This time he fell on his knees, murmuring a prayer that was intelligible to God alone. He soon became calmer and happier, and began to believe in his good fortune. He began to count his treasures; there were a thousand ingots of gold, each weighing two or three pounds; he piled up twenty-five thousand gold crowns, each one of which he valued at twenty-four francs of the present currency, and which bore the effigy of Pope Alexander VI or his predecessors: yet this did not constitute one-half of the contents of the compartment. He measured out ten handfuls of pearls, precious stones, and diamonds, many of which were mounted by the best gold-smiths of the period and were valuable on account of their remarkable workmanship in addition to their intrinsic worth.
This night was for Edmond one of those delicious yet terrible nights, of which this man of astounding emotions had already spent two or three in his lifetime.
Chapter XX
THE STRANGER
Day broke. Dantès had long been waiting for it with wide open eyes. He rose with the first streak of daylight, climbed the highest peak of the island, as on the previous evening, and explored his surroundings. As on the previous evening also silence reigned supreme.
Edmond descended, raised the stone, filled his pockets with precious stones, replaced the lid on the chest, covered it with earth which he carefully stamped down, and sprinkled some sand over it so as to make this spot look like the rest of the ground. Then he left the cave, replacing the stone after him, and effaced all traces of his steps for some distance round the grotto. He now longed with impatience for his companions’ return, for in truth he could not waste his time in Monte Cristo looking at his gold and diamonds like a dragon guarding a useless treasure. He must return into the world and take the rank, influence, and power in society bestowed by riches only, the first and greatest force at man’s disposal.
The smugglers returned on the sixth day. Dantès recognized the Jeune Amélie from a distance and dragged himself to the port. When his comrades landed, he assured them that he was better, though still suffering, and listened to an account of their adventures.
He displayed the most admirable self-possession; he did not even smile at the numeration of the gains he would have derived had he been able to leave the island. As the Jeune Amélie had only come to Monte Cristo to fetch him, he embarked the same evening and went with the skipper to Leghorn. Arrived at Leghorn, he sought out a Jew to whom he sold four of his smallest diamonds for five thousand francs each. The Jew might have wondered how it came about that a sailor was in possession of such valuable jewels, but he asked no questions and made a profit of one thousand francs on each one of them.
The next day Dantès bought a small, fully equipped bark for one of his comrades, on condition that he should set out at once for Marseilles for news of Mercédès and old Dantès and rejoin him at Monte Cristo. He accounted for his sudden wealth by saying that on his arrival at Leghorn he found that a very rich uncle had died, leaving him sole heir to the whole of his fortune. Dantès’ superior education made this story plausible, and no one doubted his word.
As the period of his engagement on board the Jeune Amélie had now expired, Dantès took leave of the captain, who tried in vain to retain him in his service, and of his comrades, giving each one of them a handsome present. He then set sail for Genoa.
Here he bought a small yacht. It had been built for an Englishman for forty thousand francs; Dantès offered sixty thousand on condition that it should be delivered to him at once. He ordered a secret cupboard containing three secret compartments to be made in the cabin at the head of his bunk. This was finished the next day, and two hours later a crowd of curious sightseers was speculating on the destination of a vessel which put out from Genoa with a crew of one man, who said he preferred to sail alone. His destination, of course, was the Isle of Monte Cristo, where he arrived at the end of the second day. His yacht was an excellent sailer and had done the distance in thirty-eight hours. Instead of landing at the customary landing-place, Dantès cast anchor in the little creek.
The island was deserted; no one seemed to have been on it since he left. He made straight for his treasure, and found everything just as he had left it. The next day he carried his enormous fortune to his yacht and locked it up in the three compartments of his secret cupboard.
He had to wait eight weary days before his comrade returned from Marseilles, which time he spent in sailing his yacht round the island. When his comrade arrived, he had a sad reply to each of the two questions put to him. His father was dead and Mercédès had disappeared.
Edmond heard these tidings with apparent calm, though he expressed a desire to be left alone and sprang on shore. Two hours later he reappeared and set sail for Marseilles. He had quite expected to hear of his father’s death, but what had become of Mercédès?
A glance at himself in a mirror at Leghorn had reassured him that he ran no risk of being recognized; besides, he had now at his disposal every means of disguising himself. One fine morning, therefore, he boldly entered the port of Marseilles and stopped opposite the spot where, on that memorable, fatal evening, he had set out for the Château d’If.
It was not without a tremor that he saw a gendarme accompanied by the quarantine officer come on board, but with the perfect self-command he had acquired, Dantès presented an English passport which he had bought at Leghorn, and, this permit being more respected in France than any other, he was allowed to land without let or hindrance. That same evening he stepped forth on to the Cannebière alone, unknown, as it were a stranger in a strange land.
