“The Abbé Busoni!” exclaimed Caderousse; and, not knowing how this strange apparition could have entered when he had bolted the doors, he let fall his bunch of keys, and remained motionless and stupefied. The count placed himself between Caderousse and the window, thus cutting off from the thief his only chance of retreat.
“The Abbé Busoni!” repeated Caderousse, fixing his haggard gaze on the count.
“Yes, undoubtedly, the Abbé Busoni himself,” replied Monte Cristo. “And I am very glad you recognize me, dear M. Caderousse; it proves you have a good memory, for it must be about ten years since we last met.”
This calmness of Busoni, combined with his irony and boldness, staggered Caderousse.
“The abbé, the abbé!” murmured he, clenching his fists, and his teeth chattering.
“So you would rob the Count of Monte Cristo?” continued the false abbé.
“Reverend sir,” murmured Caderousse, seeking to regain the window, which the count pitilessly blocked—“reverend sir, I don’t know—believe me—I take my oath——”
“A pane of glass out,” continued the count, “a dark lantern, a bunch of false keys, a secretaire half forced—it is tolerably evident——”
Caderousse was choking; he looked around for some corner to hide in, some way of escape.
“Come, come,” continued the count, “I see you are still the same,—an assassin.”