[music] The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexander Duma Volume 1, Chapter 26 The Paul du Ga'in Such of my readers have made a pedestrian excursion to the south of France, May Pichance have noticed about midway between the town of Bocquere and the village of Belgar, a little nearer to the former than to the latter, a small roadside inn, from the front of which hung, creaking and flapping in the wind, a sheet of tin covered with a grotesque representation of the Paul du Ga'in. This modern glaze of entertainment stood on the left-hand side of the post-road and back the Paul du Ga'in. It also boasted of what, in Longadogue, is styled a garden, consisting of a small plot or ground, on the side opposite to the main entrance reserved for the reception of guests. A few dingy olives and stunted victories struggled hard for existence, but the withered dusty foliage abundantly proved how unequal was the conflict. Between these sickly shrubs grew a scanty supply of garlic, tomatoes and asholots. While lone and solitary like a forgotten sentinel, a tall pine raised its melancholy head in one of the corners of this unattractive spot and displayed its flexible stem and fan-shaped summit dried and cracked by the fierce heat of the subtropical sun. All these trees, great or small, were turned in the direction to which the Mistral blows, one of three curses of Provence, the others being the Duhons and the Parliament. In the surrounding plain, which more resembled a dusty lake than solid ground, were scattered a few miserable stalks of wheat, the effect, no doubt, of a curious desire on the part of the agriculturalists of the country to see whether such a thing as the racing of grain in those parched regions was practical. Each stalk served as a perch for a grasshopper, which regaled to pass by through this Egyptian scene with its strident monotonous note. For about seven or eight years, the little tavern had been kept by a man and his wife, with two servants, a chambermaid named Trinidad and an ossler called Pico. This small staff was quite equal to all the requirements for a canal between Bocque and Aegumot, had revolutionized transportation by substituting boats for the cart and the stagecoach, and as though to add to the daily misery which this prosperous canal inflicted on the unfortunate innkeeper, whose utter ruin it was fast accomplishing. It was situated between the home from which it had its source and the post-road it had depleted, not a hundred steps from the inn, of which we have given a brief but faithful description. The innkeeper himself was a man of from 40 to 55 years of age, tall, strong, and bony, a perfect specimen of the natives of those sudden latitudes. He had dark sparkling and deep set eyes, hooked nose and teen whitest nose of a carnivorous animal. His hair, like his beard, which he wore under his chin was thick and curly, and in spite of his age, but slightly interspersed with a few silvery threats. His naturally dark complexion had assumed a still further shade of brown from the habit the unfortunate man had acquired of stationing himself from mourning till eve at the threshold of his door, on the lookout for guests who seldom came, yet there he stood, day after day, exposed to the meridional rays of a burning sun, with no other protection for his head than a red handkerchief twisted around it after the manner of the Spanish smoothies. This man was our old acquaintance, Gaspar Catherusa. His wife, on the contrary, whose maiden name had been Madeleine Radell, was pale, meager and sickly looking, born in the neighbourhood of Al. She had shared in the beauty for which its women are proverbial, but that beauty had gradually withered beneath the devastating influence of the slow fever so prevalent among dwellers by the pawns of Agumot and the marshes of Kamag. She remained nearly always in her second floor chamber, shivering in the chair, or stretched languid and feeble on her bed, while her husband kept his daily watch at the door, a duty he performed with so much the greater willingness as it saved him the necessity of listening to the endless plains and mermaids of his helmet, who never saw him without breaking out into bitter infectives against fate, to all which her husband would calmly return an unfaring reply in these philosophic words. "Hush, Laca-Conté, it is God's pleasure that things should be so." The super-K of Laca-Conté had been bestowed on Madeleine Radell from the fact that she had been born in the village, so-called "situated between Salong and Lombask," and as a custom-existed among the inhabitants of that part of France, where Catherusa lived of styling every person by some particular and distinctive appellation her husband had bestowed on her the name of Laca-Conté in place of her sweet and uvenious name of Madeleine, which in all probability, his rude guttural language would not have enabled him to pronounce. Still, let it not be supposed that amid this affected resignation to the will of Providence, the unfortunate innkeeper did not arrive under the double misery of seeing the hateful canal carry off his customers and his prophets, and a daily infliction of his pea-vish partner's murmurs and lamentations. Like other dwellers in the south, he was a man of sober habits and moderate desires, but fond of external show, vain and addicted to display. During the days of his prosperity, not the festivity took place without himself and wife being among the spectators. He dressed into picturesque costume worn upon grand occasions by the inhabitants of the south of France, bearing equal resemblance to the style adopted both by the Catalins and Antilutions, while Laca-Conté displayed a charming fashion prevalent among the women of Al, a mode of attire borrowed equally from Greece and Arabia. But, by degrees, watchchains, necklaces, party-coloured scarves, embroidered bodices, velvet vests, elegantly worked stockings, striped gaiters and silver buckles for the shoes all disappeared, and Gaspar Gaterusa, unable to appear broad in his pristine splendor, had given up any further participation in the palms and fanities, both for himself and wife, although a bitter feeling of envy is discontent filled his mind as the sound of mirth and merry music from the joyous ravenous, reached even the miserable hostery to which he still clung, more for the shelter than the prophet it afforded. Catalusa then was, as usual, at his place of observation before the door, his eyes glancing listously from a piece of closely-shaven grass, on which some files were industriously, though fruitlessly, endeavouring to turn up some drain or insect suited to their palate, to the deserted road, which led away to the north itself, when he was aroused by the shrill voice of his wife, and, grumbling to himself as he went, he mounted to her