Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  Monte Cristo suddenly struck his finger on his forehead and a smile passed over his lips; then drawing near to Ali, he whispered,—

  “Remain here, concealed in the dark, and whatever noise you hear, whatever passes, only come in or show yourself if I call you.” Ali bowed in token of strict obedience. Monte Cristo then drew a lighted taper from a closet, and when the thief was deeply engaged with his lock, silently opened the door, taking care that the light should shine directly on his face. The door opened so quietly that the thief heard no sound; but, to his astonishment, the room was suddenly illuminated. He turned.

  “Ah, good-evening, my dear M. Caderousse,” said Monte Cristo; “what are you doing here, at such an hour?”

  “The Abbe Busoni!” exclaimed Caderousse; and, not knowing how this strange apparition could have entered when he had bolted the doors, he let fall his bunch of keys, and remained motionless and stupefied. The count placed himself between Caderousse and the window, thus cutting off from the thief his only chance of retreat. “The Abbe Busoni!” repeated Caderousse, fixing his haggard gaze on the count.

  “Yes, undoubtedly, the Abbe Busoni himself,” replied Monte Cristo. “And I am very glad you recognize me, dear M. Caderousse; it proves you have a good memory, for it must be about ten years since we last met.” This calmness of Busoni, combined with his irony and boldness, staggered Caderousse.

  “The abbe, the abbe!” murmured he, clinching his fists, and his teeth chattering.

  “So you would rob the Count of Monte Cristo?” continued the false abbe.

  “Reverend sir,” murmured Caderousse, seeking to regain the window, which the count pitilessly blocked—“reverend sir, I don’t know—believe me—I take my oath”—

  “A pane of glass out,” continued the count, “a dark lantern, a bunch of false keys, a secretary half forced—it is tolerably evident”—

  Caderousse was choking; he looked around for some corner to hide in, some way of escape.

  “Come, come,” continued the count, “I see you are still the same,—an assassin.”

  “Reverend sir, since you know everything, you know it was not I—it was La Carconte; that was proved at the trial, since I was only condemned to the galleys.”

  “Is your time, then, expired, since I find you in a fair way to return there?”

  “No, reverend sir; I have been liberated by some one.”

  “That some one has done society a great kindness.”

  “Ah,” said Caderousse, “I had promised”—

  “And you are breaking your promise!” interrupted Monte Cristo.

  “Alas, yes!” said Caderousse very uneasily.

  “A bad relapse, that will lead you, if I mistake not, to the Place de Greve. So much the worse, so much the worse—diavolo, as they say in my country.”

  “Reverend sir, I am impelled”—

  “Every criminal says the same thing.”

  “Poverty”—

  “Pshaw!” said Busoni disdainfully; “poverty may make a man beg, steal a loaf of bread at a baker’s door, but not cause him to open a secretary in a house supposed to be inhabited. And when the jeweler Johannes had just paid you 40,000 francs for the diamond I had given you, and you killed him to get the diamond and the money both, was that also poverty?”

  “Pardon, reverend sir,” said Caderousse; “you have saved my life once, save me again!”

  “That is but poor encouragement.”

  “Are you alone, reverend sir, or have you there soldiers ready to seize me?”

  “I am alone,” said the abbe, “and I will again have pity on you, and will let you escape, at the risk of the fresh miseries my weakness may lead to, if you tell me the truth.”

  “Ah, reverend sir,” cried Caderousse, clasping his hands, and drawing nearer to Monte Cristo, “I may indeed say you are my deliverer!”

  “You mean to say you have been freed from confinement?”

  “Yes, that is true, reverend sir.”

  “Who was your liberator?”

  “An Englishman.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Lord Wilmore.”

  “I know him; I shall know if you lie.”

  “Ah, reverend sir, I tell you the simple truth.”

  “Was this Englishman protecting you?”

  “No, not me, but a young Corsican, my companion.”

  “What was this young Corsican’s name?”

  “Benedetto.”

  “Is that his Christian name?”

  “He had no other; he was a foundling.”

  “Then this young man escaped with you?”

  “He did.”

  “In what way?”

  “We were working at St. Mandrier, near Toulon. Do you know St. Mandrier?”

  “I do.”

  “In the hour of rest, between noon and one o’clock”—

  “Galley-slaves having a nap after dinner! We may well pity the poor fellows!” said the abbe.

  “Nay,” said Caderousse, “one can’t always work—one is not a dog.”

  “So much the better for the dogs,” said Monte Cristo.

  “While the rest slept, then, we went away a short distance; we severed our fetters with a file the Englishman had given us, and swam away.”

  “And what is become of this Benedetto?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You ought to know.”

  “No, in truth; we parted at Hyeres.” And, to give more weight to his protestation, Caderousse advanced another step towards the abbe, who remained motionless in his place, as calm as ever, and pursuing his interrogation. “You lie,” said the Abbe Busoni, with a tone of irresistible authority.

  “Reverend sir!”

  “You lie! This man is still your friend, and you, perhaps, make use of him as your accomplice.”

  “Oh, reverend sir!”

  “Since you left Toulon what have you lived on? Answer me!”

  “On what I could get.”

