Count of Monte Cristo (abridged) (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Alexandre Dumas

“Mercédès came again and saw such a change in the old man that, as before, she wanted to have him moved to her own cottage. Monsieur Morrel was also of the opinion that this would be best, and wanted to move him by force, but he protested so violently that they were afraid to do so. Mercédès remained at the bedside. Monsieur Morrel went away, making a sign to Mercédès that he had left a purse on the mantelshelf. Nevertheless, taking advantage of the doctor’s instructions, the old man would eat nothing. Finally after nine days’ despair and wasting, the old man died, cursing those who had caused all his misery. His last words to Mercédès were: ‘If you see my Edmond again, tell him I died blessing him.’”

  The abbé rose, and twice paced round the room, pressing his trembling hand to his parched throat.

  “And you believe that he died of . . .”

  “Of hunger, monsieur, pure starvation,” said Caderousse. “I am as certain of it as that we two are Christians.”

  “A sad, sad tragedy!” said the priest, and his voice was hoarse with emotion.

  “All the more sad,” said Caderousse, “because it was none of God’s doing but the work of those men.”

  “Let me know about those men,” said the abbé, “and remember you have bound yourself to tell me everything. Who are the men who caused the son to die of despair and the father of hunger?”

  “Two men who were jealous of him, the one through love and the other through ambition. Their names are Fernand and Danglars.”

  “In what way did they show this jealousy?”

  “They denounced Edmond as a Bonapartist agent.”

  “Which of the two denounced him? Who was the real culprit?”

  “Both were guilty. The letter was written on the day before the betrothal feast. It was Danglars who wrote it with his left hand, it was Fernand who posted it.”

  “And yet you did not protest against such infamy?” said the abbé. “Then you are their accomplice.”

  “They both made me drink so excessively, monsieur, that I was no longer responsible for my actions. I only saw through a mist. I said all that a man is capable of saying when in such a state, but they both told me that they were only playing a harmless joke which would carry no consequences with it.”

  “But the next day you saw what consequences it had, yet you said nothing, though you were present when he was arrested.”

  “Yes, monsieur, I was there and I tried to speak. I wanted to say all I knew, but Danglars prevented me. I will own that I stood in fear of the political state of things at that time, and I let myself be overruled. I kept silence. It was cowardly, I know, but it was not criminal.”

  “I understand. You just let things take their course.”

  “Yes, monsieur,” was Caderousse’s rejoinder, “and I regret it night and day. I often ask pardon of God for it, I assure you, especially as this action, the only one I have to reproach myself with during the whole of my lifetime, is no doubt the cause of my adversity. I am paying the penalty for one moment’s selfishness.”

  With these words Caderousse bowed his head with all the signs of a true penitent. There followed a short silence; the abbé got up and paced the room in deep thought. At length he returned to his place and sat down, saying: “You have mentioned a Monsieur Morrel two or three times. Who was he?”

  “He was the owner of the Pharaon.”

  “What part did he play in this sad affair?”

  “The part of an honest, courageous, and affectionate man, monsieur. Twenty times did he intercede for Dantès. When the Emperor returned, he wrote, entreated, and threatened, with the result that during the Second Restoration, he was persecuted as a Bonapartist. As I told you before, he came again and again to Dantès’ father to persuade him to live with him in his house, and, as I also mentioned, the day before the old man’s death, he left on the mantelshelf a purse which contained sufficient money to pay off his debts and to defray the expenses of the funeral. Thus the poor old man was enabled to die as he had lived, without doing wrong to anyone. I have still got the purse; it is a red silk one.”

  “If Monsieur Morrel is still alive, he must be enjoying God’s blessing: he must be rich and happy.”

  Caderousse smiled bitterly. “Yes, as happy as I am,” was the answer. “He stands on the brink of poverty, and, what is more, of dishonour. After twenty-five years’ work, after having gained the most honoured place in the business world of Marseilles, Monsieur Morrel is utterly ruined. He has lost five ships during the last two years, has had to bear the brunt of the bankruptcy of three large firms, and his only hope is now in the Pharaon, the very ship that poor Dantès commanded, which is expected from the Indies with a cargo of cochineal and indigo. If this ship goes down like the others, all is lost.”

