Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  “Of what?” asked the priest, anxiously and eagerly.

  “Why, of downright starvation.”

  “Starvation!” exclaimed the abbe, springing from his seat. “Why, the vilest animals are not suffered to die by such a death as that. The very dogs that wander houseless and homeless in the streets find some pitying hand to cast them a mouthful of bread; and that a man, a Christian, should be allowed to perish of hunger in the midst of other men who call themselves Christians, is too horrible for belief. Oh, it is impossible — utterly impossible!”

  “What I have said, I have said,” answered Caderousse.

  “And you are a fool for having said anything about it,” said a voice from the top of the stairs. “Why should you meddle with what does not concern you?”

  The two men turned quickly, and saw the sickly countenance of La Carconte peering between the baluster rails; attracted by the sound of voices, she had feebly dragged herself down the stairs, and, seated on the lower step, head on knees, she had listened to the foregoing conversation. “Mind your own business, wife,” replied Caderousse sharply. “This gentleman asks me for information, which common politeness will not permit me to refuse.”

  “Politeness, you simpleton!” retorted La Carconte. “What have you to do with politeness, I should like to know? Better study a little common prudence. How do you know the motives that person may have for trying to extract all he can from you?”

  “I pledge you my word, madam,” said the abbe, “that my intentions are good; and that your husband can incur no risk, provided he answers me candidly.”

  “Ah, that’s all very fine,” retorted the woman. “Nothing is easier than to begin with fair promises and assurances of nothing to fear; but when poor, silly folks, like my husband there, have been persuaded to tell all they know, the promises and assurances of safety are quickly forgotten; and at some moment when nobody is expecting it, behold trouble and misery, and all sorts of persecutions, are heaped on the unfortunate wretches, who cannot even see whence all their afflictions come.”

  “Nay, nay, my good woman, make yourself perfectly easy, I beg of you. Whatever evils may befall you, they will not be occasioned by my instrumentality, that I solemnly promise you.”

  La Carconte muttered a few inarticulate words, then let her head again drop upon her knees, and went into a fit of ague, leaving the two speakers to resume the conversation, but remaining so as to be able to hear every word they uttered. Again the abbe had been obliged to swallow a draught of water to calm the emotions that threatened to overpower him. When he had sufficiently recovered himself, he said, “It appears, then, that the miserable old man you were telling me of was forsaken by every one. Surely, had not such been the case, he would not have perished by so dreadful a death.”

  “Why, he was not altogether forsaken,” continued Caderousse, “for Mercedes the Catalan and Monsieur Morrel were very kind to him; but somehow the poor old man had contracted a profound hatred for Fernand — the very person,” added Caderousse with a bitter smile, “that you named just now as being one of Dantes’ faithful and attached friends.”

  “And was he not so?” asked the abbe.

  “Gaspard, Gaspard!” murmured the woman, from her seat on the stairs, “mind what you are saying!” Caderousse made no reply to these words, though evidently irritated and annoyed by the interruption, but, addressing the abbe, said, “Can a man be faithful to another whose wife he covets and desires for himself? But Dantes was so honorable and true in his own nature, that he believed everybody’s professions of friendship. Poor Edmond, he was cruelly deceived; but it was fortunate that he never knew, or he might have found it more difficult, when on his deathbed, to pardon his enemies. And, whatever people may say,” continued Caderousse, in his native language, which was not altogether devoid of rude poetry, “I cannot help being more frightened at the idea of the malediction of the dead than the hatred of the living.”

  “Imbecile!” exclaimed La Carconte.

  “Do you, then, know in what manner Fernand injured Dantes?” inquired the abbe of Caderousse.

  “Do I? No one better.”

  “Speak out then, say what it was!”

  “Gaspard!” cried La Carconte, “do as you will; you are master — but if you take my advice you’ll hold your tongue.”

  “Well, wife,” replied Caderousse, “I don’t know but what you’re right!”

  “So you will say nothing?” asked the abbe.

  “Why, what good would it do?” asked Caderousse. “If the poor lad were living, and came to me and begged that I would candidly tell which were his true and which his false friends, why, perhaps, I should not hesitate. But you tell me he is no more, and therefore can have nothing to do with hatred or revenge, so let all such feeling be buried with him.”

  “You prefer, then,” said the abbe, “that I should bestow on men you say are false and treacherous, the reward intended for faithful friendship?”

  “That is true enough,” returned Caderousse. “You say truly, the gift of poor Edmond was not meant for such traitors as Fernand and Danglars; besides, what would it be to them? no more than a drop of water in the ocean.”

  “Remember,” chimed in La Carconte, “those two could crush you at a single blow!”

  “How so?” inquired the abbe. “Are these persons, then, so rich and powerful?”

  “Do you not know their history?”