Chapter XXI
THE PONT DU GARD INN
Such of my readers as have, like me, made a walking tour through the south of France, may perchance have noticed midway between the town of Beaucaire and the village of Bellegarde a small roadside inn, in front of which hung, creaking and flapping in the wind, an iron shield bearing a grotesque representation of the Pont du Gard.2
The little inn had been occupied for the last seven or eight years by no other than Dantès’ old acquaintance Gaspard Caderousse. He was standing, as was his wont, at his place of observation before the door, his eyes wandering listlessly from a small patch of grass, where some hens were scratching for food, to the deserted road leading from north to south, when suddenly he descried the dim outline of a man on horseback approaching from Bellegarde at that easy amble which betokens the best of understanding between horse and rider. The rider was a priest robed in black and wearing a three-cornered hat in spite of the scorching sun, which was then at its zenith.
Arrived at the door of the inn, he halted. It would have been difficult to say whether it was the horse that stopped the man or the man that stopped the horse. In any case the man dismounted, and, dragging the animal after him by the bridle, tied it to a dilapidated shutter.
Caderousse advanced, all bows and smiles.
“Are you not Monsieur Caderousse?” asked the priest in a strong Italian accent.
“Yes, monsieur,” replied the innkeeper. “That is my name. Gaspard Caderousse, at your service. Can I not offer you some refreshment, Monsieur l’Abbé?”
“Certainly, give me a bottle of your best wine and afterward, with your permission, we will resume our conversation.”
When mine host reappeared after a few minutes’ absence he found the abbé sitting on a stool with his elbows on the table; he placed a bottle of wine and a glass before him.
“Are we alone?” asked the abbé.
“Oh, yes, all alone or nearly so, for my wife doesn’t count as she is always ailing.”
“First of all I must convince myself that you are really he whom I seek. In the year eighteen-fourteen or fifteen did you know a sailor named Dantès?”
“Dantès? I should think I did! Poor Edmond! Why, he was one of my best friends,” exclaimed Caderousse. “What has become of poor Edmond, monsieur? Do you know him? Is he still living? Is he free? Is he happy?”
“He died a prisoner, more wretched and more miserable than any pri
soner lying in chains in the prison at Toulon.”
The deep red of Caderousse’s face gave way to a ghastly paleness. He turned aside, and the abbé saw him wipe away a tear with a corner of the handkerchief tied round his head.
“Poor fellow!” Caderousse murmured.
“You seem to have been very fond of this boy?”
“I was indeed,” answered Caderousse, “though I have it on my conscience that at one time I envied him his happiness. But I swear to you, Monsieur l’Abbé, I swear it on my honour, that since then I have deeply deplored his lot.”
There was a moment’s silence during which the abbé’s fixed gaze did not cease to examine the agitated features of the innkeeper.
“Did you know the poor lad?” continued Caderousse.
“I was called to his bedside to administer to him the last consolation of his religion. What is so very strange about it all,” the abbé continued, “is that on his death-bed, Dantès swore by the crucifix that he was entirely ignorant of the cause of his imprisonment. He besought me, therefore, to clear up the mystery of his misfortune, which he had never been able to explain himself and, if his memory had been sullied, to remove the tarnish from his name.”
The abbé’s eyes were fixed on Caderousse’s countenance and seemed to penetrate to his very soul.
“A rich Englishman,” continued the abbé, “his companion in misfortune for a time, but released at the second Restoration, owned a diamond of very great value. On leaving the prison he wished to give his companion a token of his gratitude for the kind and brotherly way he had nursed him through an illness, and gave him the diamond. When on his deathbed, Dantès said to me: ‘I had three good friends and a sweetheart, and I am sure they have deeply regretted my misfortune. One of these good friends was named Caderousse.’”
Caderousse could not repress a shudder.
“‘Another one,’” the abbé went on without appearing to notice Caderousse’s emotion, “‘was named Danglars: the third one,’ he said, ‘also loved me though he was my rival, and his name was Fernand; the name of my betrothed was . . .’ I do not remember the name of his betrothed.”
“Mercédès,” said Caderousse.
“Oh, yes, that was it,” replied the abbé with a repressed sigh. “Mercédès it was. ‘Go to Marseilles,’ Dantès said, ‘and sell this diamond. The money obtained for it divide into five parts and give an equal share to each of these good friends, the only beings on earth who have loved me.’”
“Why into five parts?” exclaimed Caderousse. “You only named four persons.”
“Because I hear that the fifth person is dead. The fifth share was for Dantès’ father.”
“Alas! it is only too true!” said Caderousse, deeply moved by the contending passions that were aroused in him. “The old man died less than a year after his son disappeared.”
“What did he die of ?”
“I believe the doctors called his disease gastric enteritis, but those who knew him say that he died of grief, and I, who practically saw him die, say that he died of . . .”
Caderousse hesitated.
“Died of what?” the priest asked anxiously.
“Why, of hunger . . .”
“Of hunger?” the abbé cried, jumping up. “Do you say of hunger? Why, the vilest animals are not allowed to starve. The dogs wandering about the streets find a compassionate hand to throw them a piece of bread, and a man, a Christian, has died of hunger amidst men who also call themselves Christians! Is it possible? No, it cannot be!”
“It is as I have said,” replied Caderousse.
“But,” continued the priest, “was the unhappy old man so completely forsaken by everyone that he died such a death?”