chamber, first taking care, however, to set the entrance door wide open, as an invitation to any chance traveller who might be passing. At the moment Catalusa quits at his century-like watch before the door, the road on which he so eagerly strained his sight was foid and lonely as the desert at midday. There it lay stretching out into one interminable line of dust and sand, with its sights bordered by tall meager trees, altogether presenting so uninviting an appearance, that no one in his senses could have imagined that any traveller at liberty to regulate his hours for jannying, would choose to expose himself in such a formidable Sahara. Nevertheless, Catalusa but retained his post a few minutes longer, he might have caught a dim outline of something approaching from the direction of Belgard. As the moving object drew nearer, he would easily have perceived that it consisted of a man and horse, between whom the kindness and most amiable understanding appeared to exist. The horse was of Hungarian breed, and ambled along at an easy pace. His rider was a priest, dressed in black, and wearing a three cornered hat, and, spite of the ardent rays of a noon-day sun, the pair came on with a fair degree of rapidity. Having a ride before the Pundugard, the horse stopped, but whether for his own pleasure or that of his rider would have been difficult to say. However, that might have been to priest dismounting, let his deed by the bridal in search of some place to which he could secure him. Evailing himself of a handle that projected from a half-fallen door, he tied the animal safely and, having drawn a red cotton handkerchief from his pocket, wiped away the perspiration that streamed from his brow, then advancing to the door, struck thrice with the end of his iron-shot stick. At this unusual sound, a huge black door came rushing to meet daring assailant of his own narrowly tranquil verbode, snarling and displaying his sharp white teeth with a determined hostility that abundantly proved how little he was accustomed to society. At the moment, a heavy footstep was heard descending the wooden staircase that led from the upper floor and, with many bows and courteous smiles, the host of the Pundugard besought his guest to enter. "You are welcome, sir. Most welcome," repeated the astonished Katharussa. "Now, then Magotan, cried he, speaking to the dog. Will you be quiet? Pray don't heat him, sir. He only barks, he never bites. I make no doubt a glass of good wine would be aceptible this jackfully hot day." Then, perceiving for the first time the garb of the traveler he had to entertain, Katharussa hastily exclaimed, "A thousand pardons! I really did not observe whom I had honoured to receive under my poor roof. What would the Abbe pleased to have? What refreshment can I offer? All I have is at his service." The priest gazed on the person addressing him with a long and searching gaze. There even seemed a disposition on his part to court a similar scrutiny on the part of the innkeeper, then observing in accountants of the latter no other expression than extreme surprise at his own wants of attention to an inquiry so courteously worded he deemed it as well to terminate this dumb show, and therefore said, speaking with a strong Italian accent, "You are, I presume, Mr. Katharussa." "Yes, sir," answered the host, even more surprised at the question than he had been by the silence which had preceded it. "I am Gaspard Katharussa, at your service." "Gaspard Katharussa," rejoined the priest. "Yes, Christian and surname are the same. You formerly lived, I believe, in the Alle de Mayo on the fourth floor." "I did." "And you followed the business of a tailor." "True," I was a tailor, till the trade fell off. It is so hot, I must say, that really I believe that the respectable inhabitants will in time go without any clothing, whatever, but talking of heat is that nothing I can offer you by way of refreshment. Yes, let me have a bottle of your best wine, and then, with your permission, we will resume our conversation from where we left off. "As you please, sir," said Katharussa, who anxious not to lose the present opportunity of finding a customer for one of the few bottles of carol still remaining in his possession, hastily raised a trapdoor in the floor of the apartment they were in, which served both as pag and kitchen. Upon issuing forth from his subterranean retreat at the expiration of five minutes, he found the abbe seated upon a wooden stool, leaning his elbow on a table, while Makotan, whose animosity seemed appeased by the unusual command of the traveler for refreshments, had crept up to him and had established himself very comfortably between his knees, his long, skinny neck resting on his lap, while his demise was fixed earnestly on the traveler's face. "Now you're quite alone," inquired the guest, "as Katharussa plays before him to bottle of wine in the glass." "Quite, quite alone," replied the man, "or at least, practically so, for my poor wife, who is the only person in the house besides myself, is laid up with illness, and unable to render me the least-assistance, poor thing. You are married, then," said the priest, with a show of interest, glancing round as he spoke at the scanty furnishings of the apartment. "Ah, sir," said Katharussa, with a sigh, "it is easy to receive I am not a rich man, but in this world a man does not thrive the better for being honest. The abbe fixed on him is searching, penetrating glance. Yes, honest. I can certainly say that much for myself," continued the innkeeper, fairly sustaining the scrutiny of the abbe's gaze. "I can boast with truth of being an honest man, and," continued he significantly, with a hand on his breast and shaking his head, "that is more than everyone can say nowadays." "So much the better for you, if what you assert be true," said the abbe. "For I am firmly persuaded that, sooner or later, the good will be rewarded and wicked punished." "Such words as those belong to your profession," answered Katharussa, "and you do well to repeat them, but," added he, with a bitter expression of countenance, "one is free to believe them or not," as one pleases. "You are wrong to speak thus," said the abbe, "and perhaps I may, in my own person, be able to prove to you how completely you are in error. What mean you?" inquired Katharussa with a look of surprise. "In the first place, I must be satisfied that you are the person I am in search of. What proofs do you require? Did you, in the year 1814 or 1815, know anything of a young sailor named Dante's?" "Dante's? Did I know poor dear Edmund? Why, Edmund Dante's and myself were intimate friends," exclaimed Katharussa, whose countenance flushed darkly as he caught the penetrating gaze of the abbe fixed on him, while the clear-come eye of the questioner seemed to dilate with feverish