The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) (89 page)

‘When supper was over, Caderousse himself went to the door.

‘ “I think the storm has passed,” he said. But at that moment, as if to contradict him, the house was shaken by an enormous clap of thunder, and a gust of rain and wind came in, blowing out the lamp. Caderousse shut the door and his wife lit a candle at the dying fire.

‘ “Here,” she said to the jeweller. “You must be tired. I have put clean linen on the bed. Go on up, and sleep well.”

‘Joannès waited for a moment longer to see whether the storm would abate, and when he was sure that the thunder and rain were only increasing in strength he said goodnight to his hosts and went up the stairs.

‘He passed right above my head. I could hear each stair creak beneath his feet. La Carconte looked after him hungrily, while Caderousse turned his back and did not even glance in his direction.

‘All these details, which I have recalled since the events, did not strike me while they were taking place before my eyes. When it comes down to it, everything that had happened was quite normal and, apart from the story of the diamond, which struck me as somewhat improbable, everything was perfectly consistent. As I was dropping with tiredness and intended myself to take advantage of the first break in the weather, I decided to sleep for a few hours, then make off while it was still dark.

‘In the room above my head I could hear the jeweller going about his preparations for spending as comfortable a night as he could. Shortly afterwards, the bed creaked under him: he had just got into it.

‘I felt my eyes closing despite myself and, as I had no suspicion of what was to come, I did not try to fight against sleep. I took one last look around the kitchen. Caderousse was sitting, beside a long table, on one of those wooden benches which they use instead of chairs in village inns. His back was turned to me, so that his face was hidden – though, even if he had been sitting on the opposite side of the table, it would still have been impossible for me to see his face, because his head was buried in his hands.

‘La Carconte looked at him for a time, shrugged her shoulders and went to sit opposite him.

‘At that moment the dying embers of the fire caught a piece of dry wood that until then had remained unconsumed, and a brighter light flared up, illuminating the dark interior of the inn. La Carconte was staring at her husband and, since he remained in the same
position, I saw her reach out towards him with her gnarled hand and touch his forehead.

‘Caderousse started. I thought I could see the woman’s lips move, but either she was speaking in a very low voice or else I was already dulled by sleep, because the sound of her words did not reach me. In fact, I saw everything through a kind of mist, in that period of uncertainty that precedes sleep, when we feel that we are starting to dream. At length my eyes closed and I was no longer aware of my surroundings.

‘I was slumbering profoundly when I was awoken by a pistol-shot, followed by a dreadful cry. Someone staggered a few steps across the floor of the bedroom and an inert mass crashed on the stairs, directly above my head.

‘I was still not entirely master of my senses. I heard groans, then stifled cries, like those that might accompany a struggle. A final shout, lasting longer than the rest and ending in a series of moans, forced me entirely from my lethargy.

‘I sat up on one elbow, opened my eyes, which could see nothing in the darkness, and put my hand to my forehead, where I thought I felt a heavy shower of warm rain dripping through the boards of the stairway.

‘The horrid sounds had given way to the most profound silence. Then I heard a man’s footsteps above my head and the creak of the stairs. He came into the downstairs room, went across to the fireplace and lit a candle. It was Caderousse. His face was livid and his nightshirt covered in blood. Once he had lit the candle, he hurried back upstairs and I heard him moving about there again, with rapid and uneasy steps.

‘After a short while he came back. He was holding the box in his hand and making sure that the diamond was inside. Then he paused for a moment, trying to decide which of his pockets to put it in. Finally, having no doubt concluded that his pocket was not a secure enough hiding-place, he wrapped it in the red kerchief around his neck.

‘Then he hurried across to the cupboard, took out his banknotes and the gold, putting the first in the fob pocket of his trousers and the second in his jacket, seized two or three shirts and, running across to the door, disappeared into the darkness. It was only now that everything became clear to me. I felt responsible for what had happened, as though I were really the guilty party. I thought I could
hear someone moaning. Perhaps the unfortunate jeweller was not dead and it was within my power to go to his aid and make up for some of the evil that I had, if not done, at least allowed to be done… I thrust my shoulder against one of the ill-fitting planks which separated the sort of cubby-hole, in which I was hiding, from the downstairs room. The planks gave way and I was inside the house.

