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.
