“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 belong to your profession,” answered Caderousse, “and you do well to repeat them; but,” added he, with a bitter expression of countenance, “one is free to believe them or not, as one pleases.”
“You are wrong to speak thus,” said the abbé; “and perhaps I may, in my own person, be able to prove to you how completely you are in error.”
“What mean you?” inquired Caderousse with a look of surprise.
“In the first place, I must be satisfied that you are the person I am in search of.”
“What proofs do you require?”
“Did you, in the year 1814 or 1815, know anything of a young sailor named Dantès?”