The Count of Monte Cristo. Alexandre DumasЧитать онлайн книгу.
me a moment’s repose.”
“But did you not go upstairs and try to console the poor old man?” asked the abbé.
“Ah, sir!” replied Caderousse, “we cannot console those who will not be consoled, and he was one of these; besides, I know not why, but he seemed to dislike seeing me. One night, however, I heard his sobs, and I could not resist my desire to go up to him; but when I reached his door he 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 was more than piety, it was more than grief: and I, who am no canter and hate the Jesuits, said then to myself, ‘It is really well, and I am very glad that I have not any children, for if I were a father and felt such excessive grief as the old man does, and did not find in my memory or heart 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. One day, when, contrary to his custom, he had admitted Mercédès, and the poor girl, in spite of her own grief and despair, endeavoured to console him, he said to her:
“‘Be assured, my dear daughter, he is dead; and instead 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 one may be, after a time one leaves off seeing people who are in sorrow; they make one melancholy: and so at last, old Dantès was left all to himself. I only saw from time to time strangers go up to him and come down again with some bundle they tried to hide; but I guessed what these bundles were, and he sold by degrees what he had to pay for his subsistence.
“At length, the poor old 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, which was granted to him. I know this, because the landlord came into my apartment when he left his. For the three first days I heard him walking about as usual, but on the fourth I heard him no longer. I then resolved to go up to him at all risks. The door was closed, but I looked through the keyhole, and saw him 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 brought a doctor, and the doctor said it was an affection of the stomach, and ordered him a limited diet. I was there, too, and I never shall forget the old man’s smile at this prescription. From that time he opened his door; he had an excuse for not eating any more, as 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 even more anxious than before to have him taken to her own abode. This was M. Morrel’s wish also, who would fain have conveyed the old man against his consent; but the old man resisted and cried so, that they were actually frightened. Mercédès remained, therefore, by his bedside, and M. Morrel went away, making a sign to the Catalan that he had left his purse on the chimney-piece. But availing himself of the doctor’s order, the old man would not take any sustenance; at length (after nine days’ despair and 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 die blessing him.’”
The abbé rose from his chair, made two turns round the chamber, and pressed 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 as that we two are Christians.”
The abbé with a shaking hand seized a glass of water that was standing by 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, in a voice that was nearly menacing in its tone, “you have promised to tell me everything. Tell me, therefore, who are these men who have killed the son with despair, and the father with famine?”
“Two men jealous of him, sir; one from love, and the other ambition,—Fernand and Danglars.”
“Say, how was this jealousy manifested?”
“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 festival of the betrothing.”
“‘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 his writing might not be recognised, 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 an eye-witness.”
“True! true!” said Caderousse, in a choking voice, “I was there.”
“And did you not remonstrate against such infamy?” asked the abbé; “if not, you were an accomplice.”
“Sir,” replied Caderousse, “they had made me drink to such an excess that I nearly lost all perception. I had only an indistinct understanding of what was passing around me. I said all that a man in such a state could say; but they both assured me that it was a jest they were carrying on, and perfectly harmless.”
“Next day,—next day, sir, you must have seen plain enough what they had been doing, yet you said nothing, though you were present when Dantès was arrested.”
“Yes, sir, I was there, and very anxious to speak; but Danglars restrained me.”
“‘If he should really be guilty,’ said he, ‘and did really put into the isle of Elba; if he is really charged with a letter for the Bonapartist committee at Paris, and if they find this letter upon him, those who have supported him will pass for his accomplice.’”
“I confess I had my fears in the state in which politics then were, and I held my tongue; it was cowardly, I confess, but it was not criminal.”
“I comprehend—you allowed matters to take their course, that was all.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Caderousse, “and my remorse preys on me night and day. I often ask pardon of God, I swear to you, because this action, the only one with which I have seriously to reproach myself with in all my life, is no doubt the cause of my abject condition. I am expiating a moment of selfishness, and thus it is I always say to Carconte, when she complains, ‘Hold your tongue, woman, it is the will of God.’”
And Caderousse bowed his head with every sign of real repentance.
“Well, sir,” said the abbé, “you have spoken unreservedly, and thus