The Count of Monte Cristo

“Nearly a year.”

“Was he placed here when he first arrived?”

“No, not until he attempted to kill the turnkey.”

“To kill the turnkey!”

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

“True enough; he wanted to kill me!” replied the turnkey.

“He must be mad,” said the inspector.

“He is worse than that; he is a devil!” returned the turnkey.

“Shall I complain of him?” demanded the inspector.

“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,” said the inspector.

He was, as this remark shows, a man full of philanthropy, and in every way fit for his office.

“You are right, sir,” replied the governor; “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 abbé, ancient 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,” returned the inspector; “I must conscientiously perform my duty.”

This was the inspector’s first visit: he wished to display his authority.

“Let us visit this one first,” added he.

“Willingly,” replied the governor, and he signed to the turnkey to open the door. At the sound of the key turning in the lock, and the creaking of the hinges, Dantès, who was crouched in a corner of the dungeon, raised his head.

At the sight of a stranger, lighted by two turnkeys, accompanied by two soldiers, and to whom the governor spoke bareheaded, Dantès, who guessed the truth, and that the moment to address himself to the superior authorities was come, sprang forward with clasped hands.

The soldiers presented their bayonets, for they thought he was about to attack the inspector, and the latter recoiled two or three steps. Dantès saw he was represented as a dangerous prisoner. Then infusing all the humility he possessed into his eyes and voice, he addressed the inspector, and sought to inspire him with pity.

The inspector listened attentively; then turning to the governor, observed, “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.” Then turning to the prisoner, “What do you demand?” said he.

“What crime I have committed—to be tried; and if I am guilty, may be shot; if innocent, I may be set at liberty.”

“Are you well fed?” said the inspector.

“I believe so—I know not, but that matters little; what matters really, not only to me, but to every one, is that an innocent man should languish in prison, the victim of an infamous denunciation.”

“You are very humble today,” remarked the governor; “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?” asked the inspector.

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

“Today is the 30th of June, 1816; why, it is but seventeen months.”

“Only seventeen months!” replied Dantès; “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 honourable career open 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 indulgence, but a trial—let me know my crime and my sentence, for incertitude is worse than all.”

“We shall see,” said the inspector; then turning to the governor, “On my word, the poor devil touches me; you must show me the proofs against him.”

“Certainly, but you will find terrible notes against him.”

“Monsieur,” continued Dantès, “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.”

“Light me,” said the inspector.

“Monsieur,” cried Dantès, “I can tell by your voice you are touched with pity; tell me at least to hope.”

“I cannot tell you that,” replied the inspector; “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.”

“M. Villefort is no longer at Marseilles, he is now at Toulouse.”

“I am no longer surprised at my detention,” murmured Dantès, “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.”

Dantès fell on his knees, and prayed earnestly. The door closed, but this time a fresh inmate was left with Dantès. Hope.

“Will you see the register at once,” asked the governor, “or proceed to the other cell?”

“Let us visit them all,” said the inspector; “if I once mounted the stairs, I should never have the courage to descend.”

“Ah, this one is not like the other, and his madness is less affecting than the reason of his neighbour.”

“What is his folly?”

“He fancies he possesses an immense treasure: the first year he offered government a million of francs (£40,000) 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?”

“L’Abbé Faria.”

“No. 27,” said the inspector.

“It is here; unlock the door, Antoine.”

The turnkey obeyed, and the inspector gazed curiously into the chamber of the mad abbé.

In the centre of the cell, in a circle traced with a fragment of plaster detached from the wall, sat a man whose tattered garments scarcely covered him. He was drawing in this circle geometrical lines, and seemed as much absorbed in his problem as Archimedes when the soldier of Marcellus slew him.

He did not move at the sound of the door, and continued his problem until the flash of the torches lighted up with an unwonted glare the sombre walls of his cell, then raising his head he perceived with astonishment the number of persons in his cell.

He hastily seized the coverlid of his bed, and wrapt it round him.

“What do you demand?” said the inspector.

“I, monsieur!” replied the abbé, with an air of surprise, “I demand nothing.”

