sweet and forgiving nature, recognizing that he entirely understood the customs of my country and feeling that from such charitable lips I might perhaps receive absolution for the only crime I had ever committed, I told him, under the seal of the confessional, all about what had happened in Auteuil. What I did on impulse had the same effect as if I had contrived it: by confessing this first murder, even though nothing compelled me to do so, I proved to him that I had not committed the second. He left me with an injunction to have faith, promising to do all that was in his power to convince the judges of my innocence.

  ‘I had evidence of his actual efforts on my behalf when I observed that the prison regime was gradually lightened and when I learned that my case would be held over until the next assizes following those that were due to convene.