Chapter 26 The Pont du Gard Inn
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SUCH
OF MY readers as have made a pedestrian excursion to the south of France
may perchance have noticed, about midway between the town of Beaucaire and
the village of Bellegarde,--a little nearer to the former than 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 a grotesque
representation of the Pont du Gard. This modern place of entertainment
stood on the left-hand side of the post road, and backed upon the Rhone.
It also boasted of what in Languedoc is styled a garden, consisting of a
small plot of ground, on the side opposite to the main entrance reserved
for the reception of guests. A few dingy olives and stunted fig-trees
struggled hard for existence, but their withered dusty foliage abundantly
proved how unequal was the conflict. Between these sickly shrubs grew a
scanty supply of garlic, tomatoes, and eschalots; while, lone and
solitary, like a forgotten sentinel, a tall pine raised its melancholy
head in one of the corners of this unattractive spot, and displayed its
flexible stem and fan-shaped summit dried and cracked by the fierce heat
of the sub-tropical sun. In
the surrounding plain, which more resembled a dusty lake than solid
ground, were scattered a few miserable stalks of wheat, the effect, no
doubt, of a curious desire on the part of the agriculturists of the
country to see whether such a thing as the raising of grain in those
parched regions was practicable. Each stalk served as a perch for a
grasshopper, which regaled the passers by through this Egyptian scene with
its strident, monotonous note. For
about seven or eight years the little tavern had been kept by a man and
his wife, with two servants,--a chambermaid named Trinette, and a hostler
called Pecaud. This small staff was quite equal to all the requirements,
for a canal between Beaucaire and Aiguemortes had revolutionized
transportation by substituting boats for the cart and the stagecoach. And,
as though to add to the daily misery which this prosperous canal inflicted
on the unfortunate inn-keeper, whose utter ruin it was fast accomplishing,
it was situated between the Rhone from which it had its source and the
post-road it had depleted, not a hundred steps from the inn, of which we
have given a brief but faithful description. The
inn-keeper himself was a man of from forty to fifty-five years of age,
tall, strong, and bony, a perfect specimen of the natives of those
southern latitudes; he had dark, sparkling, and deep-set eyes, hooked
nose, and teeth white as those of a carnivorous animal; his hair, like his
beard, which he wore under his chin, was thick and curly, and in spite of
his age but slightly interspersed with a few silvery threads. His
naturally dark complexion had assumed a still further shade of brown from
the habit the unfortunate man had acquired of stationing himself from
morning till eve at the threshold of his door, on the lookout for guests
who seldom came, yet there he stood, day after day, exposed to the
meridional rays of a burning sun, with no other protection for his head
than a red handkerchief twisted around it, after the manner of the Spanish
muleteers. This man was our old acquaintance, Gaspard Caderousse. 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; but that
beauty had gradually withered beneath the devastating influence of the
slow fever so prevalent among dwellers by the ponds of Aiguemortes and the
marshes of Camargue. She remained nearly always in her second-floor
chamber, shivering in her chair, or stretched languid and feeble on her
bed, while her husband kept his daily watch at the door--a duty he
performed with so much the greater willingness, as it saved him the
necessity of listening to the endless plaints and murmurs of his helpmate,
who never saw him without breaking out into bitter invectives against
fate; to all of which her husband would calmly return an unvarying 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 from the
fact that she had been born in a village, so called, situated between
Salon and Lambesc; and as a custom existed among the inhabitants of that
part of France where Caderousse lived of styling every person by some
particular and distinctive appellation, her husband had bestowed on her
the name of La Carconte in place of her sweet and euphonious name of
Madeleine, which, in all probability, his rude gutteral language would not
have enabled him to pronounce. Still, let it not be supposed that amid
