"Before we start, Monsieur," said Caderousse, "I must beg you to promise me one thing."

This positive promise seemed to reassure Caderousse slightly. "Well, in that case," he said, "I want to tell you the truth -- I might even say, I am obliged to tell you about those whom poor Edmond considered his sincere and devoted friends."

"Which is?"

"Which is that, if you should ever make any use of the information I am about to give you, no one should ever know that it came from me, because the men I am about to speak of are rich and powerful; if they were merely to touch me with the tip of a finger, they would shatter me like glass."

"Have no fear, my friend," said the abbé. "I am a priest and confessions die in my heart. Remember that we have no other purpose than to carry out the wishes of our friend in a proper manner, so speak frankly, but without animosity; tell the truth, and the whole truth. I do not know and probably never shall know the people about whom you are to speak. In any case, I am Italian and not French. I belong to God and not to men: I am going to return to my monastery, having left it only to carry out the last wishes of a dying man."

"Let us start with his father, if you would," the abbé said. "Edmond spoke a great deal to me about the old man, to whom he was most deeply attached."

"Yes, Edmond told me what happened up to the moment of his arrest, in a little cabaret near Marseille."

"It is a sad story," said Caderousse, shaking his head. "You probably know how it started."

"Yes: a meal that started in merriment and ended in sorrow. A police commissioner came in, followed by four soldiers, and Dantès was arrested."

"Was the occasion not his betrothal feast?"

"La Réserve! Good Lord, yes! I can see the whole thing as if it were yesterday."

"From this point onwards I know nothing," said the priest. "Dantès himself only knew whatever concerned him directly, because he never again saw any of the five people I mentioned to you or heard any news of them."

"Well, once Dantès had been taken into custody, Monsieur Morrel went to discover what had happened to him, and the news was not good. The old man went back home alone, wept as he folded up his best suit, spent the rest of the day pacing backwards and forwards in his room and did not go to bed that night: I was living directly below and I could hear him walking around from dusk till dawn. I must tell you that I did not sleep, either, because the poor father's grief was so painful to me that each of his steps crashed against my heart as if he had really stamped his foot on my chest."

"I could hear all this from the landing, because I would have liked Mercédès to persuade the old man to go with her: I could not get a moment's rest with his footsteps resounding day after day above my head."

"'No,' he used to say, 'I shall never leave the house, because I am the person that my poor child loves above everything; and, if he comes out of prison, I am the one he will come to see first. What would he say if I was not there, waiting for him?'"

"Ah, Monsieur," said Caderousse, "you can only console those who wish to be consoled, and he didn't. In any case, I don't know why, but it seemed to me that he felt some disgust at the sight of me. Even so, one night when I could hear him sobbing, I could bear it no longer, so I went up. When I reached the door, he had stopped sobbing and was praying. I can't tell you, Monsieur, what eloquent words and what heart-rending pleas he found for his prayer: it was more than piety, it was more than grief. I'm no pious hypocrite myself, and I don't like the Jesuits, and that day I thought: it's as well, after all, that I am alone and the Good Lord never gave me any children, because if I was a father and I felt the same sorrow as that poor old man, I wouldn't be able to find all the words that he had for the Good Lord, either in my memory or in my heart, so I would go straight away and throw myself into the sea, to avoid suffering any longer."

"The next day, Mercédès came to Marseille to beg Monsieur de Villefort's protection. She obtained nothing from him, but at the same time she went to see the old man. When she found him so sad and depressed, and learned that he had not been to bed that night or eaten since the day before, she wanted him to go with her so that she could take care of him, but the old man would never agree to it."

"But did you not go up to console the old man yourself?" the priest asked.

"Day by day, he lived more alone and more isolated. Often, Monsieur Morrel and Mercédès came to see him, but his door was shut and, even though I was quite sure he was at home, he would not answer. One day when, exceptionally, he had invited Mercédès in and the poor girl, who was in despair herself, was trying to comfort him, he told her: 'Believe me, my dear, he's dead. Instead of us waiting for him, he is waiting for us; I am happy to think that, being older than you, I shall be the first to see him again.'"

