The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) (46 page)

‘And you think that he died…’

‘Of starvation, Monsieur, of starvation…’ said Caderousse. ‘I swear it, as surely as I am standing here.’

Convulsively the abbé seized the glass of water which was still half full, emptied it at a draught and sat down, red-eyed and pale-cheeked. ‘You must admit that was dreadful misfortune!’ he said hoarsely.

‘All the more so as God had nothing to do with it, and men alone were responsible.’

‘So tell me about these men,’ said the abbé; then he added, in a tone that was almost threatening: ‘but remember that you promised to tell me everything. Who were these men who killed the son with despair and the father with hunger?’

‘Two who were jealous of him, one for love, the other for ambition: Fernand and Danglars.’

‘So, how did this jealousy manifest itself?’

‘They denounced Edmond as a Bonapartist agent.’

‘Which of them denounced him – who was the real guilty party?’

‘Both of them, Monsieur. One wrote the letter, the other sent it.’

‘And where was the letter written?’

‘At La Réserve itself, the day before the wedding.’

‘That’s it, that’s it,’ the abbé muttered. ‘Oh, Faria, Faria! How well you could read the hearts of men and the ways of the world!’

‘I beg your pardon, Monsieur?’

‘Nothing; continue.’

‘It was Danglars who wrote the denunciation with his left hand, so that the writing would not be recognized, and it was Fernand who sent it.’

‘But…’ the abbé exclaimed suddenly, ‘you were there!’

‘Me?’ said Caderousse in astonishment. ‘Who told you that?’

The abbé saw that he had gone too far.

‘No one did,’ he said. ‘But, to know all these details, you must have witnessed the events.’

‘It’s true,’ Caderousse said, his voice choking. ‘I was there.’

‘And you did nothing to stop this outrage? Then you are an accomplice.’

‘Monsieur,’ said Caderousse, ‘they had both made me drink until I was almost senseless. Everything was blurred. I protested as much as a man can in such a state, but they assured me it was a joke they were playing and that nothing would come of it.’

‘The next day, Monsieur! You saw plainly that something did come of it, the next day, but still you said nothing. Yet you were there when he was arrested.’

‘Yes, I was there and I wanted to speak out, to tell everything, but Danglars stopped me. “Suppose that, by chance, he is guilty,” he said. “Suppose he really did stop off at Elba and has a letter to deliver to the Bonapartist committee in Paris: well then, if they find the letter on him, anyone who has spoken out in his favour will be suspected of complicity.”

‘I was afraid of getting mixed up in politics as they were then, I admit it. I said nothing, which was cowardly, I agree, but not a crime.’

‘I understand: you stood idly by, nothing more.’

‘Yes, Monsieur,’ said Caderousse, ‘and I regret it every day of my life. I often ask God to forgive me, I swear, all the more so since this deed, the only act I have ever committed that weighs seriously on my conscience, is no doubt the cause of my present adversity. I am paying for a moment of selfishness; as I always say to La Carconte whenever she complains: “Quiet, woman, it’s God’s will”.’

And Caderousse bowed his head with every sign of genuine remorse.

‘Very well, Monsieur,’ said the abbé. ‘You have been honest. Such a frank confession deserves forgiveness.’

‘Unfortunately,’ Caderousse said, ‘Edmond is dead and he never forgave me.’

‘But he did not know…’

‘Perhaps he does know now: they say that the dead know everything.’

There was a moment of silence. The abbé had risen and was walking around, deep in thought. Then he returned and sat down in his place.

‘You spoke to me two or three times of one Monsieur Morrel,’ he said. ‘Who is this man?’

‘The owner of the
Pharaon
, Dantès’ employer.’

‘What part did he play in this sad business?’

‘The part of an honest, brave and feeling man, Monsieur. He interceded twenty times on Edmond’s behalf. When the emperor returned, he wrote, begged and threatened – so much so that at the Second Restoration he was persecuted as a Bonapartist. Ten times, as I told you, he came to fetch old Dantès and take him to his own house; and the day before he died – or was it the day before that? – as I told you already, he left a purse on the mantelpiece which served to pay the old man’s debts and the expenses of his funeral; so the old fellow could at least die as he had lived, harming no one. I still have the purse, myself, a large one, in red crochet.’

