The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) (47 page)

‘The old man died, as I told you. If he had lived, then perhaps Mercédès would never have married another, because he would have been there to reproach her with her infidelity. Fernand knew that. When he learned of the old man’s death, he came back. By this time he was a lieutenant. On his earlier visit he had not said a word about love to Mercédès, but now he reminded her that he loved her.

‘Mercédès asked him for six more months, so that she could wait for Edmond and mourn him.’

‘In effect,’ the abbé said with a bitter smile, ‘that made eighteen months in all. What more could any lover ask of his beloved?’ And he muttered the English poet’s words: ‘Frailty, thy name is woman.’
⁴

‘Six months later,’ Caderousse went on, ‘the wedding took place at the Eglise des Accoules.’

‘The same church as the one in which she was to marry Edmond,’ the priest murmured. ‘Only the bridegroom was different.’

‘So Mercédès married,’ Caderousse continued. ‘She appeared to everyone calm but, even so, nearly fainted as she walked past La Réserve where, eighteen months earlier, she had celebrated her betrothal to the man whom she would have recognized that she still loved if she had dared search the bottom of her heart.

‘Fernand was happier, but no more at ease, for I saw him at that time and he was constantly afraid that Edmond would return. He
immediately set about taking his wife and himself abroad: there were too many dangers and too many memories for him to remain in Les Catalans.

‘A week after the wedding, they left.’

‘And did you see Mercédès again?’ asked the priest.

‘Yes, at the time of the war in Spain, in Perpignan, where Fernand had left her. She was occupied in those days in educating her son.’

The abbé shuddered and asked: ‘Her son?’

‘Yes,’ Caderousse replied. ‘Little Albert.’

‘But if she was educating this child,’ said the abbé, ‘did she have any education herself? I thought that Edmond told me she was a simple fisherman’s daughter, beautiful but untutored.’

‘Huh!’ said Caderousse. ‘Did he know so little of his own fiancée? Mercédès could have been queen, Monsieur, if the crown was only reserved for the most lovely and most intelligent heads. Her fortune was already growing and she grew with it. She learned to draw, she studied music, she learned everything. In any case, between ourselves, I think she only did all this to take her mind off it, to forget: she put all those things into her head to crush what she had in her heart. But now we must tell the truth,’ he went on. ‘No doubt her wealth and honours consoled her. She is rich, she is a countess, and yet…’

He paused.

‘And yet… ?’ said the abbé.

‘And yet I am sure that she is not happy,’ said Caderousse.

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Well, when I fell on misfortune myself, I thought that my former friends might help me. I called on Danglars, who would not even receive me. I went to Fernand, and he sent his valet to give me a hundred francs.’

‘So you did not see either of them?’

‘No, but Madame de Morcerf did see me.’

‘How was that?’

‘As I was leaving, a purse fell at my feet. There were twenty-five
louis
in it. I looked up quickly and saw Mercédès closing the shutter.’

‘And Monsieur de Villefort?’ asked the abbé.

‘Oh, he was never my friend, I didn’t know him. I had no reason to ask him for help.’

‘But do you know what became of him, and what part he played in Edmond’s misfortune?’

‘No. All I know is that, some time after having him arrested, he married Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran and shortly afterwards left Marseille. No doubt fortune smiled on him as it did on the others; no doubt he is as rich as Danglars and as highly thought of as Fernand. Only I have remained poor, as you see, destitute and forgotten by God.’

‘You are wrong there, my friend,’ said the abbé. ‘God may sometimes appear to forget, when his justice is resting; but the time always comes when he remembers, and here is the proof.’

At this, he took the diamond from his pocket and gave it to Caderousse, saying: ‘Take this, my friend. Take this diamond, it is yours.’

‘What! All mine!’ Caderousse exclaimed. ‘Ah, Monsieur – you are not teasing me, surely?’