this affected resignation to the will of Providence, the unfortunate
inn-keeper did not writhe under the double misery of seeing the hateful
canal carry off his customers and his profits, and the daily infliction of
his peevish partner's murmurs and lamentations. Like
other dwellers in the south, he was a man of sober habits and moderate
desires, but fond of external show, vain, and addicted to display. During
the days of his prosperity, not a festivity took place without himself and
wife being among the spectators. He dressed in the picturesque costume
worn upon grand occasions by the inhabitants of the south of France,
bearing equal resemblance to the style adopted both by the Catalans and
Andalusians; while La Carconte displayed the charming fashion prevalent
among the women of Arles, a mode of attire borrowed equally from Greece
and Arabia. But, by degrees, watch-chains, necklaces, parti-colored scarfs,
embroidered bodices, velvet vests, elegantly worked stockings, striped
gaiters, and silver buckles for the shoes, all disappeared; and Gaspard
Caderousse, unable to appear abroad in his pristine splendor, had given up
any further participation in the pomps and vanities, both for himself and
wife, although a bitter feeling of envious discontent filled his mind as
the sound of mirth and merry music from the joyous revellers reached even
the miserable hostelry to which he still clung, more for the shelter than
the profit it afforded. Caderousse,
then, was, as usual, at his place of observation before the door, his eyes
glancing listlessly from a piece of closely shaven grass--on which some
fowls were industriously, though fruitlessly, endeavoring to turn up some
grain or insect suited to their palate--to the deserted road, which led
away to the north and south, when he was aroused by the shrill voice of
his wife, and grumbling to himself as he went, he mounted to her chamber,
first taking care, however, to set the entrance door wide open, as an
invitation to any chance traveller who might 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 lonely as a
desert at mid-day. There it lay stretching out into one interminable line
of dust and sand, with its sides bordered by tall, meagre trees,
altogether presenting so uninviting an appearance, that no one in his
senses could have imagined that any traveller, at liberty to regulate his
hours for journeying, would choose to expose himself in such a formidable
Sahara. Nevertheless, had Caderousse but retained his post a few minutes
longer, he might have caught a dim outline of something approaching from
the direction of Bellegarde; as the moving object drew nearer, he would
easily have perceived that it consisted of a man and horse, between whom
the kindest and most amiable understanding appeared to exist. The horse
was of Hungarian breed, and ambled along at an easy pace. His rider was a
priest, dressed in black, and wearing a three-cornered hat; and, spite of
the ardent rays of a noonday sun, the pair came on with a fair degree of
rapidity. Having
arrived before the Pont du Gard, the horse stopped, but whether for his
own pleasure or that of his rider would have been difficult to say.
However that might have been, the priest, dismounting, led his steed by
the bridle in search of some place to which he could secure him. Availing
himself of a handle that projected from a half-fallen door, he tied the
animal safely and having drawn a red cotton handkerchief, from his pocket,
wiped away the perspiration that streamed from his brow, then, advancing
to the door, struck thrice with the end of his iron-shod stick. At this
unusual sound, a huge black dog came rushing to meet the daring assailant
of his ordinarily tranquil abode, snarling and displaying his sharp white
teeth with a determined hostility that abundantly proved how little he was
accustomed to society. At that moment a heavy footstep was heard
descending the wooden staircase that led from the upper floor, and, with
many bows and courteous smiles, mine host of the Pont du Gard besought his
guest to enter. "You
are welcome, sir, most welcome!" repeated the astonished Caderousse.
"Now, then, Margotin," cried he, speaking to the dog, "will
you be quiet? Pray don't heed him, sir!--he only barks, he never bites. I
make no doubt a glass of good wine would be acceptable this dreadfully hot
day." Then perceiving for the first time the garb of the traveller he
had to entertain, Caderousse hastily exclaimed: "A thousand pardons!
