The Count of Monte Cristo, Illustrated by Alexandre Dumas
Chapter 44. The Vendetta
At what point shall I begin my story, your excellency?” asked Bertuccio.
“Where you please,” returned Monte Cristo, “since I know nothing at allof it.”
“I thought the Abbé Busoni had told your excellency.”
“Some particulars, doubtless, but that is seven or eight years ago, andI have forgotten them.”
“Then I can speak without fear of tiring your excellency.”
“Go on, M. Bertuccio; you will supply the want of the evening papers.”
“The story begins in 1815.”
“Ah,” said Monte Cristo, “1815 is not yesterday.”
“No, monsieur, and yet I recollect all things as clearly as if they hadhappened but then. I had a brother, an elder brother, who was in theservice of the emperor; he had become lieutenant in a regiment composedentirely of Corsicans. This brother was my only friend; we becameorphans—I at five, he at eighteen. He brought me up as if I had been hisson, and in 1814 he married. When the emperor returned from the Islandof Elba, my brother instantly joined the army, was slightly wounded atWaterloo, and retired with the army beyond the Loire.”
“But that is the history of the Hundred Days, M. Bertuccio,” said thecount; “unless I am mistaken, it has been already written.”
“Excuse me, excellency, but these details are necessary, and youpromised to be patient.”
“Go on; I will keep my word.”
“One day we received a letter. I should tell you that we lived in thelittle village of Rogliano, at the extremity of Cap Corse. This letterwas from my brother. He told us that the army was disbanded, and that heshould return by Châteauroux, Clermont-Ferrand, Le Puy, and Nîmes; and,if I had any money, he prayed me to leave it for him at Nîmes, with aninnkeeper with whom I had dealings.”
“In the smuggling line?” said Monte Cristo.
“Eh, your excellency? Everyone must live.”
“Certainly; go on.”
“I loved my brother tenderly, as I told your excellency, and I resolvednot to send the money, but to take it to him myself. I possessed athousand francs. I left five hundred with Assunta, my sister-in-law, andwith the other five hundred I set off for Nîmes. It was easy to do so,and as I had my boat and a lading to take in at sea, everything favoredmy project. But, after we had taken in our cargo, the wind becamecontrary, so that we were four or five days without being able to enterthe Rhône. At last, however, we succeeded, and worked up to Arles. Ileft the boat between Bellegarde and Beaucaire, and took the road toNîmes.”
“We are getting to the story now?”
“Yes, your excellency; excuse me, but, as you will see, I only tell youwhat is absolutely necessary. Just at this time the famous massacrestook place in the south of France. Three brigands, called Trestaillon,Truphemy, and Graffan, publicly assassinated everybody whom theysuspected of Bonapartism. You have doubtless heard of these massacres,your excellency?”
“Vaguely; I was far from France at that period. Go on.”
“As I entered Nîmes, I literally waded in blood; at every step youencountered dead bodies and bands of murderers, who killed, plundered,and burned. At the sight of this slaughter and devastation I becameterrified, not for myself—for I, a simple Corsican fisherman, hadnothing to fear; on the contrary, that time was most favorable for ussmugglers—but for my brother, a soldier of the empire, returning fromthe army of the Loire, with his uniform and his epaulets, there waseverything to apprehend. I hastened to the innkeeper. My misgivings hadbeen but too true. My brother had arrived the previous evening at Nîmes,and, at the very door of the house where he was about to demandhospitality, he had been assassinated. I did all in my power to discoverthe murderers, but no one durst tell me their names, so much were theydreaded. I then thought of that French justice of which I had heard somuch, and which feared nothing, and I went to the king’s attorney.”
“And this king’s attorney was named Villefort?” asked Monte Cristocarelessly.
“Yes, your excellency; he came from Marseilles, where he had been deputyprocureur. His zeal had procured him advancement, and he was said to beone of the first who had informed the government of the departure fromthe Island of Elba.”
“Then,” said Monte Cristo “you went to him?”
“‘Monsieur,’ I said, ‘my brother was assassinated yesterday in thestreets of Nîmes, I know not by whom, but it is your duty to find out.You are the representative of justice here, and it is for justice toavenge those she has been unable to protect.’
“‘Who was your brother?’ asked he.
“‘A lieutenant in the Corsican battalion.’
“‘A soldier of the usurper, then?’
“‘A soldier of the French army.’
“‘Well,’ replied he, ‘he has smitten with the sword, and he has perishedby the sword.’
“‘You are mistaken, monsieur,’ I replied; ‘he has perished by theponiard.’
