The Count of Monte Cristo, Illustrated by Alexandre Dumas
Chapter 26. The Pont du Gard Inn
Such of my readers as have made a pedestrian excursion to the south ofFrance may perchance have noticed, about midway between the town ofBeaucaire and the village of Bellegarde,—a little nearer to the formerthan to the latter,—a small roadside inn, from the front of which hung,creaking and flapping in the wind, a sheet of tin covered with agrotesque representation of the Pont du Gard. This modern place ofentertainment stood on the left-hand side of the post road, and backedupon the Rhône. It also boasted of what in Languedoc is styled a garden,consisting of a small plot of ground, on the side opposite to the mainentrance reserved for the reception of guests. A few dingy olives andstunted fig-trees struggled hard for existence, but their withered dustyfoliage abundantly proved how unequal was the conflict. Between thesesickly shrubs grew a scanty supply of garlic, tomatoes, and eschalots;while, lone and solitary, like a forgotten sentinel, a tall pine raisedits melancholy head in one of the corners of this unattractive spot, anddisplayed its flexible stem and fan-shaped summit dried and cracked bythe fierce heat of the sub-tropical sun.
All these trees, great or small, were turned in the direction to whichthe Mistral blows, one of the three curses of Provence, the others beingthe Durance and the Parliament.
In the surrounding plain, which more resembled a dusty lake than solidground, were scattered a few miserable stalks of wheat, the effect, nodoubt, of a curious desire on the part of the agriculturists of thecountry to see whether such a thing as the raising of grain in thoseparched regions was practicable. Each stalk served as a perch for agrasshopper, which regaled the passers-by through this Egyptian scenewith its strident, monotonous note.
For about seven or eight years the little tavern had been kept by a manand his wife, with two servants,—a chambermaid named Trinette, and ahostler called Pecaud. This small staff was quite equal to all therequirements, for a canal between Beaucaire and Aiguemortes hadrevolutionized transportation by substituting boats for the cart and thestagecoach. And, as though to add to the daily misery which thisprosperous canal inflicted on the unfortunate innkeeper, whose utterruin it was fast accomplishing, it was situated between the Rhône fromwhich it had its source and the post-road it had depleted, not a hundredsteps from the inn, of which we have given a brief but faithfuldescription.
The innkeeper himself was a man of from forty to fifty-five years ofage, tall, strong, and bony, a perfect specimen of the natives of thosesouthern latitudes; he had dark, sparkling, and deep-set eyes, hookednose, and teeth white as those of a carnivorous animal; his hair, likehis beard, which he wore under his chin, was thick and curly, and inspite of his age but slightly interspersed with a few silvery threads.His naturally dark complexion had assumed a still further shade of brownfrom the habit the unfortunate man had acquired of stationing himselffrom morning till eve at the threshold of his door, on the lookout forguests who seldom came, yet there he stood, day after day, exposed tothe meridional rays of a burning sun, with no other protection for hishead than a red handkerchief twisted around it, after the manner of theSpanish muleteers. This man was our old acquaintance, GaspardCaderousse.
His wife, on the contrary, whose maiden name had been Madeleine Radelle,was pale, meagre, and sickly-looking. Born in the neighborhood of Arles,she had shared in the beauty for which its women are proverbial; butthat beauty had gradually withered beneath the devastating influence ofthe slow fever so prevalent among dwellers by the ponds of Aiguemortesand the marshes of Camargue. She remained nearly always in her second-floor chamber, shivering in her chair, or stretched languid and feebleon her bed, while her husband kept his daily watch at the door—a duty heperformed with so much the greater willingness, as it saved him thenecessity of listening to the endless plaints and murmurs of hishelpmate, who never saw him without breaking out into bitter invectivesagainst fate; to all of which her husband would calmly return anunvarying reply, in these philosophic words:
“Hush, La Carconte. It is God’s pleasure that things should be so.”
The sobriquet of La Carconte had been bestowed on Madeleine Radelle fromthe fact that she had been born in a village, so called, situatedbetween Salon and Lambesc; and as a custom existed among the inhabitantsof that part of France where Caderousse lived of styling every person bysome particular and distinctive appellation, her husband had bestowed onher the name of La Carconte in place of her sweet and euphonious name ofMadeleine, which, in all probability, his rude gutteral language wouldnot have enabled him to pronounce.
Still, let it not be supposed that amid this affected resignation to thewill of Providence, the unfortunate innkeeper did not writhe under thedouble misery of seeing the hateful canal carry off his customers andhis profits, and the daily infliction of his peevish partner’s murmursand lamentations.
