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?"