I really did not observe whom I had the honor to receive under my poor
roof. What would the abbиж 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 searching
gaze--there even seemed a disposition on his part to court a similar
scrutiny on the part of the inn-keeper; then, observing in the countenance
of the latter no other expression than extreme surprise at his own want of
attention to an inquiry so courteously worded, he deemed it as well to
terminate this dumb show, and therefore said, speaking with a strong
Italian accent, "You are, I presume, M. Caderousse?" "Yes,
sir," answered the host, even more surprised at the question than he
had been by the silence which had preceded it; "I am Gaspard
Caderousse, at your service." "Gaspard
Caderousse," rejoined the priest. "Yes,--Christian and surname
are the same. You formerly lived, I believe in the Allижes de Meillan, on the fourth
floor?" "I
did." "And
you followed the business of a tailor?" "True,
I was a tailor, till the trade fell off. It is so hot at Marseilles, that
really I believe that the respectable inhabitants will in time go without
any clothing whatever. But talking of heat, is there nothing I can offer
you by way of refreshment?" "Yes;
let me have a bottle of your best wine, and then, with your permission, we
will resume our conversation from where we left off." "As
you please, sir," said Caderousse, who, anxious not to lose the
present opportunity of finding a customer for one of the few bottles of
Cahors still remaining in his possession, hastily raised a trap-door in
the floor of the apartment they were in, which served both as parlor and
kitchen. Upon issuing forth from his subterranean retreat at the
expiration of five minutes, he found the abbиж
seated upon a wooden stool, leaning his elbow on a table, while Margotin,
whose animosity seemed appeased by the unusual command of the traveller
for refreshments, had crept up to him, and had established himself very
comfortably between his knees, his long, skinny neck resting on his lap,
while his dim eye was fixed earnestly on the traveller's face. "Are
you quite alone?" inquired the guest, as Caderousse placed before him
the bottle of wine and a glass. "Quite,
quite alone," replied the man--"or, at least, practically so,
for my poor wife, who is the only person in the house besides myself, is
laid up with illness, and unable to render me the least assistance, poor
thing!" "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
not a rich man; but in this world a man does not thrive the better for
being honest." The abbиж
fixed on him a searching, penetrating glance. "Yes,
honest--I can certainly say that much for myself," continued the
inn-keeper, fairly sustaining the scrutiny of the abbиж's gaze; "I can boast with
truth of being an honest man; and," continued he significantly, with
a hand on his breast and shaking his head, "that is more than every
one can say nowadays." "So
much the better for you, if what you assert be true," said the abbиж; "for I am firmly persuaded
that, sooner or later, the good will be rewarded, 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 bitter
expression of countenance, "one is free to believe them or not, as
one pleases." "You
are wrong to speak thus," said the abbиж; "and perhaps I may, in my own 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 in
search of." "What
proofs do you require?" "Did
you, in the year 1814 or 1815, know anything of a young sailor named Dantииs?" "Dantииs? Did I know poor dear Edmond?
Why, Edmond Dantииs
and myself were intimate friends!" exclaimed Caderousse, whose
countenance flushed darkly as he caught the penetrating gaze of the abbиж fixed on him, while the clear,
calm eye of the questioner seemed to dilate with feverish scrutiny. "You
remind me," said the priest, "that the young man concerning whom
I asked you was said to bear the name of Edmond." "Said
to bear the name!" repeated Caderousse, becoming excited and eager.
"Why, he was so called as truly as I myself bore the appellation of
Gaspard Caderousse; but tell me, I pray, what has become of poor Edmond?
Did you know him? Is he alive and at liberty? Is he prosperous and
happy?" "He
died a more wretched, hopeless, heart-broken prisoner than the felons who
pay the penalty of their crimes at the galleys of Toulon." A
deadly pallor followed the flush on the countenance of Caderousse, who
turned away, and the priest saw him wiping the tears from his eyes with
the corner of the red handkerchief twisted round his head. "Poor
fellow, poor fellow!" murmured Caderousse. "Well, there, sir, is
another proof that good people are never rewarded on this earth, and that
none but the wicked prosper. Ah," continued Caderousse, speaking in
the highly colored language of the south, "the world grows worse and
worse. Why does not God, if he really hates the wicked, as he is said to
do, send down brimstone and fire, and consume them altogether?" "You
speak as though you had loved this young Dantииs," observed the abbиж, without taking any notice of
his companion's vehemence. "And
so I did," replied Caderousse; "though once, I confess, I envied
him his good fortune. But I swear to you, sir, I swear to you, by
everything a man holds dear, I have, since then, deeply and sincerely
lamented his unhappy fate." There was a brief silence, during which
the fixed, searching eye of the abbиж
was employed in scrutinizing the agitated features of the inn-keeper. "You
knew the poor lad, then?" continued Caderousse. "I
was called to see him on his dying bed, that I might administer to him 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 they have
scarcely numbered their thirtieth year, unless it be of
imprisonment?" Caderousse wiped away the large beads of perspiration
that gathered on his brow. "But
the strangest part of the story is," resumed the abbиж, "that Dantииs, even in his dying moments,
swore by his crucified Redeemer, that he was utterly ignorant of the cause
of his detention." "And
so he was," murmured Caderousse. "How should he have been
otherwise? Ah, sir, the poor fellow told you the truth." "And
for that reason, he besought me to try and clear up a mystery he had never
been able to penetrate, and to clear his memory should any foul spot or
stain have fallen on it." And
here the look of the abbиж,
becoming more and more fixed, seemed to rest with ill-concealed
satisfaction on the gloomy depression which was rapidly spreading over the
countenance of Caderousse. "A
rich Englishman," continued the abbиж, "who had been his companion in misfortune,
but had been released from prison during the second restoration, was
possessed of a diamond of immense value; this jewel he bestowed on Dantииs upon himself quitting the
prison, as a mark of his gratitude for the kindness and brotherly care
with which Dantииs
had nursed him in a severe illness he underwent during his confinement.
