Those who have walked across the south of France, as I have done, may have noticed an inn, situated between Bellegarde and Beaucaire, roughly half-way between the village and the town (though rather closer to Beaucaire than to Bellegarde), outside which hangs a crude painting of the Pont du Gard on a metal plate which creaks at the slightest breath of wind. This little inn, lying parallel to the course of the Rhône, is situated on the left side of the road with its back to the river. It has what in Languedoc is described as a garden: that is to say that the side opposite the one through which travellers enter overlooks an enclosure in which a few stunted olive-trees lurk beside some wild figs, their leaves silvered with dust. Between them, the only vegetables that grow here are some heads of garlic, some peppers and some shallots. Finally, in one corner, like a forgotten sentry, a tall umbrella pine rises in melancholy fashion on its pliable trunk, while its crest, fanned out, blisters under thirty degrees of sunshine. All these trees, large or small, are naturally bent in the direction of the mistral, one of the three scourges of Provence, the two others, as you may or may not know, being the River Durance and Parliament.

Here and there in the surrounding plain, which is like a great lake of dust, stand a few stalks of wheat that the farmers hereabouts must surely grow out of mere curiosity. There is a cicada perched on every one of these stalks which pursues any traveller who has strayed into this wilderness with its high-pitched, monotonous call.

As if to torment still further the unfortunate innkeeper, who was ruined by it, the canal ran between the Rhône -- which supplied it with water -- and the road -- which it drained of traffic -- only some hundred yards from the inn which we have just briefly (but accurately) described.

For perhaps the last seven or eight years this little inn had been kept by a man and woman whose only staff were a chambermaid called Trinette and a stableboy answering to the name of Pacaud. In fact, these two assistants had amply sufficed for the task, since a canal between Beaucaire and Aigues-Mortes had ensured the victory of water over road haulage, and barges had taken the place of the stagecoach.

His wife, in contrast, whose maiden name had been Madeleine Radelle, was pale, thin and sickly. She came from the region around Arles and had preserved some traces of the traditional beauty of the women of that area, while seeing her features slowly deteriorate, ravaged by one of those persistent fevers which are so common among the peoples who live near the ponds of Aigues-Mortes and the swamps of the Camargue. In consequence she spent most of her time seated, shivering, in her room on the first floor, either stretched out in an armchair or leaning against her bed, while her husband kept his customary watch at the door. He was all the more happy to spend his time there, since whenever he found himself in the same room as his better -- or certainly bitter -- half, she would harass him with unending lamentations on her fate, to which her husband would normally only respond with these philosophical words: "Quiet, La Carconte! It's God's will."

The innkeeper was a man of forty to forty-five, tall, dry, nervous, a typical Southerner with his deep-set, shining eyes, his hooked nose and his teeth as white as those of some beast of prey. Though his hair had felt the first breath of age, it could not make up its mind to go grey: like the beard that he wore following the line of his jaw, it was thick, curly and spattered with just a few strands of white. His complexion, naturally swarthy, was covered by yet a new layer of brown from the habit he had adopted of standing from morning to night on the threshold of his door to see if some customer might not arrive, either on foot or by carriage. His expectations were almost invariably disappointed; but he stood there still, with no protection against the burning heat of the sun other than a red handkerchief knotted about his head, like a Spanish mule-driver. This man was our old acquaintance, Gaspard Caderousse.

The nickname derived from the fact that Madeleine Radelle had been born in the village of La Carconte, between Sallon and Lambesc. So, in accordance with local custom, by which people are almost always given a nickname in place of their names, her husband had substituted this for Madeleine, which was probably too soft and pleasant sounding for his rough tongue.

However, it should not be thought that the innkeeper, despite this pretence of resignation to the decrees of fate, was not acutely sensible of the poverty to which he had been reduced by the confounded Beaucaire canal, or that he was proof against the endless complaints that his wife heaped on him. Like all Southerners, he was moderate, needing little for himself, but vain when it came to external matters; so, in the days of his prosperity, he would not let a ferrade or a procession of the tarasque go past without appearing in it, La Carconte at his side: he would be dressed in the picturesque costume of a man from the Midi, somewhere between Catalan and Andalusian dress, while she would have on the delightful attire of the women of Arles, suggestive of Greece and Arabia. Little by little, however, watch-chains, necklaces, gaudy belts, embroidered blouses, velvet jackets, elegantly trimmed stockings, multicoloured gaiters and silver-buckled shoes had vanished, until Gaspard Caderousse could no longer appear in his former splendour; so, on his own behalf and that of his wife, he gave up all these worldly exhibitions, though he felt a bitter pang when the happy sounds of some celebration would reach this miserable inn, which he kept much more to have a roof over his head than as a business proposition.