scrutiny. "You remind me," said the priest, "and that the young man concerning whom I asked you was set to bear the name of Edmund." "Set to bear the name," repeated Katharussa, becoming excited and eager. "Why, he was so called as truly as I, my self-board appellation of Gaspar Katharussa. But tell me, I pray, what has become of poor Edmund? Did you know him? Is he alive and at liberty? Is he prosperous and happy?" He died a more wretched, hopeless, heart-broken prisoner than the felons who paid the penalty of their primes at the galleys of Tulum. The deadly parlour followed the flush on the countenance of Katharussa, who turned away, and the priest saw him wiping the tears from his eyes from the corner of the red handkerchief twisted round his head. "Poor fellow, poor fellow," remembered Katharussa. "Well, there, sir, is another proof that good people are never rewarded on this earth, and that none but the wicked prosper." "Ah," continued Katharussa, speaking in the highly-coloured language of the South, "the well-brows worse and worse. Why does not God, if he really hates the wicked, as he is set to do, sent down brimstone and fire, and consumed them altogether?" "You speak as though you had loved his young doctors," observed the abbey, "without taking any notice of his companion's feelings." "And so I did," replied Katharussa. "Though once I confess, I envied him his good fortune, but I swear to you, sir, I swear to you, by everything a man holds dear, I have since then deeply and sincerely lamented his unhappy fate. There was a brief silence, during which the fixed searching eye of the abbey was employed in scrutinising the agitated features of the innkeeper. You knew the poor lad then," continued Katharussa. "I was called to see him on his dying bed, that I might administer to him the constellations of religion." "And what did he die?" asked Katharussa in a choking voice. "But what, thank you, do young and strong men die in prison, when they have scarcely numbered their thirtieth year unless it be of imprisonment?" Katharussa wiped away the way the large beads of perspiration that gathered on his brow. "But the strangest part of the story is," resumed the abbey, "that don't test, even in his dying moments, swore by his crucified redeemer, that he was utterly ignorant of the cause of his detention." "And so he was," murmured Katharussa. "How should he have been otherwise?" "Ah, sir," the poor fellow told you the truth. "And for that reason he besought me to try and clear up a mystery he had never been able to penetrate, and to clear his memory should any foul spot or stain have fallen on it. And here the look of the abbey, becoming more and more fixed, seemed to rest with ill-concealed satisfaction on the gloomy depression which was rapidly spreading over the countenance of Katharussa. A rich Englishman continued the abbey, who had been his companion in misfortune, but had been released from prison during the second restoration was possessed of a diamond of immense value. This jewel he bestowed on Dontes upon himself quitting the prison, as a mark of his gratitude for the kindness and brotherly care with which Dontes had nursed him in his severe illness he underwent during his confinement. Instead of employing this diamond in attempting to bribe his jailers, who might only have taken it and then betrayed him to the governor, Dontes carefully preserved it, that in the event of his getting out of prison he might have werefull to live, for the sale of such a diamond would have quite survived to make his fortune. Then I suppose, ask Katharussa with eager glowing looks, that it was a stone of immense value? Why? Everything is relative," answered the abbey, to one in Edmond's position the diamond certainly was of great value. It was estimated at 50,000 francs. "Bless me!" exclaimed Katharussa. "50,000 francs? Surely the diamond was as large as a nut to be with all that?" "No," replied the abbey. "It was not of such a size as that, but you shall judge for yourself. I have it with me." The sharp gaze of Katharussa was instantly directed towards the priest's garments, as though hoping to discover the location of the treasure. calmly drawing forth from his pocket a small box covered with black chagrin, the abbey opened it, and displayed to the dazzled eyes of Katharussa the sparkling jewel it contained set in the ring of admirable weaponship. "And that diamond," cried Katharussa, "almost breathless with eager admiration. You say it's worth 50,000 francs?" "It is, without a setting which is also valuable," replied the abbey, as he closed the box, and returned it to his pocket. While its brilliant hues seemed still to dance before the eyes of the fascinated innkeeper. But how comes the diamond in your procession, sir? Did Edmond make you his heir? No, merely his testamentary executor. "I once possessed four dear and faithful friends, besides the maiden to whom I was betrot," he said, "and I feel convinced they have all unfangly grieved over my loss. The name of one of the four friends is Katharussa," the innkeeper shivered. Another of the number continued the abbey, without seeming to notice the emotion of Katharussa is called dangless. And the third, inside of being my rifle, entertained a very sincere affection for me. A fiendish smile played over the features of Katharussa, who was about to break in upon the abbey's speech, when the latter waving his hand said, "Allow me to finish first, and then if you have any observations to make, you can do so afterwards." The third of my friends, although my rifle, was much attached to me. His name was fed, that of my betrothed worth. "Stay, stay, continue the abbey. I have forgotten what he called it." "Messiness," said Katharussa, "idly, sure," said the abbey, with a stifle of sight. "Messiness" in words. "Go on," urged Katharussa. "Bring me a car or water," said the abbey. Katharussa quickly performed a stranger's spirit, and after pouring some into a glass, and slowly swallowing its contents, the abbey, resuming his usual placidity of manner, said as he placed his empty glass on the table. "When did we leave off?" The name of Atman's betrothed worth messages. "To be sure, you will go to Marseille," said doctors. "For you understand, I repeat his words just as he uttered them. Do you understand? Perfectly, you will sell this diet. You will defy the money into five equal parts, and give an equal portion to these good friends, the only persons who have loved me upon her." The "Why into five parts?" asked Katharussa. "You only mentioned four persons, because the fifth is dead, as I hear. The fifth shearer in Atman's bequest was his own father." "Tutu, tutu, reject the later Katharussa, almost suffocated by the contending passions which has saved him. The poor old man did die." "I learned so much, and