"Unhappy father!" the priest muttered.

"However good-hearted one is, you understand, one eventually stops seeing people who depress you, so in the end Old Dantès was all alone. From time to time, from then on, I would see only strangers going up to his room, then coming down again with some packet under their coats. I soon guessed what the packets were: he was gradually selling everything he had in order to stay alive. Finally he came to the end of his miserable possessions. He owed three lots of rent and the landlord threatened to evict him. He begged for another week, which he was allowed -- I know all this because the landlord would come in to see me after leaving him."

"Mercédès came back. She found him so changed that once more she wanted to take him to her home. This was also Monsieur Morrel's advice, and he wanted to take him there by force; but the old man protested so loudly that they were afraid. Mercédès remained at his bedside and Monsieur Morrel went away, indicating to the Catalan that he was leaving a purse on the mantelpiece. But, with the doctor's prescription to back him up, the old man refused to take anything. Finally, after nine days of despair and abstinence, he died, cursing those who were the cause of his misfortune and telling Mercédès: 'If ever you see my Edmond again, tell him that I died with a blessing for him.'"

"The first three days, I heard him walking around as usual, then on the fourth the sounds stopped. I ventured to go up: the door was locked but through the keyhole I could see him, looking so pale and haggard that I thought he must be really ill; so I sent for Monsieur Morrel and went to see Mercédès. They both hurried round. Monsieur Morrel brought a doctor who diagnosed gastroenteritis and prescribed a diet. I was there, Monsieur, and I shall never forget the old man's smile when he heard that prescription. From then on, he opened his door: he had an excuse for not eating, since the doctor had put him on a diet."

"You are interested in this story, I think, Monsieur?" said Caderousse.

The abbé gave a sort of groan.

"Yes," the abbé replied. "It is touching."

"Of starvation, Monsieur, of starvation…" said Caderousse. "I swear it, as surely as I am standing here."

Convulsively the abbé seized the glass of water which was still half full, emptied it at a draught and sat down, red-eyed and pale-cheeked. "You must admit that was dreadful misfortune!" he said hoarsely.

"So tell me about these men," said the abbé; then he added, in a tone that was almost threatening: "but remember that you promised to tell me everything. Who were these men who killed the son with despair and the father with hunger?"

"All the more so as God had nothing to do with it, and men alone were responsible."

"So, how did this jealousy manifest itself?"

The abbé got up, walked twice round the room and brought a trembling hand up to his dry throat. "And you think that he died…"

"Two who were jealous of him, one for love, the other for ambition: Fernand and Danglars."

"They denounced Edmond as a Bonapartist agent."

"Both of them, Monsieur. One wrote the letter, the other sent it."

"Which of them denounced him -- who was the real guilty party?"

"But…" the abbé exclaimed suddenly, "you were there!"

"I beg your pardon, Monsieur?"

"Monsieur," said Caderousse, "they had both made me drink until I was almost senseless. Everything was blurred. I protested as much as a man can in such a state, but they assured me it was a joke they were playing and that nothing would come of it."

"At La Réserve itself, the day before the wedding."

"That's it, that's it," the abbé muttered. "Oh, Faria, Faria! How well you could read the hearts of men and the ways of the world!"

"Me?" said Caderousse in astonishment. "Who told you that?"

"It was Danglars who wrote the denunciation with his left hand, so that the writing would not be recognized, and it was Fernand who sent it."

"Nothing; continue."

The abbé saw that he had gone too far. "No one did," he said. "But, to know all these details, you must have witnessed the events."

"It's true," Caderousse said, his voice choking. "I was there."

"And where was the letter written?"

"And you did nothing to stop this outrage? Then you are an accomplice."

"I was afraid of getting mixed up in politics as they were then, I admit it. I said nothing, which was cowardly, I agree, but not a crime."

"The next day, Monsieur! You saw plainly that something did come of it, the next day, but still you said nothing. Yet you were there when he was arrested."

"I understand: you stood idly by, nothing more."

