基督山伯爵 英文版 The Count of Monte Cristo
大仲马 Alexandre Dumas père
Chapter 26 Page 1
The Pont du Gard Inn.
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."