Marseille," replied the abbey, making a strong effort to appear indifferent. "But from the length of time that has elapsed sends the death of the elder Dantes, I was unable to obtain any particulars of his end. Can you enlighten me on that point?" "I do not know who could, if I could not," said Katharussa. "Why, I lived almost on the same floor with the poor old man. Ah, yes. About a year out of the disappearance of his son, the poor old man died. And what did he die? Why? The doctors called his complained gastroenteritis, I believe. His acquaintances say he died of grief, but I, who saw him in his dying moments, I say he died of Katharussa post. "And what?" asked the priest, anxiously and eagerly. "Why, of downright starvation!" "Starvation!" exclaimed the abbey, springing from his seat. "Why, the filest animals are not subject to die by such a death as that. The very dorks that wander houseless and homeless in the streets find some pitying hand to cast him 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 Katharussa. "And you are a fool for having said anything about it," said the 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 Caconté, 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 or knees, she had listened to the foregoing conversation. "Mind your own business wife," replied Katharussa sharply. "This gentleman asked me for information, which common politeness will not permit me to review." "Pilliteness, you simpleton," retorted La Caconté. "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 abbey. "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 women. "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 be whole trouble and misery, and all sorts of persecutions are heaped on the unfortunate riches, 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 before you, they will not be occasioned by my instrumentality. That I solemnly promise you." La Caconté murmured a few inarticulate words, then let her head again drop upon her knees, and went into a fit of argue, leaving the two speakers to resume the conversation, but remaining so as to be able to hear every word they uttered. Again, the abbey had been obliged to swallow a draft of water to calm the emotions that threaten 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 everyone. Surely, he had not such been the case. He would not have perished by so dreadful a death." "Why, he was not altogether forsaken," continued Catarusa, "for massy dares to cattle in and more so morale were very kind to him, but somehow the poor old man had contracted a profound hatred for Vernon, the very person, added Catarusa with a bitter smile, that you named just now as being one of Dante's faithful and attached friends." "And was he not so?" asked the abbey. "Guess bar, guess bar," murmured the woman, "from his seat on the stairs, mine what you are saying." Catarusa made no reply to these words, though evidently irritated and annoyed by the interruption, but, addressing the abbey, said, "Can a man be faithful to another whose wife he covets and desires for himself? But Dante's was so honorable and true in his own nature that he believed everybody's professions of friendship. Poor Edmund, he was cruelly deceived, but he 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 Catarusa in his native language, which was not altogether devoid of rude poetry, I cannot help being more frightened at the idea of the maldiction of the dead than the hatred of the living." Imbecile exclaimed Laca Conte, "Do you then know in what manner Vernon injured Dante's inquired the abbey of Catarusa? Do I know what better? Speak out then, say what it was." "Guess bar," cried Laca Conte, "do as you will, you are master, but if you take my advice, you hold your tongue." "Well wife," replied Catarusa, "I don't know, but what you're right." "So you say nothing," asked the abbey. "Why, what good would it do?" asked Catarusa. "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 ask him. 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 within." "You prefer that," said the abbey. "Then I should bestow on men you say our false and treacherous, the reward intended for faithful friendship." "That is true enough," returned Catarusa. "You say truly, the gift of poor Edmond was not meant for such traitors as Vernon and Dangles. Besides, what would it be to them, no more than a drop of water in the ocean?" "Remember," chimed in Laca Conte. "Those two could crush you at a single blow. How so?" inquired the abbey. "Are these persons then so rich and powerful? Do not know their history. I do not. Pray related to me." Catarusa seemed to reflect for a few moments, then said, "No, truly. It would take up too much time. Well, my good friend," returned the abbey, in a term that indicated utter indifference on his part. "You are at liberty, either to speak or be silent. Just as you please, from my own part, I respect your scrapals and admire your sentiments. So let the matter end. I shall do my duties as conscientiously as I can, and fulfill my promise to the dying man. My first business will be the dispose of this diamond." So, saying, the abbey 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 Catarusa. "Wife, wife!" cried he in a horse voice. "Come in." "Diamond!" exclaimed Lacaconté, rising and descending to the chamber with a terribly firm step. "What diamond are you talking about?" "Why? Did you not hear what we said?" inquired Catarusa. "It is a beautiful diamond left by poor Edmund Dontes, to be sold, and the money to fight it between his father, Mercedes, his betrothed bride, Vernon, Danglos, and myself. The jewel is worth at least 50,000 francs." "Oh, what a magnificent jewel!" cried the astonished woman. "The fifth part of the prophets from this stone belongs to us, then, does it not?" asked Catarusa. "It does," replied the abbey, "with the addition of an equal division of that part intended for the elder Dontes, which I believe myself at liberty to divide equally with the four survivors." And why among us four inquired Catarusa, as being the friends Edmund 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 Catarusa 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 provenation to reward treachery, perhaps crying." "Remember," answered the abbey calmly, as he replaced the jewel and its case in the pocket of his castle. "It is your fault, not mine, that I do so. You will have the goodness to furnish me with the address of both Vernon and Dangus, in order that I may execute Edmund's last wishes." The agitation of Catarusa became extreme, and large drops of perspiration rolled from his heated brow, as he saw the abbey rise from his seat and go towards the door, as though to a certain of his horse was sufficiently refreshed to continue his journey. Catarusa and his wife exchanged looks of deep