‘I hastened to pick up the candlestick and ran to the stairs. A body was lying across them: it was La Carconte.

‘The pistol-shot that I heard had been fired at her. Her throat was shot through and, as well as this double wound that was bleeding copiously, there was blood coming from her mouth. She was stone dead. I stepped over the body and went upstairs.

‘The bedroom was a shambles. Some of the furniture had been overturned and the sheets, which the unfortunate jeweller had clasped on to, were spread across the room. He himself was lying on the floor, his head resting against the wall and bathed in a pool of blood still flowing from three gaping wounds in his chest. In a fourth was embedded a long kitchen knife, of which only the handle could be seen.

‘I went over to the second pistol, which had not been fired, probably because the powder was damp.

‘Then I approached the jeweller. In fact he was not yet dead. Hearing the sound that I made and, still more, the shaking of the floor, he opened his wildly staring eyes, managed to focus them on me for a moment, moved his lips as though to speak, and expired.

‘At this frightful scene, I almost fainted. Now that there was no assistance I could give anyone, I felt only one need, which was to be away from there. I plunged down the stairs, grasping my hair with my hands and giving a roar of terror.

‘In the lower room there were five or six Customs men and two or three gendarmes: a small squad of armed men.

‘They seized me. I made no attempt to resist, because I was no longer in command of my senses. I merely tried to speak and gave some inarticulate cries. Then I saw that the officers were pointing at me. I looked down and saw that I was covered in blood. The warm shower that I had felt rain down on me through the boards of the staircase was La Carconte’s blood.

‘I pointed to the place where I had been hiding.

‘ “What is he trying to say?” a gendarme asked.

‘One of the customs men went to look.

‘ “He’s telling us that he came through here,” he answered, pointing to the hole which had indeed been my means of entry.

‘On this, I realized that they thought I was the assassin. I recovered my voice and my strength and broke away from the two men who were holding me, shouting: “It wasn’t me, it wasn’t me!”

‘Two gendarmes levelled their carbines at me: “Don’t move,” they said, “or you’re dead!”

‘ “But I tell you, it wasn’t me!” I cried.

‘ “You can tell your little story to the judges in Nîmes,” they replied. “For the time being, follow us – and, we warn you, don’t try to resist.”

‘I had no intention of doing so; I was overwhelmed with amazement and terror. They put handcuffs on me, attached me to the tail of a horse and led me into Nîmes.

‘I had been followed by a Customs man. He had lost sight of me somewhere near the inn and guessed that I would spend the night there. He went to fetch his comrades, and they arrived just in time to hear the pistol-shot and to arrest me, amid all that evidence of guilt. I realized at once how hard it would be to convince anyone of my innocence.

‘For this reason, I clung to just one thing: my first request from the examining magistrate was to beg him to have them search everywhere for a certain Abbé Busoni who had stopped during the day at the inn of the Pont du Gard. If Caderousse had made up the story and the abbé did not exist, I was clearly lost, unless Caderousse himself was arrested and confessed everything.

‘Two months passed in which – be it said to the magistrate’s credit – every effort was made to find the witness I had requested. I had already lost all hope. Caderousse had not been caught. I was to be tried at the next assizes when, on September the eighth, that is to say three months and five days after the event, Abbé Busoni, of whom I had quite given up hope, presented himself at the prison, saying that he had been told a prisoner wanted to speak to him. He said that he had learned of this in Marseille and hastened to comply with my request.

