I intended to ask shelter.”
“What was his name?” inquired the count, who seemed to become somewhat interested in Bertuccio’s story.
“Gaspard Caderousse; he had married a woman from the village of Carconte, and whom we did not know by any other name than that of her village. She was suffering from malarial fever, and seemed dying by inches. As for her husband, he was a strapping fellow of forty, or five-and-forty, who had more than once, in time of danger, given ample proof of his presence of mind and courage.”
“And you say,” interrupted Monte Cristo “that this took place towards the year—”
“1829, your excellency.”
“In what month?”
“June.”
“The beginning or the end?”
“The evening of the 3rd.”
“Ah,” said Monte Cristo, “the evening of the 3rd of June, 1829. Go on.”
“It was from Caderousse that I intended demanding shelter, and,