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Like other dwellers in the south, he was a man of sober habits andmoderate desires, but fond of external show, vain, and addicted todisplay. During the days of his prosperity, not a festivity took placewithout himself and wife being among the spectators. He dressed in thepicturesque costume worn upon grand occasions by the inhabitants of thesouth of France, bearing equal resemblance to the style adopted both bythe Catalans and Andalusians; while La Carconte displayed the charmingfashion prevalent among the women of Arles, a mode of attire borrowedequally from Greece and Arabia. But, by degrees, watch-chains,necklaces, parti-colored scarves, embroidered bodices, velvet vests,elegantly worked stockings, striped gaiters, and silver buckles for theshoes, all disappeared; and Gaspard Caderousse, unable to appear abroadin his pristine splendor, had given up any further participation in thepomps and vanities, both for himself and wife, although a bitter feelingof envious discontent filled his mind as the sound of mirth and merrymusic from the joyous revellers reached even the miserable hostelry towhich he still clung, more for the shelter than the profit it afforded.
Caderousse, then, was, as usual, at his place of observation before thedoor, his eyes glancing listlessly from a piece of closely shavengrass—on which some fowls were industriously, though fruitlessly,endeavoring to turn up some grain or insect suited to their palate—tothe deserted road, which led away to the north and south, when he wasaroused by the shrill voice of his wife, and grumbling to himself as hewent, he mounted to her chamber, first taking care, however, to set theentrance door wide open, as an invitation to any chance traveller whomight be passing.
At the moment Caderousse quitted his sentry-like watch before the door,the road on which he so eagerly strained his sight was void and lonelyas a desert at midday. There it lay stretching out into one interminableline of dust and sand, with its sides bordered by tall, meagre trees,altogether presenting so uninviting an appearance, that no one in hissenses could have imagined that any traveller, at liberty to regulatehis hours for journeying, would choose to expose himself in such aformidable Sahara.
Nevertheless, had Caderousse but retained his post a few minutes longer,he might have caught a dim outline of something approaching from thedirection of Bellegarde; as the moving object drew nearer, he wouldeasily have perceived that it consisted of a man and horse, between whomthe kindest and most amiable understanding appeared to exist. The horsewas of Hungarian breed, and ambled along at an easy pace. His rider wasa priest, dressed in black, and wearing a three-cornered hat; and, spiteof the ardent rays of a noonday sun, the pair came on with a fair degreeof rapidity.
Having arrived before the Pont du Gard, the horse stopped, but whetherfor his own pleasure or that of his rider would have been difficult tosay. However that might have been, the priest, dismounting, led hissteed by the bridle in search of some place to which he could securehim. Availing himself of a handle that projected from a half-fallendoor, he tied the animal safely and having drawn a red cottonhandkerchief, from his pocket, wiped away the perspiration that streamedfrom his brow, then, advancing to the door, struck thrice with the endof his iron-shod stick.
At this unusual sound, a huge black dog came rushing to meet the dar
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“You are welcome, sir, most welcome!” repeated the astonishedCaderousse. “Now, then, Margotin,” cried he, speaking to the dog, “willyou be quiet? Pray don’t heed him, sir!—he only barks, he never bites. Imake no doubt a glass of good wine would be acceptable this dreadfullyhot day.” Then perceiving for the first time the garb of the travellerhe had to entertain, Caderousse hastily exclaimed: “A thousand pardons!I really did not observe whom I had the honor to receive under my poorroof. What would the abbé please to have? What refreshment can I offer?All I have is at his service.”
The priest gazed on the person addressing him with a long and searchinggaze—there even seemed a disposition on his part to court a similarscrutiny on the part of the innkeeper; then, observing in thecountenance of the latter no other expression than extreme surprise athis own want of attention to an inquiry so courteously worded, he deemedit as well to terminate this dumb show, and therefore said, speakingwith a strong Italian accent, “You are, I presume, M. Caderousse?”
“Yes, sir,” answered the host, even more surprised at the question thanhe had been by the silence which had preceded it; “I am GaspardCaderousse, at your service.”
“Gaspard Caderousse,” rejoined the priest. “Yes,—Christian and surnameare the same. You formerly lived, I believe in the Allées de Meilhan, onthe fourth floor?”
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“I did.”
“And you followed the business of a tailor?”
