Chapter 27. The Story
First, sir,” said Caderousse, “you must make me a promise.”
“What is that?” inquired the abbé.
“Why, if you ever make use of the details I am about to give you, thatyou will never let anyone know that it was I who supplied them; for thepersons of whom I am about to talk are rich and powerful, and if theyonly laid the tips of their fingers on me, I should break to pieces likeglass.”
“Make yourself easy, my friend,” replied the abbé. “I am a priest, andconfessions die in my breast. Recollect, our only desire is to carryout, in a fitting manner, the last wishes of our friend. Speak, then,without reserve, as without hatred; tell the truth, the whole truth; Ido not know, never may know, the persons of whom you are about to speak;besides, I am an Italian, and not a Frenchman, and belong to God, andnot to man, and I shall shortly retire to my convent, which I have onlyquitted to fulfil the last wishes of a dying man.”
This positive assurance seemed to give Caderousse a little courage.
“Well, then, under these circumstances,” said Caderousse, “I will, Ieven believe I ought to undeceive you as to the friendship which poorEdmond thought so sincere and unquestionable.”
“Begin with his father, if you please.” said the abbé; “Edmond talked tome a great deal about the old man for whom he had the deepest love.”
“The history is a sad one, sir,” said Caderousse, shaking his head;“perhaps you know all the earlier part of it?”
“Yes.” answered the abbé; “Edmond related to me everything until themoment when he was arrested in a small cabaret close to Marseilles.”
“At La Réserve! Oh, yes; I can see it all before me this moment.”
“Was it not his betrothal feast?”
“It was and the feast that began so gayly had a very sorrowful ending; apolice commissary, followed by four soldiers, entered, and Dantès wasarrested.”
“Yes, and up to this point I know all,” said the priest. “Dantès himselfonly knew that which personally concerned him, for he never beheld againthe five persons I have named to you, or heard mention of anyone ofthem.”
“Well, when Dantès was arrested, Monsieur Morrel hastened to obtain theparticulars, and they were very sad. The old man returned alone to hishome, folded up his wedding suit with tears in his eyes, and paced upand down his chamber the whole day, and would not go to bed at all, forI was underneath him and heard him walking the whole night; and formyself, I assure you I could not sleep either, for the grief of the poorfather gave me great uneasiness, and every step he took went to my heartas really as if his foot had pressed against my breast.
“The next day Mercédès came to implore the protection of M. deVillefort; she did not obtain it, however, and went to visit the oldman; when she saw him so miserable and heart-broken, having passed asleepless night, and not touched food since the previous day, she wishedhim to go with her that she might take care of him; but the old manwould not consent. ‘No,’ was the old man’s reply, ‘I will not leave thishouse, for my poor dear boy loves me better than anything in the world;and if he gets out of prison he will come and see me the first thing,and what would he think if I did not wait here for him?’ I heard allthis from the window, for I was anxious that Mercédès should persuadethe old man to accompany her, for his footsteps over my head night andday did not leave me a moment’s repose.”
“But did you not go upstairs and try to console the poor old man?” askedthe abbé.
“Ah, sir,” replied Caderousse, “we cannot console those who will not beconsoled, and he was one of these; besides, I know not why, but heseemed to dislike seeing me. One night, however, I heard his sobs, and Icould not resist my desire to go up to him, but when I reached his doorhe was no longer weeping but praying. I cannot now repeat to you, sir,all the eloquent words and imploring language he made use of; it wasmore than piety, it was more than grief, and I, who am no canter, andhate the Jesuits, said then to myself, ‘It is really well, and I am veryglad that I have not any children; for if I were a father and felt suchexcessive grief as the old man does, and did not find in my memory orheart all he is now saying, I should throw myself into the sea at once,for I could not bear it.’”
“Poor father!” murmured the priest.
“From day to day he lived on alone, and more and more solitary. M.Morrel and Mercédès came to see him, but his door was closed; and,although I was certain he was at home, he would not make any answer. Oneday, when, contrary to his custom, he had admitted Mercédès, and thepoor girl, in spite of her own grief and despair, endeavored to consolehim, he said to her,—‘Be assured, my dear daughter, he is dead; andinstead of expecting him, it is he who is awaiting us; I am quite happy,for I am the oldest, and of course shall see him first.’
