A murder do you call it? why, there is nothing to prove that the general was murdered. People are found every day in the Seine, having thrown themselves in, or having been drowned from not knowing how to swim.


Father, you know very well that the general was not a man to drown himself in despair, and people do not bathe in the Seine in the month of January. No, no, do not be deceived; this was murder in every sense of the word.


And who thus designated it?


The king himself.


The king! I thought he was philosopher enough to allow that there was no murder in politics. In politics, my dear fellow, you know, as well as I do, there are no men, but ideas—no feelings, but interests; in politics we do not kill a man, we only remove an obstacle, that is all. Would you like to know how matters have progressed? Well, I will tell you. It was thought reliance might be placed in General Quesnel; he was recommended to us from the Island of Elba; one of us went to him, and invited him to the Rue Saint-Jacques, where he would find some friends. He came there, and the plan was unfolded to him for leaving Elba, the projected landing, etc. When he had heard and comprehended all to the fullest extent, he replied that he was a royalist. Then all looked at each other,—he was made to take an oath, and did so, but with such an ill grace that it was really tempting Providence to swear thus, and yet, in spite of that, the general was allowed to depart free—perfectly free. Yet he did not return home. What could that mean? why, my dear fellow, that on leaving us he lost his way, that’s all. A murder? really, Villefort, you surprise me. You, a deputy procureur, to found an accusation on such bad premises! Did I ever say to you, when you were fulfilling your character as a royalist, and cut off the head of one of my party, ‘My son, you have committed a murder?’ No, I said, ‘Very well, sir, you have gained the victory; tomorrow, perchance, it will be our turn.’


But, father, take care; when our turn comes, our revenge will be sweeping.


I do not understand you.


You rely on the usurper’s return?


We do.


You are mistaken; he will not advance two leagues into the interior of France without being followed, tracked, and caught like a wild beast.


My dear fellow, the emperor is at this moment on the way to Grenoble; on the 10th or 12th he will be at Lyons, and on the 20th or 25th at Paris.


The people will rise.


Yes, to go and meet him.


He has but a handful of men with him, and armies will be despatched against him.


Yes, to escort him into the capital. Really, my dear Gérard, you are but a child; you think yourself well informed because the telegraph has told you, three days after the landing, ‘The usurper has landed at Cannes with several men. He is pursued.’ But where is he? what is he doing? You do not know at all, and in this way they will chase him to Paris, without drawing a trigger.


Grenoble and Lyons are faithful cities, and will oppose to him an impassable barrier.


Grenoble will open her gates to him with enthusiasm—all Lyons will hasten to welcome him. Believe me, we are as well informed as you, and our police are as good as your own. Would you like a proof of it? well, you wished to conceal your journey from me, and yet I knew of your arrival half an hour after you had passed the barrier. You gave your direction to no one but your postilion, yet I have your address, and in proof I am here the very instant you are going to sit at table. Ring, then, if you please, for a second knife, fork, and plate, and we will dine together.


Indeed! you really do seem very well informed.


Eh? the thing is simple enough. You who are in power have only the means that money produces—we who are in expectation, have those which devotion prompts.


Devotion!


Yes, devotion; for that is, I believe, the phrase for hopeful ambition.


Wait, my dear father, one word more.


Say on.


However stupid the royalist police may be, they do know one terrible thing.


What is that?


The description of the man who, on the morning of the day when General Quesnel disappeared, presented himself at his house.


Oh, the admirable police have found that out, have they? And what may be that description?


Dark complexion; hair, eyebrows, and whiskers black; blue frock-coat, buttoned up to the chin; rosette of an officer of the Legion of Honor in his button-hole; a hat with wide brim, and a cane.


Ah, ha, that’s it, is it? and why, then, have they not laid hands on him?


Because yesterday, or the day before, they lost sight of him at the corner of the Rue Coq-Héron.


Didn’t I say that your police were good for nothing?


Yes; but they may catch him yet.


True, true, if this person were not on his guard, as he is; He will consequently make a few changes in his personal appearance.


Well, well, do you think your police will recognize me now.


No, father, at least, I hope not.


And now, my dear boy. I rely on your prudence to remove all the things which I leave in your care.


Oh, rely on me,


Yes, yes; and now I believe you are right, and that you have really saved my life; be assured I will return the favor hereafter.


You are not convinced yet? I hope at least, that you may be mistaken.


Shall you see the king again?


Perhaps.


Would you pass in his eyes for a prophet?


Prophets of evil are not in favor at the court, father.


True, but some day they do them justice; and supposing a second restoration, you would then pass for a great man.


Well, what should I say to the king?


Say this to him: ‘Sire, you are deceived as to the feeling in France, as to the opinions of the towns, and the prejudices of the army; he whom in Paris you call the Corsican ogre, who at Nevers is styled the usurper, is already saluted as Bonaparte at Lyons, and emperor at Grenoble. You think he is tracked, pursued, captured; he is advancing as rapidly as his own eagles. The soldiers you believe to be dying with hunger, worn out with fatigue, ready to desert, gather like atoms of snow about the rolling ball as it hastens onward. Sire, go, leave France to its real master, to him who acquired it, not by purchase, but by right of conquest; go, sire, not that you incur any risk, for your adversary is powerful enough to show you mercy, but because it would be humiliating for a grandson of Saint Louis to owe his life to the man of Arcola, Marengo, Austerlitz.’ Tell him this, Gérard; or, rather, tell him nothing. Keep your journey a secret; do not boast of what you have come to Paris to do, or have done; return with all speed; enter Marseilles at night, and your house by the back-door, and there remain, quiet, submissive, secret, and, above all, inoffensive; for this time, I swear to you, we shall act like powerful men who know their enemies. Go, my son—go, my dear Gérard, and by your obedience to my paternal orders, or, if you prefer it, friendly counsels, we will keep you in your place. This will be, one means by which you may a second time save me, if the political balance should some day take another turn, and cast you aloft while hurling me down. Adieu, my dear Gérard, and at your next journey alight at my door. left the room when he had finished, with the same calmness that had characterized him during the whole of this remarkable and trying conversation.


pale and agitated, ran to the window, put aside the curtain, and saw him pass, cool and collected, by two or three ill-looking men at the corner of the street, who were there, perhaps, to arrest a man with black whiskers, and a blue frock-coat, and hat with broad brim.


M. Morrel, I believe?


Yes, sir.


Come nearer, and tell me to what circumstance I owe the honor of this visit.


Do you not guess, monsieur?


Not in the least; but if I can serve you in any way I shall be delighted.


Everything depends on you.


Explain yourself, pray.


Monsieur, do you recollect that a few days before the landing of his majesty the emperor, I came to intercede for a young man, the mate of my ship, who was accused of being concerned in correspondence with the Island of Elba? What was the other day a crime is today a title to favor. You then served Louis XVIII., and you did not show any favor—it was your duty; today you serve Napoleon, and you ought to protect him—it is equally your duty; I come, therefore, to ask what has become of him?


What is his name? Tell me his name.


Edmond Dantès.


Dantès. Edmond Dantès.


Yes, monsieur.


Are you quite sure you are not mistaken, monsieur?


No. I am not mistaken. I have known him for ten years, the last four of which he was in my service. Do not you recollect, I came about six weeks ago to plead for clemency, as I come today to plead for justice. You received me very coldly. Oh, the royalists were very severe with the Bonapartists in those days.


Monsieur. I was then a royalist, because I believed the Bourbons not only the heirs to the throne, but the chosen of the nation. The miraculous return of Napoleon has conquered me, the legitimate monarch is he who is loved by his people.


That’s right! I like to hear you speak thus, and I augur well for Edmond from it.


Wait a moment. I have it—a sailor, who was about to marry a young Catalan girl. I recollect now; it was a very serious charge.


How so?


You know that when he left here he was taken to the Palais de Justice.


Well?


I made my report to the authorities at Paris, and a week after he was carried off.


Carried off! What can they have done with him?


Oh, he has been taken to Fenestrelles, to Pignerol, or to the Sainte-Marguérite islands. Some fine morning he will return to take command of your vessel.


Come when he will, it shall be kept for him. But how is it he is not already returned? It seems to me the first care of government should be to set at liberty those who have suffered for their adherence to it.


Do not be too hasty, M. Morrel. The order of imprisonment came from high authority, and the order for his liberation must proceed from the same source; and, as Napoleon has scarcely been reinstated a fortnight, the letters have not yet been forwarded.


But, is there no way of expediting all these formalities—of releasing him from arrest?


There has been no arrest.


How?


It is sometimes essential to government to cause a man’s disappearance without leaving any traces, so that no written forms or documents may defeat their wishes.


It might be so under the Bourbons, but at present——


It has always been so, my dear Morrel, since the reign of Louis XIV. The emperor is more strict in prison discipline than even Louis himself, and the number of prisoners whose names are not on the register is incalculable.


Well, M. de Villefort, how would you advise me to act?


Petition the minister.


Oh, I know what that is; the minister receives two hundred petitions every day, and does not read three.


That is true; but he will read a petition countersigned and presented by me.


And will you undertake to deliver it?


With the greatest pleasure. Dantès was then guilty, and now he is innocent, and it is as much my duty to free him as it was to condemn him.


But how shall I address the minister?


Sit down there, and write what I dictate.


Will you be so good?


Certainly. But lose no time; we have lost too much already.


That is true. Only think what the poor fellow may even now be suffering.


That will do, leave the rest to me.


Will the petition go soon?


Today.


Countersigned by you?


The best thing I can do will be to certify the truth of the contents of your petition.


What more is to be done?


I will do whatever is necessary.


My brother, be careful of yourself, for if you are killed, I shall be alone in the world.


I do not know what reason government can assign for these useless visits; when you see one prisoner, you see all,—always the same thing,—ill fed and innocent. Are there any others?


Yes; the dangerous and mad prisoners are in the dungeons.


Let us visit them. We must play the farce to the end. Let us see the dungeons.


Let us first send for two soldiers. The prisoners sometimes, through mere uneasiness of life, and in order to be sentenced to death, commit acts of useless violence, and you might fall a victim.