“‘What do you want me to do?’ asked the magistrate.
“‘I have already told you—avenge him.’
“‘On whom?’
“‘On his murderers.’
“‘How should I know who they are?’
“‘Order them to be sought for.’
“‘Why, your brother has been involved in a quarrel, and killed in aduel. All these old soldiers commit excesses which were tolerated in thetime of the emperor, but which are not suffered now, for the people heredo not like soldiers of such disorderly conduct.’
“‘Monsieur,’ I replied, ‘it is not for myself that I entreat yourinterference—I should grieve for him or avenge him, but my poor brotherhad a wife, and were anything to happen to me, the poor creature wouldperish from want, for my brother’s pay alone kept her. Pray, try andobtain a small government pension for her.’
“‘Every revolution has its catastrophes,’ returned M. de Villefort;‘your brother has been the victim of this. It is a misfortune, andgovernment owes nothing to his family. If we are to judge by all thevengeance that the followers of the usurper exercised on the partisansof the king, when, in their turn, they were in power, your brother wouldbe today, in all probability, condemned to death. What has happened isquite natural, and in conformity with the law of reprisals.’
“‘What,’ cried I, ‘do you, a magistrate, speak thus to me?’
“‘All these Corsicans are mad, on my honor,’ replied M. de Villefort;‘they fancy that their countryman is still emperor. You have mistakenthe time, you should have told me this two months ago, it is too latenow. Go now, at once, or I shall have you put out.’
“I looked at him an instant to see if there was anything to hope fromfurther entreaty. But he was a man of stone. I approached him, and saidin a low voice, ‘Well, since you know the Corsicans so well, you knowthat they always keep their word. You think that it was a good deed tokill my brother, who was a Bonapartist, because you are a royalist.Well, I, who am a Bonapartist also, declare one thing to you, which is,that I will kill you. From this moment I declare the vendetta againstyou, so protect yourself as well as you can, for the next time we meetyour last hour has come.’ And before he had recovered from his surprise,I opened the door and left the room.”
“Well, well,” said Monte Cristo, “such an innocent looking person as youare to do those things, M. Bertuccio, and to a king’s attorney at that!But did he know what was meant by the terrible word ‘vendetta’?”
“He knew so well, that from that moment he shut himself in his house,and never went out unattended, seeking me high and low. Fortunately, Iwas so well concealed that he could not find me. Then he became alarmed,and dared not stay any longer at Nîmes, so he solicited a change ofresidence, and, as he was in reality very influential, he was nominatedto Versailles. But, as you know, a Corsican who has sworn to avengehimself cares not for distance, so his carriage, fast as it went, wasnever above half a day’s journey before me, who followed him on foot.The most important thing was, not to kill him only—for I
“For three months I watched M. de Villefort, for three months he tooknot a step out-of-doors without my following him. At length I discoveredthat he went mysteriously to Auteuil. I followed him thither, and I sawhim enter the house where we now are, only, instead of entering by thegreat door that looks into the street, he came on horseback, or in hiscarriage, left the one or the other at the little inn, and entered bythe gate you see there.”
Monte Cristo made a sign with his head to show that he could discern inthe darkness the door to which Bertuccio alluded.
“As I had nothing more to do at Versailles, I went to Auteuil, andgained all the information I could. If I wished to surprise him, it wasevident this was the spot to lie in wait for him. The house belonged, asthe concierge informed your excellency, to M. de Saint-Méran,Villefort’s father-in-law. M. de Saint-Méran lived at Marseilles, sothat this country house was useless to him, and it was reported to belet to a young widow, known only by the name of ‘the Baroness.’
“One evening, as I was looking over the wall, I saw a young and handsomewoman who was walking alone in that garden, which was not overlooked byany windows, and I guessed that she was awaiting M. de Villefort. Whenshe was sufficiently near for me to distinguish her features, I saw shewas from eighteen to nineteen, tall and very fair. As she had a loosemuslin dress on and as nothing concealed her figure, I saw she would erelong become a mother. A few moments after, the little door was openedand a man entered. The young woman hastened to meet him. They threwthemselves into each other’s arms, embraced tenderly, and returnedtogether to the house. The man was M. de Villefort; I fully believedthat when he went out in the night he would be forced to traverse thewhole of the garden alone.”
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“And,” asked the count, “did you ever know the name of this woman?”
“No, excellency,” returned Bertuccio; “you will see that I had no timeto learn it.”
“Go on.”