However, if he had remained at his post, Caderousse would have seen, defying probability, a horse and rider approaching from Bellegarde with that frank and friendly manner which suggests the best possible understanding between the horseman and his mount. The horse was a gelding which ambled pleasantly along; on its back was a priest, dressed in black and wearing a three-cornered hat, despite the blistering heat of the sun which was now at its zenith. The pair proceeded at a very sensible trot.

As was his custom, Caderousse had spent part of the morning standing at the door, turning his sad eyes from a little bare patch of grass where some hens were pecking, to each end of the empty road which extended southwards in one direction, northwards in the other. Suddenly his wife's sour voice called him away from his post. He went inside, grumbling, and up to the first floor, while leaving the door wide open as if to persuade travellers not to forget him as they went by.

When Caderousse turned back into the house, the main road down which, as we said, he had been looking, was as empty and lonely as a desert under the midday sun. White and endless, it ran between two lines of slender trees and it was quite reasonable to suppose that no traveller who was free to choose any other hour of the day would wish to venture into this awful Sahara.

A large black dog immediately got up and took a few steps forward, barking and baring its sharp white teeth; this show of hostility only demonstrated how unused it was to receiving company.

When they reached the door, they stopped: it would have been difficult to decide whether it was the horse that stopped the man or the man who stopped the horse. In any event, the rider dismounted and, leading the horse by its bridle, attached it to the knob of a dilapidated shutter that was hanging by a single hinge. The priest then went across to the door, wiping his dripping brow with a red cotton handkerchief, and knocked three times with the iron tip of his cane.

At once, the wooden stairway running along the wall shook with a heavy tread: the landlord of the mean lodging-house at whose door the priest was standing was coming down, bent over and walking backwards.

"Here I am," Caderousse said in astonishment. "Here I am! Be quiet, Margottin! Don't worry, Monsieur, he barks but he doesn't bite. Would you like some wine? How hot it is! It's a right little strumpet of a day… Oh! I beg your pardon," he said, when he saw what kind of traveller this was. "I didn't know whom I had the honour to serve. What can I get you? What would you like, Monsieur l'Abbé? I am at your command."

"That is correct."

"Yes, sir," the innkeeper said, perhaps even more surprised by the question than he had been by the silence which preceded it. "I am indeed. Gaspard Caderousse, at your service."

The priest looked at the man for two or three seconds with unusual concentration, even appearing to want to draw the innkeeper's attention to himself. Then, since the other's face expressed nothing but surprise at not having an answer to his question, the newcomer decided it was time to put an end to the delay and said, with a very heavy Italian accent: "Aren't you Monsieur Caderousse?"

"Gaspard Caderousse… Yes, I think that is the name. Did you once live in the Allées de Meilhan, on the fourth floor?"

"Where you exercised the profession of tailor?"

"Certainly; bring me a bottle of your best wine, then we can carry on the conversation where we left off, if you would be so good."

"Yes, but the profession went downhill. It's so hot in that damned Marseille that I honestly believe in the end people there won't dress at all. But talking of heat, wouldn't you like to take some refreshment, Monsieur l'Abbé?"

"However you like, Monsieur l'Abbé," said Caderousse. And, not wishing to miss this opportunity of selling one of the last bottles of Cahors wine that remained to him, he hastened to lift a trapdoor in the boards of this same ground-floor room which served as both dining-room and kitchen.

When he reappeared, five minutes later, he found the abbé sitting on a stool, with his elbow on a long table, while Margottin's scrawny neck rested on his thigh and the dog was looking at him with a languid eye, apparently having made his peace with this unusual traveller when he understood that, contrary to custom, he was going to partake of refreshment.

"Ah, you are married?" the priest said, with some interest, looking around as if assessing the meagre value of the couple's poor furniture.

"You are thinking that I'm not rich, eh, Monsieur l'Abbé?" Caderousse said with a sigh. "What do you expect! It is not enough to be honest to prosper in this world."

"Are you alone?" the abbé asked his host, who put a bottle and glass in front of him.

"My God, yes! Or almost, Monsieur l'Abbé. I have my wife who can't help me at all, because she's always ill, poor Carconte."

