Bab Bab 17 · The Abbé’s Chamber

After having passed with tolerable ease through the subterranean

passage, which, however, did not admit of their holding themselves

erect, the two friends reached the further end of the corridor, into

which the abbé’s cell opened; from that point the passage became much

narrower, and barely permitted one to creep through on hands and knees.

The floor of the abbé’s cell was paved, and it had been by raising one

of the stones in the most obscure corner that Faria had been able to

commence the laborious task of which Dantès had witnessed the

completion.

As he entered the chamber of his friend, Dantès cast around one eager

and searching glance in quest of the expected marvels, but nothing more

than common met his view.

“It is well,” said the abbé; “we have some hours before us—it is now

just a quarter past twelve o’clock.” Instinctively Dantès turned round

to observe by what watch or clock the abbé had been able so accurately

to specify the hour.

“Look at this ray of light which enters by my window,” said the abbé,

“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.”

This last explanation was wholly lost upon Dantès, who had always

imagined, from seeing the sun rise from behind the mountains and set in

the Mediterranean, that it moved, and not the earth. A double movement

of the globe he inhabited, and of which he could feel nothing, appeared

to him perfectly impossible. Each word that fell from his companion’s

lips seemed fraught with the mysteries of science, as worthy of digging

out as the gold and diamonds in the mines of Guzerat and Golconda,

which he could just recollect having visited during a voyage made in

his earliest youth.

“Come,” said he to the abbé, “I am anxious to see your treasures.”

The abbé smiled, and, proceeding to the disused fireplace, raised, by

the help of his chisel, a long stone, which had doubtless been the

hearth, beneath which was a cavity of considerable depth, serving as a

safe depository of the articles mentioned to Dantès.

0213m

“What do you wish to see first?” asked the abbé.

“Oh, your great work on the monarchy of Italy!”

Faria then drew forth from his hiding-place three or four rolls of

linen, laid one over the other, like folds of papyrus. These rolls

consisted of slips of cloth about four inches wide and eighteen long;

they were all carefully numbered and closely covered with writing, so

legible that Dantès could easily read it, as well as make out the

sense—it being in Italian, a language he, as a Provençal, perfectly

understood.

“There,” said he, “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,” answered Dantès. “Now let me behold the curious pens with

which you have written your work.”

“Look!” said Faria, showing to the young man a slender stick about six

inches long, and much resembling the size of the handle of a fine

painting-brush, to the end of which was tied, by a piece of thread, one

of those cartilages of which the abbé had before spoken to Dantès; it

was pointed, and divided at the nib like an ordinary pen. Dantès

examined it with intense admiration, then looked around to see the

instrument with which it had been shaped so correctly into form.

“Ah, yes,” said Faria; “the penknife. That’s my masterpiece. I made it,

as well as this larger knife, out of an old iron candlestick.” The

penknife was sharp and keen as a razor; as for the other knife, it

would serve a double purpose, and with it one could cut and thrust.

Dantès examined the various articles shown to him with the same

attention that he had bestowed on the curiosities and strange tools

exhibited in the shops at Marseilles as the works of the savages in the

South Seas from whence they had been brought by the different trading

vessels.

“As for the ink,” said Faria, “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,” observed Dantès, “and that is how you

managed to do all this by daylight?”

“I worked at night also,” replied Faria.

“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.” So saying, the abbé exhibited a sort of torch

very similar to those used in public illuminations.

“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.”

Dantès laid the different things he had been looking at on the table,

and stood with his head drooping on his breast, as though overwhelmed

by the perseverance and strength of Faria’s mind.

0215m

“You have not seen all yet,” continued Faria, “for I did not think it

wise to trust all my treasures in the same hiding-place. Let us shut

this one up.” They put the stone back in its place; the abbé sprinkled

a little dust over it to conceal the traces of its having been removed,

rubbed his foot well on it to make it assume the same appearance as the

other, and then, going towards his bed, he removed it from the spot it

stood in. Behind the head of the bed, and concealed by a stone fitting

in so closely as to defy all suspicion, was a hollow space, and in this

space a ladder of cords between twenty-five and thirty feet in length.

