# The Count of Monte-Cristo/Volume 1/Chapter 26

Contents
CHAPTER XXVI
THE AUBERGE OF PONT DU GARD
UCH of my readers as have made a pedestrian excursion to the south of France may perchance have noticed, midway between the town of Beaucaire and the village of Bellegarde, a small roadside inn, from the front of which hung, creaking and flapping in the wind, a sheet of tin covered with a caricature resemblance of the Pont du Gard. This little inn stood on the left-hand side of the grand route, turning its back on the Rhone. It also boasted of what in Languedoc is styled a garden, consisting of a small plot of ground, a full view of which might be obtained from a door immediately opposite the grand portal by which travelers were ushered in. In this garden the few dingy olives and stunted fig-trees spread their dusty foliage. Between them grew a scanty supply of garlic, tomatoes, and schalots; while, like a forgotten sentinel, a tall pine raised its melancholy head in one of the corners, while its head, spreading out like a fan, was burned by the scorching sun of thirty degrees.
Al these trees, great or small, were turned in the direction to which the Mistral blows, one of the three curses of Provence, the others being the Durance and the Parliament.
In the surrounding plain, which resembled a dusty lake, were scattered a few stalks of wheat, raised, no doubt, out of curiosity by the agriculturists, serving each one as a perch for a grasshopper, who follows, with his shrill, monotonous cry the travelers lost in the desert.
For nearly the last eight years the small auberge had been kept by a man and his wife, with two servants; one, answering to the name of Trinette, was the chambermaid, while the other, named Pecaud, was the stableman. This staff was quite large enough, for a canal recently made between Beauclaire and Aiguemortes superseded the heavy wagons by the towed barge, and the diligence by the packet-boat. And, as ​though to add to the daily misery which this prosperous canal inflicted on the unfortunate aubergiste, whose utter ruin it was fast accomplishing, it was situated not a hundred steps from the forsaken inn, of which we have given so faithful a description.
The aubergiste himself was a man of from forty to fifty-five years of age, tall, strong, and bony, a perfect specimen of the natives of those southern latitudes. He had the dark, sparkling, and deep-set eye, curved nose, and teeth white as those of a carnivorous animal; his hair, which, spite of the light touch time had as yet left on it, seemed as though it refused to assume any other color than its own, was like his beard, which he wore under his chin, thick and curly, and but slightly mingled with a few silvery threads. His naturally dark complexion had assumed a still further shade of brown from the habit the unfortunate man had acquired of stationing himself from morn till eve at the threshold of his door, in eager hope that some traveler, either equestrian or pedestrian, might bless his eyes; but his expectations were useless. Yet there he stood, day after day, exposed to the rays of the sun, with no other protection for his head than a red handkerchief twisted around it, after the manner of the Spanish muleteers. This aubergiste was our old acquaintance Caderousse.
His wife, on the contrary, whose maiden name had been Madeleine Radelle, was pale, meagre, and sickly-looking. Born in the neighbor hood of Arles, she had shared in the beauty for which its females are proverbial; but that beauty had gradually withered beneath the influence of one of those slow fevers so prevalent in the vicinity of the waters of the Aiguemortes and the marshes of Cainargue. She remained nearly always sitting shivering in her chamber, situated on the first floor; either lolling in her chair, or extended on her bed, while her husband kept his daily watch at the door—a duty he performed with so much greater willingness, since his helpmate never saw him without breaking out into bitter invectives against her lot, to all of which her husband would calmly return an unvarying reply, couched in these philosophic words:
"Cease to grieve about it, La Carconte. It is God's pleasure."
The sobriquet of La Carconte had been bestowed on Madeleine Radelle from the circumstance of her having been born in a village so called, situated between Salon and Lanbèse; and as a custom existed among the inhabitants of that part, of calling every one by a nickname in place of a name, her husband had bestowed on her the name of La Carconte in place of Madeleine, too sweet and euphonious for him to pronounce.
Still, let it not be supposed that amid this affected resignation to the ​will of Providence, the unfortunate aubergiste did not writhe under the double misery of seeing the hateful canal carry off alike his customers and profits, and the daily implication of his peevish partner’s murmurs and lamentations.