“That evening,” continued Bertuccio, “I could have killed the procureur,but as I was not sufficiently acquainted with the neighborhood, I wasfearful of not killing him on the spot, and that if his cries wereoverheard I might be taken; so I put it off until the next occasion, andin order that nothing should escape me, I took a chamber looking intothe street bordered by the wall of the garden. Three days after, aboutseven o’clock in the evening, I saw a servant on horseback leave thehouse at full gallop, and take the road to Sèvres. I concluded that hewas going to Versailles, and I was not deceived. Three hours later, theman returned covered with dust, his errand was performed, and twominutes after, another man on foot, muffled in a mantle, opened thelittle door of the garden, which he closed after him. I descendedrapidly; although I had not seen Villefort’s face, I recognized him bythe beating of my heart. I crossed the street, and stopped at a postplaced at the angle of the wall, and by means of which I had once beforelooked into the garden.
“This time I did not content myself with looking, but I took my knifeout of my pocket, felt that the point was sharp, and sprang over thewall. My first care was to run to the door; he had left the key in it,taking the simple precaution of turning it twice in the lock. Nothing,then, preventing my escape by this means, I examined the grounds. Thegarden was long and narrow; a stretch of smooth turf extended down themiddle, and at the corners were clumps of trees with thick and massyfoliage, that made a background for the shrubs and flowers. In order togo from the door to the house, or from the house to the door, M. deVillefort would be obliged to pass by one of these clumps of trees.
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“It was the end of September; the wind blew violently. The faintglimpses of the pale moon, hidden momentarily by masses of dark cloudsthat were sweeping across the sky, whitened the gravel walks that led tothe house, but were unable to pierce the obscurity of the thickshrubberies, in which a man could conceal himself without any fear ofdiscovery. I hid myself in the one nearest to the path Villefort musttake, and scarcely was I there when, amidst the gusts of wind, I fanciedI heard groans; but you know, or rather you do not know, yourexcellency, that he who is about to commit an assassination fancies thathe hears low cries perpetually ringing in his ears. Two hours passedthus, during which I imagined I heard moans repeatedly. Midnight struck.As the last stroke died away, I saw a faint light shine through thewindows of the private staircase by which we have just descended. Thedoor opened, and the man in the mantle reappeared.
“The terrible moment had come, but I had so long been prepared for itthat my heart did not fail in the least. I drew my knife from my pocketagain, opened it, and made ready to strike. The man in the mantleadvanced towards me, but as he drew near I saw that he had a weapon inhis hand. I was afraid, not of a struggle, but of a failure. When he wasonly a few paces from me, I saw that what I had taken for a weapon wasonly a spade. I was still unable to divine for what reason M. deVillefort had this spade in his hands, when he stopped close to thethicket where I was, glanced round, and began to dig a hole in theearth. I then perceived that he was hiding something under his mantle,which he laid on the grass in order to dig more freely. Then, I confess,curiosity mingled with hatred; I wished to see what Villefort was goingto do there, and I remained motionless, holding my breath. Then an ideacrossed my mind, which was confirmed when I saw the procureur lift fromunder his mantle a box, two feet long, and six or eight inches deep. Ilet him place the box in the hole he had made, then, while he stampedwith his feet to remove all traces of his occupation, I rushed on himand plunged my knife into his breast, exclaiming:
“‘I am Giovanni Bertuccio; thy death for my brother’s; thy treasure forhis widow; thou seest that my vengeance is more complete than I hadhoped.’
“I know not if he heard these words; I think he did not, for he fellwithout a cry. I felt his blood gush over my face, but I wasintoxicated, I was delirious, and the blood refreshed, instead ofburning me. In a second I had disinterred the box; then, that it mightnot be known I had done so, I filled up the hole, threw the spade overthe wall, and rushed through the door, which I double-locked, carryingoff the key.”
“Ah,” said Monte Cristo “it seems to me this was nothing but murder androbbery.”
“No, your excellency,” returned Bertuccio; “it was a vendetta followedby restitution.”
“And was the sum a large one?”
“It was not money.”
“Ah, I recollect,” replied the count; “did you not say something of aninfant?”
“Yes, excellency; I hastened to the river, sat down on the bank, andwith my knife forced open the lock of the box. In a fine linen cloth waswrapped a new-born child. Its purple visage, and its violet-coloredhands showed that it had perished from suffocation, but as it was notyet cold, I hesitated to throw it into the water that ran at my feet.After a moment I fancied that I felt a slight pulsation of the heart,and as I had been assistant at the hospital at Bastia, I did what adoctor would have done—I inflated the lungs by blowing air into them,and at the expiration of a quarter of an hour, it began to breathe, andcried feebly. In my turn I uttered a cry, but a cry of joy.