Dantès closely and eagerly examined it; he found it firm, solid, and

compact enough to bear any weight.

“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,” said the abbé, as, opening his ragged vestments, he

showed Dantès a long, sharp fish-bone, with a small perforated eye for

the thread, a small portion of which still remained in it.

“I once thought,” continued Faria, “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.”

While affecting to be deeply engaged in examining the ladder, the mind

of Dantès was, in fact, busily occupied by the idea that a person so

intelligent, ingenious, and clear-sighted as the abbé might probably be

able to solve the dark mystery of his own misfortunes, where he himself

could see nothing.

“What are you thinking of?” asked the abbé smilingly, imputing the deep

abstraction in which his visitor was plunged to the excess of his awe

and wonder.

“I was reflecting, in the first place,” replied Dantès, “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,” replied Dantès. “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.”

The abbé smiled. “Well,” said he, “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,” said the abbé, closing his hiding-place, and pushing the bed

back to its original situation, “let me hear your story.”

Dantès obeyed, and commenced what he called his history, but which

consisted only of the account of a voyage to India, and two or three

voyages to the Levant, until he arrived at the recital of his last

cruise, with the death of Captain Leclere, and the receipt of a packet

to be delivered by himself to the grand marshal; his interview with

that personage, and his receiving, in place of the packet brought, a

letter addressed to a Monsieur Noirtier—his arrival at Marseilles, and

interview with his father—his affection for Mercédès, and their nuptial

feast—his arrest and subsequent examination, his temporary detention at

the Palais de Justice, and his final imprisonment in the Château d’If.

From this point everything was a blank to Dantès—he knew nothing more,

not even the length of time he had been imprisoned. His recital

finished, the abbé reflected long and earnestly.

“There is,” said he, at the end of his meditations, “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?”

“Yes.”

“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,” cried the abbé; “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.”

Dantès paused a moment, then said, “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 abbé shrugged his shoulders. “The thing is clear as day,” said he;

“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.”

Again the abbé smiled. “Disguised.”

“It was very boldly written, if disguised.”

“Stop a bit,” said the abbé, 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.

Dantès drew back, and gazed on the abbé with a sensation almost

amounting to terror.

“How very astonishing!” cried he at length. “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,” said Dantès, “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!” exclaimed Dantès, pressing

his hand to his throbbing brows.

“Is there anything else I can assist you in discovering, besides the

villany of your friends?” inquired the abbé with a laugh.

“Yes, yes,” replied Dantès eagerly; “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,” responded the

abbé. “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,” answered the abbé. “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,” said Dantès, “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!” repeated the abbé; “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!” The abbé burst into a fit of laughter, while Dantès

gazed on him in utter astonishment.

“What ails you?” said he at length.

“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?”

“Yes.”

“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!”

Had a thunderbolt fallen at the feet of Dantès, or hell opened its

yawning gulf before him, he could not have been more completely

transfixed with horror than he was at the sound of these unexpected

words. Starting up, he clasped his hands around his head as though to

prevent his very brain from bursting, and exclaimed, “His father! his

father!”

“Yes, his father,” replied the abbé; “his right name was Noirtier de

Villefort.”

At this instant a bright light shot through the mind of Dantès, and

cleared up all that had been dark and obscure before. The change that

had come over Villefort during the examination, the destruction of the

letter, the exacted promise, the almost supplicating tones of the

magistrate, who seemed rather to implore mercy than to pronounce

punishment,—all returned with a stunning force to his memory. He cried

out, and staggered against the wall like a drunken man, then he hurried

to the opening that led from the abbé’s cell to his own, and said, “I

must be alone, to think over all this.”

When he regained his dungeon, he threw himself on his bed, where the

turnkey found him in the evening visit, sitting with fixed gaze and

contracted features, dumb and motionless as a statue. During these

hours of profound meditation, which to him had seemed only minutes, he

had formed a fearful resolution, and bound himself to its fulfilment by

a solemn oath.