“However well disposed a person may be, why, you see we leave off aftera time seeing persons who are in sorrow, they make one melancholy; andso at last old Dantès was left all to himself, and I only saw from timeto time strangers go up to him and come down again with some bundle theytried to hide; but I guessed what these bundles were, and that he soldby degrees what he had to pay for his subsistence. At length the poorold fellow reached the end of all he had; he owed three quarters’ rent,and they threatened to turn him out; he begged for another week, whichwas granted to him. I know this, because the landlord came into myapartment when he left his.
“For the first three days I heard him walking about as usual, but, onthe fourth I heard nothing. I then resolved to go up to him at allrisks. The door was closed, but I looked through the keyhole, and sawhim so pale and haggard, that believing him very ill, I went and told M.Morrel and then ran on to Mercédès. They both came immediately, M.Morrel bringing a doctor, and the doctor said it was inflammation of thebowels, and ordered him a limited diet. I was there, too, and I nevershall forget the old man’s smile at this prescription.
“From that time he received all who came; he had an excuse for noteating any more; the doctor had put him on a diet.”
The abbé uttered a kind of groan.
“The story interests you, does it not, sir?” inquired Caderousse.
“Yes,” replied the abbé, “it is very affecting.”
“Mercédès came again, and she found him so altered that she was evenmore anxious than before to have him taken to her own home. This was M.Morrel’s wish also, who would fain have conveyed the old man against hisconsent; but the old man resisted, and cried so that they were actuallyfrightened. Mercédès remained, therefore, by his bedside, and M. Morrelwent away, making a sign to the Catalan that he had left his purse onthe chimney-piece; but, availing himself of the doctor’s order, the oldman would not take any sustenance; at length (after nine days of despairand fasting), the old man died, cursing those who had caused his misery,and saying to Mercédès, ‘If you ever see my Edmond again, tell him I dieblessing him.’”
The abbé rose from his chair, made two turns round the chamber, andpressed his trembling hand against his parched throat.
“And you believe he died——”
“Of hunger, sir, of hunger,” said Caderousse. “I am as certain of it asthat we two are Christians.”
The abbé, with a shaking hand, seized a glass of water that was standingby him half-full, swallowed it at one gulp, and then resumed his seat,with red eyes and pale cheeks.
“This was, indeed, a horrid event,” said he in a hoarse voice.
“The more so, sir, as it was men’s and not God’s doing.”
“Tell me of those men,” said the abbé, “and remember too,” he added inan almost menacing tone, “you have promised to tell me everything. Tellme, therefore, who are these men who killed the son with despair, andthe father with famine?”
“Two men jealous of him, sir; one from love, and the other fromambition,—Fernand and Danglars.”
“How was this jealousy manifested? Speak on.”
“They denounced Edmond as a Bonapartist agent.”
“Which of the two
denounced him? Which was the real delinquent?”
“Both, sir; one with a letter, and the other put it in the post.”
“And where was this letter written?”
“At La Réserve, the day before the betrothal feast.”
“’Twas so, then—’twas so, then,” murmured the abbé. “Oh, Faria, Faria,how well did you judge men and things!”
“What did you please to say, sir?” asked Caderousse.
“Nothing, nothing,” replied the priest; “go on.”
“It was Danglars who wrote the denunciation with his left hand, that hiswriting might not be recognized, and Fernand who put it in the post.”
“But,” exclaimed the abbé suddenly, “you were there yourself.”
“I!” said Caderousse, astonished; “who told you I was there?”
The abbé saw he had overshot the mark, and he added quickly,—“No one;but in order to have known everything so well, you must have been aneye-witness.”
“True, true!” said Caderousse in a choking voice, “I was there.”
“And did you not remonstrate against such infamy?” asked the abbé; “ifnot, you were an accomplice.”
“Sir,” replied Caderousse, “they had made me drink to such an excessthat I nearly lost all perception. I had only an indistinctunderstanding of what was passing around me. I said all that a man insuch a state could say; but they both assured me that it was a jest theywere carrying on, and perfectly harmless.”