Take all needful precautions. Oh, who can live here?


A most dangerous conspirator, a man we are ordered to keep the most strict watch over, as he is daring and resolute.


He is alone?


Certainly.


How long has he been there?


Nearly a year.


Was he placed here when he first arrived?


No; not until he attempted to kill the turnkey, who took his food to him.


To kill the turnkey?


Yes, the very one who is lighting us. Is it not true, Antoine?


True enough; he wanted to kill me!


He must be mad,


He is worse than that,—he is a devil!


Shall I complain of him? Oh, no; it is useless. Besides, he is almost mad now, and in another year he will be quite so. So much the better for him,—he will suffer less,


You are right, sir, and this remark proves that you have deeply considered the subject. Now we have in a dungeon about twenty feet distant, and to which you descend by another stair, an old abbé, formerly leader of a party in Italy, who has been here since 1811, and in 1813 he went mad, and the change is astonishing. He used to weep, he now laughs; he grew thin, he now grows fat. You had better see him, for his madness is amusing.


I will see them both. I must conscientiously perform my duty. Let us visit this one first,


By all means,


He will become religious—he is already more gentle; he is afraid, and retreated before the bayonets—madmen are not afraid of anything; I made some curious observations on this at Charenton. What is it you want?


I want to know what crime I have committed—to be tried; and if I am guilty, to be shot; if innocent, to be set at liberty.


Are you well fed?


I believe so; I don’t know; it’s of no consequence. What matters really, not only to me, but to officers of justice and the king, is that an innocent man should languish in prison, the victim of an infamous denunciation, to die here cursing his executioners.


You are very humble today, you are not so always; the other day, for instance, when you tried to kill the turnkey.


It is true, sir, and I beg his pardon, for he has always been very good to me, but I was mad.


And you are not so any longer?


No; captivity has subdued me—I have been here so long.


So long?—when were you arrested, then?


The 28th of February, 1815, at half-past two in the afternoon.


Today is the 30th of July, 1816,—why, it is but seventeen months.


Only seventeen months. Oh, you do not know what is seventeen months in prison!—seventeen ages rather, especially to a man who, like me, had arrived at the summit of his ambition—to a man, who, like me, was on the point of marrying a woman he adored, who saw an honorable career opened before him, and who loses all in an instant—who sees his prospects destroyed, and is ignorant of the fate of his affianced wife, and whether his aged father be still living! Seventeen months’ captivity to a sailor accustomed to the boundless ocean, is a worse punishment than human crime ever merited. Have pity on me, then, and ask for me, not intelligence, but a trial; not pardon, but a verdict—a trial, sir, I ask only for a trial; that, surely, cannot be denied to one who is accused!


We shall see. On my word, the poor devil touches me. You must show me the proofs against him.


Monsieur. I know it is not in your power to release me; but you can plead for me—you can have me tried—and that is all I ask. Let me know my crime, and the reason why I was condemned. Uncertainty is worse than all.


Go on with the lights,


Monsieur. I can tell by your voice you are touched with pity; tell me at least to hope.


I cannot tell you that. I can only promise to examine into your case.


Oh, I am free—then I am saved!


Who arrested you?


M. Villefort. See him, and hear what he says. I am no longer surprised at my detention, since my only protector is removed.


Had M. de Villefort any cause of personal dislike to you?


None; on the contrary, he was very kind to me.


I can, then, rely on the notes he has left concerning you?


Entirely.


That is well; wait patiently, then.


Will you see the register at once, or proceed to the other cell?


Let us visit them all. If I once went up those stairs. I should never have the courage to come down again.


Ah, this one is not like the other, and his madness is less affecting than this one’s display of reason.


What is his folly?


He fancies he possesses an immense treasure. The first year he offered government a million of francs for his release; the second, two; the third, three; and so on progressively. He is now in his fifth year of captivity; he will ask to speak to you in private, and offer you five millions.


How curious!—what is his name?


The Abbé Faria.


No. 27,


What is it you want?


I, monsieur. I want nothing.


You do not understand. I am sent here by government to visit the prison, and hear the requests of the prisoners.


Oh, that is different, and we shall understand each other, I hope. Monsieur. I am the Abbé Faria, born at Rome. I was for twenty years Cardinal Spada’s secretary; I was arrested, why, I know not, toward the beginning of the year 1811; since then I have demanded my liberty from the Italian and French government.


Why from the French government?


Because I was arrested at Piombino, and I presume that, like Milan and Florence, Piombino has become the capital of some French department.


Ah, you have not the latest news from Italy?


My information dates from the day on which I was arrested, and as the emperor had created the kingdom of Rome for his infant son, I presume that he has realized the dream of Machiavelli and Cæsar Borgia, which was to make Italy a united kingdom.


Providence has changed this gigantic plan you advocate so warmly.


It is the only means of rendering Italy strong, happy, and independent.


Very possibly; only I am not come to discuss politics, but to inquire if you have anything to ask or to complain of.


The food is the same as in other prisons,—that is, very bad; the lodging is very unhealthful, but, on the whole, passable for a dungeon; but it is not that which I wish to speak of, but a secret I have to reveal of the greatest importance. It is for that reason I am delighted to see you, although you have disturbed me in a most important calculation, which, if it succeeded, would possibly change Newton’s system. Could you allow me a few words in private.


What did I tell you?


You knew him. What you ask is impossible, monsieur,


But. I would speak to you of a large sum, amounting to five millions. However, it is not absolutely necessary for us to be alone; the governor can be present.


Unfortunately. I know beforehand what you are about to say; it concerns your treasures, does it not?


Of course, of what else should I speak?


Mr. Inspector. I can tell you the story as well as he, for it has been dinned in my ears for the last four or five years.


That proves, that you are like those of Holy Writ, who having eyes see not, and having ears hear not.


My dear sir, the government is rich and does not want your treasures, keep them until you are liberated.


But what if I am not liberated, and am detained here until my death? this treasure will be lost. Had not government better profit by it? I will offer six millions, and I will content myself with the rest, if they will only give me my liberty.


On my word, had I not been told beforehand that this man was mad, I should believe what he says.


I am not mad. The treasure I speak of really exists, and I offer to sign an agreement with you, in which I promise to lead you to the spot where you shall dig; and if I deceive you, bring me here again,—I ask no more.


Is the spot far from here?


A hundred leagues.


It is not ill-planned. If all the prisoners took it into their heads to travel a hundred leagues, and their guardians consented to accompany them, they would have a capital chance of escaping.


The scheme is well known, and the abbé’s plan has not even the merit of originality. I inquired if you are well fed?


Swear to me, to free me if what I tell you prove true, and I will stay here while you go to the spot.


Are you well fed?


Monsieur, you run no risk, for, as I told you, I will stay here; so there is no chance of my escaping.


You do not reply to my question,


Nor you to mine. You will not accept my gold; I will keep it for myself. You refuse me my liberty; God will give it me.


What is he doing there?


Counting his treasures,


He was wealthy once, perhaps?


Or dreamed he was, and awoke mad.


After all, if he had been rich, he would not have been here.


Sometimes, in my voyages, when I was a man and commanded other men, I have seen the heavens overcast, the sea rage and foam, the storm arise, and, like a monstrous bird, beating the two horizons with its wings. Then I felt that my vessel was a vain refuge, that trembled and shook before the tempest. Soon the fury of the waves and the sight of the sharp rocks announced the approach of death, and death then terrified me, and I used all my skill and intelligence as a man and a sailor to struggle against the wrath of God. But I did so because I was happy, because I had not courted death, because to be cast upon a bed of rocks and seaweed seemed terrible, because I was unwilling that I, a creature made for the service of God, should serve for food to the gulls and ravens. But now it is different; I have lost all that bound me to life, death smiles and invites me to repose; I die after my own manner, I die exhausted and broken-spirited, as I fall asleep when I have paced three thousand times round my cell,—that is thirty thousand steps, or about ten leagues.


I wish to die. When my morning and evening meals are brought. I will cast them out of the window, and they will think that I have eaten them.


There can be no doubt about it, it is some prisoner who is striving to obtain his freedom. Oh, if I were only there to help him!


I must put this to the test, but without compromising anybody. If it is a workman, I need but knock against the wall, and he will cease to work, in order to find out who is knocking, and why he does so; but as his occupation is sanctioned by the governor, he will soon resume it. If, on the contrary, it is a prisoner, the noise I make will alarm him, he will cease, and not begin again until he thinks everyone is asleep.


It is a prisoner,


Leave the saucepan, you can take it away when you bring me my breakfast.


Well, don’t you intend to bring me another plate?


No, you destroy everything. First you break your jug, then you make me break your plate; if all the prisoners followed your example, the government would be ruined. I shall leave you the saucepan, and pour your soup into that. So for the future I hope you will not be so destructive.


Oh, my God, my God! I have so earnestly prayed to you, that I hoped my prayers had been heard. After having deprived me of my liberty, after having deprived me of death, after having recalled me to existence, my God, have pity on me, and do not let me die in despair!


Who talks of God and despair at the same time?


Ah. I hear a human voice. In the name of Heaven, speak again, though the sound of your voice terrifies me. Who are you?


Who are you?


An unhappy prisoner. Of what country? A Frenchman. Your name? Edmond Dantès. Your profession? A sailor. How long have you been here? Since the 28th of February, 1815. Your crime? I am innocent. But of what are you accused? Of having conspired to aid the emperor’s return.


What! For the emperor’s return?—the emperor is no longer on the throne, then?


He abdicated at Fontainebleau in 1814, and was sent to the Island of Elba. But how long have you been here that you are ignorant of all this?


Since 1811.


Do not dig any more,


only tell me how high up is your excavation?


On a level with the floor.


How is it concealed?


Behind my bed.


Has your bed been moved since you have been a prisoner?


No.


What does your chamber open on?


A corridor.


And the corridor?


On a court.


Alas!


Oh, what is the matter?


I have made a mistake owing to an error in my plans. I took the wrong angle, and have come out fifteen feet from where I intended. I took the wall you are mining for the outer wall of the fortress.


But then you would be close to the sea?