meaning. "There, you see, wife," said the former. "This blended 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 Le Coconté. "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 confused 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. "Gaspa, consider well what you are about to do. I have both reflected and decided," answered he. Le Coconté then entered her chamber, the flooring of which creek beneath her heavy and certain tread, as she proceeded towards her armchair, into which she fell as though exhausted. "Well," asked the abbey, as he returned to the apartment below, "what have you made up your mind to do?" "To tell you all I know," was replied. "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 test-tater. Why, so much the better, that is all." "I hope it may be so," replied Coderusa, his face flushed with cupidity. "I am all attention," said the abbey. "Stop a minute," answered Coderusa. "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 braver precaution, vaulted and barded, as he was accustomed to do at night." During this time, the abbey had chosen his place for listening at his ease. He removed his seat into the 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 in Penn's class, or rather clenched together, he prepared to give his whole attention to Coderusa, receded himself on a little stool, exactly opposite to him. "Remember, this is no a fair mind," said the trembling voice of La Conte, as though, through the flooring of a chamber, she feared a scene that was enacting below. "Enough, enough," replied Coderusa. "Say no more about it. I will take bold at consequences upon myself," and began his story. Infective. Infective. Now, insulting, abusive, or highly critical language. Supercate. Supercate. Now, a person's nickname. Appolation. Appolation. Now, in name or title. Euphonius. Euphonius. Additive, of sound, especially speech, pleasing to the ear. Gastroenteritis. Gastroenteritis. Now, inflammation of a stomach and intestines, typically resulting from bacterial toxins or fire infection and causing fomiting in diarrhea. Sacrilegious. Sacrilegious. Additive. Involving or committing sacrilege. The Count of Monte Cristo. By Alexander Dumas. Volume 1, Chapter 27. The Story. "First," said Coderusa, "you must make me a promise. What is that?" inquired the Abbey. "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 gloves." "Make yourself easy, my friend," replied the Abbey. "I am a priest, and confessions die in my breast. Recollect. Our own 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 conflict, which I have only quitted to fulfill the last wishes of a dying man." This positive assurance seemed to give Coderusa little courage. "Well, then, under these circumstances," said Coderusa. "I will. I even believe I ought to, and deceive you, as to the friendship which poor Edmund thought so sincere and unquestionable. Begin with his father, if you please," said the Abbey. Edmund talked to me a great deal about the old man for whom he had the deepest love. "The story is a sad one, sir," said Coderusa, shaking his head. "Perhaps you know all the earlier part of it?" "Yes," answered the Abbey. Edmund related to me everything until the moment when he was arrested in a small cabaret close to Masset. "At La Recerve. 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. The police commissary, followed by four soldiers, entered, and Dante's, was arrested. "Yes, and up to this point I know all," said the priest. Dante's 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 Dante's was arrested, more Sir Morrell 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 bet at all. Ry 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 Masset came to implore the protection of Moser the Fieldfall. She did not obtain it, however, and went to visit the old man. When she saw him so miserable and heartbroken, having passed a steepness 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 Masset there should persuade the old man to accompany her, for his footsteps over my head night and day did not leave me in moments repose. "But it should not go upstairs and try to console the poor old man," asked the Abbey. "Ah," replied Kedruza, "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 store 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 cantor, and hate the Jesuits, set 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 fill myself into the sea at once, for I could not bear it." "Oh, Father," murmured the priest. "From day to day he lived on alone, and more and more solitary. Musu Marau and Masset desu 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 messages, and if all girl, in spite of her own grief and despair, endeavored to console him, he said to her, "Be assured, my dear daughter," he used it, 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 song. They make one met in time, and so, at the last, oh, Dante is supposed to let all to himself, and I only saw from time to time strangers grow up to him and come down again with some bundle to try to hide. But I guess what these bundles were, in that he sold by degrees that he had to pay for his subsistence. Ed Lang, 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 noticed, because Lang not came to my apartment when he left his. For the first three days, I heard him walking about as usual. But, on the fourth, 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 Mr. Morel and then ran on to messiness. They both came immediately. Mr. Morel bringing a doctor, and the doctor said it was information of the vowels, 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 no excuse for not eating anymore. The doctor had put him on a diet. The abbey added a kind of brom. The story interests you. Does it not, sir? In quiet catarissa. Yes, reply the abbey. It is very affecting. Messiness came again, and she found him so altered that she was even more anxious than before to have him taken to her own home. This was Mr. Morel's wish also. Who would feign have conveyed the old man against his consent, but the old man resisted, and cried so that they were actually frightened. Messiness remained, therefore, by his bedside, and Mr. Morel went away, making a sign to the Catalan that he had left his purse on a chimney-piece. But, availing himself with doctor's order, the old man would not take any sustenance. At length, the old man died, cursing those who had caused his misery, and saying to Messiness, "If you ever see my admin again, tell him I died blessing him." The abbey rose from his chair, made two turns round the chamber, impressed his trembling hand against his parched throat, and you believe he died. "Of hunger, sir, of hunger," said catarissa. "I am as certain of it as that we too are Christians." The abbey, with his shaking hand, seized a glass of water that was standing