“True, I was a tailor, till the trade fell off. It is so hot atMarseilles, that really I believe that the respectable inhabitants willin time go without any clothing whatever. But talking of heat, is therenothing I can offer you by way of refreshment?”
“Yes; let me have a bottle of your best wine, and then, with yourpermission, we will resume our conversation from where we left off.”
“As you please, sir,” said Caderousse, who, anxious not to lose thepresent opportunity of finding a customer for one of the few bottles ofCahors still remaining in his possession, hastily raised a trap-door inthe floor of the apartment they were in, which served both as parlor andkitchen.
Upon issuing forth from his subterranean retreat at the expiration offive minutes, he found the abbé seated upon a wooden stool, leaning hiselbow on a table, while Margotin, whose animosity seemed appeased by theunusual command of the traveller for refreshments, had crept up to him,and had established himself very comfortably between his knees, hislong, skinny neck resting on his lap, while his dim eye was fixedearnestly on the traveller’s face.
“Are you quite alone?” inquired the guest, as Caderousse placed beforehim the bottle of wine and a glass.
“Quite, quite alone,” replied the man—“or, at least, practically so, formy poor wife, who is the only person in the house besides myself, islaid up with illness, and unable to render me the least assistance, poorthing!”
“You are married, then?” said the priest, with a show of interest,glancing round as he spoke at the scanty furnishings of the apartment.
“Ah, sir,” said Caderousse with a sigh, “it is easy to perceive I am nota rich man; but in this world a man does not thrive the better for beinghonest.” The abbé fixed on him a searching, penetrating glance.
“Yes, honest—I can certainly say that much for myself,” continued theinnkeeper, fairly sustaining the scrutiny of the abbé’s gaze; “I canboast with truth of being an honest man; and,” continued hesignificantly, with a hand on his breast and shaking his head, “that ismore than everyone can say nowadays.”
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“So much the better for you, if what you assert be true,” said the abbé;“for I am firmly persuaded that, sooner or later, the good will berewarded, and the wicked punished.”
“Such words as those belong to your profession,” answered Caderousse,“and you do well to repeat them; but,” added he, with a bitterexpression of countenance, “one is free to believe them or not, as onepleases.”
“You are wrong to speak thus,” said the abbé; “and perhaps I may, in myown person, be able to prove to you how completely you are in error.”
“What mean you?” inquired Caderousse with a look of surprise.
“In the first place, I must be satisfied that you are the person I am insearch of.”
“What proofs do you require?”
“Did you, in the year 1814 or 1815, know anything of a young sailornamed Dantès?”
“Dantès? Did I know poor dear Edmond? Why, Edmond Dantès and myself wereintimate friends!” exclaimed Caderousse, whose countenance flusheddarkly as he caught the penetrating gaze of the abbé fixed on him, whilethe clear, calm eye of the questioner seemed to dilate with feverishscrutiny.
“You remind me,” said the priest, “that the young man concerning whom Iasked you was said to bear the name of Edmond.”
“Said to bear the name!” repeated Caderousse, becoming excited andeager. “Why, he was so called as truly as I myself bore the appellationof Gaspard Caderousse; but tell me, I pray, what has become of poorEdmond? Did you know him? Is he alive and at liberty? Is he prosperousand happy?”
“He died a more wretched, hopeless, heart-broken prisoner than thefelons who pay the penalty of their crimes at the galleys of Toulon.”
A deadly pallor followed the flush on the countenance of Caderousse, whoturned away, and the priest saw him wiping the tears from his eyes withthe corner of the red handkerchief twisted round his head.
“Poor fellow, poor fellow!” murmured Caderousse. “Well, there, sir, isanother proof that good people are never rewarded on this earth, andthat none but the wicked prosper. Ah,” continued Caderousse, speaking inthe highly colored language of the South, “the world grows worse andworse. Why does not God, if he really hates the wicked, as he is said todo, send down brimstone and fire, and consume them altogether?”
“You speak as though you had loved this young Dantès,” observed theabbé, without taking any notice of his companion’s vehemence.
“And so I did,” replied Caderousse; “though once, I confess, I enviedhim his good fortune. But I swear to you, sir, I swear to you, byeverything a man holds dear, I have, since then, deeply and sincerelylamented his unhappy fate.”
There was a brief silence, during which the fixed, searching eye of theabbé was employed in scrutinizing the agitated features of theinnkeeper.
“You knew the poor lad, then?” continued Caderousse.
“I was called to see him on his dying bed, that I might administer tohim the consolations of religion.”
“And of what did he die?” asked Caderousse in a choking voice.