That is what I hoped.


And supposing you had succeeded?


I should have thrown myself into the sea, gained one of the islands near here—the Isle de Daume or the Isle de Tiboulen—and then I should have been safe.


Could you have swum so far?


Heaven would have given me strength; but now all is lost.


All?


Yes; stop up your excavation carefully, do not work any more, and wait until you hear from me.


Tell me, at least, who you are?


I am—I am No. 27.


You mistrust me, then. Oh, I am a Christian. I swear to you by him who died for us that naught shall induce me to breathe one syllable to my jailers; but I conjure you do not abandon me. If you do, I swear to you, for I have got to the end of my strength, that I will dash my brains out against the wall, and you will have my death to reproach yourself with.


How old are you? Your voice is that of a young man.


I do not know my age, for I have not counted the years I have been here. All I do know is, that I was just nineteen when I was arrested, the 28th of February, 1815.


Not quite twenty-six!


at that age he cannot be a traitor.


Oh, no, no. I swear to you again, rather than betray you, I would allow myself to be hacked in pieces!


You have done well to speak to me, and ask for my assistance, for I was about to form another plan, and leave you; but your age reassures me. I will not forget you. Wait.


How long?


I must calculate our chances; I will give you the signal.


But you will not leave me; you will come to me, or you will let me come to you. We will escape, and if we cannot escape we will talk; you of those whom you love, and I of those whom I love. You must love somebody?


No, I am alone in the world.


Then you will love me. If you are young, I will be your comrade; if you are old, I will be your son. I have a father who is seventy if he yet lives; I only love him and a young girl called Mercédès. My father has not yet forgotten me, I am sure, but God alone knows if she loves me still; I shall love you as I loved my father.


It is well,


tomorrow.


Come, are you going mad again? Is it you? I am here. Is your jailer gone? Yes, he will not return until the evening; so that we have twelve hours before us.


I can work, then?


Oh, yes, yes; this instant, I entreat you.


Let us first see,


whether it is possible to remove the traces of my entrance here—our future tranquillity depends upon our jailers being entirely ignorant of it.


You removed this stone very carelessly; but I suppose you had no tools to aid you.


Why, do you possess any?


I made myself some; and with the exception of a file, I have all that are necessary,—a chisel, pincers, and lever.


Oh, how I should like to see these products of your industry and patience.


Well, in the first place, here is my chisel.


And with what did you contrive to make that?


With one of the clamps of my bedstead; and this very tool has sufficed me to hollow out the road by which I came hither, a distance of about fifty feet.


Fifty feet!


Do not speak so loud, young man—don’t speak so loud. It frequently occurs in a state prison like this, that persons are stationed outside the doors of the cells purposely to overhear the conversation of the prisoners.


But they believe I am shut up alone here.


That makes no difference.


And you say that you dug your way a distance of fifty feet to get here?


I do; that is about the distance that separates your chamber from mine; only, unfortunately, I did not curve aright; for want of the necessary geometrical instruments to calculate my scale of proportion, instead of taking an ellipsis of forty feet, I made it fifty. I expected, as I told you, to reach the outer wall, pierce through it, and throw myself into the sea; I have, however, kept along the corridor on which your chamber opens, instead of going beneath it. My labor is all in vain, for I find that the corridor looks into a courtyard filled with soldiers.


That’s true, but the corridor you speak of only bounds one side of my cell; there are three others—do you know anything of their situation?


This one is built against the solid rock, and it would take ten experienced miners, duly furnished with the requisite tools, as many years to perforate it. This adjoins the lower part of the governor’s apartments, and were we to work our way through, we should only get into some lock-up cellars, where we must necessarily be recaptured. The fourth and last side of your cell faces on—faces on—stop a minute, now where does it face?


Climb up,


I thought so!


What was it that you thought?


Yes,


it is so. This side of your chamber looks out upon a kind of open gallery, where patrols are continually passing, and sentries keep watch day and night.


Are you quite sure of that?


Certain. I saw the soldier’s shape and the top of his musket; that made me draw in my head so quickly, for I was fearful he might also see me.


Well?


You perceive then the utter impossibility of escaping through your dungeon?


Then——


Then,


the will of God be done!


Tell me, I entreat of you, who and what you are? Never have I met with so remarkable a person as yourself.


Willingly,


if, indeed, you feel any curiosity respecting one, now, alas, powerless to aid you in any way.


Say not so; you can console and support me by the strength of your own powerful mind. Pray let me know who you really are?


Then listen,


I am the Abbé Faria, and have been imprisoned as you know in this Château d’If since the year 1811; previously to which I had been confined for three years in the fortress of Fenestrelle. In the year 1811 I was transferred to Piedmont in France. It was at this period I learned that the destiny which seemed subservient to every wish formed by Napoleon, had bestowed on him a son, named king of Rome even in his cradle. I was very far then from expecting the change you have just informed me of; namely, that four years afterwards, this colossus of power would be overthrown. Then who reigns in France at this moment—Napoleon II.?


No, Louis XVIII.


The brother of Louis XVI.! How inscrutable are the ways of Providence—for what great and mysterious purpose has it pleased Heaven to abase the man once so elevated, and raise up him who was so abased?


Yes,


Yes, yes,


’Twill be the same as it was in England. After Charles I., Cromwell; after Cromwell, Charles II., and then James II., and then some son-in-law or relation, some Prince of Orange, a stadtholder who becomes a king. Then new concessions to the people, then a constitution, then liberty. Ah, my friend!


you are young, you will see all this come to pass.


Probably, if ever I get out of prison!


True,


we are prisoners; but I forget this sometimes, and there are even moments when my mental vision transports me beyond these walls, and I fancy myself at liberty.


But wherefore are you here?


Because in 1807 I dreamed of the very plan Napoleon tried to realize in 1811; because, like Machiavelli, I desired to alter the political face of Italy, and instead of allowing it to be split up into a quantity of petty principalities, each held by some weak or tyrannical ruler, I sought to form one large, compact, and powerful empire; and, lastly, because I fancied I had found my Cæsar Borgia in a crowned simpleton, who feigned to enter into my views only to betray me. It was the plan of Alexander VI. and Clement VII., but it will never succeed now, for they attempted it fruitlessly, and Napoleon was unable to complete his work. Italy seems fated to misfortune.


Are you not, the priest who here in the Château d’If is generally thought to be—ill?


Mad, you mean, don’t you?


I did not like to say so,


Well, then, let me answer your question in full, by acknowledging that I am the poor mad prisoner of the Château d’If, for many years permitted to amuse the different visitors with what is said to be my insanity; and, in all probability, I should be promoted to the honor of making sport for the children, if such innocent beings could be found in an abode devoted like this to suffering and despair.


Then you abandon all hope of escape?


I perceive its utter impossibility; and I consider it impious to attempt that which the Almighty evidently does not approve.


Nay, be not discouraged. Would it not be expecting too much to hope to succeed at your first attempt? Why not try to find an opening in another direction from that which has so unfortunately failed?


Alas, it shows how little notion you can have of all it has cost me to effect a purpose so unexpectedly frustrated, that you talk of beginning over again. In the first place, I was four years making the tools I possess, and have been two years scraping and digging out earth, hard as granite itself; then what toil and fatigue has it not been to remove huge stones I should once have deemed impossible to loosen. Whole days have I passed in these Titanic efforts, considering my labor well repaid if, by night-time I had contrived to carry away a square inch of this hard-bound cement, changed by ages into a substance unyielding as the stones themselves; then to conceal the mass of earth and rubbish I dug up, I was compelled to break through a staircase, and throw the fruits of my labor into the hollow part of it; but the well is now so completely choked up, that I scarcely think it would be possible to add another handful of dust without leading to discovery. Consider also that I fully believed I had accomplished the end and aim of my undertaking, for which I had so exactly husbanded my strength as to make it just hold out to the termination of my enterprise; and now, at the moment when I reckoned upon success, my hopes are forever dashed from me. No, I repeat again, that nothing shall induce me to renew attempts evidently at variance with the Almighty’s pleasure.


I have found what you were in search of!


Have you, indeed? pray, let me know what it is you have discovered?


The corridor through which you have bored your way from the cell you occupy here, extends in the same direction as the outer gallery, does it not?


It does.


And is not above fifteen feet from it?


About that.


Well, then, I will tell you what we must do. We must pierce through the corridor by forming a side opening about the middle, as it were the top part of a cross. This time you will lay your plans more accurately; we shall get out into the gallery you have described; kill the sentinel who guards it, and make our escape. All we require to insure success is courage, and that you possess, and strength, which I am not deficient in; as for patience, you have abundantly proved yours—you shall now see me prove mine.


One instant, my dear friend, it is clear you do not understand the nature of the courage with which I am endowed, and what use I intend making of my strength. As for patience, I consider that I have abundantly exercised that in beginning every morning the task of the night before, and every night renewing the task of the day. But then, young man (and I pray of you to give me your full attention), then I thought I could not be doing anything displeasing to the Almighty in trying to set an innocent being at liberty—one who had committed no offence, and merited not condemnation.


And have your notions changed? do you think yourself more guilty in making the attempt since you have encountered me?


No; neither do I wish to incur guilt. Hitherto I have fancied myself merely waging war against circumstances, not men. I have thought it no sin to bore through a wall, or destroy a staircase; but I cannot so easily persuade myself to pierce a heart or take away a life.


Is it possible, that where your liberty is at stake you can allow any such scruple to deter you from obtaining it?


Tell me, what has hindered you from knocking down your jailer with a piece of wood torn from your bedstead, dressing yourself in his clothes, and endeavoring to escape?


