“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.
“Reverend sir!”
“You lie! This man is still your friend, and you, perhaps, make use of him as your accomplice.”
“Oh, reverend sir!”