"Yes, Monsieur," said Caderousse, "and I regret it every day of my life. I often ask God to forgive me, I swear, all the more so since this deed, the only act I have ever committed that weighs seriously on my conscience, is no doubt the cause of my present adversity. I am paying for a moment of selfishness; as I always say to La Carconte whenever she complains: 'Quiet, woman, it's God's will'."

"Yes, I was there and I wanted to speak out, to tell everything, but Danglars stopped me. 'Suppose that, by chance, he is guilty,' he said. 'Suppose he really did stop off at Elba and has a letter to deliver to the Bonapartist committee in Paris: well then, if they find the letter on him, anyone who has spoken out in his favour will be suspected of complicity.'"

"Very well, Monsieur," said the abbé. "You have been honest. Such a frank confession deserves forgiveness."

"Unfortunately," Caderousse said, "Edmond is dead and he never forgave me."

And Caderousse bowed his head with every sign of genuine remorse.

"But he did not know…"

"Perhaps he does know now: they say that the dead know everything."

There was a moment of silence. The abbé had risen and was walking around, deep in thought. Then he returned and sat down in his place.

"The owner of the Pharaon, Dantès' employer."

"What part did he play in this sad business?"

"You spoke to me two or three times of one Monsieur Morrel," he said. "Who is this man?"

"The part of an honest, brave and feeling man, Monsieur. He interceded twenty times on Edmond's behalf. When the emperor returned, he wrote, begged and threatened -- so much so that at the Second Restoration he was persecuted as a Bonapartist. Ten times, as I told you, he came to fetch old Dantès and take him to his own house; and the day before he died -- or was it the day before that? -- as I told you already, he left a purse on the mantelpiece which served to pay the old man's debts and the expenses of his funeral; so the old fellow could at least die as he had lived, harming no one. I still have the purse, myself, a large one, in red crochet."

"In that case," said the abbé, "he must be a man blessed by God, he must be rich and happy…?"

"That's how it is," Caderousse continued. "After twenty-five years of work, after acquiring the most honourable place among the merchants of Marseille, Monsieur Morrel is utterly ruined. He has lost five vessels in the past two years, suffered three terrible bankruptcies and has nothing to hope for, except that same ship, the Pharaon that poor Dantès commanded, which is on its way from India with a cargo of cochineal and indigo. If that fails, as the others did, he is lost."

"Yes," Caderousse replied.

"Is Monsieur Morrel still alive?"

Caderousse smiled bitterly. "Yes, happy…" he said, "as I am."

"Monsieur Morrel is unhappy?" the abbé exclaimed.

"He is on the brink of destitution, Monsieur; worse still, of dishonour."

"Does this unfortunate man have a wife and children?" asked the abbé.

"Yes, he has a wife who has behaved like a saint through all this, and he has a daughter who was going to marry a man whom she loved, but now his family will not allow him to marry a ruined woman. He also has a son, a lieutenant in the army. But, as you will appreciate, this only increases the poor man's suffering, instead of easing it. If he was by himself, he would blow out his brains and that would be an end to it."

"Why?"

"This is appalling!" the priest muttered.

"That's how God rewards virtue, Monsieur," said Caderousse. "Look at me: I have never done a wicked deed, apart from the one I told you about, and I live in poverty. After watching my poor wife die of fever, unable to do anything for her, I shall die of starvation myself, as old Dantès did, while Fernand and Danglars are rolling in gold."

"Because everything turned out well for them, while everything turned out ill for honest people like myself."

"What has happened to Danglars? He is the most guilty, the instigator of it all, is that not so?"

"What happened to him? He left Marseille and, on Monsieur Morrel's recommendation -- because Morrel knew nothing of his crime -- he went as accounts clerk to a Spanish banker. During the war in Spain he obtained a contract for supplying part of the French army and made a fortune. With this, he gambled on the exchange and tripled or quadrupled his fortune. He married his banker's daughter and, when she died, married a widow, Madame de Nargonne, daughter of Monsieur Servieux, the present king's chamberlain, who enjoys support from the highest quarter. He became a millionaire, and they made him a baron, so that he is now Baron Danglars, with a private residence in the Rue du Mont-Blanc, ten horses in his stable, six lackeys in his antechamber and I don't know how many millions in his coffers."