Simply the fact that the idea never occurred to me,


Because the natural repugnance to the commission of such a crime prevented you from thinking of it; and so it ever is because in simple and allowable things our natural instincts keep us from deviating from the strict line of duty. The tiger, whose nature teaches him to delight in shedding blood, needs but the sense of smell to show him when his prey is within his reach, and by following this instinct he is enabled to measure the leap necessary to permit him to spring on his victim; but man, on the contrary, loathes the idea of blood—it is not alone that the laws of social life inspire him with a shrinking dread of taking life; his natural construction and physiological formation—— Since my imprisonment, I have thought over all the most celebrated cases of escape on record. They have rarely been successful. Those that have been crowned with full success have been long meditated upon, and carefully arranged; such, for instance, as the escape of the Duc de Beaufort from the Château de Vincennes, that of the Abbé Dubuquoi from For l’Evêque; of Latude from the Bastille. Then there are those for which chance sometimes affords opportunity, and those are the best of all. Let us, therefore, wait patiently for some favorable moment, and when it presents itself, profit by it.


Ah, you might well endure the tedious delay; you were constantly employed in the task you set yourself, and when weary with toil, you had your hopes to refresh and encourage you.


I assure you, I did not turn to that source for recreation or support.


What did you do then?


I wrote or studied.


Were you then permitted the use of pens, ink, and paper?


Oh, no, I had none but what I made for myself.


You made paper, pens and ink?


Yes. When you pay me a visit in my cell, my young friend, I will show you an entire work, the fruits of the thoughts and reflections of my whole life; many of them meditated over in the shades of the Colosseum at Rome, at the foot of St. Mark’s column at Venice, and on the borders of the Arno at Florence, little imagining at the time that they would be arranged in order within the walls of the Château d’If. The work I speak of is called A Treatise on the Possibility of a General Monarchy in Italy, and will make one large quarto volume.


And on what have you written all this?


On two of my shirts. I invented a preparation that makes linen as smooth and as easy to write on as parchment.


You are, then, a chemist?


Somewhat; I know Lavoisier, and was the intimate friend of Cabanis.


But for such a work you must have needed books—had you any?


I had nearly five thousand volumes in my library at Rome; but after reading them over many times, I found out that with one hundred and fifty well-chosen books a man possesses, if not a complete summary of all human knowledge, at least all that a man need really know. I devoted three years of my life to reading and studying these one hundred and fifty volumes, till I knew them nearly by heart; so that since I have been in prison, a very slight effort of memory has enabled me to recall their contents as readily as though the pages were open before me. I could recite you the whole of Thucydides, Xenophon, Plutarch, Titus Livius, Tacitus, Strada, Jornandes, Dante, Montaigne, Shakespeare, Spinoza, Machiavelli, and Bossuet. I name only the most important.


You are, doubtless, acquainted with a variety of languages, so as to have been able to read all these?


Yes, I speak five of the modern tongues—that is to say, German, French, Italian, English, and Spanish; by the aid of ancient Greek I learned modern Greek—I don’t speak it so well as I could wish, but I am still trying to improve myself.


Improve yourself! why, how can you manage to do so?


Why, I made a vocabulary of the words I knew; turned, returned, and arranged them, so as to enable me to express my thoughts through their medium. I know nearly one thousand words, which is all that is absolutely necessary, although I believe there are nearly one hundred thousand in the dictionaries. I cannot hope to be very fluent, but I certainly should have no difficulty in explaining my wants and wishes; and that would be quite as much as I should ever require.


Then if you were not furnished with pens, how did you manage to write the work you speak of?


I made myself some excellent ones, which would be universally preferred to all others if once known. You are aware what huge whitings are served to us on maigre days. Well, I selected the cartilages of the heads of these fishes, and you can scarcely imagine the delight with which I welcomed the arrival of each Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday, as affording me the means of increasing my stock of pens; for I will freely confess that my historical labors have been my greatest solace and relief. While retracing the past, I forget the present; and traversing at will the path of history I cease to remember that I am myself a prisoner.


But the ink, of what did you make your ink?


There was formerly a fireplace in my dungeon, but it was closed up long ere I became an occupant of this prison. Still, it must have been many years in use, for it was thickly covered with a coating of soot; this soot I dissolved in a portion of the wine brought to me every Sunday, and I assure you a better ink cannot be desired. For very important notes, for which closer attention is required, I pricked one of my fingers, and wrote with my own blood.


And when, may I see all this?


Whenever you please.


Oh, then let it be directly!


Follow me, then, as he re-entered the subterranean passage, in which he soon disappeared, followed by Dantès.


It is well, we have some hours before us—it is now just a quarter past twelve o’clock. Look at this ray of light which enters by my window, and then observe the lines traced on the wall. Well, by means of these lines, which are in accordance with the double motion of the earth, and the ellipse it describes round the sun, I am enabled to ascertain the precise hour with more minuteness than if I possessed a watch; for that might be broken or deranged in its movements, while the sun and earth never vary in their appointed paths.


Come, I am anxious to see your treasures.


What do you wish to see first?


Oh, your great work on the monarchy of Italy!


There, there is the work complete. I wrote the word finis at the end of the sixty-eighth strip about a week ago. I have torn up two of my shirts, and as many handkerchiefs as I was master of, to complete the precious pages. Should I ever get out of prison and find in all Italy a printer courageous enough to publish what I have composed, my literary reputation is forever secured.


I see. Now let me behold the curious pens with which you have written your work.


Look! Ah, yes, the penknife. That’s my masterpiece. I made it, as well as this larger knife, out of an old iron candlestick. As for the ink. I told you how I managed to obtain that—and I only just make it from time to time, as I require it.


One thing still puzzles me, and that is how you managed to do all this by daylight?


I worked at night also,


Night!—why, for Heaven’s sake, are your eyes like cats’, that you can see to work in the dark?


Indeed they are not; but God has supplied man with the intelligence that enables him to overcome the limitations of natural conditions. I furnished myself with a light.


You did? Pray tell me how.


I separated the fat from the meat served to me, melted it, and so made oil—here is my lamp.


But how do you procure a light?


Oh, here are two flints and a piece of burnt linen.


And matches?


I pretended that I had a disorder of the skin, and asked for a little sulphur, which was readily supplied. You have not seen all yet, for I did not think it wise to trust all my treasures in the same hiding-place. Let us shut this one up.


Who supplied you with the materials for making this wonderful work?


I tore up several of my shirts, and ripped out the seams in the sheets of my bed, during my three years’ imprisonment at Fenestrelle; and when I was removed to the Château d’If, I managed to bring the ravellings with me, so that I have been able to finish my work here.


And was it not discovered that your sheets were unhemmed?


Oh, no, for when I had taken out the thread I required, I hemmed the edges over again.


With what?


With this needle. I once thought, of removing these iron bars, and letting myself down from the window, which, as you see, is somewhat wider than yours, although I should have enlarged it still more preparatory to my flight; however, I discovered that I should merely have dropped into a sort of inner court, and I therefore renounced the project altogether as too full of risk and danger. Nevertheless, I carefully preserved my ladder against one of those unforeseen opportunities of which I spoke just now, and which sudden chance frequently brings about. What are you thinking of?


I was reflecting, in the first place, upon the enormous degree of intelligence and ability you must have employed to reach the high perfection to which you have attained. What would you not have accomplished if you had been free?


Possibly nothing at all; the overflow of my brain would probably, in a state of freedom, have evaporated in a thousand follies; misfortune is needed to bring to light the treasures of the human intellect. Compression is needed to explode gunpowder. Captivity has brought my mental faculties to a focus; and you are well aware that from the collision of clouds electricity is produced—from electricity, lightning, from lightning, illumination.


No. I know nothing. Some of your words are to me quite empty of meaning. You must be blessed indeed to possess the knowledge you have.


Well, but you had another subject for your thoughts; did you not say so just now?


I did!


You have told me as yet but one of them—let me hear the other.


It was this,—that while you had related to me all the particulars of your past life, you were perfectly unacquainted with mine.


Your life, my young friend, has not been of sufficient length to admit of your having passed through any very important events.


It has been long enough to inflict on me a great and undeserved misfortune. I would fain fix the source of it on man that I may no longer vent reproaches upon Heaven.


Then you profess ignorance of the crime with which you are charged?


I do, indeed; and this I swear by the two beings most dear to me upon earth,—my father and Mercédès.


Come, let me hear your story.


There is, a clever maxim, which bears upon what I was saying to you some little while ago, and that is, that unless wicked ideas take root in a naturally depraved mind, human nature, in a right and wholesome state, revolts at crime. Still, from an artificial civilization have originated wants, vices, and false tastes, which occasionally become so powerful as to stifle within us all good feelings, and ultimately to lead us into guilt and wickedness. From this view of things, then, comes the axiom that if you visit to discover the author of any bad action, seek first to discover the person to whom the perpetration of that bad action could be in any way advantageous. Now, to apply it in your case,—to whom could your disappearance have been serviceable?


To no one, by Heaven! I was a very insignificant person.


Do not speak thus, for your reply evinces neither logic nor philosophy; everything is relative, my dear young friend, from the king who stands in the way of his successor, to the employee who keeps his rival out of a place. Now, in the event of the king’s death, his successor inherits a crown,—when the employee dies, the supernumerary steps into his shoes, and receives his salary of twelve thousand livres. Well, these twelve thousand livres are his civil list, and are as essential to him as the twelve millions of a king. Everyone, from the highest to the lowest degree, has his place on the social ladder, and is beset by stormy passions and conflicting interests, as in Descartes’ theory of pressure and impulsion. But these forces increase as we go higher, so that we have a spiral which in defiance of reason rests upon the apex and not on the base. Now let us return to your particular world. You say you were on the point of being made captain of the Pharaon?


Yes.


And about to become the husband of a young and lovely girl?


Now, could anyone have had any interest in preventing the accomplishment of these two things? But let us first settle the question as to its being the interest of anyone to hinder you from being captain of the Pharaon. What say you?


I cannot believe such was the case. I was generally liked on board, and had the sailors possessed the right of selecting a captain themselves, I feel convinced their choice would have fallen on me. There was only one person among the crew who had any feeling of ill-will towards me. I had quarelled with him some time previously, and had even challenged him to fight me; but he refused.


Now we are getting on. And what was this man’s name?


Danglars.


What rank did he hold on board?


He was supercargo.


And had you been captain, should you have retained him in his employment?


Not if the choice had remained with me, for I had frequently observed inaccuracies in his accounts.


Good again! Now then, tell me, was any person present during your last conversation with Captain Leclere?