  “I do not. Pray relate it to me!” Caderousse seemed to reflect for a few moments, then said, “No, truly, it would take up too much time.”

  “Well, my good friend,” returned the abbe, in a tone that indicated utter indifference on his part, “you are at liberty, either to speak or be silent, just as you please; for my own part, I respect your scruples and admire your sentiments; so let the matter end. I shall do my duty as conscientiously as I can, and fulfill my promise to the dying man. My first business will be to dispose of this diamond.” So saying, the abbe again drew the small box from his pocket, opened it, and contrived to hold it in such a light, that a bright flash of brilliant hues passed before the dazzled gaze of Caderousse.

  “Wife, wife!” cried he in a hoarse voice, “come here!”

  “Diamond!” exclaimed La Carconte, rising and descending to the chamber with a tolerably firm step; “what diamond are you talking about?”

  “Why, did you not hear all we said?” inquired Caderousse. “It is a beautiful diamond left by poor Edmond Dantes, to be sold, and the money divided between his father, Mercedes, his betrothed bride, Fernand, Danglars, and myself. The jewel is worth at least fifty thousand francs.”

  “Oh, what a magnificent jewel!” cried the astonished woman.

  “The fifth part of the profits from this stone belongs to us then, does it not?” asked Caderousse.

  “It does,” replied the abbe; “with the addition of an equal division of that part intended for the elder Dantes, which I believe myself at liberty to divide equally with the four survivors.”

  “And why among us four?” inquired Caderousse.

  “As being the friends Edmond esteemed most faithful and devoted to him.”

  “I don’t call those friends who betray and ruin you,” murmured the wife in her turn, in a low, muttering voice.

  “Of course not!” rejoined Caderousse quickly; “no more do I, and that was what I was observing to this gentleman just now. I said I looked upon it as a sacrilegious profanation to reward treachery, perhaps crime.”

  “Remember,” answered the abbe calmly, as he replaced the jewel and its case in the pocket of his cassock, “it is your fault, not mine, that I do so. You will have the goodness to furnish me with the address of both Fernand and Danglars, in order that I may execute Edmond’s last wishes.” The agitation of Caderousse became extreme, and large drops of perspiration rolled from his heated brow. As he saw the abbe rise from his seat and go towards the door, as though to ascertain if his horse were sufficiently refreshed to continue his journey, Caderousse and his
wife exchanged looks of deep meaning.

  “There, you see, wife,” said the former, “this splendid diamond might all be ours, if we chose!”

  “Do you believe it?”

  “Why, surely a man of his holy profession would not deceive us!”

  “Well,” replied La Carconte, “do as you like. For my part, I wash my hands of the affair.” So saying, she once more climbed the staircase leading to her chamber, her body convulsed with chills, and her teeth rattling in her head, in spite of the intense heat of the weather. Arrived at the top stair, she turned round, and called out, in a warning tone, to her husband, “Gaspard, consider well what you are about to do!”

  “I have both reflected and decided,” answered he. La Carconte then entered her chamber, the flooring of which creaked beneath her heavy, uncertain tread, as she proceeded towards her armchair, into which she fell as though exhausted.

  “Well,” asked the abbe, as he returned to the apartment below, “what have you made up your mind to do?”

  “To tell you all I know,” was the reply.

  “I certainly think you act wisely in so doing,” said the priest. “Not because I have the least desire to learn anything you may please to conceal from me, but simply that if, through your assistance, I could distribute the legacy according to the wishes of the testator, why, so much the better, that is all.”

  “I hope it may be so,” replied Caderousse, his face flushed with cupidity.

  “I am all attention,” said the abbe.

  “Stop a minute,” answered Caderousse; “we might be interrupted in the most interesting part of my story, which would be a pity; and it is as well that your visit hither should be made known only to ourselves.” With these words he went stealthily to the door, which he closed, and, by way of still greater precaution, bolted and barred it, as he was accustomed to do at night. During this time the abbe had chosen his place for listening at his ease. He removed his seat into a corner of the room, where he himself would be in deep shadow, while the light would be fully thrown on the narrator; then, with head bent down and hands clasped, or rather clinched together, he prepared to give his whole attention to Caderousse, who seated himself on the little stool, exactly opposite to him.

  “Remember, this is no affair of mine,” said the trembling voice of La Carconte, as though through the flooring of her chamber she viewed the scene that was enacting below.

  “Enough, enough!” replied Caderousse; “say no more about it; I will take all the consequences upon myself.” And he began his story.

  The Count of Monte Cristo

  The Wild and Wanton Edition, Vol. 2

  Monica Corwin and Alexandre Dumas

  Avon, Massachusetts

  This edition published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, Ohio 45242

  www.crimsonromance.com

  Copyright © 2013 by Monica Corwin and Alexandre Dumas

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-6885-5

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6885-5

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-6886-3

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6886-2

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © 123rf; istockphoto.com/Yuri_Arcurus

  Contents

  Foreword

  Chapter 1. The Story.