‘Is Monsieur Morrel still alive?’

‘Yes,’ Caderousse replied.

‘In that case,’ said the abbé, ‘he must be a man blessed by God, he must be rich and happy… ?’

Caderousse smiled bitterly.

‘Yes, happy…’ he said, ‘as I am.’

‘Monsieur Morrel is unhappy?’ the abbé exclaimed.

‘He is on the brink of destitution, Monsieur; worse still, of dishonour.’

‘Why?’

‘That’s how it is,’ Caderousse continued. ‘After twenty-five years of work, after acquiring the most honourable place among the merchants of Marseille, Monsieur Morrel is utterly ruined. He has lost five vessels in the past two years, suffered three terrible bankruptcies and has nothing to hope for, except that same ship, the
Pharaon
that poor Dantès commanded, which is on its way from India with a cargo of cochineal and indigo. If that fails, as the others did, he is lost.’

‘Does this unfortunate man have a wife and children?’ asked the abbé.

‘Yes, he has a wife who has behaved like a saint through all this, and he has a daughter who was going to marry a man whom she loved, but now his family will not allow him to marry a ruined
woman. He also has a son, a lieutenant in the army. But, as you will appreciate, this only increases the poor man’s suffering, instead of easing it. If he was by himself, he would blow out his brains and that would be an end to it.’

‘This is appalling!’ the priest muttered.

‘That’s how God rewards virtue, Monsieur,’ said Caderousse. ‘Look at me: I have never done a wicked deed, apart from the one I told you about, and I live in poverty. After watching my poor wife die of fever, unable to do anything for her, I shall die of starvation myself, as old Dantès did, while Fernand and Danglars are rolling in gold.’

‘How did this come about?’

‘Because everything turned out well for them, while everything turned out ill for honest people like myself.’

‘What has happened to Danglars? He is the most guilty, the instigator of it all, is that not so?’

‘What happened to him? He left Marseille and, on Monsieur Morrel’s recommendation – because Morrel knew nothing of his crime – he went as accounts clerk to a Spanish banker. During the war in Spain he obtained a contract for supplying part of the French army and made a fortune. With this, he gambled on the exchange and tripled or quadrupled his fortune. He married his banker’s daughter and, when she died, married a widow, Madame de Nargonne, daughter of Monsieur Servieux, the present king’s chamberlain, who enjoys support from the highest quarter. He became a millionaire, and they made him a baron, so that he is now Baron Danglars, with a private residence in the Rue du Mont-Blanc, ten horses in his stable, six lackeys in his antechamber and I don’t know how many millions in his coffers.’

‘Ah!’ the abbé said, in an odd voice. ‘And is he happy?’

‘That, no one can tell. The secret of happiness and misery is between four walls; walls have ears, but not tongues. If you can be happy with a great fortune, then Danglars is happy.’

‘And Fernand?’

‘Fernand is another story, too.’

‘But how could a poor Catalan fisherman, with no possessions and no education, make his fortune? I have to admit that is beyond me.’

‘And beyond everyone else. There must be some strange secret in his life that no one knows about.’

‘But by what visible means did he climb to his great fortune, or his high position?’

‘Both, Monsieur! Both! He has both fortune and position.’

‘This is some wild yarn you are spinning.’

‘It may indeed seem so; but listen and you will understand.

‘A few days before Bonaparte’s return, Fernand was called up to the army. The Bourbons would have left him quietly in the Catalan village, but Napoleon came back and there was a general muster of troops, so Fernand had to go. I, too, had to leave, but as I was older than Fernand and had just married my poor wife, I was merely assigned to the coastal watch. Fernand was called up for active service, went to the frontier with his regiment and took part in the Battle of Ligny.

‘The night after the battle, he was on orderly duty at the door of the general, who was secretly in contact with the enemy. That very night, this general was planning to go over to the English. He invited Fernand to accompany him. Fernand agreed, abandoned his post and followed the general.