Like other dwellers of the south, he was a man of sober habits and moderate desires, but fond of external show. During the days of his prosperity, not a fête, festivity, or ceremonial took place without himself and wife being there in the picturesque costume of the men of the south ​of France, bearing equal resemblance to the style of the Catalans and of the Andalusians; while La Carconte displayed the charming fashion prevalent among the females of Arles, a mode of attire borrowed equally from Greece and Arabia. But, by degrees, watch-chains, necklaces, many-colored scarfs, embroidered bodices, velvet vests, elegantly-worked stockings, striped gaiters, and silver buckles for the shoes, all disappeared; and Gaspard Caderousse, unable to appear abroad in his pristine splendor, had given up any further participation in these pomps and vanities, both for himself or wife, although a bitter feeling of envious discontent filled his mind as the sound of mirth and merry music from the joyous revelers reached even the miserable hostelry to which he still clung, more for the shelter than the profit it afforded.
On the present day, Caderousse was, as usual, at his place of observation before the door, his eyes glancing listlessly from a piece of closely-shaven grass on which some fowls were pecking, to the deserted road, the two extremities of which pointed respectively north and south, when he was roused by the shrill voice of his wife. He proceeded, grumbling, to the floor above — taking care to set the entrance-door wide open, as it were, to invite travelers not to pass by.
At the moment Caderousse went in, the road on which he so eagerly strained his sight was void and lonely as a desert at midday. There it lay stretched out, white and endless, and one could understand that no traveler, free to choose his own time, would venture into that frightful Sahara, with its sides bordered by meagre trees.
Nevertheless, had Caderousse but retained his post a few minutes longer, he might have seen approaching from the direction of Bellegarde a man and horse, between whom the kindest and most amiable understanding appeared to exist. The horse was of Hungarian breed, and ambled along with that easy pace peculiar to that race of animals. His rider was a priest, dressed in black, and wearing a three-cornered hat; and, spite of the ardent rays of a noonday sun, the pair came on at a tolerably smart trot.
Having arrived before the door, the horse stopped, but whether for his own pleasure or that of his rider would have been difficult to say. In either case, the priest, dismounting, led his steed by the bridle, which he prepared to hitch to a handle that projected from a half-fallen door; then with a red cotton handkerchief from his pocket he wiped away the perspiration that streamed from his brow, and, advancing to the door, struck thrice with the end of his iron-shod stick.
At this unusual sound, a huge black dog came rushing to meet the daring assailant of his ordinarily tranquil abode, snarling and displaying his sharp white teeth with a determined hostility that abundantly ​proved how little he was accustomed to society. At that moment a heavy footstep shook the wooden staircase, down which the host, bowing and scraping, descended to the door where the priest stood.
"You are welcome, sir," cried the astonished Caderousse. "Now, then,
Margotin, will you be quiet? Pray don't heed him, sir!—he only barks, he never bites! I make no doubt a glass of good wine would be acceptable this dreadfully hot day!" Then perceiving for the first time the description of traveler he had to entertain, Caderousse hastily exclaimed: "A thousand pardons, your reverence! I really did not observe whom I ​had the honor to receive under my poor roof. What would you please to have, M, l'Abbé? I am at your service."
The priest gazed on him with a searching gaze—there even seemed a disposition to court a similar scrutiny on the part of the aubergiste; then, remarking in the countenance of the latter no other expression than surprise at receiving no answer, he deemed it as well to terminate this dumb show, and therefore said, speaking with a strong Italian accent:
"You are, I presume, M. Caderousse?"
"Your reverence is quite correct," answered the host, even more surprised at the question than he had been by the silence; "I am Gaspard Caderousse, at your service."
"Gaspard Caderousse!" rejoined the priest. "Yes, that agrees both with the baptismal appellation and surname of the individual I allude to. You formerly lived, I believe, in the Allées de Meilhan, on the fourth floor of a small house situated there?"
"I did."
"Where you followed the business of a tailor?"
"True, till the trade fell off. Then, it is so very hot at Marseilles, that people will end in not wearing clothes at all. But, talking of heat, is there 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 where we left off."
"As you please, M, l'Abbé," said Caderousse, who, anxious not to lose the present opportunity of finding a customer for one of the few bottles of vin de Cahors still remaining in his possession, hastily raised a trap-door in the floor of the apartment they were in, which served both as parlor and kitchen.