“‘God has not cursed me then,’ I cried, ‘since he permits me to save thelife of a human creature, in exchange for the life I have taken away.’”
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“And what did you do with the child?” asked Monte Cristo. “It was anembarrassing load for a man seeking to escape.”
“I had not for a moment the idea of keeping it, but I knew that at Paristhere was an asylum where they receive such creatures. As I passed thecity gates I declared that I had found the child on the road, and Iinquired where the asylum was; the box confirmed my statement, the linenproved that the infant belonged to wealthy parents, the blood with whichI was covered might have proceeded from the child as well as from anyoneelse. No objection was raised, but
“‘Console thyself, sister; Israel is dead, but he is avenged.’
“She demanded what I meant, and when I had told her all,—‘Giovanni,’said she, ‘you should have brought this child with you; we would havereplaced the parents it has lost, have called it Benedetto, and then, inconsequence of this good action, God would have blessed us.’ In reply Igave her the half of the linen I had kept in order to reclaim him if webecame rich.”
“What letters were marked on the linen?” said Monte Cristo.
“An H and an N, surmounted by a baron’s coronet.”
“By heaven, M. Bertuccio, you make use of heraldic terms; where did youstudy heraldry?”
“In your service, excellency, where everything is learned.”
“Go on, I am curious to know two things.”
“What are they, your excellency?”
“What became of this little boy? for I think you told me it was a boy,M. Bertuccio.”
“No excellency, I do not recollect telling you that.”
“I thought you did; I must have been mistaken.”
“No, you were not, for it was in reality a little boy. But yourexcellency wished to know two things; what was the second?”
“The second was the crime of which you were accused when you asked for aconfessor, and the Abbé Busoni came to visit you at your request in theprison at Nîmes.”
“The story will be very long, excellency.”
“What matter? you know I take but little sleep, and I do not suppose youare very much inclined for it either.” Bertuccio bowed, and resumed hisstory.
“Partly to drown the recollections of the past that haunted me, partlyto supply the wants of the poor widow, I eagerly returned to my trade ofsmuggler, which had become more easy since that relaxation of the lawswhich always follows a revolution. The southern districts were ill-watched in particular, in consequence of the disturbances that wereperpetually breaking out in Avignon, Nîmes, or Uzès. We profited by thisrespite on the part of the government to make friends everywhere. Sincemy brother’s assassination in the streets of Nîmes, I had never enteredthe town; the result was that the innkeeper with whom we were connected,seeing that we would no longer come to him, was forced to come to us,and had established a branch to his inn, on the road from Bellegarde toBeaucaire, at the sign of the Pont du Gard. We had thus, at Aigues-Mortes, Martigues, or Bouc, a dozen places where we left our goods, andwhere, in case of necessity, we concealed ourselves from the gendarmesand custom-house officers. Smuggling is a profitable trade, when acertain degree of vigor and intelligence is employed; as for myself,brought up in the mountains, I had a double motive for fearing thegendarmes and custom-house officers, as my appearance before the judgeswould cause an inquiry, and an inquiry always looks back into the past.And in my past life they might find something far more grave than theselling of smuggled cigars, or barrels of brandy without a permit. So,preferring death to capture, I accomplished the most astonishing deeds,and which, more than once, showed me that the too great care we take ofour bodies is the only obstacle to the success of those projects whichrequire rapid decision, and vigorous and determined execution. Inreality, when you have once devoted your life to your enterprises, youare no longer the equal of other men, or, rather, other men are nolonger your equals, and whosoever has taken this resolution, feels hisstrength and resources doubled.”
“Philosophy, M. Bertuccio,” interrupted the count; “you have done alittle of everything in your life.”
“Oh, excellency!”
“No, no; but philosophy at half-past ten at night is somewhat late; yetI have no other observation to make, for what you say is correct, whichis more than can be said for all philosophy.”