“Of what, think you, do young and strong men die in prison, when theyhave scarcely numbered their thirtieth year, unless it be ofimprisonment?” Caderousse wiped away the large beads of perspirationthat gathered on his brow.
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“But the strangest part of the story is,” resumed the abbé, “thatDantès, even in his dying moments, swore by his crucified Redeemer, thathe was utterly ignorant of the cause of his detention.”
“And so he was,” murmured Caderousse. “How should he have beenotherwise? Ah, sir, the poor fellow told you the truth.”
“And for that reason, he besought me to try and clear up a mystery hehad never been able to penetrate, and to clear his memory should anyfoul spot or stain have fallen on it.”
And here the look of the abbé, becoming more and more fixed, seemed torest with ill-concealed satisfaction on the gloomy depression which wasrapidly spreading over the countenance of Caderousse.
“A rich Englishman,” continued the abbé, “who had been his companion inmisfortune, but h
“Then, I suppose,” asked Caderousse, with eager, glowing looks, “that itwas a stone of immense value?”
“Why, everything is relative,” answered the abbé. “To one in Edmond’sposition the diamond certainly was of great value. It was estimated atfifty thousand francs.”
“Bless me!” exclaimed Caderousse, “fifty thousand francs! Surely thediamond was as large as a nut to be worth all that.”
“No,” replied the abbé, “it was not of such a size as that; but youshall judge for yourself. I have it with me.”
The sharp gaze of Caderousse was instantly directed towards the priest’sgarments, as though hoping to discover the location of the treasure.Calmly drawing forth from his pocket a small box covered with blackshagreen, the abbé opened it, and displayed to the dazzled eyes ofCaderousse the sparkling jewel it contained, set in a ring of admirableworkmanship.
“And that diamond,” cried Caderousse, almost breathless with eageradmiration, “you say, is worth fifty thousand francs?”
“It is, without the setting, which is also valuable,” replied the abbé,as he closed the box, and returned it to his pocket, while its brillianthues seemed still to dance before the eyes of the fascinated innkeeper.
“But how comes the diamond in your possession, sir? Did Edmond make youhis heir?”
“No, merely his testamentary executor. ‘I once possessed four dear andfaithful friends, besides the maiden to whom I was betrothed’ he said;‘and I feel convinced they have all unfeignedly grieved over my loss.The name of one of the four friends is Caderousse.’” The innkeepershivered.
“‘Another of the number,’” continued the abbé, without seeming to noticethe emotion of Caderousse, “‘is called Danglars; and the third, in spiteof being my rival, entertained a very sincere affection for me.’”
A fiendish smile played over the features of Caderousse, who was aboutto break in upon the abbé’s speech, when the latter, waving his hand,said, “Allow me to finish first, and then if you have any observationsto make, you can do so afterwards. ‘The third of my friends, although myrival, was much attached to me,—his name was Fernand; that of mybetrothed was’—Stay, stay,” continued the abbé, “I have forgotten whathe called her.”
“Mercédès,” said Caderousse eagerly.
“True,” said the abbé, with a stifled sigh, “Mercédès it was.”
“Go on,” urged Caderousse.
“Bring me a carafe of water,” said the abbé.
Caderousse quickly performed the stranger’s bidding; and after pouringsome into a glass, and slowly swallowing its contents, the abbé,resuming his usual placidity of manner, said, as he placed his emptyglass on the table:
“Where did we leave off?”
“The name of Edmond’s betrothed was Mercédès.”
“To be sure. ‘You will go to Marseilles,’ said Dantès,—for youunderstand, I repeat his words just as he uttered them. Do youunderstand?”
“Perfectly.”
“‘You will sell this diamond; you will divide the money into five equalparts, and give an equal portion to these good friends, the only personswho have loved me upon earth.’”
“But why into five parts?” asked Caderousse; “you only mentioned fourpersons.”
“Because the fifth is dead, as I hear. The fifth sharer in Edmond’sbequest, was his own father.”
“Too true, too true!” ejaculated Caderousse, almost suffocated by thecontending passions which assailed him, “the poor old man did die.”
“I learned so much at Marseilles,” replied the abbé, making a strongeffort to appear indifferent; “but from the length of time that haselapsed since the death of the elder Dantès, I was unable to obtain anyparticulars of his end. Can you enlighten me on that point?”
“I do not know who could if I could not,” said Caderousse. “Why, I livedalmost on the same floor with the poor old man. Ah, yes, about a yearafter the disappearance of his son the poor old man died.”