"Yes, honest. That I can boast of, Monsieur," the innkeeper said, returning his stare with one hand on his heart and nodding his head. "And, nowadays, not everyone can say as much."

The abbé stared hard at him.

"You are wrong to say that, Monsieur," said the abbé, "for I myself may well be, in your own case, the proof of what I am saying."

"So much the better, if what you boast of is true," said the abbé. "Because I am convinced that, sooner or later, a righteous man is rewarded and a wicked one punished."

"You're a man of the cloth, Monsieur l'Abbé," said Caderousse with a bitter look, "and it's your job to say that. But everyone is free to disbelieve what you claim."

"I mean that I must first of all ensure that you are the person I think you are."

"What proof can I give you?"

"Did you in 1814 or 1815 know a sailor called Dantès?"

"How do you mean?" asked Caderousse in astonishment.

"Dantès! Yes, I knew poor Edmond! I certainly knew him: he was one of my best friends!" Caderousse exclaimed, his face turning deep purple, while the abbé's clear, confident eyes seemed to dilate and embrace every detail of the man opposite him.

"You seem to have been sincerely attached to the young man, Monsieur," said the abbé.

"Yes, I do believe he was called Edmond."

"He died a prisoner, more forlorn and despondent than the convicts who wear their shackles in the penal colony in Toulon."

"He certainly was! I should know, if anyone: Edmond was his name as sure as my name is Gaspard Caderousse. But what happened to him, Monsieur, to poor Edmond?" the innkeeper continued. "Did you know him? Is he still alive? Is he free? Is he happy?"

The redness which had first swept over Caderousse's face was replaced by a deathly pallor. He turned aside and the abbé saw him wipe away a tear with a corner of the red handkerchief that he wore to cover his head.

"The poor boy!" Caderousse muttered. "Well, that just goes to show what I was saying, Monsieur l'Abbé: the Good Lord is only good to the wicked. Ah," he went on, with the exaggerated language usual to Southerners, "the world is going from bad to worse. If only the sky would rain gunpowder for two days and fire for an hour, and we could have done with it all!"

"And did you know him, this poor lad?" Caderousse went on.

"I was indeed," said Caderousse, "though I have to confess that for a moment I did envy him his good fortune. Since then, I swear, on the honour of a Caderousse, I truly pitied him his terrible fate."

"And how did he die?" Caderousse asked, in a barely audible voice.

Caderousse wiped the sweat off his streaming brow.

There was a moment's silence, during which the abbé continued to direct a penetrating gaze at the innkeeper's changing expression.

"I was called to his deathbed to offer him the last rites of the Church," the abbé replied.

"That's true, that's true," Caderousse muttered. "There was no way he could know. No, Monsieur l'Abbé, the poor young man was not lying."

"What is odd in all this," the abbé said, "is that Dantès, on his deathbed, as he kissed the feet of the crucifix, always swore to me that he did not know the true reason for his imprisonment."

"And it was for that reason that he asked me to find out the truth about this misfortune, on which he was himself unable to shed any light, and to rehabilitate his name, if it had been blackened in any way."

"Of prison itself: how else do you die in prison when you are thirty years old?"

"So, you are saying," Caderousse asked, his eyes lighting up, "that this was a very valuable stone?"

The abbé's gaze became increasingly fixed on the almost grim look that spread over Caderousse's face.

"A rich Englishman," he continued, "his companion in misfortune, was released from prison at the Second Restoration and owned a diamond of considerable worth. When he was ill, Dantès had cared for him like a brother and, when he left prison, he wanted to give some token of his gratitude by leaving Dantès this diamond. Instead of using it to bribe his jailers, who might in any case have taken it and afterwards betrayed him, he kept it preciously in the hope that he might be released. If he was, the sale of this single diamond would ensure his fortune."

"Everything is relative," the abbé answered. "Very valuable to Edmond: its worth was estimated at fifty thousand francs."

"Not quite," said the abbé. "But you can judge for yourself, because I have it with me."

"Fifty thousand francs!" Caderousse exclaimed. "It must have been as big as a walnut!"

The abbé took a small black shagreen box out of his pocket, opened it and displayed before Caderousse's astonished eyes the shining jewel set on a finely wrought ring.

Caderousse seemed to be looking straight through the abbé's clothes for the object.

"No, but the executor of his will. 'I had three good friends and a fiancée,' he told me. 'I am sure that all four of them must feel my loss bitterly. One of those good friends was called Caderousse.'"

"This is worth fifty thousand francs?"

