Such of my readers as have made a pedestrian excursion tothe south of France may perchance have noticed, about midwaybetween the town of Beaucaire and the village of Bellegarde,- a little nearer to the former than to the latter, - asmall roadside inn, from the front of which hung, creakingand flapping in the wind, a sheet of tin covered with agrotesque representation of the Pont du Gard. This modernplace of entertainment stood on the left-hand side of thepost road, and backed upon the Rhone. It also boasted ofwhat in Languedoc is styled a garden, consisting of a smallplot of ground, on the side opposite to the main entrancereserved for the reception of guests. A few dingy olives andstunted fig-trees struggled hard for existence, but theirwithered dusty foliage abundantly proved how unequal was theconflict. Between these sickly shrubs grew a scanty supplyof garlic, tomatoes, and eschalots; while, lone andsolitary, like a forgotten sentinel, a tall pine raised itsmelancholy head in one of the corners of this unattractivespot, and displayed its flexible stem and fan-shaped summitdried and cracked by the fierce heat of the sub-tropicalsun.

In the surrounding plain, which more resembled a dusty lakethan solid ground, were scattered a few miserable stalks ofwheat, the effect, no doubt, of a curious desire on the partof the agriculturists of the country to see whether such athing as the raising of grain in those parched regions waspracticable. Each stalk served as a perch for a grasshopper,which regaled the passers by through this Egyptian scenewith its strident, monotonous note.

For about seven or eight years the little tavern had beenkept by a man and his wife, with two servants, - achambermaid named Trinette, and a hostler called Pecaud.This small staff was quite equal to all the requirements,for a canal between Beaucaire and Aiguemortes hadrevolutionized transportation by substituting boats for thecart and the stagecoach. And, as though to add to the dailymisery which this prosperous canal inflicted on theunfortunate inn-keeper, whose utter ruin it was fastaccomplishing, it was situated between the Rhone from whichit had its source and the post-road it had depleted, not ahundred steps from the inn, of which we have given a briefbut faithful description.

The inn-keeper himself was a man of from forty to fifty-fiveyears of age, tall, strong, and bony, a perfect specimen ofthe natives of those southern latitudes; he had dark,sparkling, and deep-set eyes, hooked nose, and teeth whiteas those of a carnivorous animal; his hair, like his beard,which he wore under his chin, was thick and curly, and inspite of his age but slightly interspersed with a fewsilvery threads. His naturally dark complexion had assumed astill further shade of brown from the habit the unfortunateman had acquired of stationing himself from morning till eveat the threshold of his door, on the lookout for guests whoseldom came, yet there he stood, day after day, exposed tothe meridional rays of a burning sun, with no otherprotection for his head than a red handkerchief twistedaround it, after the manner of the Spanish muleteers. Thisman was our old acquaintance, Gaspard Caderousse. His wife,on the contrary, whose maiden name had been MadeleineRadelle, was pale, meagre, and sickly-looking. Born in theneighborhood of Arles, she had shared in the beauty forwhich its women are proverbial; but that beauty hadgradually withered beneath the devastating influence of theslow fever so prevalent among dwellers by the ponds ofAiguemortes and the marshes of Camargue. She remained nearlyalways in her second-floor chamber, shivering in her chair,or stretched languid and feeble on her bed, while herhusband kept his daily watch at the door - a duty heperformed with so much the greater willingness, as it savedhim the necessity of listening to the endless plaints andmurmurs of his helpmate, who never saw him without breakingout into bitter invectives against fate; to all of which herhusband would calmly return an unvarying reply, in thesephilosophic words: -

"Hush, La Carconte. It is God's pleasure that things shouldbe so."

The sobriquet of La Carconte had been bestowed on MadeleineRadelle from the fact that she had been born in a village,so called, situated between Salon and Lambesc; and as acustom existed among the inhabitants of that part of Francewhere Caderousse lived of styling every person by someparticular and distinctive appellation, her husband hadbestowed on her the name of La Carconte in place of hersweet and euphonious name of Madeleine, which, in allprobability, his rude gutteral language would not haveenabled him to pronounce. Still, let it not be supposed thatamid this affected resignation to the will of Providence,the unfortunate inn-keeper did not writhe under the doublemisery of seeing the hateful canal carry off his customersand his profits, and the daily infliction of his peevishpartner's murmurs and lamentations.