“Of what did he die?”
“Why, the doctors called his complaint gastro-enteritis, I believe; hisacquaintances say he died of grief; but I, who saw him in his dyingmoments, I say he died of——”
Caderousse paused.
“Of what?” asked the priest, anxiously and eagerly.
“Why, of downright starvation.”
“Starvation!” exclaimed the abbé, springing from his seat. “Why, thevilest animals are not suffered to die by such a death as that. The verydogs that wander houseless and homeless in the streets find some pityinghand to cast them a mouthful of bread; and that a man, a Christian,should be allowed to perish of hunger in the midst of other men who callthemselves Christians, is too horrible for belief. Oh, it isimpossible!—utterly impossible!”
“What I have said, I have said,” answered Caderousse.
“And you are a fool for having said anything about it,” said a voicefrom the top of the stairs. “Why should you meddle with what does notconcern you?”
The two men turned quickly, and saw the sickly countenance of LaCarconte peering between the baluster rails; attracted by the sound ofvoices, she had feebly dragged herself down the stairs, and, seated onthe lower step, head on knees, she had listened to the foregoingconversation.
“Mind your own business, wife,” replied Caderousse sharply. “Thisgentleman asks me for information, which common politeness will notpermit me to refuse.”
“Politeness, you simpleton!” retorted La Carconte. “What have you to dowith politeness, I should like to know? Better study a little commonprudence. How do you know the motives that person may have for trying toextract all he can from you?”
“I pledge you my word, madam,” said the abbé, “that my intentions aregood; and that your husband can incur no risk, provided he answers mecandidly.”
“Ah, that’s all very fine,” retorted the woman. “Nothing is easier thanto begin with fair promises and assurances of nothing to fear; but whenpoor, silly folks, like my husband there, have been persuaded to tellall they know, the promises and assurances of safety are quicklyforgotten; and at some moment when nobody is expecting it, beholdtrouble and misery, and all sorts of persecutions, are heaped on theunfortunate wretches, who cannot even see whence all their afflictionscome.”
“Nay, nay, my good woman, make yourself perfectly easy, I beg of you.Whatever evils may befall you, they will not be occasioned by myinstrumentality, that I solemnly promise you.”
La Carconte muttered a few inarticulate words, then let her head againdrop upon her knees, and went into a fit of ague, leaving the twospeakers to resume the conversation, but remaining so as to be able tohear every word they uttered. Again the abbé had been obliged to swallowa draught of water to calm the emotions that threatened to overpowerhim.
When he had sufficiently recovered himself, he said, “It appears, then,that the miserable old man you were telling me of was forsaken byeveryone. Surely, had not such been the case, he would not have perishedby so dreadful a death.”
“Why, he was not altogether forsaken,” continued Caderousse, “forMercédès the Catalan and Monsieur Morrel were very kind to him; butsomehow the poor old man had contracted a profound hatred forFernand—the very person,” added Caderousse with a bitter smile, “thatyou named just now as being one of Dantès’ faithful and attachedfriends.”
“And was he not so?” asked the abbé.
“Gaspard, G
Caderousse made no reply to these words, though evidently irritated andannoyed by the interruption, but, addressing the abbé, said, “Can a manbe faithful to another whose wife he covets and desires for himself? ButDantès was so honorable and true in his own nature, that he believedeverybody’s professions of friendship. Poor Edmond, he was cruellydeceived; but it was fortunate that he never knew, or he might havefound it more difficult, when on his deathbed, to pardon his enemies.And, whatever people may say,” continued Caderousse, in his nativelanguage, which was not altogether devoid of rude poetry, “I cannot helpbeing more frightened at the idea of the malediction of the dead thanthe hatred of the living.”
“Imbecile!” exclaimed La Carconte.
“Do you, then, know in what manner Fernand injured Dantès?” inquired theabbé of Caderousse.
“Do I? No one better.”
“Speak out then, say what it was!”
“Gaspard!” cried La Carconte, “do as you will; you are master—but if youtake my advice you’ll hold your tongue.”
“Well, wife,” replied Caderousse, “I don’t know but what you’re right!”
“So you will say nothing?” asked the abbé.
“Why, what good would it do?” asked Caderousse. “If the poor lad wereliving, and came to me and begged that I would candidly tell which werehis true and which his false friends, why, perhaps, I should nothesitate. But you tell me he is no more, and therefore can have nothingto do with hatred or revenge, so let all such feeling be buried withhim.”
