"'What was the abbe's name?' asked the indefatigable questioner.—'The Abbe 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 hazel-nut, 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 Dantes, of whom they spoke?"
"No, your excellency, I had never heard of him before, and never but once afterwards, and that was from the Abbe Busoni himself, when I saw him in the prison at Nimes."
"Go on."
"The jeweller took the ring, and drawing from his pocket a pair of steel pliers and a small set of copper scales, he took the stone out of its setting, and weighed it carefully.
'I will give you 45,000,' said he, 'but not a sou more; besides, as that is the exact value of the stone, I brought just that sum with me.'—'Oh, that's no matter,' replied Caderousse,
'I will go back with you to fetch the other 5,000 francs.'—'No,' returned the jeweller, giving back the diamond and the ring to Caderousse—'no, it is worth no more, and I am sorry I offered so much, for the stone has a flaw in it, which I had not seen.
However, I will not go back on my word, and I will give 45,000.'—'At least, replace the diamond in the ring,' said La Carconte sharply.—'Ah, true,' replied the jeweller, and he reset the stone.—'No matter,' observed Caderousse, replacing the box in his pocket, 'some one else will purchase it.'—'Yes,' continued the jeweller; 'but some one else will not be so easy as I am, or content himself with the same story.
It is not natural that a man like you should possess such a diamond. He will inform against you. You will have to find the Abbe Busoni; and abbes who give diamonds worth two thousand louis are rare. The law would seize it, and put you in prison; if at the end of three or four months you are set at liberty, the ring will be lost, or a false stone, worth three francs, will be given you, instead of a diamond worth 50,000 or perhaps 55,000 francs; from which you must allow that one runs considerable risk in purchasing.'
Caderousse and his wife looked eagerly at each other.—'No,' said Caderousse, 'we are not rich enough to lose 5,000 francs.'—'As you please, my dear sir,' said the jeweller;
'I had, however, as you see, brought you the money in bright coin.'
And he drew from his pocket a handful of gold, and held it sparkling before the dazzled eyes of the innkeeper, and in the other hand he held a packet of bank-notes.
"There was evidently a severe struggle in the mind of Caderousse; it was plain that the small shagreen case, which he turned over and over in his hand, did not seem to him commensurate in value to the enormous sum which fascinated his gaze.
He turned towards his wife.
'What do you think of this?' he asked in a low voice.—'Let him have it—let him have it,' she said.
'If he returns to Beaucaire without the diamond, he will inform against us, and, as he says, who knows if we shall ever again see the Abbe Busoni?—in all probability we shall never see him.'—'Well, then, so I will!' said Caderousse; 'so you may have the diamond for 45,000 francs.
But my wife wants a gold chain, and I want a pair of silver buckles.'
The jeweller drew from his pocket a long flat box, which contained several samples of the articles demanded.
'Here,' he said, 'I am very straightforward in my dealings—take your choice.'
The woman selected a gold chain worth about five louis, and the husband a pair of buckles, worth perhaps fifteen francs.—'I hope you will not complain now?' said the jeweller.
"'The abbe told me it was worth 50,000 francs,' muttered Caderousse.
'Come, come—give it to me!
What a strange fellow you are,' said the jeweller, taking the diamond from his hand. 'I give you 45,000 francs—that is, 2,500 livres of income,—a fortune such as I wish I had myself, and you are not satisfied!'—'And the five and forty thousand francs,' inquired Caderousse in a hoarse voice, 'where are they?
Come—let us see them.'—'Here they are,' replied the jeweller, and he counted out upon the table 15,000. francs in gold, and 30,000 francs in bank-notes.
"'Wait while I light the lamp,' said La Carconte; 'it is growing dark, and there may be some mistake.'
In fact, night had come on during this conversation, and with night the storm which had been threatening for the last half-hour.
The thunder growled in the distance; but it was apparently not heard by the jeweller, Caderousse, or La Carconte, absorbed as they were all three with the demon of gain.
I myself felt; a strange kind of fascination at the sight of all this gold and all these bank-notes; it seemed to me that I was in a dream, and, as it always happens in a dream, I felt myself riveted to the spot.
Caderousse counted and again counted the gold and the notes, then handed them to his wife, who counted and counted them again in her turn.
During this time, the jeweller made the diamond play and sparkle in the lamplight, and the gem threw out jets of light which made him unmindful of those which—precursors of the storm—began to play in at the windows.
'Well,' inquired the jeweller, 'is the cash all right?'
"'Yes,' said Caderousse. 'Give me the pocket-book, La Carconte, and find a bag somewhere.'
"La Carconte went to a cupboard, and returned with an old leathern pocket-book and a bag. From the former she took some greasy letters, and put in their place the bank-notes, and from the bag took two or three crowns of six livres each, which, in all probability, formed the entire fortune of the miserable couple.
'There,' said Caderousse; 'and now, although you have wronged us of perhaps 10,000 francs, will you have your supper with us?
I invite you with good-will.'—'Thank you,' replied the jeweller, 'it must be getting late, and I must return to Beaucaire—my wife will be getting uneasy.' He drew out his watch, and exclaimed, 'Morbleu, nearly nine o'clock—why, I shall not get back to Beaucaire before midnight!
Good-night, my friends.
If the Abbe Busoni should by any accident return, think of me.'—'In another week you will have left Beaucaire.' remarked Caderousse, 'for the fair ends in a few days.'—'True, but that makes no difference.
Write to me at Paris, to M. Joannes, in the Palais Royal, arcade Pierre, No. 45. I will make the journey on purpose to see him, if it is worth while.'
At this moment there was a tremendous clap of thunder, accompanied by a flash of lightning so vivid, that it quite eclipsed the light of the lamp.
"'See here,' exclaimed Caderousse.
'You cannot think of going out in such weather as this.'—'Oh, I am not afraid of thunder,' said the jeweller.—'And then there are robbers,' said La Carconte.
'The road is never very safe during fair time.'—'Oh, as to the robbers,' said Joannes, 'here is something for them,' and he drew from his pocket a pair of small pistols, loaded to the muzzle.
'Here,' said he, 'are dogs who bark and bite at the same time, they are for the two first who shall have a longing for your diamond, Friend Caderousse.'
"Caderousse and his wife again interchanged a meaning look.
It seemed as though they were both inspired at the same time with some horrible thought.