Like other dwellers in the south, he was a man of soberhabits and moderate desires, but fond of external show,vain, and addicted to display. During the days of hisprosperity, not a festivity took place without himself andwife being among the spectators. He dressed in thepicturesque costume worn upon grand occasions by theinhabitants of the south of France, bearing equalresemblance to the style adopted both by the Catalans andAndalusians; while La Carconte displayed the charmingfashion prevalent among the women of Arles, a mode of attireborrowed equally from Greece and Arabia. But, by degrees,watch-chains, necklaces, parti-colored scarfs, embroideredbodices, velvet vests, elegantly worked stockings, stripedgaiters, and silver buckles for the shoes, all disappeared;and Gaspard Caderousse, unable to appear abroad in hispristine splendor, had given up any further participation inthe pomps and vanities, both for himself and wife, althougha bitter feeling of envious discontent filled his mind asthe sound of mirth and merry music from the joyous revellersreached even the miserable hostelry to which he still clung,more for the shelter than the profit it afforded.

Caderousse, then, was, as usual, at his place of observationbefore the door, his eyes glancing listlessly from a pieceof closely shaven grass - on which some fowls wereindustriously, though fruitlessly, endeavoring to turn upsome grain or insect suited to their palate - to thedeserted road, which led away to the north and south, whenhe was aroused by the shrill voice of his wife, andgrumbling to himself as he went, he mounted to her chamber,first taking care, however, to set the entrance door wideopen, as an invitation to any chance traveller who might bepassing.

At the moment Caderousse quitted his sentry-like watchbefore the door, the road on which he so eagerly strainedhis sight was void and lonely as a desert at mid-day. Thereit lay stretching out into one interminable line of dust andsand, with its sides bordered by tall, meagre trees,altogether presenting so uninviting an appearance, that noone in his senses could have imagined that any traveller, atliberty to regulate his hours for journeying, would chooseto expose himself in such a formidable Sahara. Nevertheless,had Caderousse but retained his post a few minutes longer,he might have caught a dim outline of something approachingfrom the direction of Bellegarde; as the moving object drewnearer, he would easily have perceived that it consisted ofa man and horse, between whom the kindest and most amiableunderstanding appeared to exist. The horse was of Hungarianbreed, and ambled along at an easy pace. His rider was apriest, dressed in black, and wearing a three-cornered hat;and, spite of the ardent rays of a noonday sun, the paircame on with a fair degree of rapidity.

Having arrived before the Pont du Gard, the horse stopped,but whether for his own pleasure or that of his rider wouldhave been difficult to say. However that might have been,the priest, dismounting, led his steed by the bridle insearch of some place to which he could secure him. Availinghimself of a handle that projected from a half-fallen door,he tied the animal safely and having drawn a red cottonhandkerchief, from his pocket, wiped away the perspirationthat streamed from his brow, then, advancing to the door,struck thrice with the end of his iron-shod stick. At thisunusual sound, a huge black dog came rushing to meet thedaring assailant of his ordinarily tranquil abode, snarlingand displaying his sharp white teeth with a determinedhostility that abundantly proved how little he wasaccustomed to society. At that moment a heavy footstep washeard descending the wooden staircase that led from theupper floor, and, with many bows and courteous smiles, minehost of the Pont du Gard besought his guest to enter.

"You are welcome, sir, most welcome!" repeated theastonished Caderousse. "Now, then, Margotin," cried he,speaking to the dog, "will you be quiet? Pray don't heedhim, sir! - he only barks, he never bites. I make no doubta glass of good wine would be acceptable this dreadfully hotday." Then perceiving for the first time the garb of thetraveller he had to entertain, Caderousse hastily exclaimed:"A thousand pardons! I really did not observe whom I had thehonor to receive under my poor roof. What would the abbeplease to have? What refreshment can I offer? All I have isat his service."