"How did this come about?"

"A few days before Bonaparte's return, Fernand was called up to the army. The Bourbons would have left him quietly in the Catalan village, but Napoleon came back and there was a general muster of troops, so Fernand had to go. I, too, had to leave, but as I was older than Fernand and had just married my poor wife, I was merely assigned to the coastal watch. Fernand was called up for active service, went to the frontier with his regiment and took part in the Battle of Ligny."

"It may indeed seem so; but listen and you will understand."

"But by what visible means did he climb to his great fortune, or his high position?"

"Fernand is another story, too."

"Both, Monsieur! Both! He has both fortune and position."

"But how could a poor Catalan fisherman, with no possessions and no education, make his fortune? I have to admit that is beyond me."

"Ah!" the abbé said, in an odd voice. "And is he happy?"

"This is some wild yarn you are spinning."

"That, no one can tell. The secret of happiness and misery is between four walls; walls have ears, but not tongues. If you can be happy with a great fortune, then Danglars is happy."

"And Fernand?"

"And beyond everyone else. There must be some strange secret in his life that no one knows about."

"The night after the battle, he was on orderly duty at the door of the general, who was secretly in contact with the enemy. That very night, this general was planning to go over to the English. He invited Fernand to accompany him. Fernand agreed, abandoned his post and followed the general."

"Something that would have had him court-martialled if Napoleon had stayed on the throne was an asset for him with the Bourbons. He came back to France with a sub-lieutenant's stripes; and as he remained a protégé of the general, who was much in favour, he was made captain in 1823, at the time of the war in Spain -- that is, at the very moment when Danglars was making his first investments. Fernand was a Spaniard, so he was sent to Madrid to report on the mood among his countrymen. He looked up Danglars, got in contact with him, promised his general support from the Royalists in the capital and the provinces, received promises in his turn, entered into agreements, guided his regiment by tracks that he alone knew through gorges under Royalist guard, and in short rendered such services in this short campaign that after the capture of the Trocadero he was appointed colonel and awarded the cross of an officer of the Legion of Honour, together with the title of count."

"So, today…?" the abbé asked.

"Some time later it was learned that the Comte de Morcerf (that was his title) had entered the service of Ali Pasha with the rank of general-instructor."

"Fate, fate!" muttered the abbé.

"As you know, Ali Pasha was killed, but before his death he rewarded Fernand for his services by leaving him a considerable amount of money. With it, Fernand returned to France and his rank of lieutenant-general was confirmed."

"Yes, but listen: that is not all. When the war ended in Spain, Fernand's career seemed to be threatened by the lengthy peace that was about to break out in Europe. Only Greece had risen against Turkey and begun its war for independence. All eyes were on Athens: it was fashionable to feel sympathy for the Greeks and to support their cause. The French government, while not openly taking sides, as you know, turned a blind eye to some active supporters. Fernand asked for permission to go and serve in Greece, which he obtained, while still remaining subject to the discipline of the army."

"As we speak, Mercédès is one of the greatest ladies in Paris," said Caderousse.

"Disappeared?" said Caderousse. "Yes, like the sun disappears, to rise more glorious the following day."

"Carry on," said the abbé. "I feel as though I were listening to the account of some dream. But I have seen enough extraordinary things myself not to be so much amazed by what you are telling me."

"So today," Caderousse continued, "he has a magnificent private residence in Paris, at number twenty-seven, Rue du Helder."

The abbé opened his mouth to say something but hesitated for a moment; then, making an effort to control his feelings, he asked: "And Mercédès? They tell me she disappeared?"

"So did she also make her fortune?" the abbé asked, with an ironic smile.

"At first Mercédès was in despair at the cruel fate that had taken Edmond away from her. I have told you about her efforts to persuade Monsieur de Villefort and her devotion to Dantès' father. In the midst of her despair, she suffered another blow, with Fernand's departure: she knew nothing of Fernand's guilt and considered him as her brother. With him gone, she was alone."

