“I ask you what can I do? I have tried to make you a happy man, and you have turned out a murderer.”
“Oh, monsieur,” said Caderousse, “make one more attempt—try me once more!”
“I will,” said the count. “Listen—you know if I may be relied on.”
“Yes,” said Caderousse.
“If you arrive safely at home—”
“What have I to fear, except from you?”
“If you reach your home safely, leave Paris, leave France, and wherever you may be, so long as you conduct yourself well, I will send you a small annuity; for, if you return home safely, then—”
“Then?” asked Caderousse, shuddering.
“Then I shall believe God has forgiven you, and I will forgive you too.”
“As true as I am a Christian,” stammered Caderousse, “you will make me die of fright!”
“Now begone,” said the count, pointing to the window.
Caderousse, scarcely yet relying on this promise, put his legs out of the window and stood on the ladder.
“Now go down,” said the abbé, folding his arms. Understanding he had nothing more to fear from him, Caderousse began to go down. Then the count brought the taper to the window, that it might be seen in the Champs-Élysées that a man was getting out of the window while another held a light.