The priest gazed on the person addressing him with a longand searching gaze - there even seemed a disposition on hispart to court a similar scrutiny on the part of theinn-keeper; then, observing in the countenance of the latterno other expression than extreme surprise at his own want ofattention to an inquiry so courteously worded, he deemed itas well to terminate this dumb show, and therefore said,speaking with a strong Italian accent, "You are, I presume,M. Caderousse?"

"Yes, sir," answered the host, even more surprised at thequestion than he had been by the silence which had precededit; "I am Gaspard Caderousse, at your service."

"Gaspard Caderousse," rejoined the priest. "Yes, - Christian and surname are the same. You formerly lived, Ibelieve in the Allees de Meillan, on the fourth floor?"

"I did."

"And you followed the business of a tailor?"

"True, I was a tailor, till the trade fell off. It is so hotat Marseilles, that really I believe that the respectableinhabitants will in time go without any clothing whatever.But talking of heat, is there nothing I can offer you by wayof refreshment?"

"Yes; let me have a bottle of your best wine, and then, withyour permission, we will resume our conversation from wherewe left off."

"As you please, sir," said Caderousse, who, anxious not tolose the present opportunity of finding a customer for oneof the few bottles of Cahors still remaining in hispossession, hastily raised a trap-door in the floor of theapartment they were in, which served both as parlor andkitchen. Upon issuing forth from his subterranean retreat atthe expiration of five minutes, he found the abbe seatedupon a wooden stool, leaning his elbow on a table, whileMargotin, whose animosity seemed appeased by the unusualcommand of the traveller for refreshments, had crept up tohim, and had established himself very comfortably betweenhis knees, his long, skinny neck resting on his lap, whilehis dim eye was fixed earnestly on the traveller's face.

"Are you quite alone?" inquired the guest, as Caderousseplaced before him the bottle of wine and a glass.

"Quite, quite alone," replied the man - "or, at least,practically so, for my poor wife, who is the only person inthe house besides myself, is laid up with illness, andunable to render me the least assistance, poor thing!"

"You are married, then?" said the priest, with a show ofinterest, glancing round as he spoke at the scantyfurnishings of the apartment.

"Ah, sir," said Caderousse with a sigh, "it is easy toperceive I am not a rich man; but in this world a man doesnot thrive the better for being honest." The abbe fixed onhim a searching, penetrating glance.

"Yes, honest - I can certainly say that much for myself,"continued the inn-keeper, fairly sustaining the scrutiny ofthe abbe's gaze; "I can boast with truth of being an honestman; and," continued he significantly, with a hand on hisbreast and shaking his head, "that is more than every onecan say nowadays."

"So much the better for you, if what you assert be true,"said the abbe; "for I am firmly persuaded that, sooner orlater, the good will be rewarded, and the wicked punished."

"Such words as those belong to your profession," answeredCaderousse, "and you do well to repeat them; but," added he,with a bitter expression of countenance, "one is free tobelieve them or not, as one pleases."

"You are wrong to speak thus," said the abbe; "and perhaps Imay, in my own person, be able to prove to you howcompletely you are in error."

"What mean you?" inquired Caderousse with a look ofsurprise.

"In the first place, I must be satisfied that you are theperson I am in search of."

"What proofs do you require?"

"Did you, in the year 1814 or 1815, know anything of a youngsailor named Dantes?"

"Dantes? Did I know poor dear Edmond? Why, Edmond Dantes andmyself were intimate friends!" exclaimed Caderousse, whosecountenance flushed darkly as he caught the penetrating gazeof the abbe fixed on him, while the clear, calm eye of thequestioner seemed to dilate with feverish scrutiny.

"You remind me," said the priest, "that the young manconcerning whom I asked you was said to bear the name ofEdmond."

