‘This is appalling!’ the priest muttered.
‘That’s how God rewards virtue, Monsieur,’ said Caderousse. ‘Look at me: I have never done a wicked deed, apart from the one I told you about, and I live in poverty. After watching my poor wife die of fever, unable to do anything for her, I shall die of starvation myself, as old Dantès did, while Fernand and Danglars are rolling in gold.’
‘How did this come about?’
‘Because everything turned out well for them, while everything turned out ill for honest people like myself.’
‘What has happened to Danglars? He is the most guilty, the instigator of it all, is that not so?’
‘What happened to him? He left Marseille and, on Monsieur Morrel’s recommendation – because Morrel knew nothing of his crime – he went as accounts clerk to a Spanish banker. During the war in Spain he obtained a contract for supplying part of the French army and made a fortune. With this, he gambled on the exchange and tripled or quadrupled his fortune. He married his banker’s daughter and, when she died, married a widow, Madame de Nargonne, daughter of Monsieur Servieux, the present king’s chamberlain, who enjoys support from the highest quarter. He became a millionaire, and they made him a baron, so that he is now Baron Danglars, with a private residence in the Rue du Mont-Blanc, ten horses in his stable, six lackeys in his antechamber and I don’t know how many millions in his coffers.’
‘Ah!’ the abbé said, in an odd voice. ‘And is he happy?’
‘That, no one can tell. The secret of happiness and misery is between four walls; walls have ears, but not tongues. If you can be happy with a great fortune, then Danglars is happy.’
‘And Fernand?’
‘Fernand is another story, too.’
‘But how could a poor Catalan fisherman, with no possessions and no education, make his fortune? I have to admit that is beyond me.’
‘And beyond everyone else. There must be some strange secret in his life that no one knows about.’
‘But by what visible means did he climb to his great fortune, or his high position?’
‘Both, Monsieur! Both! He has both fortune and position.’
‘This is some wild yarn you are spinning.’
‘It may indeed seem so; but listen and you will understand.
‘A few days before Bonaparte’s return, Fernand was called up to the army. The Bourbons would have left him quietly in the Catalan village, but Napoleon came back and there was a general muster of troops, so Fernand had to go. I, too, had to leave, but as I was older than Fernand and had just married my poor wife, I was merely assigned to the coastal watch. Fernand was called up for active service, went to the frontier with his regiment and took part in the Battle of Ligny.
‘The night after the battle, he was on orderly duty at the door of the general, who was secretly in contact with the enemy. That very night, this general was planning to go over to the English. He invited Fernand to accompany him. Fernand agreed, abandoned his post and followed the general.
‘Something that would have had him court-martialled if Napoleon had stayed on the throne was an asset for him with the Bourbons. He came back to France with a sub-lieutenant’s stripes; and as he remained a protégé of the general, who was much in favour, he was made captain in 1823, at the time of the war in Spain1 – that is, at the very moment when Danglars was making his first investments. Fernand was a Spaniard, so he was sent to Madrid to report on the mood among his countrymen. He looked up Danglars, got in contact with him, promised his general support from the Royalists in the capital and the provinces, received promises in his turn, entered into agreements, guided his regiment by tracks that he alone knew through gorges under Royalist guard, and in short rendered such services in this short campaign that after the capture of the Trocadero2 he was appointed colonel and awarded the cross of an officer of the Legion of Honour, together with the title of count.’
‘Fate, fate!’ muttered the abbé.
‘Yes, but listen: that is not all. When the war ended in Spain, Fernand’s career seemed to be threatened by the lengthy peace that was about to break out in Europe. Only Greece had risen against Turkey and begun its war for independence. All eyes were on Athens: it was fashionable to feel sympathy for the Greeks and to support their cause. The French government, while not openly taking sides, as you know, turned a blind eye to some active supporters. Fernand asked for permission to go and serve in Greece, which he obtained, while still remaining subject to the discipline of the army.
