everybody’s professions of friendship. Poor Edmond, he was cruelly
deceived; but it was fortunate that he never knew, or he might have
found it more difficult, when on his deathbed, to pardon his enemies.
And, whatever people may say,” continued Caderousse, in his native
language, which was not altogether devoid of rude poetry, “I cannot help
being more frightened at the idea of the malediction of the dead than
the hatred of the living.”
“Imbecile!” exclaimed La Carconte.
“Do you, then, know in what manner Fernand injured Dantès?” inquired the
abbé of Caderousse.
“Do I? No one better.”
“Speak out then, say what it was!”
“Gaspard!” cried La Carconte, “do as you will; you are master—but if you
take my advice you’ll hold your tongue.”
“Well, wife,” replied Caderousse, “I don’t k
