Chapter 67: The Innkeeper: III
"A rich Englishman," the priest continued, "who had been his companion in misfortune but was released from prison during a political restoration, owned a diamond of immense value. When he left prison, he gave this jewel to Dantès as a mark of gratitude for the kindness and care Dantès had shown him during a severe illness in confinement.
Instead of using this diamond to try to bribe his jailers, who might have taken it and then betrayed him to the prison governor, Dantès carefully preserved it, hoping that if he ever got out of prison, he would have something to live on. The sale of such a diamond would have been enough to make his fortune."
"Then I suppose," Caderousse asked with eager, glowing eyes, "it was a stone of immense value?"
"Well, everything is relative," the priest answered. "To someone in Edmond’s position, the diamond was certainly very valuable. It was estimated at fifty thousand francs."
"Good Lord!" Caderousse exclaimed. "Fifty thousand francs! The diamond must have been as big as a walnut to be worth all that."
"No," the priest replied, "it wasn’t that size. But you can judge for yourself. I have it with me."
Caderousse’s sharp gaze immediately focused on the priest’s robes, as if hoping to spot where the treasure was hidden. Calmly drawing a small box covered in black leather from his pocket, the priest opened it and displayed the sparkling jewel inside, set in a ring of beautiful workmanship.
"And that diamond," Caderousse cried, almost breathless with admiration, "you say is worth fifty thousand francs?"
"It is, without the setting, which is also valuable," the priest replied, closing the box and returning it to his pocket, though its brilliant colors seemed to dance before the fascinated innkeeper’s eyes.
"But how did the diamond come to be in your possession, sir? Did Edmond make you his heir?"
"No, merely the executor of his will. ’I once had four dear and faithful friends, besides the woman I was engaged to marry,’ he said. ’I feel certain they have all sincerely grieved over my loss. One of the four friends is named Caderousse.’"
The innkeeper shivered.
"’Another,’" the priest continued without seeming to notice Caderousse’s emotion, "’is called Danglars; and the third, despite being my rival, had a very sincere affection for me.’"
A wicked smile played across Caderousse’s features. He was about to interrupt the priest when the latter, raising his hand, said, "Let me finish first, and then you can make any observations you want. ’The third of my friends, though my rival, was very attached to me, his name was Fernand; and my fiancée was named-’, wait, wait," the priest continued, "I’ve forgotten what he called her."
"Mercédès," Caderousse said eagerly.
"True," the priest said with a stifled sigh. "Mercédès it was."
"Go on," Caderousse urged.
"Bring me a glass of water," the priest said.
Caderousse quickly did as the stranger asked. After pouring some water into a glass and slowly drinking it, the priest resumed his usual calm manner and said as he placed the empty glass on the table, "Where were we?"
"Edmond’s fiancée was named Mercédès."
"Right. ’You will go to the city,’ Dantès said, you understand, I’m repeating his exact words."
"Perfectly."
"’You will sell this diamond and divide the money into five equal parts, giving one portion to each of these good friends, the only people who truly loved me on earth.’"
"But why five parts?" Caderousse asked. "You only mentioned four people."
"Because the fifth is dead, as I learned. The fifth person who was to share Edmond’s gift was his own father."
"Too true, too true!" Caderousse exclaimed, almost suffocated by the conflicting emotions that assailed him. "The poor old man did die."
"I learned as much in the city," the priest replied, making a strong effort to appear indifferent. "But because so much time has passed since the elder Dantès died, I couldn’t get any details about his death. Can you tell me about it?"
"I don’t know who could if I couldn’t," Caderousse said. "I lived almost on the same floor as the poor old man. About a year after his son disappeared, the old man died."
"What did he die of?"
"The doctors called it gastroenteritis, I believe. His friends said he died of grief. But I, who saw him in his final moments, say he died of-" Caderousse paused.
"Of what?" the priest asked anxiously.
"Of pure starvation."
"Starvation!" the priest exclaimed, jumping from his seat. "Why, even the lowest animals aren’t allowed to die such a death! Stray dogs wandering homeless in the streets find some pitying hand to throw them a crust of bread. That a man, a Christian, should be allowed to die of hunger surrounded by other people who call themselves Christians is too horrible to believe. It’s impossible, utterly impossible!"
"What I said, I said," Caderousse answered.
"And you’re a fool for saying anything about it," came a voice from the top of the stairs. "Why should you meddle in things that don’t concern you?"
The two men turned quickly and saw the sickly face of Carconte peering through the stair railings. Attracted by the sound of voices, she had weakly dragged herself down the stairs and, seated on the bottom step with her head on her knees, had listened to their conversation.
"Mind your own business, wife," Caderousse replied sharply. "This gentleman asks me for information, and common courtesy won’t let me refuse."
"Courtesy, you fool!" Carconte retorted. "What do you know about courtesy? You’d better learn some common sense. How do you know what motives this person might have for trying to get everything he can out of you?"
"I give you my word, madam," the priest said, "that my intentions are good, and your husband can’t get into any trouble as long as he answers me honestly."
"Oh, that’s all very nice," the woman replied. "Nothing’s easier than to start with fair promises and assurances that there’s nothing to fear. But when poor, simple folks like my husband have been persuaded to tell everything they know, the promises and assurances of safety are quickly forgotten. At some unexpected moment, trouble and misery and all sorts of persecution are heaped on the unfortunate people, who can’t even see where their problems are coming from."
"No, no, my good woman, don’t worry at all, I beg you. Whatever troubles may befall you, they won’t be caused by me, I solemnly promise you that."
Carconte muttered a few unclear words, then let her head drop to her knees again and had a fit of chills, leaving the two men to continue their conversation while she remained within hearing distance.
The priest had to swallow another drink of water to calm the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. When he had recovered enough, he said, "So it appears that the miserable old man you were telling me about was abandoned by everyone. Surely if that hadn’t been the case, he wouldn’t have died such a terrible death."