glancing round as he spoke at the scanty furnishings of the apartment.
“Ah, sir,” said Caderousse with a sigh, “it is easy to perceive I am not
a rich man; but in this world a man does not thrive the better for being
honest.” The abbé fixed on him a searching, penetrating glance.
“Yes, honest—I can certainly say that much for myself,” continued the
innkeeper, fairly sustaining the scrutiny of the abbé’s gaze; “I can
boast with truth of being an honest man; and,” continued he
significantly, with a hand on his breast and shaking his head, “that is
more than everyone can say nowadays.”
“So much the better for you, if what you assert be true,” said the abbé;
“for I am firmly persuaded that, sooner or later, the good will be
rewarded, and the wicked punished.”
“Such words as those b