No; we were quite alone.


Could your conversation have been overheard by anyone?


It might, for the cabin door was open—and—stay; now I recollect,—Danglars himself passed by just as Captain Leclere was giving me the packet for the grand marshal.


That’s better, now we are on the right scent. Did you take anybody with you when you put into the port of Elba?


Nobody.


Somebody there received your packet, and gave you a letter in place of it, I think?


Yes; the grand marshal did.


And what did you do with that letter?


Put it into my portfolio.


You had your portfolio with you, then? Now, how could a sailor find room in his pocket for a portfolio large enough to contain an official letter?


You are right; it was left on board.


Then it was not till your return to the ship that you put the letter in the portfolio?


No.


And what did you do with this same letter while returning from Porto-Ferrajo to the vessel?


I carried it in my hand.


So that when you went on board the Pharaon, everybody could see that you held a letter in your hand?


Yes.


Danglars, as well as the rest?


Danglars, as well as others.


Now, listen to me, and try to recall every circumstance attending your arrest. Do you recollect the words in which the information against you was formulated?


Oh yes, I read it over three times, and the words sank deeply into my memory.


Repeat it to me.


This is it, word for word: ‘The king’s attorney is informed by a friend to the throne and religion, that one Edmond Dantès, mate on board the Pharaon, this day arrived from Smyrna, after having touched at Naples and Porto-Ferrajo, has been intrusted by Murat with a packet for the usurper; again, by the usurper, with a letter for the Bonapartist Club in Paris. This proof of his guilt may be procured by his immediate arrest, as the letter will be found either about his person, at his father’s residence, or in his cabin on board the Pharaon.’


The thing is clear as day, and you must have had a very confiding nature, as well as a good heart, not to have suspected the origin of the whole affair.


Do you really think so? Ah, that would indeed be infamous.


How did Danglars usually write?


In a handsome, running hand.


And how was the anonymous letter written?


Backhanded.


Disguised.


It was very boldly written, if disguised.


Stop a bit, taking up what he called his pen, and, after dipping it into the ink, he wrote on a piece of prepared linen, with his left hand, the first two or three words of the accusation.


How very astonishing! Why your writing exactly resembles that of the accusation.


Simply because that accusation had been written with the left hand; and I have noticed that——


What?


That while the writing of different persons done with the right hand varies, that performed with the left hand is invariably uniform.


You have evidently seen and observed everything.


Let us proceed.


Oh, yes, yes!


Now as regards the second question.


I am listening.


Was there any person whose interest it was to prevent your marriage with Mercédès?


Yes; a young man who loved her.


And his name was——


Fernand.


That is a Spanish name, I think?


He was a Catalan.


You imagine him capable of writing the letter?


Oh, no; he would more likely have got rid of me by sticking a knife into me.


That is in strict accordance with the Spanish character; an assassination they will unhesitatingly commit, but an act of cowardice, never.


Besides, the various circumstances mentioned in the letter were wholly unknown to him.


You had never spoken of them yourself to anyone?


To no one.


Not even to your mistress?


No, not even to my betrothed.


Then it is Danglars.


I feel quite sure of it now.


Wait a little. Pray, was Danglars acquainted with Fernand?


No—yes, he was. Now I recollect——


What?


To have seen them both sitting at table together under an arbor at Père Pamphile’s the evening before the day fixed for my wedding. They were in earnest conversation. Danglars was joking in a friendly way, but Fernand looked pale and agitated.


Were they alone?


There was a third person with them whom I knew perfectly well, and who had, in all probability made their acquaintance; he was a tailor named Caderousse, but he was very drunk. Stay!—stay!—How strange that it should not have occurred to me before! Now I remember quite well, that on the table round which they were sitting were pens, ink, and paper. Oh, the heartless, treacherous scoundrels!


Is there anything else I can assist you in discovering, besides the villany of your friends?


Yes, yes. I would beg of you, who see so completely to the depths of things, and to whom the greatest mystery seems but an easy riddle, to explain to me how it was that I underwent no second examination, was never brought to trial, and, above all, was condemned without ever having had sentence passed on me?


That is altogether a different and more serious matter. The ways of justice are frequently too dark and mysterious to be easily penetrated. All we have hitherto done in the matter has been child’s play. If you wish me to enter upon the more difficult part of the business, you must assist me by the most minute information on every point.


Pray ask me whatever questions you please; for, in good truth, you see more clearly into my life than I do myself.


In the first place, then, who examined you,—the king’s attorney, his deputy, or a magistrate?


The deputy.


Was he young or old?


About six or seven-and-twenty years of age, I should say.


So. Old enough to be ambitious, but too young to be corrupt. And how did he treat you?


With more of mildness than severity.


Did you tell him your whole story?


I did.


And did his conduct change at all in the course of your examination?


He did appear much disturbed when he read the letter that had brought me into this scrape. He seemed quite overcome by my misfortune.


By your misfortune?


Yes.


Then you feel quite sure that it was your misfortune he deplored?


He gave me one great proof of his sympathy, at any rate.


And that?


He burnt the sole evidence that could at all have criminated me.


What? the accusation?


No; the letter.


Are you sure?


I saw it done.


That alters the case. This man might, after all, be a greater scoundrel than you have thought possible.


Upon my word, you make me shudder. Is the world filled with tigers and crocodiles?


Yes; and remember that two-legged tigers and crocodiles are more dangerous than the others.


Never mind; let us go on.


With all my heart! You tell me he burned the letter?


He did; saying at the same time, ‘You see I thus destroy the only proof existing against you.’


This action is somewhat too sublime to be natural.


You think so?


I am sure of it. To whom was this letter addressed?


To M. Noirtier, Rue Coq-Héron, No. 13, Paris.


Now can you conceive of any interest that your heroic deputy could possibly have had in the destruction of that letter?


Why, it is not altogether impossible he might have had, for he made me promise several times never to speak of that letter to anyone, assuring me he so advised me for my own interest; and, more than this, he insisted on my taking a solemn oath never to utter the name mentioned in the address.


Noirtier! Noirtier!—I knew a person of that name at the court of the Queen of Etruria,—a Noirtier, who had been a Girondin during the Revolution! What was your deputy called?


De Villefort! What ails you?


Do you see that ray of sunlight?


I do.


Well, the whole thing is more clear to me than that sunbeam is to you. Poor fellow! poor young man! And you tell me this magistrate expressed great sympathy and commiseration for you?


He did.


And the worthy man destroyed your compromising letter?


Yes.


And then made you swear never to utter the name of Noirtier?


Why, you poor short-sighted simpleton, can you not guess who this Noirtier was, whose very name he was so careful to keep concealed? This Noirtier was his father!


His father! his father!


Yes, his father, his right name was Noirtier de Villefort.


I must be alone, to think over all this.


I regret now, having helped you in your late inquiries, or having given you the information I did.


Why so?


Because it has instilled a new passion in your heart—that of vengeance.


Let us talk of something else,


You must teach me a small part of what you know, if only to prevent your growing weary of me. I can well believe that so learned a person as yourself would prefer absolute solitude to being tormented with the company of one as ignorant and uninformed as myself. If you will only agree to my request, I promise you never to mention another word about escaping.


Alas, my boy, human knowledge is confined within very narrow limits; and when I have taught you mathematics, physics, history, and the three or four modern languages with which I am acquainted, you will know as much as I do myself. Now, it will scarcely require two years for me to communicate to you the stock of learning I possess.


Two years! do you really believe I can acquire all these things in so short a time?


Not their application, certainly, but their principles you may; to learn is not to know; there are the learners and the learned. Memory makes the one, philosophy the other.


But cannot one learn philosophy?


Philosophy cannot be taught; it is the application of the sciences to truth; it is like the golden cloud in which the Messiah went up into heaven.


Well, then. What shall you teach me first? I am in a hurry to begin. I want to learn.


Everything,


Ah, if there were no sentinel!


There shall not be one a minute longer than you please,


I have already told you, that I loathe the idea of shedding blood.


And yet the murder, if you choose to call it so, would be simply a measure of self-preservation.


No matter! I could never agree to it.


Still, you have thought of it?


Incessantly, alas!


And you have discovered a means of regaining our freedom, have you not?


I have; if it were only possible to place a deaf and blind sentinel in the gallery beyond us.


He shall be both blind and deaf,


No, no, impossible! Are you strong? And will you engage not to do any harm to the sentry, except as a last resort?


I promise on my honor.


Then, we may hope to put our design into execution.


And how long shall we be in accomplishing the necessary work?


At least a year.


And shall we begin at once?


At once.


We have lost a year to no purpose!


Do you consider the last twelve months to have been wasted?


Forgive me!


Tut, tut! man is but man after all, and you are about the best specimen of the genus I have ever known. Come, let me show you my plan.


Gracious heavens! what is the matter? what has happened?


Quick! quick! listen to what I have to say.


Tell me, I beseech you, what ails you?


Alas, all is over with me. I am seized with a terrible, perhaps mortal illness; I can feel that the paroxysm is fast approaching. I had a similar attack the year previous to my imprisonment. This malady admits but of one remedy; I will tell you what that is. Go into my cell as quickly as you can; draw out one of the feet that support the bed; you will find it has been hollowed out for the purpose of containing a small phial you will see there half-filled with a red-looking fluid. Bring it to me—or rather—no, no!—I may be found here, therefore help me back to my room while I have the strength to drag myself along. Who knows what may happen, or how long the attack may last? Thanks. I am about to be seized with a fit of catalepsy; when it comes to its height I shall probably lie still and motionless as though dead, uttering neither sigh nor groan. On the other hand, the symptoms may be much more violent, and cause me to fall into fearful convulsions, foam at the mouth, and cry out loudly. Take care my cries are not heard, for if they are it is more than probable I should be removed to another part of the prison, and we be separated forever. When I become quite motionless, cold, and rigid as a corpse, then, and not before,—be careful about this,—force open my teeth with the knife, pour from eight to ten drops of the liquor contained in the phial down my throat, and I may perhaps revive.


Perhaps!


Help! help! I—I—die—I——


He is saved! he is saved!