"But how did you come into possession of this diamond, Monsieur l'Abbé?" he asked. "Did Edmond make you his heir?"

Caderousse shuddered.

"Without the setting, which is itself quite valuable," said the abbé. And he closed the box and returned the diamond to his pocket, though it continued to shine in Caderousse's head.

"'The other'," the abbé went on, appearing not to notice Caderousse's reaction, "'was called Danglars. And the third,' he added, 'even though he was my rival, also loved me.'"

A diabolical smile passed over Caderousse's face and he made as if to interrupt the speaker. "Wait," said the abbé, "let me finish. Then, if you have any remarks to make, you can do so later. 'The third, even though he was my rival, also loved me; he was called Fernand. As for my fiancée, her name was…' Ah! I don't remember the fiancée's name," said the abbé.

"Give me a jug of water," said the abbé.

"Why five shares?" said Caderousse. "You mentioned only four people."

"That's right. 'You will go to Marseille…' -- it's still Dantès speaking, you understand?"

""You will sell this diamond, divide the proceeds into five and share them among these good friends, the only creatures on earth who ever loved me!""

"Mercédès! That's it," the abbé agreed, suppressing a sigh.

"The fiancée was called Mercédès."

"Absolutely."

"I learned this in Marseille," the abbé replied, making an effort to appear unconcerned. "But the event took place so long ago that I could learn nothing further about it. Do you happen to know anything about the man's end?"

"Mercédès," said Caderousse.

"Alas, yes," said Caderousse, torn between conflicting feelings. "Alas, yes, poor man! He died."

Caderousse hastened to do as he was asked. The abbé poured himself some water and took a few sips. "Now, where were we?" he asked, putting down the glass.

"Well?" said Caderousse.

"Because the fifth is dead, or so they tell me… The fifth was Dantès' father."

"The doctors called it… gastro-enteritis, I think. Those who knew him said he died of grief. But I -- and I almost saw him die, myself -- I would say that he died…"

"Who could know better than I?" said Caderousse. "I lived right next door to him. Heaven help us! It was hardly a year after his son's disappearance that the old man died!"

"What did he die of?"

"Died of what?" the priest repeated, anxiously.

"And you are wrong," said a voice from the staircase. "What has it to do with you?"

"To tell the truth -- of starvation!"

Caderousse paused.

The two men turned and saw La Carconte's sickly features staring through the banisters. She had dragged herself down to the foot of the staircase and was listening to their conversation, sitting on the stair with her head on her knees.

"Starvation!" cried the abbé, leaping up from his stool. "Starvation! The lowest creature does not die of starvation! Even a dog roaming the streets may find a pitying hand to throw it a crust of bread. Yet you say this man, a Christian, died of hunger in the midst of other men who also call themselves Christians! Impossible! It's impossible!"

"I only know what I know," Caderousse said.

"And what has it to do with you, wife?" asked Caderousse. "The gentleman wants some information. It's only polite to give it to him."

"Yes, and it's only common sense to refuse. Who says what his purpose is in making you talk, you idiot?"

"Have no fear, my good woman, no misfortune will come to you from me, I guarantee it."

"An excellent purpose, Madame, I promise you," said the abbé. "Your husband has nothing to fear, as long as he answers me frankly."

"Huh! Nothing to fear… They always start with fine promises, then afterwards tell you that you have nothing to fear; then, off they go, without keeping their word, and one fine morning misfortune comes to poor people, without them knowing where it comes from…"

Meanwhile the abbé had taken a few more sips of water and recovered his composure. "But," he went on, "was this poor old man so totally abandoned by everyone that he could die in such a manner?"

La Carconte muttered a few inaudible words, let her head fall back on her knees and continued to shiver feverishly, leaving her husband free to continue the conversation, but seated in such a way that she would not miss a word.

"He was not?" asked the abbé.

"Indeed I do."

"Ah, Monsieur," said Caderousse, "it's not that either Mercédès the Catalan or Monsieur Morrel abandoned him, but the poor old man had taken a profound antipathy to Fernand, the very person," he added, smiling ironically, "that Dantès told you was one of his friends."

"Gaspard, Gaspard!" the woman muttered from the top of the stairs. "Mind what you say!"

Caderousse made an impatient gesture and, with no other reply to the woman who had interrupted him, told the abbé: "Can anyone be the friend of a man whose wife he covets? Dantès, who had a heart of gold, called all those people his friends… Poor Edmond! After all, it is better that he knew nothing, he would have found it too hard to forgive them on his deathbed. Whatever anyone says," Caderousse concluded, with a kind of rough poetry in his speech, "I am still more afraid of a dead man's curse than of a living man's hatred."

