XXVII. Le récit.

XXVII

The Narrative.

“Before all else,” said Caderousse, “I must, sir, beg you to promise me one thing.”

“What?” asked the abbé.

“It is that never, if you make any use whatsoever of the details I am about to give you, shall it be known that these details come from me; for those of whom I am about to speak are rich and powerful, and if they were but to touch me with the tip of their finger, they would shatter me like glass.”

“Be at ease, my friend,” said the abbé, “I am a priest, and confessions die in my breast; remember that we have no other aim than to fulfill worthily the last wishes of our friend; speak then without reserve as without hatred; tell the truth, the whole truth: I do not know and shall probably never know the persons of whom you are about to speak; besides, I am Italian and not French; I belong to God and not to men, and I am going back to my convent, from which I came out only to fulfill the last wishes of a dying man.”

This positive promise seemed to give Caderousse a little assurance.

“Well, in that case,” said Caderousse, “I wish, I shall even say more, I ought to undeceive you as to those friendships which poor Edmond believed sincere and devoted.

“Let us begin with his father, if you please,” said the abbé. “Edmond spoke much to me of that old man, for whom he had a deep love.”

“The story is a sad one, sir,” said Caderousse, shaking his head; “you probably know the beginning of it.”

“Yes,” replied the abbé, “Edmond told me the things up to the moment when he was arrested, in a little tavern near Marseille.”

“At La Réserve! Oh my God, yes! I still see it as if I were there.”

“Was it not at the very meal of his betrothal?”

“Yes, and the meal which had had a gay beginning had a sad ending: a police commissioner followed by four fusiliers entered, and Dantès was arrested.”

“There is where what I know stops, sir,” said the priest; “Dantès himself knew nothing other than what was absolutely personal to him, for he never again saw any of the five persons I named to you, nor heard speak of them.

“Well, Dantès once arrested, M. Morrel ran to get information: it was very sad. The old man returned alone to his house, folded his wedding coat weeping, spent the whole day going and coming in his room, and at night did not lie down, for I lived below him and I heard him walk all night; myself, I must say, I did not sleep either, for the grief of that poor father pained me greatly, and each of his steps crushed my heart, as if he had really set his foot on my chest.

“The next day, Mercédès came to Marseille to implore the protection of M. de Villefort: she obtained nothing; but, at the same stroke, she went to visit the old man. When she saw him so gloomy and cast down, that he had passed the night without going to bed, that he had not eaten since the day before, she wished to take him away to care for him, but the old man would never consent.

“’No,’ said he, ‘I will not leave the house, for it is me that my poor child loves above all things, and if he comes out of prison, it is me he will come running to see first. What would he say if I were not there waiting for him?’

“I listened to all this from the square, for I should have liked Mercédès to persuade the old man to follow her; that resounding step every day over my head left me not a moment’s rest.

“’But did you not yourself go up near the old man to console him?’ asked the priest.

“’Ah! sir,’ replied Caderousse, ‘one consoles only those who wish to be consoled, and he did not wish to be. Besides, I know not why, but it seemed to me that he had a repugnance to see me. One night, however, that I heard his sobs, I could not resist and I went up; but when I arrived at the door, he was no longer sobbing, he was praying. What eloquent words and pitiable supplications he found, I could not tell you again, sir: it was more than piety, it was more than grief; so, I who am no bigot and who do not love the Jesuits, I said to myself that day: It is truly fortunate that I am alone, and that the Good God sent me no children, for if I were a father and felt a sorrow like that of the poor old man, not being able to find in my memory or in my heart all that he said to the Good God, I should go straight to throw myself into the sea so as not to suffer longer.’

“’Poor father!’ murmured the priest.

“Day by day, he lived more alone and more isolated: often M. Morrel and Mercédès came to see him, but his door was shut; and, though I was quite sure he was at home, he did not answer. One day that, against his habit, he had received Mercédès, and that the poor girl, in despair herself, tried to comfort him:

“’Believe me, my daughter,’ said he to her, ‘he is dead; and, instead of our awaiting him, it is he who awaits us: I am very happy, I am the oldest and who, consequently, shall see him again first.’

