“So that now—?” inquired the abbé.
“So that now,” continued Caderousse, “he owns a magnificent house— No. 27, Rue du Helder, Paris.”
The abbé opened his mouth, hesitated for a moment, then, making an effort at self-control, he said, “And Mercédès—they tell me that she has disappeared?”
“Disappeared,” said Caderousse, “yes, as the sun disappears, to rise the next day with still more splendor.”
“Has she made a fortune also?” inquired the abbé, with an ironical smile.
“Mercédès is at this moment one of the greatest ladies in Paris,” replied Caderousse.
“Go on,” said the abbé; “it seems as if I were listening to the story of a dream. But I have seen things so extraordinary, that what you tell me seems less astonishing than it otherwise might.”
“Mercédès was at first in the deepest despair at the blow which deprived her of Edmond. I have told you of her attempts to propitiate M. de Villefort, her devotion to the elder Dantès. In the midst of her despair, a new affliction overtook her. This was the departure of Fernand—of Fernand, whose crime she did not know, and whom she regarded as her brother. Fernand went, and Mercédès remained alone.
“Three months passed and still she wept—no news of Edmond, no news of Fernand, no companionship save that of an old man who was dying with despair. One evening, after a day of accustomed vigil at the angle of two roads leading to Marseilles from the Catalans, she returned to her home more depressed than ever. Suddenly she heard a step she knew, turned anxiously around, the door opened, and Fernand, dressed in the uniform of a sublieutenant, stood before her.