“My journeys became more and more extensive and more productive. Assuntatook care of all, and our little fortune increased. One day as I wassetting off on an expedition, ‘Go,’ said she; ‘at your return I willgive you a surprise.’ I questioned her, but in vain; she would tell menothing, and I departed. Our expedition lasted nearly six weeks; we hadbeen to Lucca to take in oil, to Leghorn for English cottons, and we ranour cargo without opposition, and returned home full of joy. When Ientered the house, the first thing I beheld in the middle of Assunta’schamber was a cradle that might be called sumptuous compared with therest of the furniture, and in it a baby seven or eight months old. Iuttered a cry of joy; the only moments of sadness I had known since theassassination of the procureur were caused by the recollection that Ihad abandoned this child. For the assassination itself I had never feltany remorse. Poor Assunta had guessed all. She had profited by myabsence, and furnished with the half of the linen, and having writtendown the day and hour at which I had deposited the child at the asylum,had set off for Paris, and had reclaimed it. No objection was raised,and the infant was given up to her. Ah, I confess, your excellency, whenI saw this poor creature sleeping peacefully in its cradle, I felt myeyes filled with tears. ‘Ah, Assunta,’ cried I, ‘you are an excellentwoman, and Heaven will bless you.’”
“This,” said Monte Cristo, “is less correct than your philosophy,—it isonly faith.”
“Alas, your excellency is right,” replied Bertuccio, “and God made thisinfant the instrument of our punishment. Never did a perverse naturedeclare itself more prematurely, and yet it was not owing to any faultin his bringing up. He was a most lovely child, with large blue eyes, ofthat deep color that harmonizes so well with the blond complexion; onlyhis hair, which was too light, gave his face a most singular expression,and added to the vivacity of his look, and the malice of his smile.
“Unfortunately, there is a proverb which says that ‘red is eitheraltogether good or altogether bad.’ The proverb was but too correct asregarded Benedetto, and even in his infancy he manifested the worstdisposition. It is true that the indulgence of his foster-motherencouraged him. This child, for whom my poor sister would go to thetown, five or six leagues off, to purchase the earliest fruits and themost tempting sweetmeats, preferred to Palma grapes or Genoesepreserves, the chestnuts stolen from a neighbor’s orchard, or the driedapples in his loft, when he could eat as well of the nuts and applesthat grew in my garden.
“One day, when Benedetto was about five or six, our neighbor Wasilio,who, according to the custom of the country, never locked up his purseor his valuables—for, as your excellency knows, there are no thieves inCorsica—complained that he had lost a louis out of his purse; we thoughthe must have made a mistake in counting his money, but he persisted inthe accuracy of his statement. One day, Benedetto, who had been gonefrom the house since morning, to our great anxiety, did not return untillate in the evening, dragging a monkey after him, which he said he hadfound chained to the foot of a tree. For more than a month past, themischievous child, who knew not what to wish for, had taken it into hishead to have a monkey. A boatman, who had passed by Rogliano, and whohad several of these animals, whose tricks had greatly diverted him,had, doubtless, suggested this idea to him. ‘Monkeys are not found inour woods chained to trees,’ said I; ‘confess how you obtained thisanimal.’ Benedetto maintained the truth of what he had said, andaccompanied it with details that did more honor to his imagination thanto his veracity. I became angry; he began to laugh, I threatened tostrike him, and he made two steps backwards. ‘You cannot beat me,’ saidhe; ‘you have no right, for you are not my father.’
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“We never knew who had revealed this fatal secret, which we had socarefully concealed from him; however, it was this answer, in which thechild’s whole character revealed itself, that almost terrified me, andmy arm fell without touching him.
“The boy triumphed, and this vict
“I hoped that the active and laborious life of a smuggler, with thesevere discipline on board, would have a salutary effect on hischaracter, which was now well-nigh, if not quite, corrupt. I spoke toBenedetto alone, and proposed to him to accompany me, endeavoring totempt him by all the promises most likely to dazzle the imagination of achild of twelve. He heard me patiently, and when I had finished, burstout laughing.
“‘Are you mad, uncle?’ (he called me by this name when he was in goodhumor); ‘do you think I am going to change the life I lead for your modeof existence—my agreeable indolence for the hard and precarious toil youimpose on yourself, exposed to the bitter frost at night, and thescorching heat by day, compelled to conceal yourself, and when you areperceived, receive a volley of bullets, all to earn a paltry sum? Why, Ihave as much money as I want; mother Assunta always furnishes me when Iask for it! You see that I should be a fool to accept your offer.’
“The arguments, and his audacity, perfectly stupefied me. Benedettorejoined his associates, and I saw him from a distance point me out tothem as a fool.”
“Sweet child,” murmured Monte Cristo.