“Next day—next day, sir, you must have seen plain enough what they hadbeen doing, yet you said nothing, though you were present when Dantèswas arrested.”
“Yes, sir, I was there, and very anxious to speak; but Danglarsrestrained me. ‘If he should really be guilty,’ said he, ‘and did reallyput in to the Island of Elba; if he is really charged with a letter forthe Bonapartist committee at Paris, and if they find this letter uponhim, those who have supported him will pass for his accomplices.’ Iconfess I had my fears, in the state in which politics then were, and Iheld my tongue. It was cowardly, I confess, but it was not criminal.”
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“I understand—you allowed matters to take their course, that was all.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Caderousse; “and remorse preys on me night and day.I often ask pardon of God, I swear to you, because this action, the onlyone with which I have seriously to reproach myself in all my life, is nodoubt the cause of my abject condition. I am expiating a moment ofselfishness, and so I always say to La Carconte, when she complains,‘Hold your tongue, woman; it is the will of God.’” And Caderousse bowedhis head with every sign of real repentance.
“Well, sir,” said the abbé, “you have spoken unreservedly; and thus toaccuse yourself is to deserve pardon.”
“Unfortunately, Edmond is dead, and has not pardoned me.”
“He did not know,” said the abbé.
“But he knows it all now,” interrupted Caderousse; “they say the deadknow everything.”
There was a brief silence; the abbé rose and paced up and downpensively, and then resumed his seat.
“You have two or three times mentioned a M. Morrel,” he said; “who washe?”
“The owner of the Pharaon and patron of Dantès.”
“And what part did he play in this sad drama?” inquired the abbé.
“The part of an honest man, full of courage and real regard. Twentytimes he interceded for Edmond. When the emperor returned, he wrote,implored, threatened, and so energetically, that on the secondrestoration he was persecuted as a Bonapartist. Ten times, as I toldyou, he came to see Dantès’ father, and offered to receive him in hisown house; and the night or two before his death, as I have alreadysaid, he left his purse on the mantelpiece, with which they paid the oldman’s debts, and buried him decently; and so Edmond’s father died, as hehad lived, without doing harm to anyone. I have the purse still by me—alarge one, made of red silk.”
“And,” asked the abbé, “is M. Morrel still alive?”
“Yes,” replied Caderousse.
“In that case,” replied the abbé, “he should be a man blessed of God,rich, happy.”
Caderousse smiled bitterly. “Yes, happy as myself,” said he.
“What! M. Morrel unhappy?” exclaimed the abbé.
“He is reduced almost to the last extremity—nay, he is almost at thepoint of dishonor.”
“How?”
“Yes,” continued Caderousse, “so it is; after five-and-twenty years oflabor, after having acquired a most honorable name in the trade ofMarseilles, M. Morrel is utterly ruined; he has lost five ships in twoyears, has suffered by the bankruptcy of three large houses, and hisonly hope now is in that very Pharaon which poor Dantès commanded, andwhich is expected from the Indies with a cargo of cochineal and indigo.If this ship founders, like the others, he is a ruined man.”
“And has the unfortunate man wife or children?” inquired the abbé.
“Yes, he has a wife, who through everything has behaved like an angel;he has a daughter, who was about to marry the man she loved, but whosefamily now will not allow him to wed the daughter of a ruined man; hehas, besides, a son, a lieutenant in the army; and, as you may suppose,all this, instead of lessening, only augments his sorrows. If he werealone in the world he would blow out his brains, and there would be anend.”
“Horrible!” ejaculated the priest.
“And it is thus heaven recompenses virtue, sir,” added Caderousse. “Yousee, I, who never did a bad action but that I have told you of—am indestitution, with my poor wife dying of fever before my very eyes, and Iunable to do anything in the world for her; I shall die of hunger, asold Dantès did, while Fernand and Danglars are rolling in wealth.”
“How is that?”
“Because their deeds have brought them good fortune, while honest menhave been reduced to misery.”
“What has become of Danglars, the instigator, and therefore the mostguilty?”