“It was not because Mercédès or Monsieur Morrel had forsaken him,” replied Caderousse. “The poor old man took a strong dislike to this same Fernand whom Dantès named as one of his friends,” he added with an ironical smile.
“Was he not a friend then?” asked the abbé.
“Can a man be a friend to him whose wife he covets? Dantès was so large-hearted that he called them all his friends. Poor Edmond!”
“Do you know in what way Fernand wronged Dantès?”
“No one better than I.”
“Will you not tell me?”
“What good would it do?”
“Then you would prefer me to give these men who, you say, are false and faithless friends, a reward intended for faithful friendship?”
“You are right,” said Caderousse. “Besides, what would poor Edmond’s legacy be to them now? No more than a drop of water in the mighty ocean!”
“How so, have they become rich and mighty?”
“Then you do not know their history?”
“No, tell it to me.”
Caderousse appeared to reflect for an instant. “No,” he said. “It would take too long.”
“You may please yourself, my friend,” said the abbé with an air of complete indifference. “I respect your scruples and admire your sentiment. We will let the matter drop. I will sell the diamond.”
So saying he took the diamond out of his pocket and let the light play on it right in front of Caderousse.
“Oh, what a magnificent diamond!” exclaimed the latter in a voice almost hoarse with emotion. “It must be worth at least fifty thousand francs.”
“Remember it is your wish that I divide the money amongst all four of you,” the abbé said calmly, replacing the diamond in the pocket of his cassock. “Now, be kind enough to give me the addresses of Edmond’s friends, so that I may carry out his last wishes.”
The perspiration stood out in big drops on Caderousse’s forehead; he saw the abbé rise and go toward the door as if he wished to ascertain that his horse was all right; afterward he returned and asked:
“Well, what have you decided to do?”
“To tell you everything,” was the innkeeper’s reply.
“I really believe that is the best thing you can do,” replied the priest, “not because I am anxious to know what you wish to conceal from me, but simply because it will be much better if you can help me to distribute the legacy as the testator would have desired. Begin; I am all attention.”
Caderousse went to the door and closed it, and, by way of greater precaution, shot the bolt. The priest chose a seat in a corner where he could listen at his ease and where he would have his back to the light while the narrator would have the light full on his face. There he sat, his head bent, his hands joined, or rather clenched, ready to listen with all attention. Caderousse took a stool and sat in front of him and began his story.
Chapter XXII
CADEROUSSE’S STORY
It is a very sad story, monsieur,” said Caderousse shaking his head. “I dare say you already know the beginning.”
“Yes, Edmond told me everything up to the moment of his arrest. He himself knew nothing except what touched him personally, for he never again set eyes on any of the five people I mentioned just now, nor did he ever hear their names mentioned.”
“Well, directly after Dantès arrest in the middle of his betrothal feast Monsieur Morrel left to obtain further information. The news he brought us was very sad. The old father returned to the house alone, and, with tears streaming from his eyes, folded up his wedding clothes. He spent the whole night pacing up and down his room and did not go to bed at all, for my room was beneath his, and I heard him walking about the whole night long. I must say, I did not sleep either; I was too upset at the old man’s grief, and every step he took caused me as much pain as if he had actually trampled on me.
“The next day Mercédès went to Marseilles to implore Monsieur de Villefort’s protection, but in vain. She paid the old man a visit at the same time. When she saw him so miserable and grief-stricken, she wanted to take him with her to her cottage to look after him, but the old man refused.
“‘No,’ said he, ‘I will not leave the house. My poor son loves me more than anyone else, and, if he is let out o
f prison, he will come to see me first of all. What would he say if I were not there to welcome him?’
“I was at the window listening to all this, for I was very anxious that Mercédès should persuade the old man to go with her; the sound of his footsteps overhead gave me not a second’s rest.”
“Didn’t you go to the old man yourself and try to console him?” the priest asked.
“Ah! monsieur! One can only console those who will let themselves be consoled, and he would not,” was Caderousse’s reply. “He became more and more lonely with each succeeding day. Mercédès and Monsieur Morrel often came to see him, but they always found his door shut, and, though I knew he was at home, he never opened it to them. One day, contrary to custom, he received Mercédès, and when the poor girl, herself desperate and hopeless, tried to comfort him, he said:
“‘Believe me, my daughter, he is dead. Instead of our waiting for him, it is he who awaits us. I am very glad that I am the elder, as I shall therefore be the first to see him again.’>
“However good and kind-hearted one may be, you can quite understand that one soon ceases to visit those that depress one, and thus it came about that poor old Dantès was left entirely alone. Now I only saw strangers go to his room from time to time, and these came out with suspicious-looking bundles: little by little he was selling all he possessed to eke out his miserable existence. At length he had nothing left but his few clothes.
“During the next three days I heard the old man pacing the floor as usual, but on the fourth day, there wasn’t a sound to be heard. I ventured to go up to him. The door was locked, but I peeped through the keyhole and saw him so pale and haggard-looking that I felt sure he must be very ill. I sent word to Monsieur Morrel and myself ran for Mercédès. Neither of them wasted any time in coming. Monsieur Morrel brought with him a doctor, who diagnosed gastric enteritis and put his patient on diet.