‘This diamond was to be divided among his friends. Edmond had only one friend, so there is no need to divide it. Take the jewel and sell it. It is worth fifty thousand francs, as I told you, and I hope that this sum will be enough to rescue you from poverty.’

‘Monsieur,’ Caderousse said, nervously holding out one hand, while the other wiped the sweat that was beading on his brow, ‘Oh, Monsieur, do not jest with a man’s happiness and despair!’

‘I know what happiness is, and what is despair, and I never jest with feelings. Take it, but in return…’

Caderousse’s hand had already touched the diamond, but he drew it back.

The abbé smiled. ‘In return,’ he continued, ‘give me that red silk purse which Monsieur Morrel left on old Dantès’ mantelpiece, which you told me was still in your possession.’

Increasingly astonished, Caderousse went over to a large oak cupboard, opened it and gave the abbé a long purse of faded red silk, bound with two copper rings that had once been gilded. The abbé took it and in exchange gave Caderousse the diamond.

‘You are a man of God, Monsieur!’ cried Caderousse. ‘Because no one knew that Edmond had given you this diamond and you could have kept it.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ the abbé murmured to himself. ‘And likely enough that is what you would have done yourself.’

He got up and took his hat and gloves.

‘Everything that you told me is quite true, isn’t it? I can believe every word?’

‘Look here, Monsieur l’Abbé,’ said Caderousse. ‘Here in the corner of this wall is a crucifix of consecrated wood; here, on this sideboard, is my wife’s New Testament. Open it and I will swear to you on it, with my hand extended towards the crucifix: I will swear by my immortal soul, by my Christian faith, that I have told you everything just as it was and as the recording angel will whisper it into God’s ear on the Day of Judgement!’

‘Very good,’ said the abbé, convinced by his tone that Caderousse was telling the truth. ‘Very good. Let the money benefit you. Farewell, I am going to withdraw far from the haunts of men who do so much ill to one another.’

Escaping with difficulty from Caderousse’s expressions of thanks, he went over and himself drew back the bolt on the door, went out, remounted his horse, waved for the last time to the innkeeper, who was pouring out incoherent farewells, and set off in the direction from which he had come.

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

‘Is it true, what I heard?’ she asked.

‘What? That he has given us the diamond for ourselves alone?’ said Caderousse, almost mad with joy.

‘Yes.’

‘Nothing could be truer. Here it is.’

The woman looked at it for a moment, then muttered: ‘Suppose it is a fake?’

Caderousse went pale and swayed on his feet.

‘A fake…’ he mumbled. ‘A fake? Why would this man give me a fake diamond?’

‘To learn your secrets without paying for them, idiot!’

For a time Caderousse was stunned by the awfulness of this possibility. Then he said: ‘Ah, we shall soon know.’ And he took his hat and placed it on the red handkerchief knotted around his head.

‘How?’

‘The fair is at Beaucaire; there are jewellers from Paris there. I’ll show them the diamond. Look after the house, woman. I’ll be back in two hours.’ And he ran out of the house, taking the opposite road from the one down which the stranger had just ridden.

‘Fifty thousand francs!’ murmured La Carconte, when she was alone. ‘That is a lot of money… but it’s not a fortune.’

The day after the one on which the scene we have just described took place on the road between Bellegarde and Beaucaire, a man of between thirty and thirty-two years of age, dressed in a cornflower-blue frock-coat, nankeen trousers and a white waistcoat, whose manner and accent both proclaimed him to be British, presented himself at the house of the mayor of Marseille.

‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘I am the head clerk of the House of Thomson and French, of Rome. For the past ten years we have had dealings with Morrel and Son of Marseille. We have some hundred thousand francs invested in the business, and we are somewhat uneasy, since the company is said to be on the brink of ruin. I have therefore arrived directly from Rome to ask you for information about its affairs.’