"Said to bear the name!" repeated Caderousse, becomingexcited and eager. "Why, he was so called as truly as Imyself bore the appellation of Gaspard Caderousse; but tellme, I pray, what has become of poor Edmond? Did you knowhim? Is he alive and at liberty? Is he prosperous andhappy?"

"He died a more wretched, hopeless, heart-broken prisonerthan the felons who pay the penalty of their crimes at thegalleys of Toulon."

A deadly pallor followed the flush on the countenance ofCaderousse, who turned away, and the priest saw him wipingthe tears from his eyes with the corner of the redhandkerchief twisted round his head.

"Poor fellow, poor fellow!" murmured Caderousse. "Well,there, sir, is another proof that good people are neverrewarded on this earth, and that none but the wickedprosper. Ah," continued Caderousse, speaking in the highlycolored language of the south, "the world grows worse andworse. Why does not God, if he really hates the wicked, ashe is said to do, send down brimstone and fire, and consumethem altogether?"

"You speak as though you had loved this young Dantes,"observed the abbe, without taking any notice of hiscompanion's vehemence.

"And so I did," replied Caderousse; "though once, I confess,I envied him his good fortune. But I swear to you, sir, Iswear to you, by everything a man holds dear, I have, sincethen, deeply and sincerely lamented his unhappy fate." Therewas a brief silence, during which the fixed, searching eyeof the abbe was employed in scrutinizing the agitatedfeatures of the inn-keeper.

"You knew the poor lad, then?" continued Caderousse.

"I was called to see him on his dying bed, that I mightadminister to him the consolations of religion."

"And of what did he die?" asked Caderousse in a chokingvoice.

"Of what, think you, do young and strong men die in prison,when they have scarcely numbered their thirtieth year,unless it be of imprisonment?" Caderousse wiped away thelarge beads of perspiration that gathered on his brow.

"But the strangest part of the story is," resumed the abbe,"that Dantes, even in his dying moments, swore by hiscrucified Redeemer, that he was utterly ignorant of thecause of his detention."

"And so he was," murmured Caderousse. "How should he havebeen otherwise? Ah, sir, the poor fellow told you thetruth."

"And for that reason, he besought me to try and clear up amystery he had never been able to penetrate, and to clearhis memory should any foul spot or stain have fallen on it."

And here the look of the abbe, becoming more and more fixed,seemed to rest with ill-concealed satisfaction on the gloomydepression which was rapidly spreading over the countenanceof Caderousse.

"A rich Englishman," continued the abbe, "who had been hiscompanion in misfortune, but had been released from prisonduring the second restoration, was possessed of a diamond ofimmense value; this jewel he bestowed on Dantes upon himselfquitting the prison, as a mark of his gratitude for thekindness and brotherly care with which Dantes had nursed himin a severe illness he underwent during his confinement.Instead of employing this diamond in attempting to bribe hisjailers, who might only have taken it and then betrayed himto the governor, Dantes carefully preserved it, that in theevent of his getting out of prison he might have wherewithalto live, for the sale of such a diamond would have quitesufficed to make his fortune."

"Then, I suppose," asked Caderousse, with eager, glowinglooks, "that it was a stone of immense value?"

"Why, everything is relative," answered the abbe. "To one inEdmond's position the diamond certainly was of great value.It was estimated at fifty thousand francs."

"Bless me!" exclaimed Caderousse, "fifty thousand francs!Surely the diamond was as large as a nut to be worth allthat."

"No," replied the abbe, "it was not of such a size as that;but you shall judge for yourself. I have it with me."

The sharp gaze of Caderousse was instantly directed towardsthe priest's garments, as though hoping to discover thelocation of the treasure. Calmly drawing forth from hispocket a small box covered with black shagreen, the abbeopened it, and displayed to the dazzled eyes of Caderoussethe sparkling jewel it contained, set in a ring of admirableworkmanship. "And that diamond," cried Caderousse, almostbreathless with eager admiration, "you say, is worth fiftythousand francs?"

