“And was he not so?” asked the abbé.
“Gaspard, Gaspard!” murmured the woman, from her seat on the stairs, “mind what you are saying!”
Caderousse made no reply to these words, though evidently irritated and annoyed by the interruption, but, addressing the abbé, said,
“Can a man be faithful to another whose wife he covets and desires for himself? But Dantès was so honorable and true in his own nature, that he believed everybody’s professions of friendship. Poor Edmond, he was cruelly deceived; but it was fortunate that he never knew, or he might have found it more difficult, when on his deathbed, to pardon his enemies. And, whatever people may say,” continued Caderousse, in his native language, which was not altogether devoid of rude poetry, “I cannot help being more frightened at the idea of the malediction of the dead than the hatred of the living.”
“Imbecile!” exclaimed La Carconte.
“Do you, then, know in what manner Fernand injured Dantès?” inquired the abbé of Caderousse.
“Do I? No one better.”
“Speak out then, say what it was!”
“Gaspard!” cried La Carconte, “do as you will; you are master—but if you take my advice you’ll hold your tongue.”
“Well, wife,” replied Caderousse, “I don’t know but what you’re right!”
“So you will say nothing?” asked the abbé.