“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 St. Mandrier, near Toulon. Do you know St. 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 fellows!” said the abbe.
“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 Hyeres.” And, to give more weight to his protestation, Caderousse advanced another step towards the abbe, who remained motionless in his place, as calm as ever, and pursuing his interrogation. “You lie,” said the Abbe Busoni, with a tone of irresistible authority.
“Reverend sir!”
“You lie! This man is still your friend, and you, perhaps, make use of him as your accomplice.”
“Oh, reverend sir!”
“Since you left Toulon what have you lived on? Answer me!”
“On what I could get.”
“You lie,” repeated the abbe a third time, with a still more imperative tone. Caderousse, terrified, looked at the count. “You have lived on the money he has given you.”
“True,” said Caderousse; “Benedetto has become the son of a great lord.”
“How can he be the son of a great lord?”
“A natural son.”
“And what is that great lord’s name?”
“The Count of Monte Cristo, the very same in whose house we are.”
“Benedetto the count’s son?” replied Monte Cristo, astonished in his turn.
“Well, I should think so, since the count has found him a false father — since the count gives him four thousand francs a month, and leaves him 500,000 francs in his will.”
“Ah, yes,” said the factitious abbe, who began to understand; “and what name does the young man bear meanwhile?”
“Andrea Cavalcanti.”
“Is it, then, that young man whom my friend the Count of Monte Cristo has received into his house, and who is going to marry Mademoiselle Danglars?”
“Exactly.”
“And you suffer that, you wretch — you, who know his life and his crime?”
“Why should I stand in a comrade’s way?” said Caderousse.
“You are right; it is not you who should apprise M. Danglars, it is I.”
“Do not do so, reverend sir.”
“Why not?”
“Because you would bring us to ruin.”
“And you think that to save such villains as you I will become an abettor of their plot, an accomplice in their crimes?”
“Reverend sir,” said Caderousse, drawing still nearer.
“I will expose all.”
“To whom?”
“To M. Danglars.”
“By heaven!” cried Caderousse, drawing from his waistcoat an open knife, and striking the count in the breast, “you shall disclose nothing, reverend sir!” To Caderousse’s great astonishment, the knife, instead of piercing the count’s breast, flew back blunted. At the same moment the count seized with his left hand the assassin’s wrist, and wrung it with such strength that the knife fell from his stiffened fingers, and Caderousse uttered a cry of pain. But the count, disregarding his cry, continued to wring the bandit’s wrist, until, his arm being dislocated, he fell first on his knees, then flat on the floor. The count then placed his foot on his head, saying, “I know not what restrains me from crushing thy skull, rascal.”
“Ah, mercy — mercy!” cried Caderousse. The count withdrew his foot. “Rise!” said he. Caderousse rose.
“What a wrist you have, reverend sir!” said Caderousse. stroking his arm, all bruised by the fleshy pincers which had held it; “what a wrist!”
“Silence! God gives me strength to overcome a wild beast like you; in the name of that God I act, — remember that, wretch, — and to spare thee at this moment is still serving him.”
“Oh!” said Caderousse, groaning with pain.
“Take this pen and paper, and write what I dictate.”