‘Something that would have had him court-martialled if Napoleon had stayed on the throne was an asset for him with the Bourbons. He came back to France with a sub-lieutenant’s stripes; and as he remained a protégé of the general, who was much in favour, he was made captain in 1823, at the time of the war in Spain
¹
– that is, at the very moment when Danglars was making his first investments. Fernand was a Spaniard, so he was sent to Madrid to report on the mood among his countrymen. He looked up Danglars, got in contact with him, promised his general support from the Royalists in the capital and the provinces, received promises in his turn, entered into agreements, guided his regiment by tracks that he alone knew through gorges under Royalist guard, and in short rendered such services in this short campaign that after the capture of the Trocadero
²
he was appointed colonel and awarded the cross of an officer of the Legion of Honour, together with the title of count.’

‘Fate, fate!’ muttered the abbé.

‘Yes, but listen: that is not all. When the war ended in Spain, Fernand’s career seemed to be threatened by the lengthy peace that was about to break out in Europe. Only Greece had risen against Turkey and begun its war for independence. All eyes were on Athens: it was fashionable to feel sympathy for the Greeks and to
support their cause. The French government, while not openly taking sides, as you know, turned a blind eye to some active supporters. Fernand asked for permission to go and serve in Greece, which he obtained, while still remaining subject to the discipline of the army.

‘Some time later it was learned that the Comte de Morcerf (that was his title) had entered the service of Ali Pasha
³
with the rank of general-instructor.

‘As you know, Ali Pasha was killed, but before his death he rewarded Fernand for his services by leaving him a considerable amount of money. With it, Fernand returned to France and his rank of lieutenant-general was confirmed.’

‘So, today… ?’ the abbé asked.

‘So today,’ Caderousse continued, ‘he has a magnificent private residence in Paris, at number twenty-seven, Rue du Helder.’

The abbé opened his mouth to say something but hesitated for a moment; then, making an effort to control his feelings, he asked: ‘And Mercédès? They tell me she disappeared?’

‘Disappeared?’ said Caderousse. ‘Yes, like the sun disappears, to rise more glorious the following day.’

‘So did she also make her fortune?’ the abbé asked, with an ironic smile.

‘As we speak, Mercédès is one of the greatest ladies in Paris,’ said Caderousse.

‘Carry on,’ said the abbé. ‘I feel as though I were listening to the account of some dream. But I have seen enough extraordinary things myself not to be so much amazed by what you are telling me.’

‘At first Mercédès was in despair at the cruel fate that had taken Edmond away from her. I have told you about her efforts to persuade Monsieur de Villefort and her devotion to Dantès’ father. In the midst of her despair, she suffered another blow, with Fernand’s departure: she knew nothing of Fernand’s guilt and considered him as her brother. With him gone, she was alone.

‘Three months went by, which she spent weeping. She had no news of Edmond and none of Fernand; nothing to turn to, in fact, but the spectacle of an old man dying of grief.

‘One evening, having spent the whole day as she was accustomed to, seated at the crossing of the two roads between Marseille and the Catalan village, she returned home feeling more desolate than
ever: neither her lover nor her friend was coming down one or the other of the roads and she had no news of either of them.

‘Suddenly, she thought she heard a familiar footstep. She turned around anxiously, the door opened and she saw Fernand appear in his sub-lieutenant’s uniform. This was not even half of her sorrow relieved, but at least part of her past life had returned.

‘She grasped Fernand’s hands with a warmth that he mistook for love, though it was only joy at no longer being alone in the world, at finally seeing a friend after long hours of sadness and solitude. Then, it is true, she had never hated Fernand; it was just that she had never loved him, that’s all. Her heart belonged to another, but this other was absent, he had vanished, perhaps he was dead… At this last thought, Mercédès burst into tears and wrung her hands in grief; but the notion, which she formerly used to reject when it was suggested to her by someone else, now came spontaneously to her mind. In any case, Old Dantès was constantly telling her: “Our Edmond is dead, because otherwise he would come back to us.”