‘I do indeed know, Monsieur,’ the mayor replied, ‘that for the past four or five years Monsieur Morrel seems to have been dogged by misfortune. He lost four or five ships in succession and suffered from three or four bankruptcies. But, even though I myself am his creditor for around ten thousand francs, it is not appropriate for me to give you any information about his financial affairs. Ask me, as mayor, what I think of Monsieur Morrel and I shall tell you that he is a man who is honest to the point of inflexibility and that he has up to now fulfilled all his responsibilities with the utmost nicety. That is all I can tell you, Monsieur. If you wish to know anything further, you must ask Monsieur de Boville, inspector of prisons, residing at number fifteen, Rue de Noailles. I believe he has two hundred thousand francs invested in Monsieur Morrel’s firm and, if there is really anything to be feared, as the amount is far greater than mine, you will probably find him better informed than I am about the matter.’

The Englishman appeared to appreciate the delicacy of this reply. He bowed and left, making his way towards the street in question with that stride which is peculiar to the natives of Great Britain.

M. de Boville was in his study. Seeing him, the Englishman started, as if with surprise, suggesting that this was not the first time they had met. As for M. de Boville, he was so desperate that
it was obvious that his mind, entirely taken up with its immediate concerns, had no room left for either his memory or his imagination to wander back into the past.

The Englishman, with the phlegm characteristic of his race, asked him more or less the same question and in the same terms as he had just put to the mayor of Marseille.

‘Alas, Monsieur!’ M. de Boville exclaimed. ‘Your fears are unfortunately quite justified and you see before you a desperate man. I had two hundred thousand francs invested in the house of Morrel: that money was my daughter’s dowry; she was to be married in a fortnight. It was to be reimbursed, the first hundred thousand on the fifteenth of this month, the remainder on the fifteenth of next month. I advised Monsieur Morrel that I wished to have the money paid in due time; and now he has just been here, Monsieur, barely half an hour ago, to tell me that if his ship the
Pharaon
does not return between now and the fifteenth, he will be unable to reimburse me.’

‘But this sounds very like procrastination,’ said the Englishman.

‘Why not rather say that it sounds like bankruptcy!’ M. de Boville cried in despair.

The Englishman seemed to reflect for a moment, then said: ‘So you are anxious about the repayment of this debt?’

‘More than that: I consider it lost.’

‘Very well, I shall buy it from you.’

‘You?’

‘Yes, indeed.’

‘But at a huge discount, I don’t doubt?’

‘No, for two hundred thousand francs. Our company,’ the Englishman said with a laugh, ‘does not do that kind of business.’

‘And how will you pay?’

‘In cash.’

The Englishman took a sheaf of banknotes out of his pocket, probably amounting to twice the sum that M. de Boville was afraid of losing.

A look of joy suffused M. de Boville’s face, but he made an effort and said: ‘I must warn you, Monsieur, that in all probability you will not recover six per cent of the amount.’

‘That does not concern me,’ the Englishman replied. ‘It concerns the House of Thomson and French; I am only acting for them. Perhaps they wish to hasten the ruin of a rival firm. All that I do
know, Monsieur, is that I am prepared to give you this sum in exchange for the transfer of the debt; all I shall want is a brokerage fee.’

‘What, Monsieur! This is too scrupulous!’ M. de Boville exclaimed. ‘There is usually a commission of one and a half per cent. Do you want two? Or three? Do you want five per cent? Or more? Tell me.’

‘Monsieur,’ said the Englishman with a laugh, ‘I am like my firm, which does not do that kind of business. No, my fee is of quite a different kind.’

‘Tell me. I am listening.’

‘You are the inspector of prisons?’

‘I have been for fourteen years.’

‘You hold the registers of admissions and discharges?’

‘Naturally.’

‘And notes concerning the prisoners are attached to these registers?’

‘There is a dossier on each prisoner.’

‘Well, Monsieur, I was brought up in Rome by a poor devil of an abbé who suddenly disappeared. I later learned that he was held in the Château d’If. I should like to have some information about his death.’