"Three months went by, which she spent weeping. She had no news of Edmond and none of Fernand; nothing to turn to, in fact, but the spectacle of an old man dying of grief."

"She grasped Fernand's hands with a warmth that he mistook for love, though it was only joy at no longer being alone in the world, at finally seeing a friend after long hours of sadness and solitude. Then, it is true, she had never hated Fernand; it was just that she had never loved him, that's all. Her heart belonged to another, but this other was absent, he had vanished, perhaps he was dead… At this last thought, Mercédès burst into tears and wrung her hands in grief; but the notion, which she formerly used to reject when it was suggested to her by someone else, now came spontaneously to her mind. In any case, Old Dantès was constantly telling her: 'Our Edmond is dead, because otherwise he would come back to us.'"

"One evening, having spent the whole day as she was accustomed to, seated at the crossing of the two roads between Marseille and the Catalan village, she returned home feeling more desolate than ever: neither her lover nor her friend was coming down one or the other of the roads and she had no news of either of them."

"Suddenly, she thought she heard a familiar footstep. She turned around anxiously, the door opened and she saw Fernand appear in his sub-lieutenant's uniform. This was not even half of her sorrow relieved, but at least part of her past life had returned."

"The old man died, as I told you. If he had lived, then perhaps Mercédès would never have married another, because he would have been there to reproach her with her infidelity. Fernand knew that. When he learned of the old man's death, he came back. By this time he was a lieutenant. On his earlier visit he had not said a word about love to Mercédès, but now he reminded her that he loved her."

"Six months later," Caderousse went on, "the wedding took place at the Eglise des Accoules."

"In effect," the abbé said with a bitter smile, "that made eighteen months in all. What more could any lover ask of his beloved?" And he muttered the English poet's words: "Frailty, thy name is woman."

"The same church as the one in which she was to marry Edmond," the priest murmured. "Only the bridegroom was different."

"Mercédès asked him for six more months, so that she could wait for Edmond and mourn him."

"So Mercédès married," Caderousse continued. "She appeared to everyone calm but, even so, nearly fainted as she walked past La Réserve where, eighteen months earlier, she had celebrated her betrothal to the man whom she would have recognized that she still loved if she had dared search the bottom of her heart."

"A week after the wedding, they left."

"And did you see Mercédès again?" asked the priest.

"Fernand was happier, but no more at ease, for I saw him at that time and he was constantly afraid that Edmond would return. He immediately set about taking his wife and himself abroad: there were too many dangers and too many memories for him to remain in Les Catalans."

"Yes," Caderousse replied. "Little Albert."

"Yes, at the time of the war in Spain, in Perpignan, where Fernand had left her. She was occupied in those days in educating her son."

The abbé shuddered and asked: "Her son?"

"Huh!" said Caderousse. "Did he know so little of his own fiancée? Mercédès could have been queen, Monsieur, if the crown was only reserved for the most lovely and most intelligent heads. Her fortune was already growing and she grew with it. She learned to draw, she studied music, she learned everything. In any case, between ourselves, I think she only did all this to take her mind off it, to forget: she put all those things into her head to crush what she had in her heart. But now we must tell the truth," he went on. "No doubt her wealth and honours consoled her. She is rich, she is a countess, and yet…"

"But if she was educating this child," said the abbé, "did she have any education herself? I thought that Edmond told me she was a simple fisherman's daughter, beautiful but untutored."

"How was that?"

"What makes you think that?"

"No. All I know is that, some time after having him arrested, he married Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran and shortly afterwards left Marseille. No doubt fortune smiled on him as it did on the others; no doubt he is as rich as Danglars and as highly thought of as Fernand. Only I have remained poor, as you see, destitute and forgotten by God."

"No, but Madame de Morcerf did see me."

"And yet…?" said the abbé.

"And yet I am sure that she is not happy," said Caderousse.

"So you did not see either of them?"