Upon his returning, at the expiration of five minutes, he found the abbé seated on a species of stool, leaning his elbow on a table, while Margotin, whose animosity seemed appeased by the traveler having pronounced the unusual command for refreshments, had crept up to him, his long, skinny neck resting on his lap, while his dim eye was fixed on his face.
"Are you quite alone?" inquired the guest, as Caderousse placed before him the bottle of wine and a glass.
"Quite, quite alone," replied the man "or at least all but so, M, l'Abbé; 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 species of interest, glancing round as he spoke at the scanty style of the fittings-up of the apartment.
​"Ah, M. l'Abbé," said Caderousse, with a sigh, "it is easy to perceive I am not a rich man; but in this world a man does not thrive the better for being honest." The abbé fixed on him a searching, penetrating glance. "I can say that," replied the aubergiste, sustaining the abbé's gaze,
with one hand on his heart and nodding his head; "I can boast with truth of being an honest man; and that is more than every one can say nowadays."
"So much the better for you, if what you assert be true," said the abbé; "for I am firmly persuaded that, sooner or later, the good will be rewarded, and the wicked punished."
"Such words as those belong to your profession, M. l'Abbé," answered ​Caderousse, "and you do well to repeat them; but," added he, with a bitter expression, "one is not forced to believe them, all the same."
"You are wrong to speak thus," said the abbé; "and perhaps I may. in my own person, be able to prove to you what I assert."
"What mean you?" inquired Caderousse, with a look of surprise.
"In the first place, it is requisite I should be satisfied you are the person I am in search of."
"What proofs do you require?"
"Did you, in the year 1814 or 1815, know a sailor named Edmond Dantès?"
"Did I? I should think I did. Poor dear Edmond! Why, Edmond Dantès and myself were intimate friends!" exclaimed Caderousse, whose countenance assumed an almost purple hue, as he caught the penetrating gaze of the abbé fixed on him, while the clear, calm eye of the questioner seemed to cover him with confusion.
"Yes," said the priest, "the young man did bear the name of Edmond."
"Bear the name!" repeated Caderousse, becoming excited and eager. "Why, he was so called as truly as I bear that of Gaspard Caderousse; but, M. l'Abbé, tell me, I pray, what has become of poor Edmond. 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 pay the penalty of their crimes at the galleys of Toulon."
A deadly paleness succeeded the deep suffusion which had before spread itself over the countenance of Caderousse, who turned away, and the priest observed him wiping away the tears from his eyes with the corner of the red handkerchief twisted round his head.
"Poor fellow! poor fellow!" murmured Caderousse. "Well, there, M. l'Abbé, is another proof that none but the wicked prosper. Ah," continued Caderousse, speaking in the highly-colored language of the South, "the world grows worse and worse. Let heaven rain down two days of powder and one hour of fire, and let all be ended!"
"You speak as though you had loved this young Dantès," observed the abbé.
"And so I did," replied Caderousse; "though once, I confess, I envied him his good fortune. But I swear to you, M. l'Abbé, 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 abbé was employed in scrutinizing the agitated features of the aubergiste.
"You knew the poor lad, then?" continued Caderousse.
​"I was merely called to see him when on his dying-bed, that I might administer to him the consolations of religion."
"And of what did he die?" asked Caderousse in a choking voice.
"Of what, think you, do men die in prison, when they die in their
thirtieth year, unless it be of the prison itself?" Caderousse wiped away the large beads of perspiration that gathered on his brow.
"But the strangest part of the story is," resumed the abbé, that Dantès, even in his dying moments, swore by his crucified Redeemer that he was utterly ignorant of the cause of his imprisonment."
"And so he was," murmured Caderousse. "How should he have ​been otherwise? Ah! M, l'Abbé, the poor fellow told you the truth."
"And for that reason, he besought me to clear up the mystery he had never been able to penetrate, and to rehabilitate his memory should any foul spot have fallen on it."
And here the look of the abbé, becoming more and more fixed, semed to rest on the gloomy depression which spread over the countenance of Caderousse.
"A rich Englishman," continued the abbé, "his companion in misfortune, who had been released from prison during the Second Restoration, was possessed of a diamond of immense value: this precious jewel he bestowed on Dantès upon quitting the prison, as a mark of his gratitude for the care with which Dantès had nursed him in a severe illness. Instead of employing this diamond in attempting to bribe his jailers, who might only have taken it and then betrayed him to the governor, Dantès carefully preserved it, for, in the event of his getting out of prison, the produce of such a diamond would have sufficed to make his fortune."