“What has become of him? Why, he left Marseilles, and was taken, on therecommendation of M. Morrel, who did not know his crime, as cashier intoa Spanish bank. During the war with Spain he was employed in thecommissariat of the French army, and made a fortune; then with thatmoney he speculated in the funds, and trebled or quadrupled his capital;and, having first married his banker’s daughter, who left him a widower,he has married a second time, a widow, a Madame de Nargonne, daughter ofM. de Servieux, the king’s chamberlain, who is in high favor at court.He is a millionaire, and they have made him a baron, and now he is theBaron Danglars, with a fine residence in the Rue du Mont-Blanc, with tenhorses in his stables, six footmen in his antechamber, and I know nothow many millions in his strongbox.”
“Ah!” said the abbé, in a peculiar tone, “he is happy.”
“Happy? Who can answer for that? Happiness or unhappiness is the secretknown but to one’s self and the walls—walls have ears but no tongue; butif a large fortune produces happiness, Danglars is happy.”
“And Fernand?”
“Fernand? Why, much the same story.”
“But how could a poor Catalan fisher-boy, without education orresources, make a fortune? I confess this staggers me.”
“And it has staggered everybody. There must have been in his life somestrange secret that no one knows.”
“But, then, by what visible steps has he attained this high fortune orhigh position?”
“Both, sir—he has both fortune and position—both.”
“This must be impossible!”
“It would seem so; but listen, and you will understand. Some days beforethe return of the emperor, Fernand was drafted. The Bourbons left himquietly enough at the Catalans, but Napoleon returned, a special levywas made, and Fernand was compelled to join. I went too; but as I wasolder than Fernand, and had just married my poor wife, I was only sentto the coast. Fernand was enrolled in the active army, went to thefrontier with his regiment, and was at the battle of Ligny. The nightafter that battle he was sentry at the door of a ge
neral who carried ona secret correspondence with the enemy. That same night the general wasto go over to the English. He proposed to Fernand to accompany him;Fernand agreed to do so, deserted his post, and followed the general.
“Fernand would have been court-martialed if Napoleon had remained on thethrone, but his action was rewarded by the Bourbons. He returned toFrance with the epaulet of sub-lieutenant, and as the protection of thegeneral, who is in the highest favor, was accorded to him, he was acaptain in 1823, during the Spanish war—that is to say, at the time whenDanglars made his early speculations. Fernand was a Spaniard, and beingsent to Spain to ascertain the feeling of his fellow-countrymen, foundDanglars there, got on very intimate terms with him, won over thesupport of the royalists at the capital and in the provinces, receivedpromises and made pledges on his own part, guided his regiment by pathsknown to himself alone through the mountain gorges which were held bythe royalists, and, in fact, rendered such services in this briefcampaign that, after the taking of Trocadero, he was made colonel, andreceived the title of count and the cross of an officer of the Legion ofHonor.”
“Destiny! destiny!” murmured the abbé.
“Yes, but listen: this was not all. The war with Spain being ended,Fernand’s career was checked by the long peace which seemed likely toendure throughout Europe. Greece only had risen against Turkey, and hadbegun her war of independence; all eyes were turned towards Athens—itwas the fashion to pity and support the Greeks. The French government,without protecting them openly, as you know, gave countenance tovolunteer assistance. Fernand sought and obtained leave to go and servein Greece, still having his name kept on the army roll.
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Some time after, it was stated that the Comte de Morcerf (this was thename he bore) had entered the service of Ali Pasha with the rank ofinstructor-general. Ali Pasha was killed, as you know, but before hedied he recompensed the services of Fernand by leaving him aconsiderable sum, with which he returned to France, when he was gazettedlieutenant-general.”
“So that now——?” inquired the abbé.
“So that now,” continued Caderousse, “he owns a magnificent house—No.27, Rue du Helder, Paris.”
The abbé opened his mouth, hesitated for a moment, then, making aneffort at self-control, he said, “And Mercédès—they tell me that she hasdisappeared?”
“Disappeared,” said Caderousse, “yes, as the sun disappears, to rise thenext day with still more splendor.”
“Has she made a fortune also?” inquired the abbé, with an ironicalsmile.
“Mercédès is at this moment one of the greatest ladies in Paris,”replied Caderousse.
“Go on,” said the abbé; “it seems as if I were listening to the story ofa dream. But I have seen things so extraordinary, that what you tell meseems less astonishing than it otherwise might.”
