Caderousse drew a deep breath. “Oh,” said he, “that is life to me; more, more!”
“Two drops more would kill you,” replied the abbé.
“Oh, send for someone to whom I can denounce the wretch!”
“Shall I write your deposition? You can sign it.”
“Yes, yes,” said Caderousse; and his eyes glistened at the thought of this posthumous revenge.
Monte Cristo wrote:
“I die, murdered by the Corsican Benedetto, my comrade in the galleys at Toulon, No. 59.”
“Quick, quick!” said Caderousse, “or I shall be unable to sign it.”
Monte Cristo gave the pen to Caderousse, who collected all his strength, signed it, and fell back on his bed, saying:
“You will relate all the rest, reverend sir; you will say he calls himself Andrea Cavalcanti. He lodges at the Hôtel des Princes. Oh, I am dying!”
He again fainted. The abbé made him smell the contents of the phial, and he again opened his eyes. His desire for revenge had not forsaken him.
“Ah, you will tell all I have said, will you not, reverend sir?”
“Yes, and much more.”
“What more will you say?”
“I will say he had doubtless given you the plan of this house, in the hope the count would kill you. I will say, likewise, he had apprised the count,