“Bring me a carafe of water,” said the abbé.
Caderousse quickly performed the stranger’s bidding; and after pouring some into a glass, and slowly swallowing its contents, the abbé, resuming his usual placidity of manner, said, as he placed his empty glass on the table:
“Where did we leave off?”
“The name of Edmond’s betrothed was Mercédès.”
“To be sure. ‘You will go to Marseilles,’ said Dantès,—for you understand, I repeat his words just as he uttered them. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly.”
“‘You will sell this diamond; you will divide the money into five equal parts, and give an equal portion to these good friends, the only persons who have loved me upon earth.’”
“But why into five parts?” asked Caderousse; “you only mentioned four persons.”
“Because the fifth is dead, as I hear. The fifth sharer in Edmond’s bequest, was his own father.”
“Too true, too true!” ejaculated Caderousse, almost suffocated by the contending passions which assailed him, “the poor old man did die.”
“I learned so much at Marseilles,” replied the abbé, making a strong effort to appear indifferent; “but from the length of time that has elapsed since the death of the elder Dantès, 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 old man. Ah, yes, about a year after the disappearance of his son the poor old man died.”