have prevented Benedetto from killing you; but I found you proud and bloodthirsty, and I left you in the hands of God.”
“I do not believe there is a God,” howled Caderousse; “you do not believe it; you lie—you lie!”
“Silence,” said the abbé; “you will force the last drop of blood from your veins.
What! you do not believe in God when he is striking you dead? you will not believe in him, who requires but a prayer, a word, a tear, and he will forgive?
God, who might have directed the assassin’s dagger so as to end your career in a moment, has given you this quarter of an hour for repentance. Reflect, then, wretched man, and repent.”
“No,” said Caderousse, “no; I will not repent. There is no God; there is no Providence—all comes by chance.”
“There is a Providence; there is a God,” said Monte Cristo, “of whom you are a striking proof, as you lie in utter despair, denying him, while I stand before you, rich, happy, safe and entreating that God in whom you endeavor not to believe, while in your heart you still believe in him.”
“But who are you, then?” asked Caderousse, fixing his dying eyes on the count.
“Look well at me!” said Monte Cristo, putting the light near his face.
“Well, the abbé—the Abbé Busoni.” Monte Cristo took off the wig which disfigured him, and let fall his black hair, which added so much to the beauty of his pallid features.