"Well, when I fell on misfortune myself, I thought that my former friends might help me. I called on Danglars, who would not even receive me. I went to Fernand, and he sent his valet to give me a hundred francs."

"As I was leaving, a purse fell at my feet. There were twenty-five louis in it. I looked up quickly and saw Mercédès closing the shutter."

"But do you know what became of him, and what part he played in Edmond's misfortune?"

"And Monsieur de Villefort?" asked the abbé.

He paused.

"Oh, he was never my friend, I didn't know him. I had no reason to ask him for help."

"This diamond was to be divided among his friends. Edmond had only one friend, so there is no need to divide it. Take the jewel and sell it. It is worth fifty thousand francs, as I told you, and I hope that this sum will be enough to rescue you from poverty."

"What! All mine!" Caderousse exclaimed. "Ah, Monsieur -- you are not teasing me, surely?"

"Monsieur," Caderousse said, nervously holding out one hand, while the other wiped the sweat that was beading on his brow, "Oh, Monsieur, do not jest with a man's happiness and despair!"

"You are wrong there, my friend," said the abbé. "God may sometimes appear to forget, when his justice is resting; but the time always comes when he remembers, and here is the proof." At this, he took the diamond from his pocket and gave it to Caderousse, saying: "Take this, my friend. Take this diamond, it is yours."

"I know what happiness is, and what is despair, and I never jest with feelings. Take it, but in return…"

Caderousse's hand had already touched the diamond, but he drew it back.

"You are a man of God, Monsieur!" cried Caderousse. "Because no one knew that Edmond had given you this diamond and you could have kept it."

The abbé smiled. "In return," he continued, "give me that red silk purse which Monsieur Morrel left on old Dantès' mantelpiece, which you told me was still in your possession."

Increasingly astonished, Caderousse went over to a large oak cupboard, opened it and gave the abbé a long purse of faded red silk, bound with two copper rings that had once been gilded. The abbé took it and in exchange gave Caderousse the diamond.

"Yes, indeed," the abbé murmured to himself. "And likely enough that is what you would have done yourself." He got up and took his hat and gloves. "Everything that you told me is quite true, isn't it? I can believe every word?"

"Look here, Monsieur l'Abbé," said Caderousse. "Here in the corner of this wall is a crucifix of consecrated wood; here, on this sideboard, is my wife's New Testament. Open it and I will swear to you on it, with my hand extended towards the crucifix: I will swear by my immortal soul, by my Christian faith, that I have told you everything just as it was and as the recording angel will whisper it into God's ear on the Day of Judgement!"

"Is it true, what I heard?" she asked.

Escaping with difficulty from Caderousse's expressions of thanks, he went over and himself drew back the bolt on the door, went out, remounted his horse, waved for the last time to the innkeeper, who was pouring out incoherent farewells, and set off in the direction from which he had come.

"Very good," said the abbé, convinced by his tone that Caderousse was telling the truth. "Very good. Let the money benefit you. Farewell, I am going to withdraw far from the haunts of men who do so much ill to one another."

"What? That he has given us the diamond for ourselves alone?" said Caderousse, almost mad with joy.

"Yes."

"To learn your secrets without paying for them, idiot!"

When Caderousse turned around, he found La Carconte behind him, paler and more unsteady than ever.

The woman looked at it for a moment, then muttered: "Suppose it is a fake?"

"Nothing could be truer. Here it is."

Caderousse went pale and swayed on his feet. "A fake…" he mumbled. "A fake? Why would this man give me a fake diamond?"

"The fair is at Beaucaire; there are jewellers from Paris there. I'll show them the diamond. Look after the house, woman. I'll be back in two hours." And he ran out of the house, taking the opposite road from the one down which the stranger had just ridden.

"How?"

"Fifty thousand francs!" murmured La Carconte, when she was alone. "That is a lot of money… but it's not a fortune."

For a time Caderousse was stunned by the awfulness of this possibility. Then he said: "Ah, we shall soon know." And he took his hat and placed it on the red handkerchief knotted around his head.