  “Has the unfortunate man a wife and children?”

  “Yes, he has a wife who is behaving like a saint through all this trouble; he has a daughter who was to have married the man she loves, but his family will not allow him to marry the daughter of a bankrupt; and he has a son, a lieutenant in the army. But you may well understand that this only increases the wretched man’s grief instead of alleviating it. If he were alone, he would blow out his brains and there would be an end to it.”

  “It is terrible,” murmured the priest.

  “It is thus that God rewards virtue, monsieur. Just look at me. I have never done a wrong action apart from the one I related to you a moment ago, yet I live in poverty, while Fernand and Danglars are rolling in wealth. Everything they have touched has turned into gold, whereas everything I have done has gone all wrong.”

  “Danglars was the more guilty of the two, the instigator, was he not? What has become of him?”

  “He left Marseilles and, upon the recommendation of Monsieur Morrel, who was unaware of his crime, he became cashier in a Spanish bank. During the war with Spain, he was employed in the commissariat of the French army and made a fortune. Then he speculated with his money and quadrupled his capital. He married his banker’s daughter and was left a widower after a short time; then he married a widow, the daughter of the chamberlain who is in great favour at Court. He became a millionaire and was made a Baron. Thus he is now Baron Danglars, owns a large house in the Rue du Mont Blanc, has ten horses in his stable, six footmen in his antechamber, and I don’t know how many millions in his coffers.”

  “But how could Fernand, a poor fisherman, make a fortune? He had neither resources nor education. I must own this surpasses my comprehension.”

  “It is beyond the comprehension of every one. There must be some strange secret in his life of which we are all ignorant. It is all very mysterious. A few days before the Restoration, Fernand was called up for conscription. The Bourbons left him in peace at the Catalans, but when Napoleon returned, an extraordinary muster was decreed and Fernand was compelled to join up. I also joined up, but as I was older and had just married, I was only sent to the coast. Fernand was enrolled in a fighting unit, reached the frontier, and took part in the battle of Ligny.ap

  “The night following the battle, he was on sentry duty outside the door of a general who was in secret communication with the enemy and who intended going over to the English that very night. He suggested that Fernand should accompany him. To this Fernand agreed, and, deserting his post, followed the general.

  “This would have meant a court-martial for Fernand if Napoleon had remained on the throne, but to the Bourbons it only served him as a recommendation. He returned to France with the epaulette of a sub-lieutenant and, as he still enjoyed the protection of the general, who stood in high favour, he was promoted captain during the Spanish war in eighteen-twenty-three; that is to say, at the time when Danglars was first launching forth in speculation. Fernand was a Spaniard, so he was sent to Madrid to inquire into the feeling existing among his compatriots. While there he met Danglars, who became very friendly with him, promised his general support amongst the Royalists of the capital and the provinces, obtained promises for himself, and on his side made pledges. He led his
regiment along paths known only to himself in gorges guarded by Royalists, and in short rendered such services during that short campaign that after the fall of Trocadero, he was promoted colonel and received the cross of an Officer of the Legion of Honour.”

  “Fate! Fate!” murmured the abbé.

  “Yes, but that is not all. When the Spanish war was ended, Fernand’s career was checked by the long period of peace which seemed likely to prevail throughout Europe. Greece alone had risen against Turkey and had just commenced her war of independence. All eyes were turned towards Athens, and it became the fashion to pity and support the Greeks. Fernand sought and obtained permission to serve in Greece, but his name was still retained on the army list.

  “Some time later it was stated that the Count of Morcerf, which was the name he now bore, had entered the service of Ali Pashaaq with the rank of Instructor-General. Ali Pasha was killed, as you know, but before he died, he recompensed Fernand for his services by leaving him a considerable sum of money. Fernand returned to France, where his rank of lieutenant-general was confirmed, and to-day he owns a magnificent house at Paris in the Rue du Helder, number twenty-seven.”