“You prefer, then,” said the abbé, “that I should bestow on men you sayare false and treacherous, the reward intended for faithful friendship?”
“That is true enough,” returned Caderousse. “You say truly, the gift ofpoor Edmond was not meant for such traitors as Fernand and Danglars;besides, what would it be to them? no more than a drop of water in theocean.”
“Remember,” chimed in La Carconte, “those two could crush you at asingle blow!”
“How so?” inquired the abbé. “Are these persons, then, so rich andpowerful?”
“Do you not know their history?”
“I do not. Pray relate it to me!”
Caderousse seemed to reflect for a few moments, then said, “No, truly,it would take up too much time.”
“Well, my good friend,” returned the abbé, in a tone that indicatedutter indifference on his part, “you are at liberty, either to speak orbe silent, just as you please; for my own part, I respect your scruplesand admire your sentiments; so let the matter end. I shall do my duty asconscientiously as I can, and fulfil my promise to the dying man. Myfirst business will be to dispose of this diamond.”
So saying, the abbé again drew the small box from his pocket, opened it,and contrived to hold it in such a light, that a bright flash ofbrilliant hues passed before the dazzled gaze of Caderousse.
“Wife, wife!” cried he in a hoarse voice, “come here!”
“Diamond!” exclaimed La Carconte, rising and descending to the chamberwith a tolerably firm step; “what diamond are you talking about?”
“Why, did you not hear all we said?” inquired Caderousse. “It is abeautiful diamond left by poor Edmond Dantès, to be sold, and the moneydivided between his father, Mercédès, his betrothed bride, Fernand,Danglars, and myself. The jewel is worth at least fifty thousandfrancs.”
“Oh, what a magnificent jewel!” cried the astonished woman.
“The fifth part of the profits from this stone belongs to us then, doesit not?” asked Caderousse.
“It does,” replied the abbé; “with the addition of an equal division ofthat part intended for the elder Dantès, which I believe myself atliberty to divide equally with the four survivors.”
“And why among us four?” inquired Caderousse.
“As being the friends Edmond esteemed most faithful and devoted to him.”
“I don’t call those friends who betray and ruin you,” murmured the wifein her turn, in a low, muttering voice.
“Of course not!” rejoined Caderousse quickly; “no more do I, and thatwas what I was observing to this gentleman just now. I said I lookedupon it as a sacrilegious profanation to reward treachery, perhapscrime.”
“Remember,” answered the abbé calmly, as he replaced the jewel and itscase in the pocket of his cassock, “it is your fault, not mine, that Ido so. You will have the goodness to furnish me with the address of bothFernand and Danglars, in order that I may execute Edmond’s last wishes.”
The agitation of Caderousse became extreme, and large drops ofperspiration rolled from his heated brow. As he saw the abbé rise fromhis seat and go towards the door, as though to ascertain if his horsewere sufficiently refreshed to continue his journey, Caderousse and hiswife exchanged looks of deep meaning.
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“There, you see, wife,” said the former, “this splendid diamond mightall be ours, if we chose!”
“Do you believe it?”
“Why, surely a man of his holy profession would not deceive us!”
“Well,” replied La Carconte, “do as you like. For my part, I wash myhands 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, inspite of the intense heat of the weather. Arrived at the top stair, sheturned 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 creakedbeneath her heavy, uncertain tread, as she proceeded towards herarmchair, into which she fell as though exhausted.
“Well,” asked the abbé, as he returned to the apartment below, “whathave 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. “Notbecause I have the least desire to learn anything you may please toconceal from me, but simply that if, through your assistance, I coulddistribute the legacy according to the wishes of the testator, why, somuch the better, that is all.”
“I hope it may be so,” replied Caderousse, his face flushed withcupidity.
“I am all attention,” said the abbé.
“Stop a minute,” answered Caderousse; “we might be interrupted in themost interesting part of my story, which would be a pity; and it is aswell 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 wasaccustomed to do at night.
During this time the abbé had chosen his place for listening at hisease. He removed his seat into a corner of the room, where he himselfwould be in deep shadow, while the light would be fully thrown on thenarrator; then, with head bent down and hands clasped, or ratherclenched together, he prepared to give his whole attention toCaderousse, who seated himself on the little stool, exactly opposite tohim.
“Remember, this is no affair of mine,” said the trembling voice of LaCarconte, as though through the flooring of her chamber she viewed thescene that was enacting below.
“Enough, enough!” replied Caderousse; “say no more about it; I will takeall the consequences upon myself.”
And he began his story.