“However good one may be, you see, one soon ceases to see people who sadden one; old Dantès ended by remaining quite alone: I no longer saw unknown persons go up to him from time to time, who came down with some ill-concealed packet; I understood since what those packets were: he was little by little selling what he had to live. At last, the goodman came to the end of his poor rags; he owed three quarters: they threatened to put him out; he asked for eight days more, they were granted him. I learned this detail because the landlord came into my place on leaving his.

“During the first three days, I heard him walk as usual; but the fourth day, I heard nothing more. I ventured to go up: the door was shut; but through the keyhole I perceived him so pale and so wasted, that, judging him very ill, I had M. Morrel warned and ran to Mercédès. Both hastened to come. M. Morrel brought a doctor; the doctor recognized a gastro-enteritis and ordered a diet. I was there, sir, and I shall never forget the smile of the old man at that prescription.

“From that moment, he opened his door: he had an excuse for no longer eating; the doctor had ordered a diet.”

The abbé uttered a kind of groan.

“This story interests you, does it not, sir?” said Caderousse.

“Yes,” replied the abbé; “it is touching.”

“Mercédès returned; she found him so changed, that, as the first time, she wished to have him taken to her house. It was also M. Morrel’s advice, who wished to effect the removal by force; but the old man cried so much, that they grew afraid. Mercédès remained at the head of his bed. M. Morrel withdrew, making a sign to the Catalan that he left a purse on the mantelpiece. But, armed with the doctor’s prescription, the old man would take nothing. At last, after nine days of despair and abstinence, the old man expired, cursing those who had caused his misfortune and saying to Mercédès:

“’If you see my Edmond again, tell him I die blessing him.’

The abbé rose, made two turns in the room carrying a trembling hand to his dry throat.

“And you believe that he died....”

“Of hunger... sir, of hunger,” said Caderousse; “I warrant it as truly as we are here two Christians.”

The abbé, with a convulsive hand, seized the glass of water still half full, emptied it at a draught, and sat down again, his eyes red and his cheeks pale.

“Confess that that is a great misfortune!” said he in a hoarse voice.

“The greater, sir, that God is in no way responsible for it, and that men alone are the cause.”

“Let us pass then to these men,” said the abbé; “but think of it,” he continued in an almost threatening air, “you engaged to tell me all: come, who are these men who caused the son to die of despair, and the father of hunger?”

“Two men jealous of him, sir, one through love, the other through ambition: Fernand and Danglars.”

“And in what way did this jealousy manifest itself, tell me?”

“They denounced Edmond as a Bonapartist agent.”

“But which of the two denounced him, which of the two was the true culprit?”

“Both, sir, one wrote the letter, the other posted it.”

“And where was this letter written?”

“At La Réserve itself, the eve of the wedding.”

“That is it, that is it,” murmured the abbé. “Oh Faria! Faria! how well you knew men and things!”

“What do you say, sir?” asked Caderousse.

“Nothing,” resumed the priest; “continue.”

“It was Danglars who wrote the denunciation with his left hand so that his writing should not be recognized, and Fernand who sent it.”

“But,” suddenly cried the abbé, “you were there, you!”

“I!” said Caderousse astonished; “who told you I was there?”

The abbé saw that he had gone too far.

“No one,” said he; “but to be so well acquainted with all these details, you must have been a witness of them.”

“That is true,” said Caderousse in a stifled voice; “I was there.”

“And you did not oppose this infamy?” said the abbé; “then you are their accomplice.”

“Sir,” said Caderousse, “they had made me drink so much that I had almost lost my reason. I saw only through a cloud. I said all that a man in that state can say; but they both answered me that it was a joke they had wished to play, and that this joke would have no consequences.

“The next day, sir, the next day, you saw well that it had; however you said nothing; you were there, however, when he was arrested.”

“Yes, sir, I was there and I wished to speak, I wished to tell all, but Danglars held me back.

“’And if he is guilty, by chance,’ said he to me, ‘if he really put in at the Isle of Elba, if he is really charged with a letter for the Bonapartist committee in Paris, if this letter is found on him, those who shall have supported him will pass for his accomplices.’