‘Some time later it was learned that the Comte de Morcerf (that was his title) had entered the service of Ali Pasha3 with the rank of general-instructor.
‘As you know, Ali Pasha was killed, but before his death he rewarded Fernand for his services by leaving him a considerable amount of money. With it, Fernand returned to France and his rank of lieutenant-general was confirmed.’
‘So, today… ?’ the abbé asked.
‘So today,’ Caderousse continued, ‘he has a magnificent private residence in Paris, at number twenty-seven, Rue du Helder.’
The abbé opened his mouth to say something but hesitated for a moment; then, making an effort to control his feelings, he asked: ‘And Mercédès? They tell me she disappeared?’
‘Disappeared?’ said Caderousse. ‘Yes, like the sun disappears, to rise more glorious the following day.’
‘So did she also make her fortune?’ the abbé asked, with an ironic smile.
‘As we speak, Mercédès is one of the greatest ladies in Paris,’ said Caderousse.
‘Carry on,’ said the abbé. ‘I feel as though I were listening to the account of some dream. But I have seen enough extraordinary things myself not to be so much amazed by what you are telling me.’
‘At first Mercédès was in despair at the cruel fate that had taken Edmond away from her. I have told you about her efforts to persuade Monsieur de Villefort and her devotion to Dantès’ father. In the midst of her despair, she suffered another blow, with Fernand’s departure: she knew nothing of Fernand’s guilt and considered him as her brother. With him gone, she was alone.
‘Three months went by, which she spent weeping. She had no news of Edmond and none of Fernand; nothing to turn to, in fact, but the spectacle of an old man dying of grief.
‘One evening, having spent the whole day as she was accustomed to, seated at the crossing of the two roads between Marseille and the Catalan village, she returned home feeling more desolate than ever: neither her lover nor her friend was coming down one or the other of the roads and she had no news of either of them.
‘Suddenly, she thought she heard a familiar footstep. She turned around anxiously, the door opened and she saw Fernand appear in his sub-lieutenant’s uniform. This was not even half of her sorrow relieved, but at least part of her past life had returned.
‘She grasped Fernand’s hands with a warmth that he mistook for love, though it was only joy at no longer being alone in the world, at finally seeing a friend after long hours of sadness and solitude. Then, it is true, she had never hated Fernand; it was just that she had never loved him, that’s all. Her heart belonged to another, but this other was absent, he had vanished, perhaps he was dead… At this last thought, Mercédès burst into tears and wrung her hands in grief; but the notion, which she formerly used to reject when it was suggested to her by someone else, now came spontaneously to her mind. In any case, Old Dantès was constantly telling her: “Our Edmond is dead, because otherwise he would come back to us.”
‘The old man died, as I told you. If he had lived, then perhaps Mercédès would never have married another, because he would have been there to reproach her with her infidelity. Fernand knew that. When he learned of the old man’s death, he came back. By this time he was a lieutenant. On his earlier visit he had not said a word about love to Mercédès, but now he reminded her that he loved her.
‘Mercédès asked him for six more months, so that she could wait for Edmond and mourn him.’
�
�In effect,’ the abbé said with a bitter smile, ‘that made eighteen months in all. What more could any lover ask of his beloved?’ And he muttered the English poet’s words: ‘Frailty, thy name is woman.’4
‘Six months later,’ Caderousse went on, ‘the wedding took place at the Eglise des Accoules.’
‘The same church as the one in which she was to marry Edmond,’ the priest murmured. ‘Only the bridegroom was different.’
‘So Mercédès married,’ Caderousse continued. ‘She appeared to everyone calm but, even so, nearly fainted as she walked past La Réserve where, eighteen months earlier, she had celebrated her betrothal to the man whom she would have recognized that she still loved if she had dared search the bottom of her heart.
‘Fernand was happier, but no more at ease, for I saw him at that time and he was constantly afraid that Edmond would return. He immediately set about taking his wife and himself abroad: there were too many dangers and too many memories for him to remain in Les Catalans.