"Do you know what Fernand did to harm Dantès, then?" asked the abbé.

"Idiot!" said La Carconte.

"Don't you know what happened to them?"

"Apart from which, those people could crush you with a flick of the hand," said his wife.

"So, you want me to give these people, who you tell me are unworthy and false friends, a gift that was meant to reward their fidelity?"

"Gaspard, you can do as you wish, you are the master here," said his wife. "But if you take my advice, you'll say nothing."

"That's true, you're right," said Caderousse. "In any case, what would poor Edmond's bequest be to them now? A drop of water in the ocean."

"What is the use? If the lad was alive and if he came to me to tell him, once and for all, who were his friends and who his enemies, then I might do it. But he is dead and gone, so you say; he can feel hatred no longer, nor can he take revenge. Let's draw the blind on all this."

"No. Tell me."

"What do you mean? Have they become rich and powerful then?"

"So, you don't want to tell me?" the abbé continued.

"This time, I think you may be right, woman," said Caderousse.

"Tell me."

"Come and see it, wife!" the innkeeper said, his voice breaking.

"A diamond!" said La Carconte, getting up and walking quite resolutely down the stairs. "What is this diamond then?"

"You are quite at liberty to keep it to yourself," the abbé said, with an air of the most profound indifference. "If so, I shall respect any reservations you may have. Indeed, you are showing yourself to be a truly generous man, so let's say no more about it. The duty that I have to carry out is a mere formality: I shall sell the diamond." He took it out of his pocket, opened the box and displayed the shining stone before Caderousse's eyes.

"Didn't you hear? It's a diamond that the boy left us: first of all to his father, then to his three friends: Fernand, Danglars and myself, and to his wife Mercédès. It's worth fifty thousand francs."

Caderousse seemed to reflect for a short time. Then he said: "No, in fact the story is too long."

"So, one-fifth of the amount belongs to us?" Caderousse asked.

"Ah! What a lovely thing!" she exclaimed.

"Traitors are not friends," the woman muttered grimly.

"Because the four of you were Edmond's friends."

"That's what you wanted," the abbé continued calmly, putting the diamond back into his cassock pocket. "Now, give me the address of Edmond's friends, so that I can carry out his last wishes."

"But why among four?" asked La Carconte.

"A man of the cloth would not try to deceive us."

"The diamond would belong to us alone," Caderousse said.

"As you wish. I am having nothing to do with it." She returned, shivering, to the staircase. Her teeth were chattering, despite the burning heat of the day. On the top step she paused and said: "Think about it, Gaspard!"

"Do you think so?" his wife replied.

Sweat was pouring down Caderousse's forehead. He saw the abbé get up and go towards the door, as if to make sure that his horse was waiting, before coming back. Caderousse and his wife exchanged an indescribable look.

"Yes, just so," said Caderousse. "I was only saying as much. It's almost blasphemy, almost sacrilegious to reward treachery, or even crime."

"Yes, Monsieur. Plus Dantès' father's share, which I feel I have the right to divide among the four of you."

"To tell you everything."

"What have you decided to do?" asked the abbé.

La Carconte went back to her room with a sigh. The ceiling creaked under her feet until she reached her armchair and let herself fall heavily into it.

"Quite honestly, I think that's best," said the priest. "Not that I want to know anything that you want to hide from me; but if you can help me to distribute the bequest in accordance with the wishes of the departed, that will be best."

"I've made up my mind," said Caderousse.

"I hope so," Caderousse replied, his cheeks flushed with greed and expectation.

"I am listening," said the abbé.

"One moment," said Caderousse. "We might be interrupted at the most interesting point, which would be a pity. In any case, it's better that no one knows you have been here." He went across to the door of the inn and closed it, putting the bolt across it as an extra precaution.

Meanwhile the abbé had chosen a place from which he could listen in comfort. He was sitting in a corner, in such a way as to be in shadow, while the light fell full on the face of whoever was opposite him. His head bowed, his hands folded -- or, rather, clasped together -- he prepared to give all his attention to the story. Caderousse drew up a stool and sat down opposite the abbé.

"Agreed, agreed," said Caderousse. "Say no more about it. I take full responsibility."

"Remember, I'm not forcing you," said the quavering voice of La Carconte, as if she had observed the setting of this scene through the floor of the room above.

And he began his tale.