“I was afraid of politics such as it was then practiced, I confess; I held my tongue, it was cowardice, I grant, but it was not a crime.”

“I understand; you let it happen, that is all.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Caderousse; “and that is my remorse of night and day. I often ask God pardon for it, I swear to you, the more so that this action, the only one I have seriously to reproach myself with in the whole course of my life, is doubtless the cause of my adversities. I expiate an instant of selfishness; also, it is what I always say to La Carconte when she complains: ‘Hold your tongue, woman, it is God who wills it thus.’”

And Caderousse bowed his head with all the signs of true repentance.

“Well, sir,” said the abbé, “you have spoken with frankness; to accuse oneself thus is to deserve pardon.”

“Unfortunately,” said Caderousse, “Edmond is dead and has not pardoned me, he!”

“He was ignorant,” said the abbé....

“But he knows now, perhaps,” resumed Caderousse; “they say the dead know all.”

There was a moment of silence: the abbé had risen and was walking pensively; he came back to his place and sat down again.

“You have already named to me two or three times a certain M. Morrel,” said he. “What was that man?”

“He was the shipowner of the _Pharaon_, Dantès’s employer.”

“And what part did this man play in all this sad affair?” asked the abbé.

“The part of an honest, courageous and affectionate man, sir. Twenty times he interceded for Edmond; when the Emperor returned, he wrote, prayed, threatened, so well that at the second Restoration he was much persecuted as a Bonapartist. Ten times, as I told you, he had come to old Dantès to take him to his house, and the eve or the day after his death, I told you again, he had left on the mantelpiece a purse with which one paid the old man’s debts and provided for his burial; so that the poor old man could at least die as he had lived, without wronging anyone. It is still I who have the purse, a large purse of red netting.”

“And,” asked the abbé, “does this M. Morrel still live?”

“Yes,” said Caderousse.

“In that case,” resumed the abbé, “he must be a man blessed of God, he must be rich... happy?...”

Caderousse smiled bitterly.

“Yes, happy, like me,” said he.

“M. Morrel unhappy!” cried the abbé.

“He is near misery, sir, and more, he is near dishonor.”

“How so?”

“Yes,” resumed Caderousse, “it is thus; after twenty-five years of labor, after having acquired the most honorable place in the commerce of Marseille, M. Morrel is ruined from top to bottom. He has lost five vessels in two years, has sustained three frightful bankruptcies, and has no hope but in this same _Pharaon_ that poor Dantès commanded, and which is to return from the Indies with a cargo of cochineal and indigo. If that vessel fails like the others, he is lost.”

“And,” said the abbé, “has he a wife, children, the unhappy man?”

“Yes, he has a wife who, in all this, conducts herself like a saint; he has a daughter who was about to marry a man she loved, and whose family no longer wishes to let him marry a ruined girl; he has a son finally, lieutenant in the army; but, you understand well, all this doubles his grief instead of softening it, to this poor dear man. If he were alone, he would blow his brains out and all would be said.”

“That is frightful!” murmured the priest.

“That is how God rewards virtue, sir,” said Caderousse. “See here, I who never did a bad action apart from what I told you, I, I am in misery; I, after having seen my poor wife die of fever, without being able to do anything for her, I shall die of hunger like old Dantès died, while Fernand and Danglars roll in gold.”

“And how so?”

“Because all turned out well for them, while for honest folks all turns out ill.”

“What has become of Danglars? the most guilty, is he not, the instigator?”

“What has become of him? He left Marseille; he entered, on the recommendation of M. Morrel, who was ignorant of his crime, as a clerk in the house of a Spanish banker; at the time of the war in Spain he undertook a share in the supplies of the French army and made a fortune; then, with this first money he speculated in funds, and tripled, quadrupled his capital, and, being himself a widower of the banker’s daughter, he married a widow, Mme de Nargonne, daughter of M. Servieux, chamberlain of the present king, and who enjoys the greatest favor. He had made himself a millionaire, they made him a baron; so that he is Baron Danglars now, that he has a hotel in the rue du Mont-Blanc, ten horses in his stables, six lackeys in his antechamber, and I know not how many millions in his coffers.”

