Chapter 208: Chapter 208

Caderousse’s desperate cries echoed through the mansion halls. "Help! Someone help me!"

Monte Cristo rushed toward the sound. "What happened?"

"Help..." Caderousse gasped, blood pooling beneath him. "I’ve been... murdered..."

"Stay calm. We’re here now."

"Too late..." The wounded man’s voice weakened. "You came... to watch me die. So much blood..." His eyes rolled back as consciousness slipped away.

Monte Cristo and his servant Ali carefully carried the bleeding man into a nearby room. With a simple gesture, Monte Cristo signaled Ali to remove Caderousse’s blood-soaked clothing. As the fabric fell away, the count examined the brutal stab wounds covering the thief’s body.

"My God," Monte Cristo whispered, his voice heavy with meaning. "Sometimes divine justice takes its time... but when it arrives, it strikes perfectly."

Ali waited for his next command.

"Bring the chief prosecutor immediately, Monsieur de Villefort. He lives in the wealthy district. On your way out, wake the building manager and tell him to fetch a doctor."

Ali disappeared into the night, leaving Monte Cristo alone with the unconscious burglar.

When Caderousse’s eyes finally fluttered open again, the count stood over him with an expression that mixed pity with something darker. His lips moved silently, as if praying.

"A doctor..." Caderousse croaked. "Please... get me a doctor..."

"I know I’m dying." The thief coughed, spraying red droplets. "But maybe... maybe they can keep me alive long enough to give my statement."

"Statement against whom?"

"Against the bastard who murdered me."

"Did you see his face?"

"Yes. It was Benedetto."

"The young man from your criminal crew?"

"Yeah." Caderousse’s laugh turned into a wet cough. "The son of a bitch gave me the floor plans to this mansion. Said I could rob it, maybe even kill you and he’d inherit everything. Or maybe you’d kill me and I’d be out of his way. Either way, he wins. He was waiting outside... ambushed me... stabbed me in the dark."

"The prosecutor is on his way too."

"He won’t make it in time. I can feel my life draining away like water from a cracked cup."

"Wait." Monte Cristo left the room and returned moments later carrying a small glass bottle. Thɪs chapter is updated by novèlfire.net

Caderousse’s desperate eyes stayed locked on the doorway, praying for the doctor’s arrival. "Hurry... I’m fading again..."

Monte Cristo leaned close and let three drops from the bottle fall onto Caderousse’s pale, blood-stained lips.

The dying man drew a shuddering breath. His eyes widened. "Oh... oh God, that’s incredible. More! Give me more!"

"Two more drops would kill you instantly," Monte Cristo said calmly.

"Then find someone! I need to expose that murderer before I die!"

"Should I write down your testimony? You can sign it."

"Yes, yes!" Caderousse’s eyes gleamed with vengeful determination, his last emotion burning bright.

Monte Cristo took out paper and pen, writing carefully:

"I die here tonight, murdered by Benedetto of the criminal underworld. We served time together in prison. Inmate number 59."

"Quickly!" Caderousse gasped. "I won’t be able to sign soon..."

Monte Cristo handed him the pen. Caderousse gathered every ounce of his remaining strength, scrawled his signature, and collapsed back against the bed.

"You’ll tell them everything else, won’t you?" he wheezed. "Tell them... he’s using a fake name now. Andrea Cavalcanti. Staying at the luxury hotel... the Princes Hotel. Oh God... I’m dying..."

He passed out again. Monte Cristo held the bottle under his nose, and the pungent smell dragged him back to consciousness. Even at death’s door, his hatred burned.

"You’ll tell them what I said, right?"

"Yes. And much more."

"I’ll tell them Benedetto gave you those floor plans hoping you and I would kill each other. I’ll tell them he even sent me a warning note about your break-in. When I read it, since I wasn’t home tonight, I stayed awake waiting for you."

"And they’ll execute him for this, won’t they?" A savage hope lit Caderousse’s dying face. "Promise me that. Let me die with that hope."

"I’ll also tell them," the count continued, "that Benedetto followed you. Watched your every move. When he saw you leave the mansion, he ran to hide behind the corner wall."

"Remember what I told you earlier? ’If you make it home safely tonight, I’ll know God has forgiven you. And then I’ll forgive you too.’"

Caderousse’s eyes widened in horror. He pushed himself up on his elbows, trembling. "You knew! You knew I’d be killed leaving here, and you didn’t warn me!"

"No. Because I saw God placing his justice in Benedetto’s hands. I would never interfere with divine will."

"God’s justice?" Caderousse spat blood. "Don’t talk to me about justice! If God were just, thousands who escape punishment would suffer!"

"Patience," Monte Cristo said, his tone making the dying man shiver despite his fever. "Have patience."

Caderousse stared at him with confused terror.

"Besides," the count added, "God shows mercy to everyone, just as he showed mercy to you. He’s a father first, a judge second."

"You actually believe in God?" Caderousse asked, genuinely surprised.

"If I hadn’t believed before this moment," Monte Cristo said quietly, "seeing you here would force me to believe."

Caderousse raised his clenched, bloody fists toward the ceiling.

"Listen carefully." The count extended his hand over the wounded man like a priest giving final rites. "This is what the God you’re denying with your last breaths has done for you. He gave you health, strength, steady work, even friends. A life any man could live peacefully with a clear conscience. Instead of appreciating these rare gifts, what did you do? You chose laziness and alcoholism. Then, in a drunken rage, you betrayed your best friend."