Instead of employing this diamond in attempting to bribe his jailers, who
might only have taken it and then betrayed him to the governor, Dantииs carefully preserved it, that in
the event of his getting out of prison he might have wherewithal to live,
for the sale of such a diamond would have quite sufficed to make his
fortune." "Then,
I suppose," asked Caderousse, with eager, glowing looks, "that
it was a stone of immense value?" "Why,
everything is relative," answered the abbиж. "To one in Edmond's position the diamond
certainly was of great value. It was estimated at fifty thousand
francs." "Bless
me!" exclaimed Caderousse, "fifty thousand francs! Surely the
diamond was as large as a nut to be worth all that." "No,"
replied the abbиж,
"it was not of such a size as that; but you shall judge for yourself.
I have it with me." The
sharp gaze of Caderousse was instantly directed towards the priest's
garments, as though hoping to discover the location of the treasure.
Calmly drawing forth from his pocket a small box covered with black
shagreen, the abbиж opened it, and displayed to the
dazzled eyes of Caderousse the sparkling jewel it contained, set in a ring
of admirable workmanship. "And that diamond," cried Caderousse,
almost breathless with eager admiration, "you say, is worth fifty
thousand francs?" "It
is, without the setting, which is also valuable," replied the abbиж, as he closed the box, and
returned it to his pocket, while its brilliant hues seemed still to dance
before the eyes of the fascinated inn-keeper. "But
how comes the diamond in your possession, sir? Did Edmond make you his
heir?" "No,
merely his testamentary executor. 'I once possessed four dear and faithful
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 inn-keeper shivered. "'Another
of the number,'" continued the abbиж, without seeming to notice the emotion of
Caderousse, "'is called Danglars; and the third, in spite of being my
rival, entertained a very sincere affection for me.'" A fiendish
smile played over the features of Caderousse, who was about to break in
upon the abbиж's speech, when the latter,
waving his hand, said, "Allow me to finish first, and then if you
have any observations to make, you can do so afterwards. 'The third of my
friends, although my rival, was much attached to me,--his name was Fernand;
that of my betrothed was'--Stay, stay," continued the abbиж, "I have forgotten what he
called her." "Mercижdииs," said Caderousse eagerly. "True,"
said the abbиж,
with a stifled sigh, "Mercижdииs it was." "Go
on," urged Caderousse. "Bring
me a carafe of water," said the abbиж. Caderousse
quickly performed the stranger's bidding; and after pouring some into a
glass, and slowly swallowing its contents, the abbиж, resuming his usual placidity of manner, said, as
he placed his empty glass on the table,--"Where did we leave
off?" "The
name of Edmond's betrothed was Mercижdииs."
"To
be sure. 'You will go to Marseilles,' said Dantииs,--for you understand, I repeat his words just as
he uttered them. Do you understand?" "Perfectly."