Dantès was at length roused from his reverie by the voice of Faria,

who, having also been visited by his jailer, had come to invite his

fellow-sufferer to share his supper. The reputation of being out of his

mind, though harmlessly and even amusingly so, had procured for the

abbé unusual privileges. He was supplied with bread of a finer, whiter

quality than the usual prison fare, and even regaled each Sunday with a

small quantity of wine. Now this was a Sunday, and the abbé had come to

ask his young companion to share the luxuries with him.

Dantès followed him; his features were no longer contracted, and now

wore their usual expression, but there was that in his whole appearance

that bespoke one who had come to a fixed and desperate resolve. Faria

bent on him his penetrating eye.

“I regret now,” said he, “having helped you in your late inquiries, or

having given you the information I did.”

“Why so?” inquired Dantès.

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

vengeance.”

Dantès smiled. “Let us talk of something else,” said he.

Again the abbé looked at him, then mournfully shook his head; but in

accordance with Dantès’ request, he began to speak of other matters.

The elder prisoner was one of those persons whose conversation, like

that of all who have experienced many trials, contained many useful and

important hints as well as sound information; but it was never

egotistical, for the unfortunate man never alluded to his own sorrows.

Dantès listened with admiring attention to all he said; some of his

remarks corresponded with what he already knew, or applied to the sort

of knowledge his nautical life had enabled him to acquire. A part of

the good abbé’s words, however, were wholly incomprehensible to him;

but, like the aurora which guides the navigator in northern latitudes,

opened new vistas to the inquiring mind of the listener, and gave

fantastic glimpses of new horizons, enabling him justly to estimate the

delight an intellectual mind would have in following one so richly

gifted as Faria along the heights of truth, where he was so much at

home.

“You must teach me a small part of what you know,” said Dantès, “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.”

The abbé smiled.

“Alas, my boy,” said he, “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!” exclaimed Dantès; “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,” said Dantès, “What shall you teach me first? I am in a

hurry to begin. I want to learn.”

“Everything,” said the abbé. And that very evening the prisoners

sketched a plan of education, to be entered upon the following day.

Dantès possessed a prodigious memory, combined with an astonishing

quickness and readiness of conception; the mathematical turn of his

mind rendered him apt at all kinds of calculation, while his naturally

poetical feelings threw a light and pleasing veil over the dry reality

of arithmetical computation, or the rigid severity of geometry. He

already knew Italian, and had also picked up a little of the Romaic

dialect during voyages to the East; and by the aid of these two

languages he easily comprehended the construction of all the others, so

that at the end of six months he began to speak Spanish, English, and

German.

In strict accordance with the promise made to the abbé, Dantès spoke no

more of escape. Perhaps the delight his studies afforded him left no

room for such thoughts; perhaps the recollection that he had pledged

his word (on which his sense of honor was keen) kept him from referring

in any way to the possibilities of flight. Days, even months, passed by

unheeded in one rapid and instructive course. At the end of a year

Dantès was a new man. Dantès observed, however, that Faria, in spite of

the relief his society afforded, daily grew sadder; one thought seemed

incessantly to harass and distract his mind. Sometimes he would fall

into long reveries, sigh heavily and involuntarily, then suddenly rise,

and, with folded arms, begin pacing the confined space of his dungeon.

One day he stopped all at once, and exclaimed:

“Ah, if there were no sentinel!”

“There shall not be one a minute longer than you please,” said Dantès,

who had followed the working of his thoughts as accurately as though

his brain were enclosed in crystal so clear as to display its minutest

operations.

“I have already told you,” answered the abbé, “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!” cried the abbé.

“And you have discovered a means of regaining our freedom, have you

not?” asked Dantès eagerly.

“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,” replied the young man, with an air

of determination that made his companion shudder.

“No, no,” cried the abbé; “impossible!”

Dantès endeavored to renew the subject; the abbé shook his head in

token of disapproval, and refused to make any further response. Three

months passed away.