“Oh, had he been my own son,” replied Bertuccio, “or even my nephew, Iwould have brought him back to the right road, for the knowledge thatyou are doing your duty gives you strength, but the idea that I wasstriking a child whose father I had killed, made it impossible for me topunish him. I gave my sister, who constantly defended the unfortunateboy, good advice, and as she confessed that she had several times missedmoney to a considerable amount, I showed her a safe place in which toconceal our little treasure for the future. My mind was already made up.Benedetto could read, write, and cipher perfectly, for when the fitseized him, he learned more in a day than others in a week. My intentionwas to enter him as a clerk in some ship, and without letting him knowanything of my plan, to convey him some morning on board; by this meanshis future treatment would depend upon his own conduct. I set off forFrance, after having fixed upon the plan. Our cargo was to be landed inthe Gulf of Lyons, and this was a difficult thing to do because it wasthen the year 1829. The most perfect tranquillity was restored, and thevigilance of the custom-house officers was redoubled, and theirstrictness was increased at this time, in consequence of the fair atBeaucaire.
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“Our expedition made a favorable beginning. We anchored our vessel—whichhad a double hold, where our goods were concealed—amidst a number ofother vessels that bordered the banks of the Rhône from Beaucaire toArles. On our arrival we began to discharge our cargo in the night, andto convey it into the town, by the help of the innkeeper with whom wewere connected.
“Whether success rendered us imprudent, or whether we were betrayed, Iknow not; but one evening, about five o’clock, our little cabin-boy camebreathlessly, to inform us that he had seen a detachment of custom-houseofficers advancing in our direction. It was not their proximity thatalarmed us, for detachments were constantly patrolling along the banksof the Rhône, but the care, according to the boy’s account, that theytook to avoid being seen. In an instant we were on the alert, but it wastoo late; our vessel was surrounded, and amongst the custom-houseofficers I observed several gendarmes, and, as terrified at the sight oftheir uniforms as I was brave at the sight of any other, I sprang intothe hold, opened a port, and dropped into the river, dived, and onlyrose at intervals to breathe, until I reached a ditch that had recentlybeen made from the Rhône to the canal that runs from Beaucaire toAigues-Mortes. I was now safe, for I could swim along the ditch withoutbeing seen, and I reached the canal in safety. I had designedly takenthis direction. I have already told your excellency of an innkeeper fromNîmes who had set up a little tavern on the road from Bellegarde toBeaucaire.”
“Yes,” said Monte Cristo “I perfectly recollect him; I think he was yourcolleague.”
“Precisely,” answered Bertuccio; “but he had, seven or eight yearsbefore this period, sold his establishment to a tailor at Marseilles,who, having almost ruined himself in his old trade, wished to make hisfortune in another. Of course, we made the same arrangements with thenew landlord that we had with the old; and it was of this man that Iintended to ask shelter.”
“What was his name?” inquired the count, who seemed to become somewhatinterested in Bertuccio’s story.
“Gaspard Caderousse; he had married a woman from the village ofCarconte, and whom we did not know by any other name than that of hervillage. She was suffering from malarial fever, and seemed dying byinches. As for her husband, he was a strapping fellow of forty, or five-and-forty, who had more than once, in time of danger, given ample proofof his presence of mind and courage.”
“And you say,” interrupted Monte Cristo “that this took place towardsthe year——”
“1829, your excellency.”
“In what month?”
“June.”
“The beginning or the end?”
“The evening of the 3rd.”
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“Ah,” said Monte Cristo “the evening of the 3rd of June, 1829. Go on.”
“It was from Caderousse that I intended demanding shelter, and, as wenever entered by the door that opened onto the road, I resolved not tobreak through the rule, so climbing over the garden-hedge, I creptamongst the olive and wild fig trees, and fearing that Caderousse mighthave some guest, I entered a kind of shed in which I had often passedthe night, and which was only separated from the inn by a partition, inwhich holes had been made in order to enable us to watch an opportunityof announcing our presence.
“My intention was, if Caderousse was alone, to acquaint him with mypresence, finish the meal the custom-house officers had interrupted, andprofit by the threatened storm to return to the Rhône, and ascertain thestate of our vessel and its crew. I stepped into the shed, and it wasfortunate I did so, for at that moment Caderousse entered with astranger.
“I waited patiently, not to overhear what they said, but because I coulddo nothing else; besides, the same thing had occurred often before. Theman who was with Caderousse was evidently a stranger to the South ofFrance; he was one of those merchants who come to sell jewellery at theBeaucaire fair, and who during the month the fair lasts, and duringwhich there is so great an influx of merchants and customers from allparts of Europe, often have dealings to the amount of 100,000 to 150,000francs. Caderousse entered hastily. Then, seeing that the room was, asusual, empty, and only guarded by the dog, he called to his wife,‘Hello, Carconte,’ said he, ‘the worthy priest has not deceived us; thediamond is real.’