"'You
will sell this diamond; you will divide the money into five equal parts,
and give an equal portion to these good friends, the only persons who have
loved me upon earth.'" "But
why into five parts?" asked Caderousse; "you only mentioned four
persons." "Because
the fifth is dead, as I hear. The fifth sharer in Edmond's bequest, was
his own father." "Too
true, too true!" ejaculated Caderousse, almost suffocated by the
contending passions which assailed him, "the poor old man did
die." "I
learned so much at Marseilles," replied the abbиж, making a strong effort to
appear indifferent; "but from the length of time that has elapsed
since the death of the elder Dantииs,
I was unable to obtain any particulars of his end. Can you enlighten me on
that point?" "I
do not know who could if I could not," said Caderousse. "Why, I
lived almost on the same floor with the poor old man. Ah, yes, about a
year after 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; his
acquaintances say he died of grief; but I, who saw him in his dying
moments, I say he died of"--Caderousse paused. "Of
what?" asked the priest, anxiously and eagerly. "Why,
of downright starvation." "Starvation!"
exclaimed the abbиж,
springing from his seat. "Why, the vilest animals are not suffered to
die by such a death as that. The very dogs that wander houseless and
homeless in the streets find some pitying hand 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 call themselves Christians, is too horrible
for belief. Oh, it is impossible--utterly impossible!" "What
I have said, I have said," answered Caderousse. "And
you are a fool for having said anything about it," said a voice from
the top of the stairs. "Why should you meddle with what does not
concern you?" The
two men turned quickly, and saw the sickly countenance of La Carconte
peering between the baluster rails; attracted by the sound of voices, she
had feebly dragged herself down the stairs, and, seated on the lower step,
head on knees, she had listened to the foregoing conversation. "Mind
your own business, wife," replied Caderousse sharply. "This
gentleman asks me for information, which common politeness will not permit
me to refuse." "Politeness,
you simpleton!" retorted La Carconte. "What have you to do with
politeness, I should like to know? Better study a little common prudence.
How do you know the motives that person may have for trying to extract all
he can from you?" "I
pledge you my word, madam," said the abbиж, "that my intentions are good; and that you
husband can incur no risk, provided he answers me candidly." "Ah,
that's all very fine," retorted the woman. "Nothing is easier
than to begin with fair promises and assurances of nothing to fear; but
when poor, silly folks, like my husband there, have been persuaded to tell
all they know, the promises and assurances of safety are quickly
forgotten; and at some moment when nobody is expecting it, behold trouble
and misery, and all sorts of persecutions, are heaped on the unfortunate
wretches, who cannot even see whence all their afflictions come." "Nay,
nay, my good woman, make yourself perfectly easy, I beg of you. Whatever
evils may befall you, they will not be occasioned by my instrumentality,
that I solemnly promise you." La
Carconte muttered a few inarticulate words, then let her head again drop
upon her knees, and went into a fit of ague, leaving the two speakers to
resume the conversation, but remaining so as to be able to hear every word
they uttered. Again the abbиж
had been obliged to swallow a draught of water to calm the emotions that
threatened to overpower him. When he had sufficiently recovered himself,
he said, "It appears, then, that the miserable old man you were
telling me of was forsaken by every one. Surely, had not such been the
case, he would not have perished by so dreadful a death." "Why,
he was not altogether forsaken," continued Caderousse, "for Mercижdииs the Catalan and Monsieur Morrel were very kind to
him; but somehow the poor old man had contracted a profound hatred for
Fernand--the very person," added Caderousse with a bitter smile,
"that you named just now as being one of Dantииs' faithful and attached
friends." "And
was he not so?" asked the abbиж. "Gaspard,
Gaspard!" murmured the woman, from her seat on the stairs, "mind
what you are saying!" Caderousse made no reply to these words, though
evidently irritated and annoyed by the interruption, but, addressing the
abbиж, said, "Can a man be
faithful to another whose wife he covets and desires for himself? But Dantииs was so honorable and true in
his own nature, that he believed everybody's professions of friendship.
Poor Edmond, he was cruelly deceived; but it was fortunate that he never
knew, or he might have found it more difficult, when on his deathbed, to
pardon his enemies. And, whatever people may say," continued
Caderousse, in his native language, which was not altogether devoid of
rude poetry, "I cannot help being more frightened at the idea of the
malediction of the dead than the hatred of the living." "Imbecile!"
exclaimed La Carconte. "Do
you, then, know in what manner Fernand injured Dantииs?" inquired the abbиж 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 you take
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 abbиж. "Why,
what good would it do?" asked Caderousse. "If the poor lad were
living, and came to me and begged that I would candidly tell which were
his true and which his false friends, why, perhaps, I should not hesitate.
