“The abbé, the abbé!” murmured he, clenching his fists, and his teeth chattering.

“So you would rob the Count of Monte Cristo?” continued the false abbé.

“Reverend sir,” murmured Caderousse, seeking to regain the window, which the count pitilessly blocked⁠—“reverend sir, I don’t know⁠—believe me⁠—I take my oath⁠—”

“A pane of glass out,” continued the count, “a dark lantern, a bunch of false keys, a secretaire half forced⁠—it is tolerably evident⁠—”

Caderousse was choking; he looked around for some corner to hide in, some way of escape.

“Come, come,” continued the count, “I see you are still the same⁠—an assassin.”

“Reverend sir, since you know everything, you know it was not I⁠—it was La Carconte; that was proved at the trial, since I was only condemned to the galleys.”