Граф Монте-Крісто

The Room of the Retired Baker.

           "

           "Thatdearprotector,"saidCaderousse;"andhowmuchdoeshegiveyoumonthly?"

           "Fivethousandfrancs."

           "Asmanythousandsasyougivemehundreds!Truly,itisonlybastardswhoarethusfortunate.Fivethousandfrancspermonth!Whatthedevilcanyoudowithallthat?"

           "Oh,itisnotroubletospendthat;andIamlikeyou,Iwantcapital."

           "Capital?yesIunderstandeveryonewouldlikecapital."

           "Well,andIshallgetit."

           "Whowillgiveittoyouyourprince?"

           "Yes,myprince.ButunfortunatelyImustwait."

           "Youmustwaitforwhat?"askedCaderousse.

           "Forhisdeath."

           "Thedeathofyourprince?"

           "Yes."

           "Howso?"

           "Becausehehasmadehiswillinmyfavor."

           "Indeed?"

           "Onmyhonor."

           "Forhowmuch?"

           "Forfivehundredthousand."

           "Onlythat?It’slittleenough."

           "Butsoitis."

           "Noitcannotbe!"

           "Areyoumyfriend,Caderousse?"

           "Yes,inlifeordeath."

           "Well,Iwilltellyouasecret."

           "Whatisit?"

           "Butremember"—

           "Ah,pardieu,muteasacarp."

           "Well,Ithink"—Andreastoppedandlookedaround.

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