“An exclamation of joy was heard, and the staircase creaked beneath afeeble step. ‘What do you say?’ asked his wife, pale as death.
“‘I say that the diamond is real, and that this gentleman, one of thefirst jewellers of Paris, will give us 50,000 francs for it. Only, inorder to satisfy himself that it really belongs to us, he wishes you torelate to him, as I have done already, the miraculous manner in whichthe diamond came into our possession. In the meantime please to sitdown, monsieur, and I will fetch you some refreshment.’
“The jeweller examined attentively the interior of the inn and theapparent poverty of the persons who were about to sell him a di
“‘Relate your story, madame,’ said he, wishing, no doubt, to profit bythe absence of the husband, so that the latter could not influence thewife’s story, to see if the two recitals tallied.
“‘Oh,’ returned she, ‘it was a gift of heaven. My husband was a greatfriend, in 1814 or 1815, of a sailor named Edmond Dantès. This poorfellow, whom Caderousse had forgotten, had not forgotten him, and at hisdeath he bequeathed this diamond to him.’
“‘But how did he obtain it?’ asked the jeweller; ‘had he it before hewas imprisoned?’
“‘No, monsieur; but it appears that in prison he made the acquaintanceof a rich Englishman, and as in prison he fell sick, and Dantès took thesame care of him as if he had been his brother, the Englishman, when hewas set free, gave this stone to Dantès, who, less fortunate, died, and,in his turn, left it to us, and charged the excellent abbé, who was herethis morning, to deliver it.’
“‘The same story,’ muttered the jeweller; ‘and improbable as it seemedat first, it may be true. There’s only the price we are not agreedabout.’
“‘How not agreed about?’ said Caderousse. ‘I thought we agreed for theprice I asked.’
“‘That is,’ replied the jeweller, ‘I offered 40,000 francs.’
‘Forty thousand,’ cried La Carconte; ‘we will not part with it for thatsum. The abbé told us it was worth 50,000 without the setting.’
“‘What was the abbé’s name?’ asked the indefatigable questioner.
“‘The Abbé 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 timeyou 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 aslarge as a hazel-nut, La Carconte’s eyes sparkled with cupidity.”
“And what did you think of this fine story, eavesdropper?” said MonteCristo; “did you credit it?”
“Yes, your excellency. I did not look on Caderousse as a bad man, and Ithought 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 Dantès, of whom they spoke?”
“No, your excellency, I had never heard of him before, and never butonce afterwards, and that was from the Abbé Busoni himself, when I sawhim in the prison at Nîmes.”
“Go on.”
“The jeweller took the ring, and drawing from his pocket a pair of steelpliers and a small set of copper scales, he took the stone out of itssetting, and weighed it carefully.
“‘I will give you 45,000,’ said he, ‘but not a sou more; besides, asthat 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 tofetch the other 5,000 francs.’
“‘No,’ returned the jeweller, giving back the diamond and the ring toCaderousse, ‘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 willnot 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,‘someone else will purchase it.’
“‘Yes,’ continued the jeweller; ‘but someone else will not be so easy asI am, or content himself with the same story. It is not natural that aman like you should possess such a diamond. He will inform against you.You will have to find the Abbé Busoni; and abbés who give diamonds worthtwo thousand louis are rare. The law would seize it, and put you inprison; 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 begiven you, instead of a diamond worth 50,000 or perhaps 55,000 francs;from which you must allow that one runs considerable risk inpurchasing.’
“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, asyou see, brought you the money in bright coin.’ And he drew from hispocket a handful of gold, and held it sparkling before the dazzled eyesof 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 wasplain that the small shagreen case, which he turned over and over in hishand, did not seem to him commensurate in value to the enormous sumwhich 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 toBeaucaire without the diamond, he will inform against us, and, as hesays, who knows if we shall ever again see the Abbé Busoni?—in allprobability we shall never see him.’
“‘Well, then, so I will!’ said Caderousse; ‘so you may have the diamondfor 45,000 francs. But my wife wants a gold chain, and I want a pair ofsilver buckles.’
“The jeweller drew from his pocket a long flat box, which containedseveral samples of the articles demanded. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘I am verystraightforward in my dealings—take your choice.’
“The woman selected a gold chain worth about five louis, and the husbanda pair of buckles, worth perhaps fifteen francs.
“‘I hope you will not complain now?’ said the jeweller.
“‘The abbé told me it was worth 50,000 francs,’ muttered Caderousse.