  “You lie,” repeated the abbe a third time, with a still more imperative tone. Caderousse, terrified, looked at the count. “You have lived on the money he has given you.”

  “True,” said Caderousse; “Benedetto has become the son of a great lord.”

  “How can he be the son of a great lord?”

  “A natural son.”

  “And what is that great lord’s name?”

  “The Count of Monte Cristo, the very same in whose house we are.”

  “Benedetto the count’s son?” replied Monte Cristo, astonished in his turn.

  “Well, I should think so, since the count has found him a false father—since the count gives him four thousand francs a month, and leaves him 500,000 francs in his will.”

  “Ah, yes,” said the factitious abbe, who began to understand; “and what name does the young man bear meanwhile?”

  “Andrea Cavalcanti.”

  “Is it, then, that young man whom my friend the Count of Monte Cristo has received into his house, and who is going to marry Mademoiselle Danglars?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you suffer that, you wretch—you, who know his life and his crime?”

  “Why should I stand in a comrade’s way?” said Caderousse.

  “You are right; it is not you who should apprise M. Danglars, it is I.”

  “Do not do so, reverend sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you would bring us to ruin.”

  “And you think that to save such villains as you I will become an abettor of their plot, an accomplice in their crimes?”

  “Reverend sir,” said Caderousse, drawing still nearer.

  “I will expose all.”

  “To whom?”

  “To M. Danglars.”

  “By heaven!” cried Caderousse, drawing from his waistcoat an open knife, and striking the count in the breast, “you shall disclose nothing, reverend sir!” To Caderousse’s great astonishment, the knife, instead of piercing the count’s breas
t, flew back blunted. At the same moment the count seized with his left hand the assassin’s wrist, and wrung it with such strength that the knife fell from his stiffened fingers, and Caderousse uttered a cry of pain. But the count, disregarding his cry, continued to wring the bandit’s wrist, until, his arm being dislocated, he fell first on his knees, then flat on the floor. The count then placed his foot on his head, saying, “I know not what restrains me from crushing thy skull, rascal.”

  “Ah, mercy—mercy!” cried Caderousse. The count withdrew his foot. “Rise!” said he. Caderousse rose.

  “What a wrist you have, reverend sir!” said Caderousse, stroking his arm, all bruised by the fleshy pincers which had held it; “what a wrist!”

  “Silence! God gives me strength to overcome a wild beast like you; in the name of that God I act,—remember that, wretch,—and to spare thee at this moment is still serving him.”

  “Oh!” said Caderousse, groaning with pain.

  “Take this pen and paper, and write what I dictate.”

  “I don’t know how to write, reverend sir.”

  “You lie! Take this pen, and write!” Caderousse, awed by the superior power of the abbe, sat down and wrote:—

  Sir,—The man whom you are receiving at your house, and to whom you intend to marry your daughter, is a felon who escaped with me from confinement at Toulon. He was No. 59, and I No. 58. He was called Benedetto, but he is ignorant of his real name, having never known his parents.

  “Sign it!” continued the count.

  “But would you ruin me?”

  “If I sought your ruin, fool, I should drag you to the first guardhouse; besides, when that note is delivered, in all probability you will have no more to fear. Sign it, then!”

  Caderousse signed it. “The address, ‘To monsieur the Baron Danglars, banker, Rue de la Chaussee d’Antin.’“ Caderousse wrote the address. The abbe took the note. “Now,” said he, “that suffices—begone!”

  “Which way?”

  “The way you came.”

  “You wish me to get out at that window?”

  “You got in very well.”

  “Oh, you have some design against me, reverend sir.”

  “Idiot! What design can I have?”

  “Why, then, not let me out by the door?”

  “What would be the advantage of waking the porter?”—

  “Ah, reverend sir, tell me, do you wish me dead?”

  “I wish what God wills.”

  “But swear that you will not strike me as I go down.”

  “Cowardly fool!”

  “What do you intend doing with me?”

  “I ask you what can I do? I have tried to make you a happy man, and you have turned out a murderer.”

  “Oh, monsieur,” said Caderousse, “make one more attempt—try me once more!”

  “I will,” said the count. “Listen—you know if I may be relied on.”

  “Yes,” said Caderousse.

  “If you arrive safely at home”—

  “What have I to fear, except from you?”

  “If you reach your home safely, leave Paris, leave France, and wherever you may be, so long as you conduct yourself well, I will send you a small annuity; for, if you return home safely, then”-

  “Then?” asked Caderousse, shuddering.

  “Then I shall believe God has forgiven you, and I will forgive you too.”

  “As true as I am a Christian,” stammered Caderousse, “you will make me die of fright!”

  “Now begone,” said the count, pointing to the window.

  Caderousse, scarcely yet relying on this promise, put his legs out of the window and stood on the ladder. “Now go down,” said the abbe, folding his arms. Understanding he had nothing more to fear from him, Caderousse began to go down. Then the count brought the taper to the window, that it might be seen in the Champs-Elysees that a man was getting out of the window while another held a light.

  “What are you doing, reverend sir? Suppose a watchman should pass?” And he blew out the light. He then descended, but it was only when he felt his foot touch the ground that he was satisfied of his safety.