"Then, I suppose," asked Caderousse, with eager, glowing looks, "that it was a stone of immense value?"
"Why, everything is relative," answered the abbé. "To one in Edmond's position the diamond certainly was of great value. It was estimated at 50,000 francs."
"Fifty thousand francs!" exclaimed Caderousse, "why it must have been as large as a nut."
"No," replied the abbé, "but you shall judge for yourself; I have it with me."
The sharp gaze of Caderousse was instantly directed toward the priest's garments, as though hoping to discover the talked-of treasure.
Calmly drawing forth from his pocket a small box covered with black shagreen, the abbé opened it, and displayed to the delighted eyes of Caderousse the sparkling jewel it contained, set in a ring of admirable workmanship.
"And that diamond," cried Caderousse, "you say, is worth 50,000 francs?"
"It is, without the setting, which is also valuable," replied the abbé, as he closed the box, and returned it to his pocket, while its brilliant hues seemed to dance in Caderousse's imagination.
"But how comes this diamond in your possession, M, l'Abbé? Did Edmond make you his heir?"
"No, merely his testamentary executor. When dying, the unfortunate youth said to me, 'I once possessed three dear friends, besides ​the maiden to whom I was betrothed; and I feel convinced all four unfeignedly grieved over my loss. The name of one of the four friends I allude to is Caderousse.'" The aubergiste shivered.
"'Another of the number,'" continued the abbé, without seeming to notice the emotion of Caderousse, "'is called Danglars; and the third, spite of being my rival, entertained a very sincere affection for me.'"
A fiendish smile played over the features of Caderousse, who was about to break in upon the abbé'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 afterward. 'The third of my friends, although my rival,—was much attached to me, his name was Fernand; that of my betrothed was———' Stay, stay," continued the abbé, "I have forgotten what he called her."
"Mercédès," cried Caderousse.
"True," said the abbé, with a stifled sigh, "Mercédès it was."
"Go on," urged Caderousse.
"Bring me a carafe of water," said the abbé.
Caderousse quickly performed the stranger's bidding; and after pouring some into a glass and slowly swallowing its contents, the abbé said, as he placed his glass on the table:
"Where did we leave off?"
"Oh, that the betrothed of Edmond was called Mercédès."
"To be sure. 'Well, then,' said Dantès,—for you understand, I repeat his words just as he uttered them—'you will go to Marseilles.' Do you understand?"
"Perfectly."
"'For the purpose of selling this diamond; the produce of which you will divide into five equal parts, and give an equal portion to the only persons who have loved me upon earth.'"
"But why into five parts?" asked Caderousse; "you only mentioned four persons."
"Because the fifth is dead, as I hear. The fifth sharer in Edmond's bequest was his own father."
"Too true, too true!" ejaculated Caderousse, almost suffocated by the contending passions which assailed him, "the poor old man did die."
"I learned so much at Marseilles," replied the abbé, making a strong effort to appear indifferent; "but from the length of time that has elapsed since the death of the elder Dantès, I was unable to obtain any particulars of his end. Do you know anything about his death?"
"I do not know who could if I could not," said Caderousse. "Why, I lived almost on the same floor with the poor old man. Ah, yes! about a year after the disappearance of his son the old man died."
​"Of what did he die?"
"Why, the doctors called his complaint an internal inflammation, I believe; his acquaintances say he died of grief; but I, who saw him in his dying moments, I say he died of———"
Caderousse paused.
"Of what?" asked the priest, anxiously and eagerly.
"Why, of downright starvation."
"Starvation!" exclaimed the abbé, 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 equally Christians with himself, 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 male speakers turned round quickly, and perceived the sickly countenance of La Carconte leaning over the rail of the staircase;—attracted by the sound of voices, she had feebly dragged herself down the stairs, and, seated on the lower step, 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."
"Prudence requires you to refuse," retorted La Carconte. "How do you know the motives that person may have for trying to extract all he can from you?"
"I assure you, madame," said the abbé, "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; then, some fine day trouble comes on the unfortunate wretches, without one knowing whence."
"Nay, nay, my good woman. No evils will be occasioned by me, I promise you."