“You do not understand,” continued the inspector; “I am sent here by government to visit the prisoners, and hear the requests of the prisoners.”

“Oh, that is different,” cried the abbé; “and we shall understand each other, I hope.”

“There now,” whispered the governor, “it is just as I told you.”

“Monsieur,” continued the prisoner, “I am the Abbé Faria, born at Rome. I was for twenty years Cardinal Spada’s secretary; I was arrested, why I know not, in 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!” said the inspector, “you have not the latest intelligence from Italy.”

“They date from the day on which I was arrested,” returned the Abbé Faria; “and as the emperor had created the kingdom of Rome for his infant son, I presume that he has realised the dream of Machiavel and Cæsar Borgia, which was to make Italy one vast kingdom.”

“Monsieur,” returned the inspector, “Providence has changed this gigantic plan you advocate so warmly.”

“It is the only means of rendering Italy 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 unwholesome, but on the whole passable for a dungeon, but it is not that which I speak of, but a secret I have to reveal of the greatest importance.”

“We are coming to the point,” whispered the governor.

“It is for that reason I am delighted to see you,” continued the abbé, “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?” said the governor.

“You knew him,” returned the inspector.

“What you ask is impossible, monsieur,” continued he, addressing Faria.

“But,” said the abbé, “I would speak to you of a large sum, amounting to five millions.”

“The very sum you named,” whispered in his turn the inspector.

“However,” continued Faria, perceiving the inspector was about to depart, “it is not absolutely necessary we should be alone; monsieur the governor can be present.”

“Unfortunately,” said the governor, “I know beforehand what you are about to say; it concerns your treasures, does it not?”

Faria fixed his eyes on him with an expression that would have convinced any one else of his sanity.

“Doubtless,” said he; “of what else should I speak?”

“Monsieur l’Inspecteur,” continued the governor, “I can tell you the story as well, for it has been dinned in my ears for the last four or five years.”

“That proves,” returned the abbé, “that you are like the idols of Holy Writ, who have ears and hear not.”

“The government does not want your treasures,” replied the inspector; “keep them until you are liberated.”

The abbé’s eyes glistened; he seized the inspector’s hand.

“But what if I am not liberated,” cried he, “and am detained here until my death? Had not government better profit by it? I will offer six millions, and I will content myself with the rest.”

“On my word,” said the inspector, in a low tone, “had I not been told beforehand this man was mad I should believe what he says.”

“I am not mad!” replied Faria, with that acuteness of hearing peculiar to prisoners. “The treasure I speak of really exists, and I offer to sign a treaty with you, in which I promise to lead you to the spot you shall dig, and if I deceive you, bring me here again,—I ask no more.”

The governor laughed. “Is the spot far from here?”

“A hundred leagues.”

“It is not a bad idea,” said the governor.

“If every prisoner took it into his head 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,” said the governor; “and M. L’Abbé has not even the merit of its invention.”

Then turning to Faria,—

“I inquired if you are well fed?” said he.

“Swear to me,” replied Faria, “to free me if what I tell you prove true, and I will stay here whilst you go to the spot.”

“Are you well fed?” repeated the inspector.

“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,” replied the inspector impatiently.

“Nor you to mine,” cried the abbé. “You will not accept my gold; I will keep it for myself. You refuse me my liberty; God will give it me.”

And the abbé, casting away his coverlid, resumed his place, and continued his calculations.

“What is he doing there?” said the inspector.

“Counting his treasures,” replied the governor.

Faria replied to this sarcasm by a glance of profound contempt.

“He has been wealthy once, perhaps?” said the inspector.

“Or dreamed he was, and awoke mad.”

“After all,” said the inspector, “if he had been rich he would not have been here.”

Thus finished the adventure of the Abbé Faria. He remained in his cell, and this visit only increased the belief of his insanity.

Caligula or Nero, those treasure-seekers, those desirers of the impossible, would have accorded to the poor wretch, in exchange for his wealth, the liberty and the air he so earnestly prayed for.