by him half full, swallowed it at one gulp, and then resumed his seat with red eyes and pale cheeks. "This was, indeed, a horrid event," said he in a horse voice. "The more so, sir, as it was men's and not gods doing." "Tell me of those men," said the abbey. "And remember, too," he added, in an almost menacing tone. "You have promised to tell me everything. Tell me, therefore, who are these men who killed the son with despair and the father with famine?" Two men jealous of him, sir, one from love and the other from ambition, Vernon and Dangless. How was this jealousy manifested, speaker? They denounced admin as a Bonaparte's agent. Which of the two denounced him? Which was the real delinquent? Both, sir, one with the letter and the other put it in the post. And where was this letter written? Edlai said, the day before the betroful feast. "Twas so, then." "Twas so, then," murmured the abbey. "Oh, fiery and fiery. How well did you judge men and things?" "What did you please to say, sir?" asked Edlai. "Nothing, nothing," replied the fixed, goal. It was Dangless who wrote the denunciation of his left hand. That was writing might not be recognized, and Vernon who put it in the post. "But!" exclaimed the abbey suddenly. "You were there yourself." "I," said Kedaroosa, astonished. "Who told you I was there?" The abbey saw he had overshot the mark, and he added quickly, "No one. But in order to have known everything so well, you must have been an eyewitness." "True, true," said Kedaroosa in the choking voice. "I was there." "And did you not ramen straight against such infamy?" asked the abbey. "If not, you were an accomplice." "Sir," replied Kedaroosa. "They had made me drink to such an excess that I nearly lost all perception. I had only an indistinct understanding of what was passing around me. I said all that a man in such a state could say, but they both assured me that it was suggest they were carrying on, and perfectly harmless." "Next day, next day, sir, you must have seen plain of what they had been doing. Yet you said nothing, though you were present when Dante's was arrested." "Yes, I was there, and very anxious to speak, but dangless restrain me. If he should really be guilty," said he, "and did really put into the island of Elva, if he is really charged for the letter for the Bonaparte's comedy at Paris, and if they find this letter upon him, those who have supported him will pass for his accomplices. I confess I had my fears in the state in which politics then were, and I held my tongue. It was cowardly, I confess, but it was not criminal." "I understand. You allowed matters to take their cause. That was all. Yes, sir," answered Kedaroosa, "and remorse prays on me night and day. I often ask pardon of God. I swear to you, because his action, the only one with which I have seriously to reproach myself in all my life, is no doubt the cause of my abject condition. I am expiating a moment of selfishness, and so I always say to Luca Conte. When she complains, "Hold your tongue, woman. It is the will of God," and Kedaroosa bowed his head with every sign of real repentance." "Well, sir," said the Abbey, "you have spoken and reserved me, and thus to accuse yourself is to deserve pardon. Unfortunately, admin is dead, and has not pardoned me. He did not know," said the Abbey, "but he knows it all now," interrupted Kedaroosa. They say the dead know everything. There was a brief silence. The Abbey rose and paced up and down constantly, and then resumed his seat. "You have two or three times mentioned a monsoon morale," he said. "Who was he? The owner of the Pharone and patron of doctors, and what part did he play in this sad drama?" inquired the Abbey. The part of an honest man, full of courage and real regard, twenty times he interceded for admin. When the Emperor returned, he wrote, implored, threatened, and so energetically, that on the second restoration he was persecuted as a Bonapartist. Ten times, I told you, he came to see Dante's father, and offered to receive him in his own house. And the night or two before his death, as I have already said, he left his purse on the mental piece, with which they paid the old man's debts, and buried him decently. And so, Edmond's father died, as he had lived, without doing harm to anyone. I have the purse still by me, a large one made of red silk. And, asked the Abbey, "Is Muslim morale still alive?" "Yes," replied Kedaroosa. "In that case," replied the Abbey, "he should be a man blessed of God which happy." Kedaroosa smiled bitterly. "Yes, happy as myself," said he. "What, Muslim morale unhappy?" exclaimed the Abbey. "He is reduced almost to the last extremity. Nay, he is almost at the point of dishonor." "How?" "Yes," continued Kedaroosa, so it is. After five and twenty years of labor, after having acquired a most honorable name in the trade of Marseille, Muslim morale is utterly rude. He has lost five ships in two years, has suffered by the bankruptcy of three large houses, and his only hope now is in that very faron which poor Dante has commanded, and which is expected from the Indies, with a cargo of cochineal and indigo. If this ship found us, like the others, he is a ruined man, and has the unfortunate man wife or children in quite the Abbey. Yes, he has a wife, who through everything has behaved like an angel. He has a daughter, who was about to marry the man she loved, but whose family now will not allow him to wet the daughter of a ruined man. He has, besides, a son. Lieutenant in the Army, and as you may suppose, all this, instead of lessening, only of men's his sorrows. If he were alone in the world, he would blow out his brains, and there would be an end. Horrible, ejaculated the priest, and it is thus heaven recompenses virtuosa, added cadruosa. You see, I, who never did a bad action but that I have told you of, am in destitution, with my poor wife dying of fever before my very eyes, and I am unable to do anything in the way of for her. I shall die of hunger, as O'Donne has did, while Vernon and Danglers are rolling in wealth. How is that? Because their deeds have brought them good fortune, while honest men have been reduced to misery. What has become of Danglers, the instigator, and therefore the most guilty? What has become of him? Why? He left Marseille, and was taken on the recommendation of Mosiberl, who did not know his crime, as cashier into the Spanish bank. During the war with Spain, he was employed in the commissariat of the French Army, and made a fortune. Then, with that money, he speculated in the funds, and traveled and quadrupled his capital. And, having first married his fancest daughter, who left him a widower, he has married a second time, a widow, and Madame de Nagon, daughter of Massoudes Sevier, the king's chamberman, who is in high favor at court. He is a millionaire, and