The abbé uttered a kind of groan.
“The story interests you, does it not, sir?” inquired Caderousse.
“Yes,” replied the abbé, “it is very affecting.”
“Mercédès came again, and she found him so altered that she was even more anxious than before to have him taken to her own home. This was M. Morrel’s wish also, who would fain have conveyed the old man against his consent; but the old man resisted, and cried so that they were actually frightened. Mercédès remained, therefore, by his bedside, and M. Morrel went away, making a sign to the Catalan that he had left his purse on the chimney-piece; but, availing himself of the doctor’s order, the old man would not take any sustenance; at length (after nine days of despair and fasting), the old man died, cursing those who had caused his misery, and saying to Mercédès, ‘If you ever see my Edmond again, tell him I die blessing him.’”
The abbé rose from his chair, made two turns round the chamber, and pressed his trembling hand against his parched throat.
“And you believe he died——”
“Of hunger, sir, of hunger,” said Caderousse. “I am as certain of it as that we two are Christians.”
The abbé, with a shaking hand, seized a glass of water that was standing by him half-full, swallowed it at one gulp, and then resumed his seat, with red eyes and pale cheeks.
“This was, indeed, a horrid event,” said he in a hoarse voice.
“The more so, sir, as it was men’s and not God’s doing.”