‘A week after the wedding, they left.’
‘And did you see Mercédès again?’ asked the priest.
‘Yes, at the time of the war in Spain, in Perpignan, where Fernand had left her. She was occupied in those days in educating her son.’
The abbé shuddered and asked: ‘Her son?’
‘Yes,’ Caderousse replied. ‘Little Albert.’
‘But if she was educating this child,’ said the abbé, ‘did she have any education herself? I thought that Edmond told me she was a simple fisherman’s daughter, beautiful but untutored.’
‘Huh!’ said Caderousse. ‘Did he know so little of his own fiancée? Mercédès could have been queen, Monsieur, if the crown was only reserved for the most lovely and most intelligent heads. Her fortune was already growing and she grew with it. She learned to draw, she studied music, she learned everything. In any case, between ourselves, I think she only did all this to take her mind off it, to forget: she put all those things into her head to crush what she had in her heart. But now we must tell the truth,’ he went on. ‘No doubt her wealth and honours consoled her. She is rich, she is a countess, and yet…’
He paused.
‘And yet… ?’ said the abbé.
‘And yet I am sure that she is not happy,’ said Caderousse.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Well, when I fell on misfortune myself, I thought that my former friends might help me. I called on Danglars, who would not even receive me. I went to Fernand, and he sent his valet to give me a hundred francs.’
‘So you did not see either of them?’
‘No, but Madame de Morcerf did see me.’
‘How was that?’
‘As I was leaving, a purse fell at my feet. There were twenty-five louis in it. I looked up quickly and saw Mercédès closing the shutter.’
‘And Monsieur de Villefort?’ asked the abbé.
‘Oh, he was never my friend, I didn’t know him. I had no reason to ask him for help.’
‘But do you know what became of him, and what part he played in Edmond’s misfortune?’
‘No. All I know is that, some time after having him arrested, he married Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran and shortly afterwards left Marseille. No doubt fortune smiled on him as it did on the others; no doubt he is as rich as Danglars and as highly thought of as Fernand. Only I have remained poor, as you see, destitute and forgotten by God.’
‘You are wrong there, my friend,’ said the abbé. ‘God may sometimes appear to forget, when his justice is resting; but the time always comes when he remembers, and here is the proof.’
At this, he took the diamond from his pocket and gave it to Caderousse, saying: ‘Take this, my friend. Take this diamond, it is yours.’
‘What! All mine!’ Caderousse exclaimed. ‘Ah, Monsieur – you are not teasing me, surely?’
‘This diamond was to be divided among his friends. Edmond had only one friend, so there is no need to divide it. Take the jewel and sell it. It is worth fifty thousand francs, as I told you, and I hope that this sum will be enough to rescue you from poverty.’
‘Monsieur,’ Caderousse said, nervously holding out one hand, while the other wiped the sweat that was beading on his brow, ‘Oh, Monsieur, do not jest with a man’s happiness and despair!’
‘I know what happiness is, and what is despair, and I never jest with feelings. Take it, but in return…’
Caderousse’s hand had already touched the diamond, but he drew it back.
The abbé smiled. ‘In return,’ he continued, ‘give me that red silk purse which Monsieur Morrel left on old Dantès’ mantelpiece, which you told me was still in your possession.’
Increasingly astonished, Caderousse went over to a large oak cupboard, opened it and gave the abbé a long purse of faded red silk, bound with two copper rings that had once been gilded. The abbé took it and in exchange gave Caderousse the diamond.
‘You are a man of God, Monsieur!’ cried Caderousse. ‘Because no one knew that Edmond had given you this diamond and you could have kept it.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ the abbé murmured to himself. ‘And likely enough that is what you would have done yourself.’
He got up and took his hat and gloves.
‘Everything that you told me is quite true, isn’t it? I can believe every word?’