they have made him with Baron, and now he is the Baron Danglers, with refined restons in the coup de Montblanc, with ten horses and staples, six footmen in his any chamber, and I know not how many millions in his strong books. "Ah," said the early, in the peculiar tone, "he is happy." "Happy?" "Who can answer for that? Happiness or unhappiness is a secret known but to oneself and the walls. Walls have ears but no tongue, but if a large fortune produces happiness, Danglers is happy." And Vernon? Vernon? Why? Much the same story. But how could a poor cattle than fishaboy without educational resources make a fortune? I confess to stag as me, and it has staggered everybody. There must have been in his life some strange secret that no one knows. But then, by what visible steps has he attained this high fortune or high position? Both, sir, he has both fortune and position. Both. This must be impossible. It would seem so, but listen, and you won't listen. Some days before the return of the Emperor, Vernon was drafted. The Bourbons left him quietly enough at the Catlins, but Napoleon returned. A special labby was made, and Vernon was compelled to join. I went too, but as I was older than Vernon, and had just married my poor wife, I was only sent to the coast. Vernon was enrolled in the active army, went to the frontier with his regiment, and was at the Battle of Ligny. The night after that battle, he was sentry at the door of a General who carried on his secret correspondence with the enemy. That same night the General was to go over to the English. He proposed to Vernon to accompany him. Vernon agreed to do so, deserted his post, and followed the General. Vernon would have been cut marshaled if Napoleon had remained on the throne, but his action was rewarded by the Bourbons. He returned to France with the appullet of Sub-Lutenant, and asked the protection of the General, who is in the highest favour, was accorded to him. He was a captain in 1823, during the Spanish war, that is to say, at the time when Dangliss made his early speculations. Vernon was a Spaniard, and being sent to Spain to a certain the feeling of his fellow countrymen, found Dangliss there, gone on very intimate terms of him, won over the support of the royalists at the capital and in the provinces, received promises and made pledges on his own part, guided his regiment by paths known to himself alone through the mountain gorges which were held by the royalists, and in fact, rendered such services in this brief campaign that, after the taking of Trucadero, he was made Colonel, and received the title of Count and the cross-urban officer of the Legion of Honour. Destiny, destiny, murmured the Abbey. Yes, but listen, this was on all, the war with Spain being ended. Vernon's career was checked by the long peace which seemed likely to endure throughout Europe. Greece only had risen against Turkey, and had begun her war of independence. All eyes were turned towards Athens. It was the fashion to pity and support to Greece. The French government, without protecting them openly, as you know, gave countenance to volunteer assistance. Vernon sought and obtained leave to go and serving Greece, still having his name kept on the army row. Some time after, it was stated that Comte de Mosaire had entered the service of Ali Pashaan with the rank of instructor general. Ali Pashaan was killed, as you know, but before he died he recompensed the services of Vernon by leaving him a considerable sum, with which he returned to France when he was gazetered the lieutenant general, so that now, inquired the Abbey, so that now, continued Catarusa, he owns a magnificent house, number 27, Houdh Elder Paris. The Abbey opened his mouth, has stated for a moment, then making an effort at self-control, he said, and messied his. "They tell me that she has disappeared." "Disappeared," said Catarusa. "Yes, as the sun disappears, to rise the next day with still more splendor. Has she made a fortune also?" inquired the Abbey, with an ironical smile. "Messiedence is at this moment one of the greatest ladies in Paris," replied Catarusa. "Go on," said the Abbey. "It seems as if I were listening to the story of a dream, but I have seen things so extraordinary that what you tell me seems less astonishing than it otherwise might." "Messiedence was, at first, in the deepest despair at the below which deprived her of ever. I have told you of her attempts to propitiate, must hear the feelful, her devotion to the elder Dante's. In the midst of her despair, a new affliction of her took her. This was the departure of Fernand, of Fernand, whose crimes she did not know, and whom she regarded as her brother. Fernand went and messied as remained alone. Three months passed and still she went. No news of Edmund, no news of Fernand, no companionship saved that of an old man who was dying of despair. One evening, after a day of a custom vigil at the angle of two roads leading to Marseille from the Catholics, she returned to her home more depressed than ever. Suddenly she heard a step she knew, turned anxiously around, the door opened, and Fernand, dressed in the uniform of a subtlet tenant, stood before her. It was not the one she wished for most, but it seemed as if a part of her past life had returned. Messied as seized Fernand's hands, it would transport which he took for love, but which was only joy at being no longer alone in the world, and seeing it last a friend, after long hours of solitary sorrow. And then, it must be confessed, Fernand had never been hated. He was only not precisely loved. Another possessed all Messied as heart, that other was absent, had disappeared, perhaps was dead. At this last thought, Messied as burst into a flood of tears, and wrung her hands in agony. But the thought, which she had always repelled before when he was suggested to her by another, came now in full force upon her mind, and then too, old Dontes incessantly said to her, "Our admin is dead. If he were not, he would return to us." The old man died, as I have told you, had he lived, Messied as Pachan's had not become the wife of another, for he would have been there to reproach her infidelity. Vernon saw this, and when he learned of the old man's death, he returned. He was now a detention, and his first coming he had not said a word of love to Messied as, and the second reminded her that he loved her. Messied as Pachan's back for six months more in which to await and mourn for admin. Sonat, said the Abbey, with a bitter smile. That makes eighteen months in all. What more could the most devoted lover desire? Then he murmured the words of the English poet. Vrailty, thy name is woman. Six months afterwards continued Katharussa. The marriage took place in the Church of Akhud. The very Church in which she was to have married admin, married the priest. There