“Are you strong?” the abbé asked one day of Dantès. The young man, in

reply, took up the chisel, bent it into the form of a horseshoe, and

then as readily straightened it.

“And will you engage not to do any harm to the sentry, except as a last

resort?”

“I promise on my honor.”

“Then,” said the abbé, “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!” cried Dantès.

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

abbé.

“Forgive me!” cried Edmond, blushing deeply.

“Tut, tut!” answered the abbé, “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.”

The abbé then showed Dantès the sketch he had made for their escape. It

consisted of a plan of his own cell and that of Dantès, with the

passage which united them. In this passage he proposed to drive a level

as they do in mines; this level would bring the two prisoners

immediately beneath the gallery where the sentry kept watch; once

there, a large excavation would be made, and one of the flag-stones

with which the gallery was paved be so completely loosened that at the

desired moment it would give way beneath the feet of the soldier, who,

stunned by his fall, would be immediately bound and gagged by Dantès

before he had power to offer any resistance. The prisoners were then to

make their way through one of the gallery windows, and to let

themselves down from the outer walls by means of the abbé’s ladder of

cords.

Dantès’ eyes sparkled with joy, and he rubbed his hands with delight at

the idea of a plan so simple, yet apparently so certain to succeed.

That very day the miners began their labors, with a vigor and alacrity

proportionate to their long rest from fatigue and their hopes of

ultimate success. Nothing interrupted the progress of the work except

the necessity that each was under of returning to his cell in

anticipation of the turnkey’s visits. They had learned to distinguish

the almost imperceptible sound of his footsteps as he descended towards

their dungeons, and happily, never failed of being prepared for his

coming. The fresh earth excavated during their present work, and which

would have entirely blocked up the old passage, was thrown, by degrees

and with the utmost precaution, out of the window in either Faria’s or

Dantès’ cell, the rubbish being first pulverized so finely that the

night wind carried it far away without permitting the smallest trace to

remain.

More than a year had been consumed in this undertaking, the only tools

for which had been a chisel, a knife, and a wooden lever; Faria still

continuing to instruct Dantès by conversing with him, sometimes in one

language, sometimes in another; at others, relating to him the history

of nations and great men who from time to time have risen to fame and

trodden the path of glory. The abbé was a man of the world, and had,

moreover, mixed in the first society of the day; he wore an air of

melancholy dignity which Dantès, thanks to the imitative powers

bestowed on him by nature, easily acquired, as well as that outward

polish and politeness he had before been wanting in, and which is

seldom possessed except by those who have been placed in constant

intercourse with persons of high birth and breeding.

At the end of fifteen months the level was finished, and the excavation

completed beneath the gallery, and the two workmen could distinctly

hear the measured tread of the sentinel as he paced to and fro over

their heads. Compelled, as they were, to await a night sufficiently

dark to favor their flight, they were obliged to defer their final

attempt till that auspicious moment should arrive; their greatest dread

now was lest the stone through which the sentry was doomed to fall

should give way before its right time, and this they had in some

measure provided against by propping it up with a small beam which they

had discovered in the walls through which they had worked their way.

Dantès was occupied in arranging this piece of wood when he heard

Faria, who had remained in Edmond’s cell for the purpose of cutting a

peg to secure their rope-ladder, call to him in a tone indicative of

great suffering. Dantès hastened to his dungeon, where he found him

standing in the middle of the room, pale as death, his forehead

streaming with perspiration, and his hands clenched tightly together.

“Gracious heavens!” exclaimed Dantès, “what is the matter? what has

happened?”

“Quick! quick!” returned the abbé, “listen to what I have to say.”

Dantès looked in fear and wonder at the livid countenance of Faria,

whose eyes, already dull and sunken, were surrounded by purple circles,

while his lips were white as those of a corpse, and his very hair

seemed to stand on end.

“Tell me, I beseech you, what ails you?” cried Dantès, letting his

chisel fall to the floor.

“Alas,” faltered out the abbé, “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?”

