“Alas, yes!” said Caderousse very uneasily.
“A bad relapse, that will lead you, if I mistake not, to the Place de Grève. 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 secretaire in a house supposed to be inhabited. And when the jeweller Johannes had just paid you 45,000 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 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, 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.”
“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 fellows!” 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 towards the abbé, who remained motionless in his place, as calm as ever, and pursuing his interrogation.
“You lie,” said the Abbé Busoni, with a tone of irresistible authority.