“Ah!” made the abbé with a singular accent; “and he is happy?”

“Ah! happy, who can say that? Misfortune or happiness, that is the secret of walls; walls have ears, but they have no tongue; if one is happy with a great fortune, Danglars is happy.”

“And Fernand?”

“Fernand, that is quite another thing yet.”

“But how could a poor Catalan fisherman, without resources, without education, make a fortune? That passes me, I confess to you.”

“And that passes everyone also; there must be in his life some strange secret that no one knows.”

“But finally by what visible steps has he climbed to this high fortune or to this high position?”

“To both, sir, to both! he has fortune and position together.”

“That is a tale you are telling me there.”

“The fact is that the thing has well the air of it; but listen, and you are going to understand.

“Fernand, a few days before the return, had fallen to the conscription. The Bourbons left him quite quiet at the Catalans, but Napoleon returned, an extraordinary levy was decreed, and Fernand was forced to depart. I too departed; but as I was older than Fernand and had just married my poor wife, I was sent only to the coasts.

“Fernand, he, was enrolled in the active troops, gained the frontier with his regiment, and was present at the battle of Ligny.

“The night which followed the battle, he was on sentry at the door of the general who had secret relations with the enemy. That very night the general was to rejoin the English. He proposed to Fernand to accompany him; Fernand accepted, quit his post and followed the general.

“What would have brought Fernand before a court-martial if Napoleon had remained on the throne served him as recommendation near the Bourbons. He re-entered France with the epaulette of sub-lieutenant; and as the protection of the general, who is in high favor, did not abandon him, he was captain in 1823, at the time of the war in Spain, that is to say at the very moment when Danglars was risking his first speculations. Fernand was a Spaniard, he was sent to Madrid to study there the spirit of his countrymen; he found Danglars again there, joined with him, promised his general support among the royalists of the capital and of the provinces, received promises, took on his side engagements, guided his regiment by paths known to him alone into gorges guarded by royalists, and finally rendered in this short campaign such services, that after the taking of the Trocadéro he was named colonel and received the cross of officer of the Legion of Honor with the title of count.

“Destiny! destiny!” murmured the abbé.

“Yes, but listen, that is not all. The war in Spain ended, the career of Fernand found itself compromised by the long peace which promised to reign in Europe. Greece alone was risen against Turkey, and had just begun the war of its independence; all eyes were turned toward Athens: it was the fashion to pity and support the Greeks. The French government, without protecting them openly, as you know, tolerated partial migrations. Fernand solicited and obtained permission to go serve in Greece, remaining nevertheless always on the army rolls.

“Some time after, it was learned that the Count de Morcerf, which was the name he bore, had entered the service of Ali-Pacha with the rank of general instructor.

“Ali-Pacha was killed, as you know; but before dying he rewarded the services of Fernand by leaving him a considerable sum with which Fernand returned to France, where his rank of lieutenant-general was confirmed to him.

“So that today?...” asked the abbé.

“So that today,” pursued Caderousse, “he possesses a magnificent hotel in Paris, rue du Helder, No. 27.”

The abbé opened his mouth, remained a moment like a man who hesitates, but making an effort upon himself:

“And Mercédès,” said he, “I was assured that she had disappeared?”

“Disappeared,” said Caderousse, “yes, as the sun disappears to rise the next day more brilliant.”

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

“Mercédès is at this hour one of the greatest ladies of Paris,” said Caderousse.

“Continue,” said the abbé, “it seems to me that I am listening to the narrative of a dream. But I myself have seen things so extraordinary, that those you tell me astonish me less.”

“Mercédès was at first in despair at the blow which took Edmond from her. I told you of her instances with M. de Villefort and her devotion to the father of Dantès. In the midst of her despair a new grief came to strike her, it was the departure of Fernand, of Fernand whose crime she ignored, and whom she regarded as her brother.

“Fernand departed, Mercédès remained alone.