I did not expect to see you again,


And why not? Did you fancy yourself dying?


No, I had no such idea; but, knowing that all was ready for flight, I thought you might have made your escape.


Without you? Did you really think me capable of that?


At least. I now see how wrong such an opinion would have been. Alas, alas! I am fearfully exhausted and debilitated by this attack.


Be of good cheer, your strength will return.


The last attack I had, lasted but half an hour, and after it I was hungry, and got up without help; now I can move neither my right arm nor leg, and my head seems uncomfortable, which shows that there has been a suffusion of blood on the brain. The third attack will either carry me off, or leave me paralyzed for life.


No, no, you are mistaken—you will not die! And your third attack (if, indeed, you should have another) will find you at liberty. We shall save you another time, as we have done this, only with a better chance of success, because we shall be able to command every requisite assistance.


My good Edmond, be not deceived. The attack which has just passed away, condemns me forever to the walls of a prison. None can fly from a dungeon who cannot walk.


Well, we will wait,—a week, a month, two months, if need be,—and meanwhile your strength will return. Everything is in readiness for our flight, and we can select any time we choose. As soon as you feel able to swim we will go.


I shall never swim again. This arm is paralyzed; not for a time, but forever. Lift it, and judge if I am mistaken. You are convinced now, Edmond, are you not? Depend upon it, I know what I say. Since the first attack I experienced of this malady, I have continually reflected on it. Indeed, I expected it, for it is a family inheritance; both my father and grandfather died of it in a third attack. The physician who prepared for me the remedy I have twice successfully taken, was no other than the celebrated Cabanis, and he predicted a similar end for me.


The physician may be mistaken! And as for your poor arm, what difference will that make? I can take you on my shoulders, and swim for both of us.


My son, you, who are a sailor and a swimmer, must know as well as I do that a man so loaded would sink before he had done fifty strokes. Cease, then, to allow yourself to be duped by vain hopes, that even your own excellent heart refuses to believe in. Here I shall remain till the hour of my deliverance arrives, and that, in all human probability, will be the hour of my death. As for you, who are young and active, delay not on my account, but fly—go—I give you back your promise.


It is well. Then I shall also remain. By the blood of Christ I swear never to leave you while you live.


Thanks. I accept. You may one of these days reap the reward of your disinterested devotion. But as I cannot, and you will not, quit this place, it becomes necessary to fill up the excavation beneath the soldier’s gallery; he might, by chance, hear the hollow sound of his footsteps, and call the attention of his officer to the circumstance. That would bring about a discovery which would inevitably lead to our being separated. Go, then, and set about this work, in which, unhappily, I can offer you no assistance; keep at it all night, if necessary, and do not return here tomorrow till after the jailer has visited me. I shall have something of the greatest importance to communicate to you.


What is that?


Look at it,


I have looked at it with all possible attention, and I only see a half-burnt paper, on which are traces of Gothic characters inscribed with a peculiar kind of ink.


This paper, my friend. I may now avow to you, since I have the proof of your fidelity—this paper is my treasure, of which, from this day forth, one-half belongs to you.


Your treasure?


Yes. You have, indeed, a noble nature, Edmond, and I see by your paleness and agitation what is passing in your heart at this moment. No, be assured, I am not mad. This treasure exists, Dantès, and if I have not been allowed to possess it, you will. Yes—you. No one would listen or believe me, because everyone thought me mad; but you, who must know that I am not, listen to me, and believe me so afterwards if you will.


Alas, this is a terrible relapse! There was only this blow wanting. My dear friend, your attack has, perhaps, fatigued you; had you not better repose awhile? Tomorrow, if you will, I will hear your narrative; but today I wish to nurse you carefully. Besides, a treasure is not a thing we need hurry about.


On the contrary, it is a matter of the utmost importance, Edmond! Who knows if tomorrow, or the next day after, the third attack may not come on? and then must not all be over? Yes, indeed, I have often thought with a bitter joy that these riches, which would make the wealth of a dozen families, will be forever lost to those men who persecute me. This idea was one of vengeance to me, and I tasted it slowly in the night of my dungeon and the despair of my captivity. But now I have forgiven the world for the love of you; now that I see you, young and with a promising future,—now that I think of all that may result to you in the good fortune of such a disclosure, I shudder at any delay, and tremble lest I should not assure to one as worthy as yourself the possession of so vast an amount of hidden wealth.


You persist in your incredulity, Edmond. My words have not convinced you. I see you require proofs. Well, then, read this paper, which I have never shown to anyone. Tomorrow, my dear friend. I thought it was understood that we should not talk of that until tomorrow.


Then we will not talk of it until tomorrow; but read this paper today.


I will not irritate him, this treasure, which may amount to two... of Roman crowns in the most distant a... of the second opening wh... declare to belong to him alo... heir.


25th April, 149’ Well!


Why. I see nothing but broken lines and unconnected words, which are rendered illegible by fire.


Yes, to you, my friend, who read them for the first time; but not for me, who have grown pale over them by many nights’ study, and have reconstructed every phrase, completed every thought. And do you believe you have discovered the hidden meaning? I am sure I have, and you shall judge for yourself; but first listen to the history of this paper.


Silence! Steps approach—I go—adieu!


Here I am, pursuing you remorselessly. You thought to escape my munificence, but it is in vain. Listen to me. You know, that I was the secretary and intimate friend of Cardinal Spada, the last of the princes of that name. I owe to this worthy lord all the happiness I ever knew. He was not rich, although the wealth of his family had passed into a proverb, and I heard the phrase very often, ‘As rich as a Spada.’ But he, like public rumor, lived on this reputation for wealth; his palace was my paradise. I was tutor to his nephews, who are dead; and when he was alone in the world, I tried by absolute devotion to his will, to make up to him all he had done for me during ten years of unremitting kindness. The cardinal’s house had no secrets for me. I had often seen my noble patron annotating ancient volumes, and eagerly searching amongst dusty family manuscripts. One day when I was reproaching him for his unavailing searches, and deploring the prostration of mind that followed them, he looked at me, and, smiling bitterly, opened a volume relating to the History of the City of Rome. There, in the twentieth chapter of the Life of Pope Alexander VI., were the following lines, which I can never forget:— The great wars of Romagna had ended; Cæsar Borgia, who had completed his conquest, had need of money to purchase all Italy. The pope had also need of money to bring matters to an end with Louis XII. King of France, who was formidable still in spite of his recent reverses; and it was necessary, therefore, to have recourse to some profitable scheme, which was a matter of great difficulty in the impoverished condition of exhausted Italy. His holiness had an idea. He determined to make two cardinals. By choosing two of the greatest personages of Rome, especially rich men—this was the return the Holy Father looked for. In the first place, he could sell the great appointments and splendid offices which the cardinals already held; and then he had the two hats to sell besides. There was a third point in view, which will appear hereafter. The pope and Cæsar Borgia first found the two future cardinals; they were Giovanni Rospigliosi, who held four of the highest dignities of the Holy See, and Cæsar Spada, one of the noblest and richest of the Roman nobility; both felt the high honor of such a favor from the pope. They were ambitious, and Cæsar Borgia soon found purchasers for their appointments. The result was, that Rospigliosi and Spada paid for being cardinals, and eight other persons paid for the offices the cardinals held before their elevation, and thus eight hundred thousand crowns entered into the coffers of the speculators. It is time now to proceed to the last part of the speculation. The pope heaped attentions upon Rospigliosi and Spada, conferred upon them the insignia of the cardinalate, and induced them to arrange their affairs and take up their residence at Rome. Then the pope and Cæsar Borgia invited the two cardinals to dinner. This was a matter of dispute between the Holy Father and his son. Cæsar thought they could make use of one of the means which he always had ready for his friends, that is to say, in the first place, the famous key which was given to certain persons with the request that they go and open a designated cupboard. This key was furnished with a small iron point,—a negligence on the part of the locksmith. When this was pressed to effect the opening of the cupboard, of which the lock was difficult, the person was pricked by this small point, and died next day. Then there was the ring with the lion’s head, which Cæsar wore when he wanted to greet his friends with a clasp of the hand. The lion bit the hand thus favored, and at the end of twenty-four hours, the bite was mortal. Cæsar proposed to his father, that they should either ask the cardinals to open the cupboard, or shake hands with them; but Alexander VI. replied: ‘Now as to the worthy cardinals, Spada and Rospigliosi, let us ask both of them to dinner, something tells me that we shall get that money back. Besides, you forget, Cæsar, an indigestion declares itself immediately, while a prick or a bite occasions a delay of a day or two.’ Cæsar gave way before such cogent reasoning, and the cardinals were consequently invited to dinner. The table was laid in a vineyard belonging to the pope, near San Pierdarena, a charming retreat which the cardinals knew very well by report. Rospigliosi, quite set up with his new dignities, went with a good appetite and his most ingratiating manner. Spada, a prudent man, and greatly attached to his only nephew, a young captain of the highest promise, took paper and pen, and made his will. He then sent word to his nephew to wait for him near the vineyard; but it appeared the servant did not find him. Spada knew what these invitations meant; since Christianity, so eminently civilizing, had made progress in Rome, it was no longer a centurion who came from the tyrant with a message, ‘Cæsar wills that you die.’ but it was a legate à latere, who came with a smile on his lips to say from the pope, ‘His holiness requests you to dine with him.’ Spada set out about two o’clock to San Pierdarena. The pope awaited him. The first sight that attracted the eyes of Spada was that of his nephew, in full costume, and Cæsar Borgia paying him most marked attentions. Spada turned pale, as Cæsar looked at him with an ironical air, which proved that he had anticipated all, and that the snare was well spread. They began dinner and Spada was only able to inquire of his nephew if he had received his message. The nephew replied no; perfectly comprehending the meaning of the question. It was too late, for he had already drunk a glass of excellent wine, placed for him expressly by the pope’s butler. Spada at the same moment saw another bottle approach him, which he was pressed to taste. An hour afterwards a physician declared they were both poisoned through eating mushrooms. Spada died on the threshold of the vineyard; the nephew expired at his own door, making signs which his wife could not comprehend. Then Cæsar and the pope hastened to lay hands on the heritage, under pretense of seeking for the papers of the dead man. But the inheritance consisted in this only, a scrap of paper on which Spada had written:—‘I bequeath to my beloved nephew my coffers, my books, and, amongst others, my breviary with the gold corners, which I beg he will preserve in remembrance of his affectionate uncle.’ The heirs sought everywhere, admired the breviary, laid hands on the furniture, and were greatly astonished that Spada, the rich man, was really the most miserable of uncles—no treasures—unless they were those of science, contained in the library and laboratories. That was all. Cæsar and his father searched, examined, scrutinized, but found nothing, or at least very little; not exceeding a few thousand crowns in plate, and about the same in ready money; but the nephew had time to say to his wife before he expired: ‘Look well among my uncle’s papers; there is a will.’