  Chapter 2. The Prison Register.

  Chapter 3. The House of Morrel & Son.

  Chapter 4. The Fifth of September.

  Chapter 5. Italy: Sinbad the Sailor.

  Chapter 6. The Waking.

  Chapter 7. Roman Bandits.

  Chapter 8. The Colosseum.

  Chapter 9. La Mazzolata.

  Chapter 10. The Carnival at Rome.

  Chapter 11. The Catacombs of Saint Sebastian.

  Chapter 12. The Compact.

  Chapter 13. The Guests.

  Chapter 14. The Breakfast.

  Chapter 15. The Presentation.

  Chapter 16. Monsieur Bertuccio.

  Chapter 17. The House at Auteuil.

  Foreword

  Dearest Readers: We continue our hero’s tale from the juncture at which we previously parted ways. Caderousse is about to tell his tale to the abbe who came to visit him, a man who is our dear Edmond in disguise. Follow our hero through his adventures once more.

  Chapter 1. The Story.

  “First, sir,” said Caderousse, “you must make me a promise.”

  “What is that?” inquired the abbe.

  “Why, if you ever make use of the details I am about to give you, that you will never let anyone know that it was I who supplied them; for the persons of whom I am about to talk are rich and powerful, and if they only laid the tips of their fingers on me, I should break to pieces like glass.”

  “Make yourself easy, my friend,” replied the abbe. “I am a priest, and confessions die in my breast. Recollect, our only desire is to carry out, in a fitting manner, the last wishes of our friend. Speak, then, without reserve, as without hatred; tell the truth, the whole truth; I do not know, never may know, the persons of whom you are about to speak; besides, I am an Italian, and not a Frenchman, and belong to God, and not to man, and I shall shortly retire to my convent, which I have only quitted to fulfill the last wishes of a dying man.” This positive assurance seemed to give Caderousse a little courage.

  “Well, then, under these circumstances,” said Caderousse, “I will, I even believe I ought to undeceive you as to the friendship which poor Edmond thought so sincere and unquestionable.”

  “Begin with his father, if you please.” said the abbe; “Edmond talked to me a great deal about the old man for whom he had the deepest love.”

  “The history is a sad one, sir,” said Caderousse, shaking his head; “perhaps you know all the earlier part of it?”

  “Yes.” answered the abbe; “Edmond related to me everything until the moment when he was arrested in a small cabaret close to Marseilles.”

  “At La Reserve! Oh, yes; I can see it all before me this moment.”

  “Was it not his betrothal feast?”

  “It was and the feast that began so gaily had a very sorrowful ending; a police commissary, followed by four soldiers, entered, and Dantes was arrested.”

  “Yes, and up to this point I know all,” said the priest. “Dantes himself only knew that which personally concerned him, for he never beheld again the five persons I have named to you, or heard mention of any one of them.”

  “Well, when Dantes was arrested, Monsieur Morrel hastened to obtain the particulars, and they were very sad. The old man returned alone to his home, folded up his wedding suit with tears in his eyes, and paced up and down his chamber the whole day, and would not go to bed at all, for I was underneath him and heard him walking the whole night; and for myself, I assure you I could not sleep either, for the grief of the poor father gave me great uneasiness, and every step he took went to my heart as really as if his foot had pressed against my breast. The next day Mercedes came to implore the protection of M. de Villefort; she did not obtain it, however, and went to visit the old man; when she saw him so miserable and heartbroken, having passed a sleepless night, and not touched food since the previous day, she wished him to go with her that she might take care of him; but the old man would not consent. ‘No,’ was the old man’s reply, ‘I will not leave this house, for my poor dear boy loves me better than anything in the world; and if he gets out of prison he will come and see me the first thing, and what would he think if I did not wait here for him?’ I heard all this from the window, for I was anxious that Mercedes should persuade the old man to accompany her, for his footsteps over my head night and day did not leave me a moment’s repose.”

  “But did you n
ot go upstairs and try to console the poor old man?” asked the abbe.

  “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 Mercedes 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 Mercedes, and the poor girl, in spite of her own grief and despair, endeavored 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 a person may be, why you see we leave off after a time seeing persons who are in sorrow, they make one melancholy; and so at last old Dantes was left all to himself, and 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 that 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 first three days I heard him walking about as usual, but, on the fourth day I heard nothing. 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 Mercedes. They both came immediately, M. Morrel bringing a doctor, and the doctor said it was inflammation of the bowels, 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 received all who came; he had an excuse for not eating anymore; the doctor had put him on a diet.” The abbe uttered a kind of groan.