"It is, without the setting, which is also valuable,"replied the abbe, as he closed the box, and returned it tohis pocket, while its brilliant hues seemed still to dancebefore the eyes of the fascinated inn-keeper.

"But how comes the diamond in your possession, sir? DidEdmond make you his heir?"

"No, merely his testamentary executor. `I once possessedfour dear and faithful friends, besides the maiden to whom Iwas betrothed' he said; `and I feel convinced they have allunfeignedly grieved over my loss. The name of one of thefour friends is Caderousse.'" The inn-keeper shivered.

"`Another of the number,'" continued the abbe, withoutseeming to notice the emotion of Caderousse, "`is calledDanglars; and the third, in spite of being my rival,entertained a very sincere affection for me.'" A fiendishsmile played over the features of Caderousse, who was aboutto break in upon the abbe's speech, when the latter, wavinghis hand, said, "Allow me to finish first, and then if youhave any observations to make, you can do so afterwards.`The third of my friends, although my rival, was muchattached to me, - his name was Fernand; that of mybetrothed was' - Stay, stay," continued the abbe, "I haveforgotten what he called her."

"Mercedes," said Caderousse eagerly.

"True," said the abbe, with a stifled sigh, "Mercedes itwas."

"Go on," urged Caderousse.

"Bring me a carafe of water," said the abbe.

Caderousse quickly performed the stranger's bidding; andafter pouring some into a glass, and slowly swallowing itscontents, the abbe, resuming his usual placidity of manner,said, as he placed his empty glass on the table, - "Wheredid we leave off?"

"The name of Edmond's betrothed was Mercedes."

"To be sure. `You will go to Marseilles,' said Dantes, - for you understand, I repeat his words just as he utteredthem. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly."

"`You will sell this diamond; you will divide the money intofive equal parts, and give an equal portion to these goodfriends, the only persons who have loved me upon earth.'"

"But why into five parts?" asked Caderousse; "you onlymentioned four persons."

"Because the fifth is dead, as I hear. The fifth sharer inEdmond's bequest, was his own father."

"Too true, too true!" ejaculated Caderousse, almostsuffocated by the contending passions which assailed him,"the poor old man did die."

"I learned so much at Marseilles," replied the abbe, makinga strong effort to appear indifferent; "but from the lengthof time that has elapsed since the death of the elderDantes, I was unable to obtain any particulars of his end.Can you enlighten me on that point?"

"I do not know who could if I could not," said Caderousse."Why, I lived almost on the same floor with the poor oldman. Ah, yes, about a year after the disappearance of hisson the poor old man died."

"Of what did he die?"

"Why, the doctors called his complaint gastro-enteritis, Ibelieve; his acquaintances say he died of grief; but I, whosaw him in his dying moments, I say he died of" - Caderousse paused.

"Of what?" asked the priest, anxiously and eagerly.

"Why, of downright starvation."

"Starvation!" exclaimed the abbe, springing from his seat."Why, the vilest animals are not suffered to die by such adeath as that. The very dogs that wander houseless andhomeless in the streets find some pitying hand to cast thema mouthful of bread; and that a man, a Christian, should beallowed to perish of hunger in the midst of other men whocall themselves Christians, is too horrible for belief. Oh,it is impossible - utterly impossible!"

"What I have said, I have said," answered Caderousse.

"And you are a fool for having said anything about it," saida voice from the top of the stairs. "Why should you meddlewith what does not concern you?"

The two men turned quickly, and saw the sickly countenanceof La Carconte peering between the baluster rails; attractedby the sound of voices, she had feebly dragged herself downthe stairs, and, seated on the lower step, head on knees,she had listened to the foregoing conversation. "Mind yourown business, wife," replied Caderousse sharply. "Thisgentleman asks me for information, which common politenesswill not permit me to refuse."

"Politeness, you simpleton!" retorted La Carconte. "Whathave you to do with politeness, I should like to know?Better study a little common prudence. How do you know themotives that person may have for trying to extract all hecan from you?"

"I pledge you my word, madam," said the abbe, "that myintentions are good; and that your husband can incur no risk,provided he answers me candidly."