“Three months passed for her in tears: no news of Edmond, no news of Fernand; nothing before her eyes but an old man who was going to die of despair.

“One evening, after having remained all day seated, as was her habit, at the angle of the two roads which lead from Marseille to the Catalans, she returned home more cast down than she had yet been: neither her lover nor her friend returned by one or the other of those two roads, and she had no news of either the one or the other.

“Suddenly it seemed to her that she heard a known step; she turned anxiously, the door opened, she saw appear Fernand with his sub-lieutenant’s uniform.

“It was not half of what she wept for, but it was a portion of her past life which came back to her.

“Mercédès seized the hands of Fernand with a transport that he took for love, and which was only the joy of no longer being alone in the world and of seeing again at last a friend, after long hours of solitary sadness. And then, it must be said, Fernand had never been hated, he was not loved, that is all; another held all the heart of Mercédès, that other was absent... had disappeared... was dead perhaps. At this last idea, Mercédès burst into sobs and wrung her arms with pain; but this idea, which she formerly repulsed when it was suggested to her by another, now came back to her mind of itself; besides, on his side, old Dantès never ceased to tell her: ‘Our Edmond is dead, for if he were not dead, he would come back to us.’

“The old man died, as I told you: if he had lived, perhaps Mercédès would never have become another’s wife; for he would have been there to reproach her with her infidelity. Fernand understood that. When he knew of the old man’s death, he came back. This time, he was a lieutenant. On the first voyage, he had not said a word of love to Mercédès; on the second, he reminded her that he loved her.

“Mercédès asked him six months more to wait and weep for Edmond.

“After all,” said the abbé with a bitter smile, “that made eighteen months in all. What can the most adored lover ask more?”

Then he murmured the words of the English poet: _Frailty, thy name is woman!_

“Six months after,” resumed Caderousse, “the marriage took place at the church of the Accoules.

“It was the same church where she was to have married Edmond,” murmured the priest; “there was only the betrothed changed, that is all.”

“Mercédès then married,” continued Caderousse; “but, though in the eyes of all she appeared calm, she nevertheless did not fail to faint on passing before La Réserve, where eighteen months before had been celebrated her betrothal with him whom she would have seen that she still loved, if she had dared look to the bottom of her heart.

“Fernand, happier, but not more tranquil, for I saw him at that time, and he feared unceasingly the return of Edmond, Fernand occupied himself at once with removing his wife from the country and exiling himself; there was at once too much danger and too many memories in remaining at the Catalans. A week after the wedding, they departed.

“And did you see Mercédès again?” asked the priest.

“Yes, at the time of the war in Spain, at Perpignan where Fernand had left her; she was then bringing up her son.”

The abbé started. “Her son?” said he.

“Yes,” replied Caderousse, “little Albert.”

“But to instruct this son,” continued the abbé, “she had then received education herself? It seemed to me I had heard Edmond say that she was the daughter of a simple fisherman, beautiful, but untaught.”

“Oh!” said Caderousse, “did he then know his own betrothed so little! Mercédès could have become a queen, sir, if the crown were to be set only on the most beautiful and most intelligent heads. Her fortune was already growing, and she grew with her fortune. She learned drawing, she learned music, she learned everything. Besides, I believe, between us, that she did all that only to distract herself, to forget, and that she put so many things in her head only to combat what she had in her heart. But now all must be told,” continued Caderousse; “fortune and honors have consoled her doubtless. She is rich, she is countess, and yet...”

Caderousse stopped.

“Yet what?” asked the abbé.

“Yet, I am sure that she is not happy,” said Caderousse.

“And who makes you believe that?”

“Well, when I found myself too unhappy myself, I thought that my old friends would help me in something. I presented myself at Danglars’s, who did not even receive me. I went to Fernand’s, who had a hundred francs given me by his valet de chambre.

“So you saw neither the one nor the other?”

“No; but Mme de Morcerf saw me.”

“How so?”

“When I went out, a purse fell at my feet, it contained twenty-five louis: I raised my head quickly and I saw Mercédès who was closing the shutter.”

“And M. de Villefort?” asked the abbé.

