and I confess that I held my tongue. It was cowardly, I confess, but it was not criminal."
"I comprehend—you allowed matters to take their course; that was all."
"Yes, sir," answered Caderousse, "and my remorse preys on me night and day. I often ask pardon of God, I swear to you, because this action, the only one with which I have seriously to reproach myself in all my life, is no doubt the cause of my abject condition. I am expiating a moment of selfishness, and thus it is I always say to my wife, when she complains, 'Hold your tongue, woman; it is the will of God.'" And Caderousse bowed his head with every sign of real repentance.
"Well, sir," said the abbé, "you have spoken unreservedly; and thus to accuse yourself is to deserve pardon."
"Unfortunately, Edmond is dead, and has not pardoned me."
"He was ignorant," said the abbé.
"But he knows it all now," interrupted Caderousse; "they say the dead know everything."
There was a brief silence. The abbé rose and paced up and down pensively, and then resumed his seat.
"You have two or three times mentioned a M. Morrel," he said; "who was he?"
"The owner of the Pharaon, and patron of Dantès."
"And what part did he play in this sad drama?" inquired the abbé.
"The part of an honest man, full of courage and real regard. Twenty times he interceded for Edmond. When the emperor returned, he wrote, implored, threatened, and so energetically that on the second restoration he was persecuted as a Bonapartist. Ten times, as I told you, he came to see Dantès' father, and offered to receive him in his own house; and the night or two before his death, as I have already said, he left his purse on the mantelpiece, with which they paid the old man's debts, and buried him decently; and then Edmond's father died, as he had lived, without doing harm to any one. I have the purse still by me a large one, made of red silk."
"And," asked the abbe, "is M. Morrel still alive?"
"Yes," replied Caderousse.
"In this case," replied the abbé, "he should be a man blessed of God, rich, happy."
Caderousse smiled bitterly. "Yes, happy as myself," said he.
"What! M. Morrel unhappy!" exclaimed the abbé.
"He is reduced almost to the last extremity—nay, he is almost at the point of dishonor."