Some inarticulate sounds escaped La Carconte, then letting her head, which she had raised, again droop on to her lap, she commenced her usual aguish trembling, leaving the two speakers to resume the conversation, but still remaining herself so placed as to be able to hear ​every word. Again the abbé had been obliged to swallow a draught of water to calm his emotions.
"It appears, then," he resumed, "that the miserable old man you were telling me of was forsaken by every one, as he perished by so dreadful a death."
"Why, I do not mean," continued Caderousse, "that Mercedes the Catalan and M. Morrel forsook him; but somehow the poor old man had contracted a profound hatred of Fernand — the very person," added Caderousse, with a bitter smile, "that you named just now as being one of Dantès' friends."
"And was he not so?" asked the abbé.
"Gaspard! Gaspard!" murmured the woman, from her seat on the stairs, "mind what you are saying!"
Caderousse made no reply to these words, but addressing the abbé, said:
"Can a man be faithful to another whose wife he covets? But Dantès had a heart of gold; he believed everybody's professions of friendship. Poor Edmond! but it was a happy thing he never knew it, or he might have found it more difficult, when on his deathbed, to pardon them. 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."
"Weak-minded coward!" exclaimed La Carconte.
"Do you, then, know in what manner Fernand injured Dantès?" inquired the abbe of Caderousse.
"Do I? No one better."
"Speak out then; say what it was!"
"Gaspard!" cried La Carconte, "do as you like, you are the master; but, if you are guided by me, you will have nothing to say."
"Well, well, wife," replied Caderousse, "I do not know but what you are right!"
"Then you are determined to say nothing?" said the abbé."
"Why, what good would it do?" asked Caderousse. "If the poor lad were living, and came to me to beg 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 feelings be buried with him."
"You prefer, then," said the abbé, "allowing me to bestow on men you say are false and treacherous, the reward intended for faithful friendship?" ​"That is true enough," returned Caderousse; "besides, what would it be to them? no more than a drop of water in the ocean."
"And remember, husband," chimed in La Carconte, "that these two men could crush you with a wave of the hand!"
"How so?" inquired the abbé. "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 instants, then said:
"No, truly; it would take up too much time."
"Well, my good friend," returned the abbé, in a tone that indicated utter indifference on his part, "just as you please; I respect your scruples, so let the matter end. I had a simple formality to discharge; I shall sell the diamond."
So saying, the abbé again drew the small box from his pocket, opened it, and flashed the stone before the dazzled gaze of Caderousse.
"Wife, wife!" cried he, in a hoarse voice, "come and see it."
"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 Dantès, to be sold, and the money divided among his father, Mercédès, his betrothed bride, Fernand, Danglars, and myself. The jewel is worth at least 50,000 francs."
"Oh, what a splendid jewel!" cried the astonished woman.
"The fifth part of the produce of this stone belongs to us, then, does it not?" asked Caderousse.
"It does," replied the abbé; "with the addition of an equal division of that part intended for the elder Dantès, which I conceive myself at liberty to share equally with the four surviving persons."
"And wherefore among us four?" inquired Caderousse.
"As being the four friends of Edmond."
"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 just now. It is a sacrilegious profanation to reward treachery, perhaps crime."
"Remember," answered the abbé, calmly, as he replaced the jewel in the pocket of his cassock, "it is your fault, not mine. You will have the goodness to furnish me with the address of both the friends of Edmond, in order that I may execute his last wishes."
The agitation of Caderouse became extreme, and large drops of ​perspiration rolled from his heated brow. As he saw the abbé rise from his seat and go toward 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 with each other.
"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, all shivering, and her teeth rattling, 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 floor of which creaked beneath her heavy, uncertain tread, as she proceeded toward her armchair, into which she fell as though exhausted.
"Well," asked the abbé, 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 desire to conceal from me, but simply 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 trust, indeed, such will be the case," replied Caderousse, his eyes sparkling and his face flushed with the hope of obtaining all himself.
"Now, then, begin, if you please," said the abbe; "I am all attention."
"Stop a minute," answered Caderousse; "we might be interrupted in the most interesting part of my recital, 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 abbé had chosen his place for listening to the tale. He removed his seat into a corner, 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 clenched together, he prepared to give his whole attention to Caderousse, who seated himself on the little stool, exactly opposite to him.
"Remember, I did not urge you to this," 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."
He then commenced as follows: