The Count of Monte Cristo. Alexandre Dumas

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СКАЧАТЬ of this diamond.”

      So saying, the abbé again drew 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 voice almost hoarse with eager emotion, “come hither and behold this rich diamond!”

      “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 Dantès, to be sold, and the money divided among his father, Mercédès, his betrothed bride, Fernand, Danglars, and myself. The jewel is worth, at least, 50,000 francs.”

      “Oh, what a splendid diamond!” cried the astonished woman.

      “The fifth part of the produce of this stone belongs to us, then, does it not?” asked Caderousse, still devouring the glittering gem with his eyes.

      “It does,” replied the abbé; “with the addition of an equal division of that part intended for the elder Dantès, which I conceive myself at liberty to share equally with the four surviving persons.”

      “And wherefore 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 abbé 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 brows. As he saw the abbé 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 with each other.

      “There you see, wife,” said the former, “this splendid diamond might be all 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 frame shuddering with aguish chills, and her teeth rattling in her head, 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 armchair, into which she fell as though exhausted.

      “Well,” asked the abbé, 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 desire 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 trust, indeed, such will be the case, and that poor Edmond’s dying bequest will be given only to such as you shall be convinced are his faithful and attached friends,” replied Caderousse, his eyes sparkling and his face flushed with the hope of obtaining all himself.

      “Now, then, begin, if you please,” said the abbé, “I am all attention.”

      “Stop a minute,” answered Caderousse, “we might be interrupted in the most interesting part of my recital, 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 abbé had chosen his place for listening to the painful recital he expected Caderousse’s would prove; 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 clenched together, he prepared to give his whole attention to Caderousse, who seated himself on the little stool, exactly opposite to him.

      “Remember, I did not urge you to this,” 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.”

      He then commenced as follows.

       27 The Tale

      “FIRST,” SAID CADEROUSSE, “sir, 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, that you will never let any one know that it was I who supplied them, for the persons of whom I am about to talk are rich and powerful, and if they only laid the tips of their fingers on me, I should break to pieces like glass.”

      “Make yourself easy, my friend,” replied the abbé; “I am a priest, and confessions die in my breast; recollect our only desire is to carry out in a fitting manner the last wishes of our friend. Speak, then, without reserve as without hatred; tell the truth, the whole truth; I do 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 and not to man, and I retire to my convent, which I have only quitted to fulfil the last wishes of a dying man.”

      This last assurance seemed to give Caderousse courage.

      “Well, then, under these circumstances,” said Caderousse, “I will; indeed, I ought to undeceive you as to the friendship which poor Edmond believed so sincere and unquestionable.”

      “Begin with his father, if you please,” said the abbé; “Edmond talked to me 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 СКАЧАТЬ