"Help!" Caderousse cried. "I need a surgeon, not a sermon! Maybe I’m not dying, maybe they can still save me!"

"Your wounds are fatal. Without those three drops I gave you, you’d already be dead. So listen."

"What kind of priest are you?" Caderousse muttered. "You’re pushing a dying man toward despair instead of comforting him..."

"Listen!" the count commanded. "When you betrayed your friend, God didn’t strike you down. He warned you. Poverty found you. You’d already wasted half your life coveting things you could have earned honestly. You were planning crimes, making excuses about being poor, when God performed a miracle through me. I brought you a fortune, life-changing money for someone who’d never had anything. But that unexpected windfall wasn’t enough for you, was it? You wanted to double it. How? Through murder! You succeeded, and then God took it all away and delivered you to prison."

"I didn’t want to kill that man," Caderousse protested weakly. "That was my wife’s idea..."

"Yes," Monte Cristo acknowledged. "And God, not through justice, because his justice would have killed you, but through mercy, spared your life."

"Mercy?" Caderousse laughed bitterly. "Sending me to prison for life is mercy?"

"You thought so at the time, you coward! You feared death but celebrated your ’lifetime sentence’ because you told yourself, ’I can escape from prison. I can’t escape from the grave.’ And you were right, the door opened. A wealthy foreigner visited the prison, determined to free two condemned men. He chose you and your criminal partner. You received a second fortune. Money and peace were given back to you. A man sentenced to a criminal’s life got a fresh start. Then, wretch that you are, you tested God a third time. ’It’s not enough,’ you said, despite having more than before. And you committed a third crime, without reason, without excuse. God grew tired. He’s punished you now."

Caderousse was fading fast. "Water... please... I’m burning up..."

Monte Cristo gave him a glass of water.

"That villain Benedetto will get away with this!" Caderousse gasped.

"No one escapes. Benedetto will be punished."

"Then you should be punished too! You’re supposed to be a holy man, you should have stopped Benedetto from killing me!"

"Me?" The count smiled, and something in that smile made the dying man recoil in terror. "You had just tried to stab me! Your knife broke against the protective vest hidden under my clothes! Perhaps if I’d found you humble and repentant, I might have saved you from Benedetto. But I found you proud and bloodthirsty. So I left you in God’s hands."

"There is no God!" Caderousse howled. "You don’t believe it either, you’re lying!"

"Silence," the count said coldly. "You’re forcing the last blood from your veins. You don’t believe in God even as he’s killing you? You won’t believe in the God who only asks for one prayer, one word, one tear to grant forgiveness? God could have let the assassin’s blade pierce your heart instantly. Instead, he gave you these fifteen minutes to repent. Think about that, wretched man. Repent."

"No," Caderousse said. "I won’t repent. There’s no God. No divine plan. Everything is just random chance."

"There is a plan. There is a God." Monte Cristo’s voice rang with certainty. "And you’re the proof, lying here in total despair, denying him, while I stand before you, wealthy, content, safe, praying to the very God you refuse to acknowledge, even though deep in your heart, you still believe."

"But who are you?" Caderousse’s dying eyes focused on the count with sudden intensity. "Who are you really?"

"Look at me carefully." Monte Cristo held the lamp close to his own face.

"You look like... the priest... Father Busoni..."

Monte Cristo pulled off the wig that had disguised him. His natural black hair fell around his pale, aristocratic features, transforming his appearance entirely.

"My God," Caderousse breathed. "Except for that black hair... I’d swear you were that English lord... Lord Wilmore..."

"I’m neither Father Busoni nor Lord Wilmore," Monte Cristo said. "Think harder. Don’t you recognize me?"

Something in the count’s words sent a shock through Caderousse’s failing system, briefly reviving him.

"Yes..." he whispered. "I think... I have seen you. Known you before..."

"Yes, Caderousse. You have seen me. You knew me once."

"Then who are you? And if you knew me, why are you letting me die?"

"Because nothing can save you now. Your wounds are mortal. If it were possible to save you, I would consider it another sign of God’s mercy, and I would try again to restore you. I swear this on my father’s grave."

"Your father’s grave!" Some supernatural energy filled Caderousse. He half-raised himself, desperate to see clearly the man making this sacred oath. "Who are you?"

The count had been watching death’s approach. He knew this was the final moment. He leaned over the dying man with a calm, sorrowful expression and whispered something.

His barely moving lips formed a name so quietly that even he seemed afraid to speak it aloud.

Caderousse, now on his knees with one arm outstretched, tried to pull away. Then he clasped his hands together and raised them with desperate effort.

"Oh my God! My God!" he cried. "Forgive me for denying you! You do exist! You’re humanity’s father in heaven and judge on earth! My God, my Lord, I’ve despised you for so long! Forgive me! Accept me, O Lord!"

Caderousse sighed deeply and collapsed backward with a final groan. Blood no longer flowed from his wounds.

"One," the count said mysteriously, his eyes fixed on the corpse that death had twisted into something barely human.

Ten minutes later, the doctor and prosecutor arrived, one brought by the building manager, the other by Ali. They found Father Busoni praying beside the body.