In spite of the magnitude of the misfortune which thus suddenly

frustrated his hopes, Dantès did not lose his presence of mind, but

descended into the passage, dragging his unfortunate companion with

him; then, half-carrying, half-supporting him, he managed to reach the

abbé’s chamber, when he immediately laid the sufferer on his bed.

“Thanks,” said the poor abbé, shivering as though his veins were filled

with ice. “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!” exclaimed Dantès in grief-stricken tones.

“Help! help!” cried the abbé, “I—I—die—I——”

0229m

So sudden and violent was the fit that the unfortunate prisoner was

unable to complete the sentence; a violent convulsion shook his whole

frame, his eyes started from their sockets, his mouth was drawn on one

side, his cheeks became purple, he struggled, foamed, dashed himself

about, and uttered the most dreadful cries, which, however, Dantès

prevented from being heard by covering his head with the blanket. The

fit lasted two hours; then, more helpless than an infant, and colder

and paler than marble, more crushed and broken than a reed trampled

under foot, he fell back, doubled up in one last convulsion, and became

as rigid as a corpse.

Edmond waited till life seemed extinct in the body of his friend, then,

taking up the knife, he with difficulty forced open the closely fixed

jaws, carefully administered the appointed number of drops, and

anxiously awaited the result. An hour passed away and the old man gave

no sign of returning animation. Dantès began to fear he had delayed too

long ere he administered the remedy, and, thrusting his hands into his

hair, continued gazing on the lifeless features of his friend. At

length a slight color tinged the livid cheeks, consciousness returned

to the dull, open eyeballs, a faint sigh issued from the lips, and the

sufferer made a feeble effort to move.

“He is saved! he is saved!” cried Dantès in a paroxysm of delight.

The sick man was not yet able to speak, but he pointed with evident

anxiety towards the door. Dantès listened, and plainly distinguished

the approaching steps of the jailer. It was therefore near seven

o’clock; but Edmond’s anxiety had put all thoughts of time out of his

head.

The young man sprang to the entrance, darted through it, carefully

drawing the stone over the opening, and hurried to his cell. He had

scarcely done so before the door opened, and the jailer saw the

prisoner seated as usual on the side of his bed. Almost before the key

had turned in the lock, and before the departing steps of the jailer

had died away in the long corridor he had to traverse, Dantès, whose

restless anxiety concerning his friend left him no desire to touch the

food brought him, hurried back to the abbé’s chamber, and raising the

stone by pressing his head against it, was soon beside the sick man’s

couch. Faria had now fully regained his consciousness, but he still lay

helpless and exhausted on his miserable bed.

“I did not expect to see you again,” said he feebly, to Dantès.

“And why not?” asked the young man. “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.”

The deep glow of indignation suffused the cheeks of Dantès.

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

“At least,” said the abbé, “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,” replied Dantès; “your strength will return.” And as

he spoke he seated himself near the bed beside Faria, and took his

hands. The abbé shook his head.

“The last attack I had,” said he, “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,” cried Dantès; “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,” answered the abbé, “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,” replied Faria. “This arm is paralyzed; not

for a time, but forever. Lift it, and judge if I am mistaken.”

The young man raised the arm, which fell back by its own weight,

perfectly inanimate and helpless. A sigh escaped him.

“You are convinced now, Edmond, are you not?” asked the abbé. “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.”

0233m

“The physician may be mistaken!” exclaimed Dantès. “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,” said the abbé, “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,” said Dantès. “Then I shall also remain.” Then, rising and

extending his hand with an air of solemnity over the old man’s head, he

slowly added, “By the blood of Christ I swear never to leave you while

you live.”

Faria gazed fondly on his noble-minded, single-hearted, high-principled

young friend, and read in his countenance ample confirmation of the

sincerity of his devotion and the loyalty of his purpose.

“Thanks,” murmured the invalid, extending one hand. “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.”

Dantès took the hand of the abbé in his, and affectionately pressed it.

Faria smiled encouragingly on him, and the young man retired to his

task, in the spirit of obedience and respect which he had sworn to show

towards his aged friend.