was only a change of bright rooms. Well, Messied as was married, preceded Katharussa. But although in the eyes of the world she appeared calm, she nearly fainted as she passed Lahessev. Where eighteen months before, the betrothal had been celebrated with him whom she might have known she still loved, had she looked to the bottom of her heart. Vernon, more happy, but not more at his ease. For I saw at this time he was in constant dread of admin's return. Vernon was very anxious to get his wife away and to depart himself. There were too many unpleasant possibilities associated with the Catholics, and eight days after the wedding they left Marseilles. Did she ever see Messied as again, inquired the priest? Yes, during the Spanish war, a Pepignon, where Vernon had left her. She was attending to the education of her son. The Abbe started. Her son, said he. Yes, replied Katharussa. Little Albert. But then, to be able to instruct her child, continued the Abbe, she must have received an education herself. I understood from admin that she was the daughter of a simple fisherman. Beautiful, but uneducated. Oh, replied Katharussa. Did he know so little of his lovely betrothed? Messied as might have been a queen, sir. If the crown were to be placed on the heads of the loveliest and most intelligent. Vernon's fortune was already waxing great, and she developed with his growing fortune. She learned drawing, music, everything. Besides, I believe, between ourselves, she did this in order to distract her mind that she might forget, and she only filled her head in order to alleviate the weight on her heart. But now her position in life is assured, continued Katharussa. No doubt fortune and oneness have comfort with her. She is rich, accountous, and yet, Katharussa paused. "And yet what?" asked the Abbe. "Yet I'm sure she's not happy," said Katharussa. "What makes you believe this? Why, when I found myself utterly destitute, I thought my old friends would perhaps assist me. So I went to Dangus, who would not even receive me. I called on Vernon, who sent me a hundred friends by his valet de chomp. Then you did not see either of them. No, but madam de mocer saw me. How was that? As I went away, a purse fell in my feet. It contained five and twenty Louis. I raced my head quickly, and saw messages, who had once shut the blind. And must still to feel full?" asked the Abbe. "Oh, he never was a friend of mine. I did not know him, and I had nothing to ask of him. Do you not know what became of him, and the share he had in Edmond's best fortunes? No, I only know that some time after Edmond's arrest he married madam mocer de sawn mechre, and soon after left Marseille. No doubt he has been as lucky as the rest. No doubt he's as rich as Dangus, as high in station as vernet. I only, as you see, have remained poor, wretched, and forgotten. "You are mistaken, my friend," replied the Abbe. "God may seem sometimes to forget for a time, while his justice reposes, but there always comes a moment when he remembers, and behold, approved." As he spoke, the Abbe took the diamond from his pocket, and giving it to Katarusa said, "He, my friend, take this diamond. It is yours." "What, for me only?" cried Katarusa. "Ah, sir, do not jazz with me." This diamond must have been shared among his friends. Edmond had one friend only, and thus it cannot be defied. "Take the diamond, then, and sell it. It is worth 50,000 francs, and I repeat my wish that this sum may suffice to release you from the wretchedness." "Oh, sir," said Katarusa, putting out one hand timidly, and with the other wiping away the perspiration which bedued his brow. "Oh, sir, do not make it just of the happiness or despair of a man. I know what happiness and what despair are, and I never make a jest of such feelings. Take it, then, but in exchange." Katarusa, who touched the diamond with Drewie's hand, the Abbe's smile. In exchange, he continued, "Give me the red silk purse that Musu Morale left on old Dante's chimneypiece, and which you tell me is still in your hands." Katarusa, more and more astonished, went toward a large open cupboard, opened it, and gave the Abbe long purse of faded red silk, round which were two copper runners that had once been gilt. The Abbe took it, and in return gave Katarusa the diamond. "Oh, you are a man of God, sir," cried Katarusa. "For no one knew that Edmond had given you this diamond, and you might have kept it. Which said the Abbe to himself? You would have done. The Abbe rose, took his hat and gloves." "Well," he said, "all you have told me is perfectly true, then, and I may believe it in every particular." "See, sir," replied Katarusa. "In this corner is a crucifix in Hollywood. Here on this show is my wife's testament. Open this book, and I will swear upon it with my hand on the crucifix, I will swear to you by my soul's salvation, my faith as a Christian. I have told everything to you as it occurred, and as the recording angel would tell it to the ear of God at the day of last judgment." "Tiswell," said the Abbe, "convinced my His manner in terms that Katarusa spoke truth. Tiswell, and made this money profit you. Adi, I go far from men who thus so bitterly endured each other. The Abbe with difficulty got away from the enthusiastic thanks of Katarusa. Open the door himself, got out and mounted his horse, once more saluted the innkeeper, who kept uttering his loud farewells, and then returned by the road he had travelled in company. When Katarusa turned around, he saw behind him like a court, payer and trembling more than ever. "It's then all that I have heard really true," she inquired, "what? That he has given a diamond to us only, in quiet Katarusa, how bewildered with joy. Yes, nothing more true. See, here it is." The woman gazed at it a moment, and then said, "In a gloomy force, suppose it's false, Katarusa started in turn pain. False, he muttered. False. Why should that man give me a false style? To get a secret without paying for it, you blockhead, Katarusa remained for a moment of guard, under the weight of such an idea. "Oh," he said, taking up his head, which he placed on the red handkerchief tied around his head, we will soon find out. In what way? Why? The fair is on it, but can't. There are always jewelers from Paris there, and I will show it to them. Look after the housewife, and I shall be back in two hours. Katarusa left the house in haste, and ran rapidly in the direction opposite to that which the priests have taken. 50,000 frames, muttered like a cocktail and left around. It is a large sum of money, but it is not a fortune. Cochineal. Cochineal? No. Iskallot dye used for coloring food made from the crushed dried bodies of a female-scaled insect. Propitiate. Propitiate. The "win or regained of favor of a God-spirit of person by doing something that pleases them."