  The abbé opened his mouth as though to speak, hesitated for a moment, then, with a great effort, said: “What about Mercédès? They tell me she has disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?” said Caderousse. “Yes, as the sun disappears only to rise with more splendour the next day.”

  “Has she also made her fortune then?” asked the abbé with an ironical smile.

  “Mercédès is at present one of the grandest ladies in Paris. At first she was utterly overcome by the blow which had robbed her of her Edmond. I have already told you how she importuned Villefort with entreaties, and have also touched upon her devoted care for Dantès’ father. In the midst of her despair she was assailed by another trouble, the departure of Fernand, of whose crime she was unaware and whom she regarded as a brother.

  “Mercédès was alone and uncared for. She spent three months weeping and sorrowing. No news of Edmond and none of Fernand, with nothing to distract her but an old man dying of despair.

  “One evening after she had been sitting all day at the crossroads leading to Marseilles and the Catalans, as was her wont, she returned home more depressed than ever. Neither her lover nor her friend had returned along either of these two roads, neither had she any news of them.

  “Suddenly she seemed to recognize a step behind her and turned round anxiously. The door opened, and Fernand entered in the uniform of a sub-lieutenant. It was only the half of what she was grieving for, but it was a portion of her past life restored to her. She seized Fernand’s hands in an ecstasy of joy. This he took for love, whereas it was nothing more than joy at being no longer alone in the world, and at seeing a friend again after so many long hours of solitary sadness. Then you must remember she had never hated Fernand, she simply did not love him. Another one owned Mercédès’ heart, and he was absent . . . he had disappeared . . . perhaps he was dead. At this last thought, Mercédès always burst into tears and wrung her hands in anguish; but, whereas she had always rejected the idea when suggested by someone else, the same thought now began to prey on her mind, and old Dantès incessantly said to her: ‘Our Edmond is dead, for, if he were not, he would have come back to us.’

  “The old man died. Had he lived, in all probability Mercédès would never have become the wife of another; he would have been there to reproach her with her infidelity. Fernand realized that fact. As soon as he heard that the old man was dead, he returned. This time he was a lieutenant. The first time he returned he had not spoken of love; the second time he reminded her that he loved her. Mercédès asked for six months in which to await and bewail Edmond.”

  “Well, that made eighteen months in all,” said the abbé with a bitter smile. “What more could the most adored lover ask?” Then he murmured the words of the English poet: “‘Frailty, thy name is woman!’”

  “Six months later,” continued Caderousse, “the wedding took place in the Church des Accoules.”

  “The very church in which she was to have married Edmond,” murmured the abbé. “The bridegroom was changed, that was all.”

  “So Mercédès was married,” continued Caderousse, “but although to all appearances she was calm, she was nevertheless well nigh fainting when she passed La Réserve where, eighteen months previously, she had celebrated her betrothal with him whom she still loved, which she would have realized herself had she dared to probe to the depths of her heart.”

  “Did you see Mercédès again?” asked the priest.

  “Yes, during the Spanish war at Perpignan where Fernand had left her; she was attending to the education of her son.”

  The abbé started. “Her son, did you say?”

  “Yes,” was Caderousse’s reply, “little Albert’s education.”

  “But I am sure Edmond told me she was the daughter of a simple fisherman and that, though she was beautiful, she was uneducated. Had she taken a course of instruction that she was able to teach her son?”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Caderousse. “Did he know his sweetheart so little? If crowns were bestowed upon beauty and intelligence, Mercédès would now be a queen. Her fortune was growing, and she grew with it. She learnt drawing, music, everything. Personally I think she did all this simply to distract her mind, to help her to forget; she crammed so much knowledge into her head to alleviate the weight in her heart. I must tell you everything as it is,” continued Caderousse. “Her fortune and honours have no doubt afforded her some consolation; she is rich, she is a Countess, and yet . . .” Caderousse hesitated.