Up to this point, this seems to you very meaningless, no doubt, eh?


Oh, my friend, on the contrary, it seems as if I were reading a most interesting narrative; go on, I beg of you.


I will. The family began to get accustomed to their obscurity. Years rolled on, and amongst the descendants some were soldiers, others diplomatists; some churchmen, some bankers; some grew rich, and some were ruined. I come now to the last of the family, whose secretary I was—the Count of Spada. I had often heard him complain of the disproportion of his rank with his fortune; and I advised him to invest all he had in an annuity. He did so, and thus doubled his income. The celebrated breviary remained in the family, and was in the count’s possession. It had been handed down from father to son; for the singular clause of the only will that had been found, had caused it to be regarded as a genuine relic, preserved in the family with superstitious veneration. It was an illuminated book, with beautiful Gothic characters, and so weighty with gold, that a servant always carried it before the cardinal on days of great solemnity. At the sight of papers of all sorts,—titles, contracts, parchments, which were kept in the archives of the family, all descending from the poisoned cardinal, I in my turn examined the immense bundles of documents, like twenty servitors, stewards, secretaries before me; but in spite of the most exhaustive researches, I found—nothing. Yet I had read, I had even written a precise history of the Borgia family, for the sole purpose of assuring myself whether any increase of fortune had occurred to them on the death of the Cardinal Cæsar Spada; but could only trace the acquisition of the property of the Cardinal Rospigliosi, his companion in misfortune. I was then almost assured that the inheritance had neither profited the Borgias nor the family, but had remained unpossessed like the treasures of the Arabian Nights, which slept in the bosom of the earth under the eyes of the genie. I searched, ransacked, counted, calculated a thousand and a thousand times the income and expenditure of the family for three hundred years. It was useless. I remained in my ignorance, and the Count of Spada in his poverty. My patron died. He had reserved from his annuity his family papers, his library, composed of five thousand volumes, and his famous breviary. All these he bequeathed to me, with a thousand Roman crowns, which he had in ready money, on condition that I would have anniversary masses said for the repose of his soul, and that I would draw up a genealogical tree and history of his house. All this I did scrupulously. Be easy, my dear Edmond, we are near the conclusion. In 1807, a month before I was arrested, and a fortnight after the death of the Count of Spada, on the 25th of December (you will see presently how the date became fixed in my memory), I was reading, for the thousandth time, the papers I was arranging, for the palace was sold to a stranger, and I was going to leave Rome and settle at Florence, intending to take with me twelve thousand francs I possessed, my library, and the famous breviary, when, tired with my constant labor at the same thing, and overcome by a heavy dinner I had eaten, my head dropped on my hands, and I fell asleep about three o’clock in the afternoon. I awoke as the clock was striking six. I raised my head; I was in utter darkness. I rang for a light, but, as no one came, I determined to find one for myself. It was indeed but anticipating the simple manners which I should soon be under the necessity of adopting. I took a wax-candle in one hand, and with the other groped about for a piece of paper (my match-box being empty), with which I proposed to get a light from the small flame still playing on the embers. Fearing, however, to make use of any valuable piece of paper, I hesitated for a moment, then recollected that I had seen in the famous breviary, which was on the table beside me, an old paper quite yellow with age, and which had served as a marker for centuries, kept there by the request of the heirs. I felt for it, found it, twisted it up together, and putting it into the expiring flame, set light to it. But beneath my fingers, as if by magic, in proportion as the fire ascended, I saw yellowish characters appear on the paper. I grasped it in my hand, put out the flame as quickly as I could, lighted my taper in the fire itself, and opened the crumpled paper with inexpressible emotion, recognizing, when I had done so, that these characters had been traced in mysterious and sympathetic ink, only appearing when exposed to the fire; nearly one-third of the paper had been consumed by the flame. It was that paper you read this morning; read it again, Dantès, and then I will complete for you the incomplete words and unconnected sense.


This 25th day of April, 1498, be... Alexander VI., and fearing that not... he may desire to become my heir, and re... and Bentivoglio, who were poisoned,... my sole heir, that I have bu... and has visited with me, that is, in... Island of Monte Cristo, all I poss... jewels, diamonds, gems; that I alone... may amount to nearly two mil... will find on raising the twentieth ro... creek to the east in a right line. Two open... in these caves; the treasure is in the furthest a... which treasure I bequeath and leave en... as my sole heir. 25th April, 1498. Cæs...


And now, read this other paper;


...ing invited to dine by his Holiness ...content with making me pay for my hat, ...serves for me the fate of Cardinals Caprara ...I declare to my nephew, Guido Spada ...ried in a place he knows ...the caves of the small ...essed of ingots, gold, money, ...know of the existence of this treasure, which ...lions of Roman crowns, and which he ...ck from the small ...ings have been made ...ngle in the second; ...tire to him ...ar † Spada.


And now, put the two fragments together, and judge for yourself.


This 25th day of April, 1498, be...ing invited to dine by his Holiness Alexander VI., and fearing that not...content with making me pay for my hat, he may desire to become my heir, and re...serves for me the fate of Cardinals Caprara and Bentivoglio, who were poisoned,...I declare to my nephew, Guido Spada, my sole heir, that I have bu...ried in a place he knows and has visited with me, that is, in...the caves of the small Island of Monte Cristo, all I poss...essed of ingots, gold, money, jewels, diamonds, gems; that I alone...know of the existence of this treasure, which may amount to nearly two mil...lions of Roman crowns, and which he will find on raising the twentieth ro...ck from the small creek to the east in a right line. Two open...ings have been made in these caves; the treasure is in the furthest a...ngle in the second; which treasure I bequeath and leave en...tire to him as my sole heir. 25th April, 1498. Cæs...ar † Spada.


Well, do you comprehend now?


It is the declaration of Cardinal Spada, and the will so long sought for,


Yes; a thousand times, yes!


And who completed it as it now is?


I did. Aided by the remaining fragment, I guessed the rest; measuring the length of the lines by those of the paper, and divining the hidden meaning by means of what was in part revealed, as we are guided in a cavern by the small ray of light above us.


And what did you do when you arrived at this conclusion?


I resolved to set out, and did set out at that very instant, carrying with me the beginning of my great work, the unity of the Italian kingdom; but for some time the imperial police (who at this period, quite contrary to what Napoleon desired so soon as he had a son born to him, wished for a partition of provinces) had their eyes on me; and my hasty departure, the cause of which they were unable to guess, having aroused their suspicions, I was arrested at the very moment I was leaving Piombino. Now, now, my dear fellow, you know as much as I do myself. If we ever escape together, half this treasure is yours; if I die here, and you escape alone, the whole belongs to you.


But, has this treasure no more legitimate possessor in the world than ourselves?


No, no, be easy on that score; the family is extinct. The last Count of Spada, moreover, made me his heir, bequeathing to me this symbolic breviary, he bequeathed to me all it contained; no, no, make your mind satisfied on that point. If we lay hands on this fortune, we may enjoy it without remorse.


And you say this treasure amounts to——


Two millions of Roman crowns; nearly thirteen millions of our money.


Impossible!


Impossible? and why? The Spada family was one of the oldest and most powerful families of the fifteenth century; and in those times, when other opportunities for investment were wanting, such accumulations of gold and jewels were by no means rare; there are at this day Roman families perishing of hunger, though possessed of nearly a million in diamonds and jewels, handed down by entail, and which they cannot touch. I have only kept this secret so long from you, that I might test your character, and then surprise you. Had we escaped before my attack of catalepsy, I should have conducted you to Monte Cristo; now, it is you who will conduct me thither. Well, Dantès, you do not thank me?


This treasure belongs to you, my dear friend, and to you only. I have no right to it. I am no relation of yours.


You are my son, Dantès. You are the child of my captivity. My profession condemns me to celibacy. God has sent you to me to console, at one and the same time, the man who could not be a father, and the prisoner who could not get free.


You see,


Alas, can it be?


Alas, my dear friend, you understand, do you not, and I need not attempt to explain to you?


Help, help!


Silence, or you are lost. We must now only think of you, my dear friend, and so act as to render your captivity supportable or your flight possible. It would require years to do again what I have done here, and the results would be instantly destroyed if our jailers knew we had communicated with each other. Besides, be assured, my dear Edmond, the dungeon I am about to leave will not long remain empty; some other unfortunate being will soon take my place, and to him you will appear like an angel of salvation. Perhaps he will be young, strong, and enduring, like yourself, and will aid you in your escape, while I have been but a hindrance. You will no longer have half a dead body tied to you as a drag to all your movements. At length Providence has done something for you; he restores to you more than he takes away, and it was time I should die.


Oh, my friend, my friend, speak not thus!


Oh, I have saved you once, and I will save you a second time!


See,


there remains still some of the magic draught. Quick, quick! tell me what I must do this time; are there any fresh instructions? Speak, my friend; I listen.


There is not a hope, but no matter; God wills it that man whom he has created, and in whose heart he has so profoundly rooted the love of life, should do all in his power to preserve that existence, which, however painful it may be, is yet always so dear.


Oh, yes, yes!


and I tell you that I will save you yet.


Well, then, try. The cold gains upon me. I feel the blood flowing towards my brain. These horrible chills, which make my teeth chatter and seem to dislocate my bones, begin to pervade my whole frame; in five minutes the malady will reach its height, and in a quarter of an hour there will be nothing left of me but a corpse.