“Mercédès was at first in the deepest despair at the blow which deprivedher of Edmond. I have told you of her attempts to propitiate M. deVillefort, her devotion to the elder Dantès. In the midst of herdespair, a new affliction overtook her. This was the departure ofFernand—of Fernand, whose crime she did not know, and whom she regardedas her brother. Fernand went, and Mercédès remained alone.
“Three months passed and still she wept—no news of Edmond, no news ofFernand, no companionship save that of an old man who was dying withdespair. One evening, after a day of accustomed vigil at the angle oftwo roads leading to Marseilles from the Catalans, she returned to herhome more depressed than ever. Suddenly she heard a step she knew,turned anxiously around, the door opened, and Fernand, dressed in theuniform of a sub-lieutenant, stood before her.
“It was not the one she wished for most, but it seemed as if a part ofher past life had returned to her.
“Mercédès seized Fernand’s hands with a transport which he took forlove, but which was only joy at being no longer alone in the world, andseeing at last a friend, after long hours of solitary sorrow. And then,it must be confessed, Fernand had never been hated—he was only notprecisely loved. Another possessed all Mercédès’ heart; that other wasabsent, had disappeared, perhaps was dead. At this last thought Mercédèsburst into a flood of tears, and wrung her hands in agony; but thethought, which she had always repelled before when it was suggested toher by another, came now in full force upon her mind; and then, too, oldDantès incessantly said to her, ‘Our Edmond is dead; if he were not, hewould return to us.’
“The old man died, as I have told you; had he lived, Mercédès,perchance, had not become the wife of another, for he would have beenthere to reproach her infidelity. Fernand saw this, and when he learnedof the old man’s death he returned. He was now a lieutenant. At hisfirst coming he had not said a word of love to Mercédès; at the secondhe reminded her that he loved her.
“Mercédès begged for six months more in which to await and mourn forEdmond.”
“So that,” said the abbé, with a bitter smile, “that makes eighteenmonths in all. What more could the most devoted lover desire?” Then hemurmured the words of the English poet, “‘Frailty, thy name is woman.’”
“Six months afterwards,” continued Caderousse, “the marriage took placein the church of Accoules.”
“The very church in which she was to have married Edmond,” murmured thepriest; “there was only a change of bridegrooms.”
“Well, Mercédès was married,” proceeded Caderousse; “but although in theeyes of the world she appeared calm, she nearly fainted as she passed LaRéserve, where, eighteen months before, the betrothal had beencelebrated with him whom she might have known she still loved, had shelooked to the bottom of her heart. Fernand, more happy, but not more athis ease—for I saw at this time he was in constant dread of Edmond’sreturn—Fernand was very anxious to get his wife away, and to departhimself. There were too many unpleasant possibilities associated withthe Catalans, and eight days after the wedding they left Marseilles.”
“Did you ever see Mercédès again?” inquired 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?” said he.
“Yes,” replied Caderousse, “little Albert.”
“But, then, to be able to instruct her child,” continued the abbé, “shemust have received an education herself. I understood from Edmond thatshe was the daughter of a simple fisherman, beautiful but uneducated.”
“Oh,” replied Caderousse, “did he know so little of his lovelybetrothed? Mercédès might have been a queen, sir, if the crown were tobe placed on the heads of the loveliest and most intelligent. Fernand’sfortune was already waxing great, and she developed with his growingfortune. She learned drawing, music—everything. Besides, I believe,between ourselves, she did this in order to distract her mind, that shemight forget; and she only filled her head in order to alleviate theweight on her heart. But now her position in life is assured,” continuedCaderousse; “no doubt fortune and honors have comforted her; she isrich, a countess, and yet——”
Caderousse paused.
“And yet what?” asked the abbé.
“Yet, I am sure, she is not happy,” said Caderousse.
“What makes you believe this?”
“Why, when I found myself utterly destitute, I thought my old friendswould, perhaps, assist me. So I went to Danglars, who would not evenreceive me. I called on Fernand, who sent me a hundred francs by hisvalet-de-chambre.”
“Then you did not see either of them?”
“No, but Madame de Morcerf saw me.”
“How was that?”