‘You can imagine how eagerly I welcomed him. I told him everything that I had witnessed. I was reluctant to embark on the story of the diamond but, against all my expectations, it proved to be true, point by point, and – also to my surprise – he gave complete credence to everything that I told him. Whereupon, encouraged
by his sweet and forgiving nature, recognizing that he entirely understood the customs of my country and feeling that from such charitable lips I might perhaps receive absolution for the only crime I had ever committed, I told him, under the seal of the confessional, all about what had happened in Auteuil. What I did on impulse had the same effect as if I had contrived it: by confessing this first murder, even though nothing compelled me to do so, I proved to him that I had not committed the second. He left me with an injunction to have faith, promising to do all that was in his power to convince the judges of my innocence.

‘I had evidence of his actual efforts on my behalf when I observed that the prison regime was gradually lightened and when I learned that my case would be held over until the next assizes following those that were due to convene.

‘Meanwhile, as luck would have it, Caderousse was arrested abroad and brought back to France. He confessed everything, blaming his wife for planning and initiating the crime. He was sentenced to the galleys for life and I was freed.’

‘So that was the time,’ Monte Cristo said, ‘when you arrived at my door bearing a letter from Abbé Busoni?’

‘Yes, Excellency. He had taken a distinct interest in me.

‘ “Smuggling will be the end of you,” he told me. “If you are released from here, give it up.”

‘ “But, Father,” I asked, “how shall I live and keep my poor sister?”

‘ “One of my penitents,” he replied, “esteems me greatly and has asked me to find him a reliable assistant. Would you like the post? I shall send you to him.”

‘ “Father!” I exclaimed. “How good you are to me!”

‘ “Swear to me that I shall never have cause to regret it.”

‘I raised my hand to swear the oath, but he said: “That will not be necessary: I know what you Corsicans are like, and love you for it. Here is my letter of recommendation.”

‘He wrote the few lines that I gave you, as a result of which Your Excellency was good enough to take me into his service. Now, I ask Your Excellency with pride, have you ever had cause to complain of me?’

‘No,’ the count replied. ‘I am pleased to admit it. You are a good servant, Bertuccio, though you have shown too little trust in me.’

‘I, Monsieur le Comte?’

‘Yes, you. How is it that you have a sister-in-law and an adoptive son, yet you have never mentioned either of them to me?’

‘Alas, Excellency, I have still to tell you of the saddest part of my life. I set off for Corsica. As you can imagine, I was in a hurry to see my poor sister again and to console her. But when I arrived at Rogliano, I found the house in mourning. There had been a terrible drama, which the neighbours remember to this day. Benedetto had wanted my poor sister-in-law to give him all the money in the house and she, on my advice, had resisted his demands. One morning he threatened her and vanished for the whole day. She wept, dear Assunta, because she felt like a mother towards the wretch. When evening came, she waited up for him. At eleven o’clock he came back with two of his friends, the usual companions of all his follies, and she held her arms out to him. But they seized her and one of the three – I fear it could have been that infernal child – shouted: “Let’s play at torture; she will soon confess where her money is.”

‘The neighbour, Wasilio, happened to be in Bastia; only his wife had stayed at home and she alone could hear or see what was going on in my sister’s house. Two of them held poor Assunta. She, unable to believe that such a criminal act was possible, smiled at the men who were to become her tormentors. The third went to barricade the doors and windows, then returned, and the three of them, stifling the terrified cries elicited from her by these more serious preparations, dragged Assunta’s feet towards the brazier on which they were relying to make her reveal where our little treasure was hidden. But as she struggled, her clothes caught fire. They let her go, to avoid being burned themselves, and she ran to the door, a mass of flames. However, the door was locked.

‘She turned to the window, but that was barricaded. At this, the neighbour heard frightful screams: Assunta was begging for help. Soon her voice was stifled, the screams became moans. The next day, when Wasilio’s wife, after a night of terror and anxiety, dared to emerge and had the judge open the door of our house, they found Assunta half burned, though still breathing, the cupboards broken into and the money stolen. As for Benedetto, he had left Rogliano, never to return. I have not seen him since that day, or even heard speak of him.