“‘Come, come—give it to me! What a strange fellow you are,’ said thejeweller, taking the diamond from his hand. ‘I give you 45,000francs—that is, 2,500 livres of income,—a fortune such as I wish I hadmyself, and you are not satisfied!’
“‘And the five-and-forty thousand francs,’ inquired Caderousse in ahoarse voice, ‘where are they? Come—let us see them.’
“‘Here they are,’ replied the jeweller, and he counted out upon thetable 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 thisconversation, and with night the storm which had been threatening forthe last half-hour. The thunder growled in the distance; but it wasapparently not heard by the jeweller, Caderousse, or La Carconte,absorbed as they were all three with the demon of gain. I myself felt; astrange kind of fascination at the sight of all this gold and all thesebank-notes; it seemed to me that I was in a dream, and, as it alwayshappens in a dream, I felt myself riveted to the spot. Caderoussecounted and again counted the gold and the notes, then handed them tohis wife, who counted and counted them again in her turn. During thistime, the jeweller made the diamond play and sparkle in the lamplight,and the gem threw out jets of light which made him unmindful of thosewhich—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 finda bag somewhere.’
“La Carconte went to a cupboard, and returned with an old leathernpocket-book and a bag. From the former she took some greasy letters, andput in their place the bank-notes, and from the bag took two or threecrowns of six livres each, which, in all probability, formed the entirefortune of the miserable couple.
“‘There,’ said Caderousse; ‘and now, although you have wronged us ofperhaps 10,000 francs, will you have your supper with us? I invite youwith good-will.’
“‘Thank you,’ replied the jeweller, ‘it must be getting late, and I mustreturn to Beaucaire—my wife will be getting unea
“‘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 thejourney on purpose to see him, if it is worth while.’
“At this moment there was a tremendous clap of thunder, accompanied by aflash of lightning so vivid, that it quite eclipsed the light of thelamp.
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“‘See here,’ exclaimed Caderousse. ‘You cannot think of going out insuch 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 verysafe 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 themuzzle. ‘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 asthough they were both inspired at the same time with some horriblethought. ‘Well, then, a good journey to you,’ said Caderousse.
“‘Thanks,’ replied the jeweller. He then took his cane, which he hadplaced against an old cupboard, and went out. At the moment when heopened the door, such a gust of wind came in that the lamp was nearlyextinguished. ‘Oh,’ said he, ‘this is very nice weather, and two leaguesto go in such a storm.’
“‘Remain,’ said Caderousse. ‘You can sleep here.’
“‘Yes; do stay,’ added La Carconte in a tremulous voice; ‘we will takeevery care of you.’
“‘No; I must sleep at Beaucaire. So, once more, good-night.’ Caderoussefollowed him slowly to the threshold. ‘I can see neither heaven norearth,’ said the jeweller, who was outside the door. ‘Do I turn to theright, or to the left hand?’
“‘To the right,’ said Caderousse. ‘You cannot go wrong—the road isbordered 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 itthunders.’
“‘Particularly when there is money in the house, eh?’ answeredCaderousse, double-locking the door.
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“He came into the room, went to the cupboard, took out the bag andpocket-book, and both began, for the third time, to count their gold andbank-notes. I never saw such an expression of cupidity as the flickeringlamp revealed in those two countenances. The woman, especially, washideous; her usual feverish tremulousness was intensified, hercountenance had become livid, and her eyes resembled burning coals.
“‘Why,’ she inquired in a hoarse voice, ‘did you invite him to sleephere tonight?’
“‘Why?’ said Caderousse with a shudder; ‘why, that he might not have thetrouble 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, ifyou 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 ofthe 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 thelivid lightning illumined the room, and the thunder, rolling away in thedistance, seemed to withdraw unwillingly from the cursed abode. ‘Mercy!’said Caderousse, crossing himself.
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“At the same moment, and in the midst of the terrifying silence whichusually 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 thegold and notes scattered over the table, and which he covered with histwo 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 ahorrid smile. ‘Why, the good God sends him back again.’ Caderousse sankpale and breathless into his chair.
“La Carconte, on the contrary, rose, and going with a firm step towardsthe door, opened it, saying, as she did so:
“‘Come in, dear M. Joannes.’
“‘Ma foi,’ said the jeweller, drenched with rain, ‘I am not destined toreturn to Beaucaire tonight. The shortest follies are best, my dearCaderousse. You offered me hospitality, and I accept it, and havereturned to sleep beneath your friendly roof.’
“Caderousse stammered out something, while he wiped away the sweat thatstarted to his brow. La Carconte double-locked the door behind thejeweller.”