“ ‘The same story,’ muttered the jeweller; ‘and improbable as it seemed at first, it may be true. There’s only the price we are not agreed about.’
“ ‘How not agreed about?’ said Caderousse. ‘I thought we agreed for the price I asked.’
“ ‘That is,’ replied the jeweller, ‘I offered 40,000 francs.’
“ ‘Forty thousand,’ cried La Carconte; ‘we will not part with it for that sum. The abbé told us it was worth 50,000 without the setting.’
“ ‘What was the abbé’s name?’ asked the indefatigable questioner.
“ ‘The Abbé Busoni,’ said La Carconte.
“ ‘He was a foreigner?’
“ ‘An Italian from the neighborhood of Mantua, I believe.’
“ ‘Let me see this diamond again,’ replied the jeweller; ‘the first time you are often mistaken as to the value of a stone.’
“Caderousse took from his pocket a small case of black shagreen, opened, and gave it to the jeweller. At the sight of the diamond, which was as large as a hazelnut, La Carconte’s eyes sparkled with cupidity.”
“And what did you think of this fine story, eavesdropper?” said Monte Cristo; “did you credit it?”
“Yes, your excellency. I did not look on Caderousse as a bad man, and I thought him incapable of committing a crime, or even a theft.”
“That did more honor to your heart than to your experience, M. Bertuccio. Had you known this Edmond Dantès, of whom they spoke?”