"Are you alone, M. l'Abbé, or have you there soldiers ready to seize me?"
"I am alone," said the abbé, "and I will again have pity on you and will let you escape, at the risk of the fresh miseries my weakness may lead to, if you tell me the truth."
"Ah, M. l'Abbé," cried Caderousse, clasping his hands, and drawing nearer to Monte-Cristo, "I may indeed say you are my deliverer!"
"You mean to say you have been freed from confinement?"
"Yes, in truth, M. l'Abbé."
"Who was your liberator?"
"An Englishman."
"What was his name?"
"Lord Wilmore."
"I know him; I shall know if you lie."
"M. l'Abbé, I tell you the simple truth."
"Was this Englishman protecting you?"
"No, not me, but a young Corsican, my companion."
"What was this young Corsican's name?"
"Benedetto."
"Is that his Christian name?"
"He had no other; he was a foundling."
"Then this young man escaped with you?"
"He did."
"In what way?"
"We were working at Saint-Mandrier, near Toulon. Do you know Saint-Mandrier?"
"I do."
"In the hour of rest, between noon and one o'clock"
"Galley-slaves having a nap after dinner! We may well pity the poor fellow!" said the abbé.
"Nay," said Caderousse, "one can't always work—one is not a dog!"
"So much the better for the dogs!" said Monte-Cristo.
"While the rest slept, then, we went away a short distance; we severed our fetters with a file the Englishman had given us, and swam away."
"And what is become of this Benedetto?"
"I don't know."
"You ought to know."
"No, in truth; we parted at Hyères." And to give more weight to his protestation, Caderousse advanced another step toward the abbé, who remained motionless in his place, as calm as ever, and pursuing his interrogation.
