“Rise!” said he. Caderousse rose.
“What a wrist you have, reverend sir!” said Caderousse, stroking his arm, all bruised by the fleshy pincers which had held it; “what a wrist!”
“Silence! God gives me strength to overcome a wild beast like you; in the name of that God I act,—remember that, wretch,—and to spare thee at this moment is still serving him.”
“Oh!” said Caderousse, groaning with pain.
“Take this pen and paper, and write what I dictate.”
“I don’t know how to write, reverend sir.”
“You lie! Take this pen, and write!”
Caderousse, awed by the superior power of the abbé, sat down and wrote:
“Sir,—The man whom you are receiving at your house, and to whom you intend to marry your daughter, is a felon who escaped with me from confinement at Toulon. He was No. 59, and I No. 58. He was called Benedetto, but he is ignorant of his real name, having never known his parents.”