  Monte Cristo returned to his bedroom, and, glancing rapidly from the garden to the street, he saw first Caderousse, who after walking to the end of the garden, fixed his ladder against the wall at a different part from where he came in. The count then looking over into the street, saw the man who appeared to be waiting run in the same direction, and place himself against the angle of the wall where Caderousse would come over. Caderousse climbed the ladder slowly, and looked over the coping to see if the street was quiet. No one could be seen or heard. The clock of the Invalides struck one. Then Caderousse sat astride the coping, and drawing up his ladder passed it over the wall; then he began to descend, or rather to slide down by the two stanchions, which he did with an ease which proved how accustomed he was to the exercise. But, once started, he could not stop. In vain did he see a man start from the shadow when he was halfway down—in vain did he see an arm raised as he touched the ground. Before he could defend himself that arm struck him so violently in the back that he let go the ladder, crying, “Help!” A second blow struck him almost immediately in the side, and he fell, calling, “Help, murder!” Then, as he rolled on the ground, his adversary seized him by the hair, and struck him a third blow in the chest. This time Caderousse endeavored to call again, but he could only utter a groan, and he shuddered as the blood flowed from his three wounds. The assassin, finding that he no longer cried out, lifted his head up by the hair; his eyes were closed, and the mouth was distorted. The murderer, supposing him dead, let fall his head and disappeared. Then Caderousse, feeling that he was leaving him, raised himself on his elbow, and with a dying voice cried with great effort, “Murder! I am dying! Help, reverend sir,—help!”

  This mournful appeal pierced the darkness. The door of the back-staircase opened, then the side-gate of the garden, and Ali and his master were on the spot with lights.

  Chapter 18. The Hand of God.

  Caderousse continued to call piteously, “Help, reverend sir, help!”

  “What is the matter?” asked Monte Cristo.

  “Help,” cried Caderousse; “I am murdered!”

  “We are here;—take courage.”

  “Ah, it’s all over! You are come too late—you are come to see me die. What blows, what blood!” He fainted. Ali and his master conveyed the wounded man into a room. Monte Cristo motioned to Ali to undress him, and he then examined his dreadful wounds. “My God!” he exclaimed, “thy vengeance is sometimes delayed, but only that it may fall the more effectually.” Ali looked at his master for further instructions. “Bring here immediately the king’s attorney, M. de Villefort, who lives in the Faubourg St. Honore. As you pass the lodge, wake the porter, and send him for a surgeon.” Ali obeyed, leaving the abbe alone with Caderousse, who had not yet revived.

  When the wretched man again opened his eyes, the count looked at him with a mournful expression of pity, and his lips moved as if in prayer. “A surgeon, reverend sir—a surgeon!” said Caderousse.

  “I have sent for one,” replied the abbe.

  “I know he cannot save my life, but he may strengthen me to give my evidence.”

  “Against whom?”

  “Against my murderer.”

  “Did you recognize him?”

  “Yes; it was Benedetto.”

  “The young Corsican?”

  “Himself.”

  “Your comrade?”

  “Yes. After giving me the plan of this house, doubtless hoping I should kill the count and he thus become his heir, or that the count would kill me and I should be out of his way, he waylaid me, and has murdered me.”

  “I have also sent for the procureur.”

  “He will not come in time; I feel my life fast ebbing.”

  “Wait a moment,” said Monte Cristo. He left the room, and returned in five minutes with a phial. The dying man’s eyes were all the time riveted on
the door, through which he hoped succor would arrive.

  “Hasten, reverend sir, hasten! I shall faint again!” Monte Cristo approached, and dropped on his purple lips three or four drops of the contents of the phial. Caderousse drew a deep breath. “Oh,” said he, “that is life to me; more, more!”

  “Two drops more would kill you,” replied the abbe.

  “Oh, send for some one to whom I can denounce the wretch!”

  “Shall I write your deposition? You can sign it.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Caderousse; and his eyes glistened at the thought of this posthumous revenge. Monte Cristo wrote:—

  “I die, murdered by the Corsican Benedetto, my comrade in the galleys at Toulouse, No. 59.”

  “Quick, quick!” said Caderousse, “or I shall be unable to sign it.”

  Monte Cristo gave the pen to Caderousse, who collected all his strength, signed it, and fell back on his bed, saying: “You will relate all the rest, reverend sir; you will say he calls himself Andrea Cavalcanti. He lodges at the Hotel des Princes. Oh, I am dying!” He again fainted. The abbe made him smell the contents of the phial, and he again opened his eyes. His desire for revenge had not forsaken him.

  “Ah, you will tell all I have said, will you not, reverend sir?”

  “Yes, and much more.”

  “What more will you say?”

  “I will say he had doubtless given you the plan of this house, in the hope the count would kill you. I will say, likewise, he had apprised the count, by a note, of your intention, and, the count being absent, I read the note and sat up to await you.”

  “And he will be guillotined, will be not?” said Caderousse. “Promise me that, and I will die with that hope.”

  “I will say,” continued the count, “that he followed and watched you the whole time, and when he saw you leave the house, ran to the angle of the wall to conceal himself.”