"It was La Carconte. The gunshot I'd heard had been fired at her. The bullet had torn through her throat horribly, leaving two gaping wounds that poured blood. She was dead.
I stepped over her and climbed to the bedroom, which looked like a war zone. Furniture was knocked over from the deadly struggle. The sheets, which the jeweler must have grabbed onto desperately, were dragged halfway across the room.
The murdered man lay on the floor, his head against the wall, in a pool of his own blood. Three large wounds gaped in his chest. A fourth wound had a long kitchen knife plunged into it up to the handle.
I stumbled over something, the second pistol, which hadn't fired. Probably the gunpowder got wet.
I approached the jeweler. He wasn't quite dead yet. At the sound of my footsteps and the creaking floor, he opened his eyes and looked at me with an anxious, questioning gaze. His lips moved as if trying to speak, but the effort was too much. He fell back and died.
This horrifying sight nearly drove me insane. Realizing I couldn't help anyone, all I wanted was to escape. I rushed toward the stairs, clutching my hair and groaning in horror.
When I reached the room below, I found five or six customs officers and two or three armed police waiting for me. They threw themselves at me. I didn't resist, I was completely out of my mind. When I tried to speak, only incoherent sounds came out.
Then I noticed them all pointing at my blood-stained clothes. I looked down at myself and realized that the thick, warm drops that had fallen on me under the staircase must have been La Carconte's blood. I pointed frantically to my hiding spot.
'What's he trying to say?' one officer asked.
Another investigated where I pointed. 'He's saying he got in that way,' the man reported, showing them the hole I'd made breaking through.
That's when I realized, they thought I was the killer.
I found enough strength to break free from their grip and managed to stammer, 'I didn't do it! I swear I didn't!'
Two officers pointed their rifles at my chest. 'Move one step and you're dead.'
'Why threaten me when I've already told you I'm innocent?'
'Save your innocent stories for the judge. Come along quietly, that's the best advice we can give you.'
Resistance was the furthest thing from my mind. I was completely overwhelmed by shock and terror. Without a word, I let them handcuff me and tie me to a horse, and they took me away.
A customs officer had been tracking me and lost sight of me near the inn. Certain I planned to spend the night there, he'd gone back for backup. They arrived just in time to hear the gunshot and find me covered in damning evidence. Any hope of proving my innocence seemed impossible.
My only chance was convincing the judge to search for a priest named Abbé Busoni, who had stayed at an inn nearby that same morning. If Caderousse had invented the story about the diamond and no such priest existed, then I was truly doomed. My only other hope was that Caderousse himself would be caught and confess everything.
Two months passed in hopeless waiting. The judge did try his best to find information about the priest I mentioned. Caderousse remained at large. I resigned myself to my fate as my trial approached.
Then, on September 8th, exactly three months and five days after the murders, Abbé Busoni appeared at the prison. He said he'd heard a prisoner wanted to speak with him, and having learned the details of my case, he'd rushed to help.
You can imagine how eagerly I greeted him and how thoroughly I explained everything I'd seen and heard. I felt nervous when I got to the part about the diamond, but to my amazement, he confirmed every detail. Even more surprisingly, he seemed to believe everything I said.
Won over by his gentle kindness, and seeing that he understood my country's customs, I thought that confession from such a benevolent man might carry special weight. So I asked to make my confession, and under its seal, I told him about another crime I'd actually committed, one involving a place called Auteuil, along with every other detail of my life.
My voluntary confession of that murder proved to him that I hadn't committed the one I was accused of. When he left, he told me to have courage and promised to do everything possible to convince the judge of my innocence.
Soon I had proof the excellent priest was working on my behalf. My prison conditions improved with small but welcome comforts, and my trial was postponed.
Then providence intervened. Caderousse was captured in some distant region and brought back. He made a full confession, refusing to use his wife's involvement as an excuse for his own guilt. The wretched man was sentenced to a lifetime of hard labor in the galleys, and I was immediately freed."
"And that's when you came to me with the letter from Abbé Busoni?" Monte Cristo asked.
"Yes, your excellency. The kind priest took a genuine interest in my welfare. One day he said to me, 'Your life as a smuggler will destroy you. If you get out, don't go back to it.'
'But how will I support myself and my poor sister?' I asked.
'Someone whose confession I hear has high regard for me,' he replied. 'He recently asked me to find him a trustworthy servant. Would you like such a position? I'll give you a letter of introduction.'
'Oh, father, you're so good!' I exclaimed.
'But you must swear I'll never regret my recommendation.'
I extended my hand, ready to make any promise he demanded, but he stopped me. 'No need for vows,' he said. 'I know and admire the character of your people too well to worry. Here, take this.'
He quickly wrote the letter I brought to you, and upon receiving it, you graciously accepted me into your service. I ask now, have you ever had reason to regret that decision?"
"No," the count replied. "You've served me faithfully, Bertuccio. But you could have shown me more confidence."
"Me, your excellency?"
"Yes. How is it that you've never mentioned having a sister or an adopted son?"
"I still have to tell you the most painful part of my life...
Eager to see and comfort my dear sister, I rushed back to Corsica. But when I arrived at Rogliano, I found a house of mourning, the aftermath of a scene so horrible that neighbors still speak of it today.
Following my advice, my poor sister had refused the unreasonable demands of Benedetto, who constantly harassed her for money as long as he thought she had any left. One morning he threatened her with dire consequences if she didn't give him what he wanted, then disappeared for the entire day. This left kind-hearted Assunta, who loved him like her own child, weeping over his behavior.
Evening came, and with all the patient concern of a mother, she watched for his return. As eleven o'clock struck, he swaggered in with two of his most dissolute companions. She reached out her arms to embrace him, but they seized her instead. One of the three, none other than the cursed Benedetto, shouted, 'Torture her and she'll tell us where her money is!'
Unfortunately, our neighbor Wasilio was away, leaving only his wife in their house. No one else could hear or see what happened in our dwelling.
Two men held poor Assunta, who couldn't imagine anyone would harm her and actually smiled at those who were about to become her executioners. The third barricaded the doors and windows, then returned. Together they stifled her cries of terror and dragged her toward the blazing fireplace, expecting to force her to reveal where her supposed treasure was hidden.
During the struggle, her clothes caught fire, and they had to release her to avoid the same fate. Covered in flames, Assunta rushed to the door, but it was locked. She ran to the windows, but they were secured too. Then the neighbors heard terrible screams, Assunta calling for help. The cries faded into groans."