But you tell me he is no more, and therefore can have nothing to do with
hatred or revenge, so let all such feeling be buried with him." "You
prefer, then," said the abbиж, "that I should bestow on men you say are
false and treacherous, the reward intended for faithful friendship?" "That
is true enough," returned Caderousse. "You say truly, the gift
of poor 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 the
ocean." "Remember,"
chimed in La Carconte, "those two could crush you at a single
blow!" "How
so?" inquired the abbиж.
"Are these persons, then, so rich and powerful?" "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 abbиж, in a tone that indicated utter indifference on his
part, "you are at liberty, either to speak or be silent, just as you
please; for my own part, I respect your scruples and admire your
sentiments; so let the matter end. I shall do my duty as conscientiously
as I can, and fulfil my promise to the dying man. My first business will
be to dispose of this diamond." So saying, the abbиж again draw the small box from his pocket, opened
it, and contrived to hold it in such a light, that a bright flash of
brilliant 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 chamber with a
tolerably firm step; "what diamond are you talking about?" "Why,
did you not hear all we said?" inquired Caderousse. "It is a
beautiful diamond left by poor Edmond Dantииs, to be sold, and the money divided between his
father, Mercижdииs, his betrothed bride, Fernand,
Danglars, and myself. The jewel is worth at least fifty thousand
francs." "Oh,
what a magnificent jewel!" cried the astonished woman. "The
fifth part of the profits from this stone belongs to us then, does it
not?" asked Caderousse. "It
does," replied the abbиж;
"with the addition of an equal division of that part intended for the
elder Dantииs,
which I believe myself at liberty 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 wife
in her turn, in a low, muttering voice. "Of
course not!" rejoined Caderousse quickly; "no more do I, and
that was what I was observing to this gentleman just now. I said I looked
upon it as a sacrilegious profanation to reward treachery, perhaps
crime." "Remember,"
answered the abbиж
calmly, as he replaced the jewel and its case in the pocket of his
cassock, "it is your fault, not mine, that I do so. You will have the
goodness to furnish me with the address of both Fernand and Danglars, in
order that I may execute Edmond's last wishes." The agitation of
Caderousse became extreme, and large drops of perspiration rolled from his
heated brow. As he saw the abbиж rise from his seat and go
towards the door, as though to ascertain if his horse were sufficiently
refreshed to continue his journey, Caderousse and his wife exchanged looks
of deep meaning. "There,
you see, wife," said the former, "this splendid diamond might
all 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 my hands 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, in spite of the intense heat of the weather. Arrived at the top
stair, she turned 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 creaked beneath her heavy,
uncertain tread, as she proceeded towards her arm-chair, into which she
fell as though exhausted. "Well,"
asked the abbиж,
as he returned to the apartment below, "what have 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.
"Not because I have the least desire to learn anything you may please
to conceal from me, but simply that if, through your assistance, I could
distribute the legacy according to the wishes of the testator, why, so
much the better, that is all." "I
hope it may be so," replied Caderousse, his face flushed with
cupidity. "I
am all attention," said the abbиж. "Stop
a minute," answered Caderousse; "we might be interrupted in the
most interesting part of my story, which would be a pity; and it is as
well 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 was
accustomed to do at night. During this time the abbиж
had chosen his place for listening at his ease. He removed his seat into a
corner of the room, where he himself would be in deep shadow, while the
light would be fully thrown on the narrator; then, with head bent down and
hands clasped, or rather clinched together, he prepared to give his whole
attention to Caderousse, who seated himself on the little stool, exactly
opposite to him. "Remember,
this is no affair of mine," said the trembling voice of La Carconte,
as though through the flooring of her chamber she viewed the scene that
was enacting below. "Enough,
enough!" replied Caderousse; "say no more about it; I will take
all the consequences upon myself." And he began his story. |
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