‘Look here, Monsieur l’Abbé,’ said Caderousse. ‘Here in the corner of this wall is a crucifix of consecrated wood; here, on this sideboard, is my wife’s New Testament. Open it and I will swear to you on it, with my hand extended towards the crucifix: I will swear by my immortal soul, by my Christian faith, that I have told you everything just as it was and as the recording angel will whisper it into God’s ear on the Day of Judgement!’
‘Very good,’ said the abbé, convinced by his tone that Caderousse was telling the truth. ‘Very good. Let the money benefit you. Farewell, I am going to withdraw far from the haunts of men who do so much ill to one another.’
Escaping with difficulty from Caderousse’s expressions of thanks, he went over and himself drew back the bolt on the door, went out, remounted his horse, waved for the last time to the innkeeper, who was pouring out incoherent farewells, and set off in the direction from which he had come.
When Caderousse turned around, he found La Carconte behind him, paler and more unsteady than ever.
‘Is it true, what I heard?’ she asked.
‘What? That he has given us the diamond for ourselves alone?’ said Caderousse, almost mad with joy.
‘Yes.’
‘Nothing could be truer. Here it is.’
The woman looked at it for a moment, then muttered: ‘Suppose it is a fake?’
Caderousse went pale and swayed on his feet.
‘A fake…’ he mumbled. ‘A fake? Why would this man give me a fake diamond?’
‘To learn your secrets without paying for them, idiot!’
For a time Caderousse was stunned by the awfulness of this possibility. Then he said: ‘Ah, we shall soon know.’ And he took his hat and placed it on the red handkerchief knotted around his head.
‘How?’
‘The fair is at Beaucaire; there are jewellers from Paris there. I’ll show them the diamond. Look after the house, woman. I’ll be back in two hours.’ And he ran out of the house, taking the opposite road from the one down which the stranger had just ridden.
‘Fifty thousand francs!’ murmured La Carconte, when she was alone. ‘That is a lot of money… but it’s not a fortune.’
XXVIII
THE PRISON REGISTER
The day after the one on which the scene we have just described took place on the road between Bellegarde and Beaucaire, a man of between thirty and thirty-two years of age, dressed in a cornflower-blue frock-coat, nankeen trousers and a white waistcoat, whose manner and accent both proclaimed him to be British, presented himself at the house of the mayor of Marseille.
‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘I am the head clerk of the House
of Thomson and French, of Rome. For the past ten years we have had dealings with Morrel and Son of Marseille. We have some hundred thousand francs invested in the business, and we are somewhat uneasy, since the company is said to be on the brink of ruin. I have therefore arrived directly from Rome to ask you for information about its affairs.’
‘I do indeed know, Monsieur,’ the mayor replied, ‘that for the past four or five years Monsieur Morrel seems to have been dogged by misfortune. He lost four or five ships in succession and suffered from three or four bankruptcies. But, even though I myself am his creditor for around ten thousand francs, it is not appropriate for me to give you any information about his financial affairs. Ask me, as mayor, what I think of Monsieur Morrel and I shall tell you that he is a man who is honest to the point of inflexibility and that he has up to now fulfilled all his responsibilities with the utmost nicety. That is all I can tell you, Monsieur. If you wish to know anything further, you must ask Monsieur de Boville, inspector of prisons, residing at number fifteen, Rue de Noailles. I believe he has two hundred thousand francs invested in Monsieur Morrel’s firm and, if there is really anything to be feared, as the amount is far greater than mine, you will probably find him better informed than I am about the matter.’
The Englishman appeared to appreciate the delicacy of this reply. He bowed and left, making his way towards the street in question with that stride which is peculiar to the natives of Great Britain.
M. de Boville was in his study. Seeing him, the Englishman started, as if with surprise, suggesting that this was not the first time they had met. As for M. de Boville, he was so desperate that it was obvious that his mind, entirely taken up with its immediate concerns, had no room left for either his memory or his imagination to wander back into the past.
The Englishman, with the phlegm characteristic of his race, asked him more or less the same question and in the same terms as he had just put to the mayor of Marseille.
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