Monte Cristo suddenly struck his finger on his forehead and a smile passed over his lips; then drawing near to Ali, he whispered, —
“Remain here, concealed in the dark, and whatever noise you hear, whatever passes, only come in or show yourself if I call you.” Ali bowed in token of strict obedience. Monte Cristo then drew a lighted taper from a closet, and when the thief was deeply engaged with his lock, silently opened the door, taking care that the light should shine directly on his face. The door opened so quietly that the thief heard no sound; but, to his astonishment, the room was suddenly illuminated. He turned.
“Ah, good-evening, my dear M. Caderousse,” said Monte Cristo; “what are you doing here, at such an hour?”
“The Abbe Busoni!” exclaimed Caderousse; and, not knowing how this strange apparition could have entered when he had bolted the doors, he let fall his bunch of keys, and remained motionless and stupefied. The count placed himself between Caderousse and the window, thus cutting off from the thief his only chance of retreat. “The Abbe Busoni!” repeated Caderousse, fixing his haggard gaze on the count.
“Yes, undoubtedly, the Abbe Busoni himself,” replied Monte Cristo. “And I am very glad you recognize me, dear M. Caderousse; it proves you have a good memory, for it must be about ten years since we last met.” This calmness of Busoni, combined with his irony and boldness, staggered Caderousse.
“The abbe, the abbe!” murmured he, clinching his fists, and his teeth chattering.
“So you would rob the Count of Monte Cristo?” continued the false abbe.
“Reverend sir,” murmured Caderousse, seeking to regain the window, which the count pitilessly blocked —“reverend sir, I don’t know — believe me — I take my oath” —
“A pane of glass out,” continued the count, “a dark lantern, a bunch of false keys, a secretary half forced — it is tolerably evident” —
Caderousse was choking; he looked around for some corner to hide in, some way of escape.
“Come, come,” continued the count, “I see you are still the same, — an assassin.”
“Reverend sir, since you know everything, you know it was not I — it was La Carconte; that was proved at the trial, since I was only condemned to the galleys.”
“Is your time, then, expired, since I find you in a fair way to return there?”
“No, reverend sir; I have been liberated by some one.”
“That some one has done society a great kindness.”
“Ah,” said Caderousse, “I had promised” —
“And you are breaking your promise!” interrupted Monte Cristo.
“Alas, yes!” said Caderousse very uneasily.
“A bad relapse, that will lead you, if I mistake not, to the Place de Greve. So much the worse, so much the worse — diavolo, as they say in my country.”
“Reverend sir, I am impelled” —
“Every criminal says the same thing.”
“Poverty” —
“Pshaw!” said Busoni disdainfully; “poverty may make a man beg, steal a loaf of bread at a baker’s door, but not cause him to open a secretary in a house supposed to be inhabited. And when the jeweller Johannes had just paid you 40,000 francs for the diamond I had given you, and you killed him to get the diamond and the money both, was that also poverty?”
“Pardon, reverend sir,” said Caderousse; “you have saved my life once, save me again!”
“That is but poor encouragement.”
“Are you alone, reverend sir, or have you there soldiers ready to seize me?”
“I am alone,” said the abbe, “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, reverend sir,” 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, that is true, reverend sir.”
“Who was your liberator?”
“An Englishman.”
“What was his name?”
“Lord Wilmore.”
“I know him; I shall know if you lie.”
“Ah, reverend sir, I tell you the simple truth.”
“Was this Englishman protecting you?”
“No, not me, but a young Corsican, my companion.”