“As I went away a purse fell at my feet—it contained five-and-twentylouis; I raised my head quickly, and saw Mercédès, who at once shut theblind.”
“And M. de Villefort?” asked the abbé.
“Oh, he never was a friend of mine, I did not know him, and I hadnothing to ask of him.”
“Do you not know what became of him, and the share he had
in Edmond’smisfortunes?”
“No; I only know that some time after Edmond’s arrest, he marriedMademoiselle de Saint-Méran, and soon after left Marseilles; no doubt hehas been as lucky as the rest; no doubt he is as rich as Danglars, ashigh in station as Fernand. I only, as you see, have remained poor,wretched, and forgotten.”
“You are mistaken, my friend,” replied the abbé; “God may seem sometimesto forget for a time, while his justice reposes, but there always comesa moment when he remembers—and behold—a proof!”
As he spoke, the abbé took the diamond from his pocket, and giving it toCaderousse, said, “Here, my friend, take this diamond, it is yours.”
“What, for me only?” cried Caderousse, “ah, sir, do not jest with me!”
“This diamond was to have been shared among his friends. Edmond had onefriend only, and thus it cannot be divided. Take the diamond, then, andsell it; it is worth fifty thousand francs, and I repeat my wish thatthis sum may suffice to release you from your wretchedness.”
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“Oh, sir,” said Caderousse, putting out one hand timidly, and with theother wiping away the perspiration which bedewed his brow,—“Oh, sir, donot make a jest of the happiness or despair of a man.”
“I know what happiness and what despair are, and I never make a jest ofsuch feelings. Take it, then, but in exchange——”
Caderousse, who touched the diamond, withdrew his hand.
The abbé smiled.
“In exchange,” he continued, “give me the red silk purse that M. Morrelleft on old Dantès’ chimney-piece, and which you tell me is still inyour hands.”
Caderousse, more and more astonished, went toward a large oakencupboard, opened it, and gave the abbé a long purse of faded red silk,round which were two copper runners that had once been gilt. The abbétook it, and in return gave Caderousse the diamond.
“Oh, you are a man of God, sir,” cried Caderousse; “for no one knew thatEdmond had given you this diamond, and you might have kept it.”
“Which,” said the abbé to himself, “you would have done.” The abbé rose,took his hat and gloves. “Well,” he said, “all you have told me isperfectly true, then, and I may believe it in every particular.”
“See, sir,” replied Caderousse, “in this corner is a crucifix in holywood—here on this shelf is my wife’s testament; open this book, and Iwill swear upon it with my hand on the crucifix. I will swear to you bymy soul’s salvation, my faith as a Christian, I have told everything toyou as it occurred, and as the recording angel will tell it to the earof God at the day of the last judgment!”
“’Tis well,” said the abbé, convinced by his manner and tone thatCaderousse spoke the truth. “’Tis well, and may this money profit you!Adieu; I go far from men who thus so bitterly injure each other.”
The abbé with difficulty got away from the enthusiastic thanks ofCaderousse, opened the door himself, got out and mounted his horse, oncemore saluted the innkeeper, who kept uttering his loud farewells, andthen returned by the road he had travelled in coming.
When Caderousse turned around, he saw behind him La Carconte, paler andtrembling more than ever.
“Is, then, all that I have heard really true?” she inquired.
“What? That he has given the diamond to us only?” inquired Caderousse,half bewildered with joy; “yes, nothing more true! See, here it is.”
The woman gazed at it a moment, and then said, in a gloomy voice,“Suppose it’s false?”
Caderousse started and turned pale.
“False!” he muttered. “False! Why should that man give me a falsediamond?”
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“To get your secret without paying for it, you blockhead!”
Caderousse remained for a moment aghast under the weight of such anidea.
“Oh!” he said, taking up his hat, which he placed on the redhandkerchief tied round his head, “we will soon find out.”
“In what way?”
“Why, the fair is on at Beaucaire, there are always jewellers from Paristhere, and I will show it to them. Look after the house, wife, and Ishall be back in two hours,” and Caderousse left the house in haste, andran rapidly in the direction opposite to that which the priest hadtaken.
“Fifty thousand francs!” muttered La Carconte when left alone; “it is alarge sum of money, but it is not a fortune.”
VOLUME TWO
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