Oh!


Do as you did before, only do not wait so long, all the springs of life are now exhausted in me, and death, has but half its work to do. If, after having made me swallow twelve drops instead of ten, you see that I do not recover, then pour the rest down my throat. Now lift me on my bed, for I can no longer support myself. And now, my dear friend, sole consolation of my wretched existence,—you whom Heaven gave me somewhat late, but still gave me, a priceless gift, and for which I am most grateful,—at the moment of separating from you forever, I wish you all the happiness and all the prosperity you so well deserve. My son, I bless thee! Listen, now, to what I say in this my dying moment. The treasure of the Spadas exists. God grants me the boon of vision unrestricted by time or space. I see it in the depths of the inner cavern. My eyes pierce the inmost recesses of the earth, and are dazzled at the sight of so much riches. If you do escape, remember that the poor abbé, whom all the world called mad, was not so. Hasten to Monte Cristo—avail yourself of the fortune—for you have indeed suffered long enough. Adieu, adieu!


Oh, no,—no, not yet,


do not forsake me! Oh, succor him! Help—help—help!


Hush! hush! that they may not separate us if you save me!


You are right. Oh, yes, yes; be assured I shall save you! Besides, although you suffer much, you do not seem to be in such agony as you were before.


Do not mistake! I suffer less because there is in me less strength to endure. At your age we have faith in life; it is the privilege of youth to believe and hope, but old men see death more clearly. Oh, ’tis here—’tis here—’tis over—my sight is gone—my senses fail! Your hand, Dantès! Adieu! adieu! Monte Cristo, forget not Monte Cristo!


Well, well, the madman has gone to look after his treasure. Good journey to him!


With all his millions, he will not have enough to pay for his shroud!


Oh,


the shrouds of the Château d’If are not dear!


Perhaps,


as he was a churchman, they may go to some expense in his behalf.


They may give him the honors of the sack.


I am very sorry for what you tell me, that the old man is really dead; for he was a quiet, inoffensive prisoner, happy in his folly, and required no watching.


Ah, there was no occasion for watching him; he would have stayed here fifty years, I’ll answer for it, without any attempt to escape.


Still. I believe it will be requisite, notwithstanding your certainty, and not that I doubt your science, but in discharge of my official duty, that we should be perfectly assured that the prisoner is dead.


You may make your mind easy, he is dead. I will answer for that.


You know, sir, that we are not content in such cases as this with such a simple examination. In spite of all appearances, be so kind, therefore, as to finish your duty by fulfilling the formalities described by law.


Let the irons be heated, but really it is a useless precaution.


Here is the brazier, lighted.


You see, sir, he is really dead, this burn in the heel is decisive. The poor fool is cured of his folly, and delivered from his captivity.


Wasn’t his name Faria?


Yes, sir; and, as he said, it was an ancient name. He was, too, very learned, and rational enough on all points which did not relate to his treasure; but on that, indeed, he was intractable. It is the sort of malady which we call monomania,


You had never anything to complain of?


Never, sir, never; on the contrary, he sometimes amused me very much by telling me stories. One day, too, when my wife was ill, he gave me a prescription which cured her.


Ah, ah! I did not know that I had a rival; but I hope, governor, that you will show him all proper respect in consequence.


Yes, yes, make your mind easy, he shall be decently interred in the newest sack we can find. Will that satisfy you?


Must this last formality take place in your presence, sir?


Certainly. But make haste—I cannot stay here all day. This evening,


Will there be any mass?


That is impossible. The chaplain of the château came to me yesterday to beg for leave of absence, in order to take a trip to Hyères for a week. I told him I would attend to the prisoners in his absence. If the poor abbé had not been in such a hurry, he might have had his requiem.


Pooh, pooh; he is a churchman. God will respect his profession, and not give the devil the wicked delight of sending him a priest.


This evening,


At what hour?


Why, about ten or eleven o’clock.


Shall we watch by the corpse?


Of what use would it be? Shut the dungeon as if he were alive—that is all.


If I could die,


I should go where he goes, and should assuredly find him again. But how to die? It is very easy,


I will remain here, rush on the first person that opens the door, strangle him, and then they will guillotine me.


Die? oh, no,


not die now, after having lived and suffered so long and so much! Die? yes, had I died years ago; but now to die would be, indeed, to give way to the sarcasm of destiny. No, I want to live; I shall struggle to the very last; I will yet win back the happiness of which I have been deprived. Before I die I must not forget that I have my executioners to punish, and perhaps, too, who knows, some friends to reward. Yet they will forget me here, and I shall die in my dungeon like Faria.


Just God! whence comes this thought? Is it from thee? Since none but the dead pass freely from this dungeon, let me take the place of the dead!


He’s heavy, though, for an old and thin man. They say every year adds half a pound to the weight of the bones. Have you tied the knot? What would be the use of carrying so much more weight? I can do that when we get there. Yes, you’re right,


What’s the knot for?


Where am I?


Really, he is by no means a light load! Give us a light, or I shall never find what I am looking for.


What can he be looking for? The spade, perhaps.


Here it is at last, not without some trouble, though. Yes, but it has lost nothing by waiting. Well, have you tied the knot? Yes, and pretty tight too, I can tell you. Move on, then. Bad weather! not a pleasant night for a dip in the sea. Why, yes, the abbé runs a chance of being wet. Well, here we are at last. A little farther—a little farther. You know very well that the last was stopped on his way, dashed on the rocks, and the governor told us next day that we were careless fellows. One! two! three!


Dantès, you must not give way to this listlessness; you will be drowned if you seek to escape, and your strength has not been properly exercised and prepared for exertion.


Let us see. I have swum above an hour, but as the wind is against me, that has retarded my speed; however, if I am not mistaken, I must be close to Tiboulen. But what if I were mistaken? Well. I will swim on until I am worn out, or the cramp seizes me, and then I shall sink;


In two or three hours, the turnkey will enter my chamber, find the body of my poor friend, recognize it, seek for me in vain, and give the alarm. Then the tunnel will be discovered; the men who cast me into the sea and who must have heard the cry I uttered, will be questioned. Then boats filled with armed soldiers will pursue the wretched fugitive. The cannon will warn everyone to refuse shelter to a man wandering about naked and famished. The police of Marseilles will be on the alert by land, whilst the governor pursues me by sea. I am cold, I am hungry. I have lost even the knife that saved me. Oh, my God, I have suffered enough surely! Have pity on me, and do for me what I am unable to do for myself. Oh, to think that in half an hour I could join her, did I not fear being questioned, detected, and conveyed back to Marseilles! What can I do? What story can I invent? under pretext of trading along the coast, these men, who are in reality smugglers, will prefer selling me to doing a good action. I must wait. But I cannot—I am starving. In a few hours my strength will be utterly exhausted; besides, perhaps I have not been missed at the fortress. I can pass as one of the sailors wrecked last night. My story will be accepted, for there is no one left to contradict me. I am saved!


Courage!


Who are you?


I am, a Maltese sailor. We were coming from Syracuse laden with grain. The storm of last night overtook us at Cape Morgiou, and we were wrecked on these rocks.


Where do you come from?


From these rocks that I had the good luck to cling to while our captain and the rest of the crew were all lost. I saw your vessel, and fearful of being left to perish on the desolate island, I swam off on a piece of wreckage to try and intercept your course. You have saved my life, and I thank you. I was lost when one of your sailors caught hold of my hair.


It was I, and it was time, for you were sinking.


Yes. I thank you again.


I almost hesitated, though, you looked more like a brigand than an honest man, with your beard six inches, and your hair a foot long.


Yes. I made a vow, to our Lady of the Grotto not to cut my hair or beard for ten years if I were saved in a moment of danger; but today the vow expires.


Now what are we to do with you?


Alas, anything you please. My captain is dead; I have barely escaped; but I am a good sailor. Leave me at the first port you make; I shall be sure to find employment.


Do you know the Mediterranean?


I have sailed over it since my childhood.


You know the best harbors?


There are few ports that I could not enter or leave with a bandage over my eyes.


I say, captain, if what he says is true, what hinders his staying with us?


If he says true. But in his present condition he will promise anything, and take his chance of keeping it afterwards.


I will do more than I promise,


We shall see,


Where are you going?


To Leghorn.


Then why, instead of tacking so frequently, do you not sail nearer the wind?


Because we should run straight on to the Island of Rion.


You shall pass it by twenty fathoms.


Take the helm, and let us see what you know.


To the sheets. Haul taut. Belay.


Bravo!


You see. I shall be of some use to you, at least during the voyage. If you do not want me at Leghorn, you can leave me there, and I will pay you out of the first wages I get, for my food and the clothes you lend me.


Ah, we can agree very well, if you are reasonable.


Give me what you give the others, and it will be all right,


That’s not fair, for you know more than we do.


What is that to you, Jacopo? Everyone is free to ask what he pleases.


That’s true. I only make a remark.


Well, you would do much better to find him a jacket and a pair of trousers, if you have them.


No, but I have a shirt and a pair of trousers.


That is all I want,


Now, then, do you wish for anything else?


A piece of bread and another glass of the capital rum I tasted, for I have not eaten or drunk for a long time.


Larboard your helm. Hollo! what’s the matter at the Château d’If? What is this?


A prisoner has escaped from the Château d’If, and they are firing the alarm gun. Pretty strong rum!


At any rate, if it be, so much the better, for I have made a rare acquisition.


What is the day of the month?


The 28th of February.


In what year?


In what year—you ask me in what year?


Yes. I ask you in what year!


You have forgotten then?


I got such a fright last night, that I have almost lost my memory. I ask you what year is it?


The year 1829,


Pain, thou art not an evil.


What is the use of teaching all these things to a poor sailor like me?


Who knows? You may one day be the captain of a vessel. Your fellow-countryman, Bonaparte, became emperor.


Where shall we pass the night?


Why, on board the tartan,


Should we not do better in the grottos?


What grottos?


Why, the grottos—caves of the island.


I do not know of any grottos,


What, are there no grottos at Monte Cristo?


None.