"Ah, that's all very fine," retorted the woman. "Nothing iseasier than to begin with fair promises and assurances ofnothing to fear; but when poor, silly folks, like my husbandthere, have been persuaded to tell all they know, thepromises and assurances of safety are quickly forgotten; andat some moment when nobody is expecting it, behold troubleand misery, and all sorts of persecutions, are heaped on theunfortunate wretches, who cannot even see whence all theirafflictions come."

"Nay, nay, my good woman, make yourself perfectly easy, Ibeg of you. Whatever evils may befall you, they will not beoccasioned by my instrumentality, that I solemnly promiseyou."

La Carconte muttered a few inarticulate words, then let herhead again drop upon her knees, and went into a fit of ague,leaving the two speakers to resume the conversation, butremaining so as to be able to hear every word they uttered.Again the abbe had been obliged to swallow a draught ofwater to calm the emotions that threatened to overpower him.When he had sufficiently recovered himself, he said, "Itappears, then, that the miserable old man you were tellingme of was forsaken by every one. Surely, had not such beenthe case, he would not have perished by so dreadful adeath."

"Why, he was not altogether forsaken," continued Caderousse,"for Mercedes the Catalan and Monsieur Morrel were very kindto him; but somehow the poor old man had contracted aprofound hatred for Fernand - the very person," addedCaderousse with a bitter smile, "that you named just now asbeing one of Dantes' faithful and attached friends."

"And was he not so?" asked the abbe.

"Gaspard, Gaspard!" murmured the woman, from her seat on thestairs, "mind what you are saying!" Caderousse made no replyto these words, though evidently irritated and annoyed bythe interruption, but, addressing the abbe, said, "Can a manbe faithful to another whose wife he covets and desires forhimself? But Dantes was so honorable and true in his ownnature, that he believed everybody's professions offriendship. Poor Edmond, he was cruelly deceived; but it wasfortunate that he never knew, or he might have found it moredifficult, when on his deathbed, to pardon his enemies. And,whatever people may say," continued Caderousse, in hisnative language, which was not altogether devoid of rudepoetry, "I cannot help being more frightened at the idea ofthe malediction of the dead than the hatred of the living."

"Imbecile!" exclaimed La Carconte.

"Do you, then, know in what manner Fernand injured Dantes?"inquired the abbe of Caderousse.

"Do I? No one better."

"Speak out then, say what it was!"

"Gaspard!" cried La Carconte, "do as you will; you aremaster - but if you take my advice you'll hold yourtongue."

"Well, wife," replied Caderousse, "I don't know but whatyou're right!"

"So you will say nothing?" asked the abbe.

"Why, what good would it do?" asked Caderousse. "If the poorlad were living, and came to me and begged that I wouldcandidly tell which were his true and which his falsefriends, why, perhaps, I should not hesitate. But you tellme he is no more, and therefore can have nothing to do withhatred or revenge, so let all such feeling be buried withhim."

"You prefer, then," said the abbe, "that I should bestow onmen you say are false and treacherous, the reward intendedfor faithful friendship?"

"That is true enough," returned Caderousse. "You say truly,the gift of poor Edmond was not meant for such traitors asFernand and Danglars; besides, what would it be to them? nomore than a drop of water in the ocean."

"Remember," chimed in La Carconte, "those two could crushyou at a single blow!"

"How so?" inquired the abbe. "Are these persons, then, sorich and powerful?"

"Do you not know their history?"

"I do not. Pray relate it to me!" Caderousse seemed toreflect for a few moments, then said, "No, truly, it wouldtake up too much time."

"Well, my good friend," returned the abbe, in a tone thatindicated utter indifference on his part, "you are atliberty, either to speak or be silent, just as you please;for my own part, I respect your scruples and admire yoursentiments; so let the matter end. I shall do my duty asconscientiously as I can, and fulfil my promise to the dyingman. My first business will be to dispose of this diamond."So saying, the abbe again drew the small box from hispocket, opened it, and contrived to hold it in such a light,that a bright flash of brilliant hues passed before thedazzled gaze of Caderousse.