“Oh! he had not been my friend; I did not know him; him, I had nothing to ask of him.”

“But do you not know what has become of him, and the part he took in Edmond’s misfortune?”

“No, I know only that, some time after having him arrested, he married Mlle de Saint-Méran, and soon left Marseille. Without doubt that happiness smiled on him as on the others, without doubt that he is rich like Danglars, considered like Fernand; I alone, you see, have remained poor, miserable and forgotten of God.”

“You are mistaken, my friend,” said the abbé; “God may sometimes seem to forget, when his justice rests; but there always comes a moment when he remembers, and here is the proof.”

At these words, the abbé drew the diamond from his pocket, and presenting it to Caderousse:

“Here, my friend,” said he to him, “take this diamond, for it is yours.”

“How, to me alone!” cried Caderousse; “ah! sir, are you not jesting?”

“This diamond was to be shared among his friends: Edmond had but one single friend, the sharing then becomes useless. Take this diamond and sell it; it is worth fifty thousand francs, I repeat to you, of this sum, I hope, enough will suffice to draw you out of misery.”

“Oh! sir,” said Caderousse, advancing timidly a hand and wiping with the other the sweat which pearled on his brow; “oh! sir, do not make a jest of the happiness or the despair of a man!”

“I know what happiness is and what despair is, and I shall never play willingly with feelings. Take it then, but in exchange...”

Caderousse, who was already touching the diamond, withdrew his hand.

The abbé smiled.

“In exchange,” continued he, “give me that red silk purse which M. Morrel had left on old Dantès’s mantelpiece, and which, you told me, is still between your hands.”

Caderousse, more and more astonished, went toward a large oak wardrobe, opened it and gave the abbé a long purse, of faded red silk, and around which slipped two rings formerly gilt copper.

The abbé took it, and in its place gave the diamond to Caderousse.

“Oh! you are a man of God, sir!” cried Caderousse, “for in truth no one knew that Edmond had given you this diamond and you could have kept it.”

“Good,” said the abbé to himself; “you would have done it, it appears, you.”

The abbé rose, took his hat and gloves.

“Ah there,” said he, “all that you have told me is quite true, is it not, and I may believe it in every point?”

“See here, sir abbé,” said Caderousse, “here in the corner of this wall is a blessed wooden Christ; here on this buffet is my wife’s book of gospels: open this book, and I will swear to you on it, hand extended toward the Christ, I will swear to you on the salvation of my soul, on my faith as a Christian, that I have told you all things as they passed, and as the angel of men will say it to the ear of God on the day of the last judgment!”

“That is well,” said the abbé, convinced by that accent that Caderousse spoke the truth; “that is well; may this money profit you! Adieu, I return far from men who do one another so much harm.”

And the abbé, freeing himself with great difficulty from the enthusiastic embraces of Caderousse, lifted himself the bar of the door, went out, remounted his horse, saluted for the last time the innkeeper who was dissolving in noisy farewells, and departed, following the same direction he had already followed in coming.

When Caderousse turned around, he saw behind him La Carconte paler and more trembling than ever.

“Is it quite true, what I heard?” said she.

“What? that he was giving us the diamond for us alone?” said Caderousse, almost mad with joy.

“Yes.”

“Nothing more true, for there it is.”

The woman looked at him a moment; then, in a hollow voice:

“And if it were false?” said she.

Caderousse grew pale and staggered.

“False,” murmured he, “false... and why would that man have given me a false diamond?”

“To have your secret without paying for it, imbecile!”

Caderousse remained a moment stunned under the weight of this supposition.

“Oh!” said he after a moment, and taking his hat which he placed on the red handkerchief tied around his head, “we are going to know well.”

“And how so?”

“It is the fair at Beaucaire; there are jewelers from Paris: I am going to go show it to them. You, keep the house, wife; in two hours I shall be back.”

And Caderousse sprang out of the house, and took at a run the road opposite to that which the stranger had just taken.

“Fifty thousand francs!” murmured La Carconte, left alone; “that is money... but it is not a fortune.”

“Stories of the world, in your language.”