  “Yet what?” asked the abbé.

  “Yet I am sure she is not happy.”

  “Do you know what has happened to Monsieur de Villefort and what part he played in Edmond’s misfortune?”

  “No, I only know that some time after he had him arrested he married Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran and shortly afterwards left Marseilles. No doubt Dame Fortune has smiled upon him, too, no doubt like Danglars he is rich, and like Fernand covered with honours, while I alone, you understand, have remained poor, miserable, and forsaken by all.”

  “You are mistaken, my friend,” said the abbé. “There are times when God’s justice tarries for a while and it appears to us that we are forgotten by Him, but the time always comes when we find it is not so, and here is the proof.”

  With these words the abbé took the diamond from his pocket and handed it to Caderousse.

  “Here, my friend,” he said. “Take this, it is yours.”

  “What! For me alone!” exclaimed Caderousse. “Ah, monsieur, do not jest with me!”

  “The diamond was to be divided amongst Edmond’s friends. He had but one friend, therefore it cannot be divided. Take the diamond and sell it; it is worth fifty thousand francs, a sum which will, I trust, suffice to relieve you of your poverty.”

  “Oh, monsieur, do not play with the happiness or despair of a man!” said Caderousse, putting out one hand timidly, while with the other he wiped away the perspiration that gathered in big drops on his forehead.

  “I know what happiness means as I also know what despair means, and I should never play with either of these feelings. Take the diamond, but in exchange . . .”

  Caderousse already had his hand on the diamond, but at these last words he hastily withdrew it.

  The abbé smiled.

  “In exchange,” continued he, “give me the red silk purse Monsieur Morrel left on the mantelshelf in old Dantès’ room.”

  More and more astonished, Caderousse went to a large oak cupboard, opened it, and, taking out a long purse of faded red silk on two copper rings, once gilt, he handed it to the priest.

  The abbé took it and gave the diamond in exchange.

  “You are verily a man of God, monsieur!” exclaimed Caderousse. “No one knew Dantès gave you the diamond, and you could easily have kept it.”

  The abbé rose and took his hat and gloves, unbarre
d the door, mounted his horse, and, saying good-bye to Caderousse, who was most effusive in his farewells, started off by the road he had come.

  Chapter XXIII

  THE PRISON REGISTER

  The day following the events just recorded, a man of about thirty or thirty-two years of age, clad in a bright blue coat, nankeen trousers, and a white waistcoat, and having both the appearance and the accent of an Englishman, presented himself before the Mayor of Marseilles.

  “Monsieur,” said he, “I am head clerk of the firm of Thomson and French, of Rome. We have had business connexions with Morrel and Son, of Marseilles, for the last ten years involving a hundred thousand francs or so of our money. As reports are current that the firm is faced with ruin, we are beginning to feel somewhat anxious, so I have come from Rome for the sole purpose of obtaining some information from you in regard to the firm.”

  “I know well enough, monsieur, that misfortune seems to have dogged Monsieur Morrel for the past four or five years,” replied the Mayor. “He has lost five ships one after the other, and has suffered badly through the bankruptcy of three or four firms, but though I am his creditor to the extent of some ten thousand francs, it is not my place to give you any information of the state of his finances. If you ask me in my capacity as Mayor what I think of Monsieur Morrel, I can but answer that he is as honest as it is possible for man to be, and that up to the present he has fulfilled his engagements with absolute punctuality. That is all I can tell you, monsieur. If you wish to know more, apply to Monsieur de Boville, Inspector of Prisons, Rue de Noailles, number fifteen. I believe he has two hundred thousand francs invested with the firm, and if there are really any grounds for apprehension you will doubtless find him better informed on the subject than I am.”

  The Englishman appeared to appreciate this great delicacy on the part of the Mayor, bade him good morning, and, with that gait peculiar to the sons of Great Britain, set off for the street mentioned.

  M. de Boville was in his office. With the coolness of his race, the Englishman put almost the same question to him as he had put to the Mayor.