"Wife, wife!" cried he in a hoarse voice, "come here!"

"Diamond!" exclaimed La Carconte, rising and descending tothe chamber with a tolerably firm step; "what diamond areyou talking about?"

"Why, did you not hear all we said?" inquired Caderousse."It is a beautiful diamond left by poor Edmond Dantes, to besold, and the money divided between his father, Mercedes,his betrothed bride, Fernand, Danglars, and myself. Thejewel is worth at least fifty thousand francs."

"Oh, what a magnificent jewel!" cried the astonished woman.

"The fifth part of the profits from this stone belongs to usthen, does it not?" asked Caderousse.

"It does," replied the abbe; "with the addition of an equaldivision of that part intended for the elder Dantes, which Ibelieve myself at liberty to divide equally with the foursurvivors."

"And why among us four?" inquired Caderousse.

"As being the friends Edmond esteemed most faithful anddevoted to him."

"I don't call those friends who betray and ruin you,"murmured the wife in her turn, in a low, muttering voice.

"Of course not!" rejoined Caderousse quickly; "no more do I,and that was what I was observing to this gentleman justnow. I said I looked upon it as a sacrilegious profanationto reward treachery, perhaps crime."

"Remember," answered the abbe calmly, as he replaced thejewel and its case in the pocket of his cassock, "it is yourfault, not mine, that I do so. You will have the goodness tofurnish me with the address of both Fernand and Danglars, inorder that I may execute Edmond's last wishes." Theagitation of Caderousse became extreme, and large drops ofperspiration rolled from his heated brow. As he saw the abberise from his seat and go towards the door, as though toascertain if his horse were sufficiently refreshed tocontinue his journey, Caderousse and his wife exchangedlooks of deep meaning.

"There, you see, wife," said the former, "this splendiddiamond might all be ours, if we chose!"

"Do you believe it?"

"Why, surely a man of his holy profession would not deceiveus!"

"Well," replied La Carconte, "do as you like. For my part, Iwash my hands of the affair." So saying, she once moreclimbed the staircase leading to her chamber, her bodyconvulsed with chills, and her teeth rattling in her head,in spite of the intense heat of the weather. Arrived at thetop stair, she turned round, and called out, in a warningtone, to her husband, "Gaspard, consider well what you areabout to do!"

"I have both reflected and decided," answered he. LaCarconte then entered her chamber, the flooring of whichcreaked beneath her heavy, uncertain tread, as she proceededtowards her arm-chair, into which she fell as thoughexhausted.

"Well," asked the abbe, as he returned to the apartmentbelow, "what have you made up your mind to do?"

"To tell you all I know," was the reply.

"I certainly think you act wisely in so doing," said thepriest. "Not because I have the least desire to learnanything you may please to conceal from me, but simply thatif, through your assistance, I could distribute the legacyaccording to the wishes of the testator, why, so much thebetter, that is all."

"I hope it may be so," replied Caderousse, his face flushedwith cupidity.

"I am all attention," said the abbe.

"Stop a minute," answered Caderousse; "we might beinterrupted in the most interesting part of my story, whichwould be a pity; and it is as well that your visit hithershould be made known only to ourselves." With these words hewent stealthily to the door, which he closed, and, by way ofstill greater precaution, bolted and barred it, as he wasaccustomed to do at night. During this time the abbe hadchosen his place for listening at his ease. He removed hisseat into a corner of the room, where he himself would be indeep shadow, while the light would be fully thrown on thenarrator; then, with head bent down and hands clasped, orrather clinched together, he prepared to give his wholeattention to Caderousse, who seated himself on the littlestool, exactly opposite to him.

"Remember, this is no affair of mine," said the tremblingvoice of La Carconte, as though through the flooring of herchamber she viewed the scene that was enacting below.

"Enough, enough!" replied Caderousse; "say no more about it;I will take all the consequences upon myself." And he beganhis story.