But the kings of modern ages, retained within the limits of probability, have neither the courage nor the desire. They fear the ear that hears their orders, and the eye that scrutinises their actions. Formerly they believed themselves sprung from Jupiter, and shielded by their birth; but, nowadays, they are not inviolable.

It has always been against the policy of despotic governments to suffer the victims of their policy to reappear. As the Inquisition rarely suffered their victims to be seen with their limbs distorted, and their flesh lacerated by torture, so madness is always concealed in its cell, from whence, should it depart, it is conveyed to some gloomy hospital, where the doctor recognises neither man nor mind in the mutilated being the gaoler delivers to him.

The very madness of the Abbé Faria, gone mad in prison, condemned him to perpetual captivity.

The inspector kept his word with Dantès: he examined the register, and found the following note concerning him:—

This note was in a different hand from the rest, which proved it had been added since his confinement.

The inspector could not contend against this accusation; he simply wrote: “Nothing to be done.”

This visit had infused new vigour into Dantès; he had, till then, forgotten the date; but now, with a fragment of plaster, he wrote the date, 30th July, 1816; and made a mark every day, in order not to lose his reckoning again. Days and weeks passed away, then months; Dantès still waited; he at first expected to be freed in a fortnight. This fortnight expired; he reflected the inspector would do nothing until his return to Paris, and that he would not reach there until his circuit was finished; he, therefore, fixed three months: three months passed away, then six more. During these ten months no favourable change had taken place; and Dantès began to fancy the inspector’s visit was but a dream, an illusion of the brain.

At the expiration of a year the governor was changed; he had obtained the government of Ham. He took with him several of his subordinates, and amongst them Dantès’ gaoler. A fresh governor arrived; it would have been too tedious to acquire the names of the prisoners; he learned their numbers instead.

This horrible place consisted of fifty chambers; their inhabitants were designated by the number of their chamber; and the unhappy young man was no longer called Edmond Dantès—he was now number 34.

15 Number 34 and Number 27

DANTÈS PASSED THROUGH all the degrees of misfortune that prisoners, forgotten in their dungeon, suffer. He commenced with pride, a natural consequence of hope, and a consciousness of innocence; then he began to doubt his own innocence, which justified in some measure the governor’s belief in his mental alienation; and then falling into the opposite extreme, he supplicated, not Heaven, but his gaoler.

Dantès entreated to be removed from his present dungeon into another; for a change, however disadvantageous, was still a change, and could afford him some amusement. He entreated to be allowed to walk about, to have books and instruments. Nothing was granted; no matter, he asked all the same. He accustomed himself to speak to his fresh gaoler, although he was, if possible, more taciturn than the former; but still, to speak to a man, even though mute, was something. Dantès spoke for the sake of hearing his own voice; he had tried to speak when alone, but the sound of his voice terrified him. Often before his captivity Dantès’ mind had revolted at the idea of those assemblages of prisoners, composed of thieves, vagabonds, and murderers. He now wished to be amongst them, in order to see some other face besides that of his gaoler; he sighed for the galleys, with their infamous costume, their chain, and the brand on the shoulder. The galley-slaves breathed the fresh air of heaven, and saw each other. They were very happy.

He besought the gaoler one day to let him have a companion, were it even the mad abbé.

The gaoler, though rude and hardened by the constant sight of so much suffering, was yet a man. At the bottom of his heart he had often compassionated the unhappy young man who suffered thus; and he laid the request of number 34 before the governor; but the latter sapiently imagined that Dantès wished to conspire, or attempt an escape, and refused his request.

Dantès had exhausted all human resources; and he then turned to God.

All the pious ideas that had been so long forgotten returned; he recollected the prayers his mother had taught him, and discovered a new meaning in every word. For in prosperity prayers seem but a mere assemblage of words until the day when misfortune comes to explain to the unhappy sufferer the sublime language by which he invokes the pity of Heaven! He prayed, and prayed aloud, no longer terrified at the sound of his voice; for he fell into a species of ecstasy. He laid every action of his life before the Almighty, proposed tasks to accomplish, and at the end of every prayer introduced the entreaty oftener addressed to man than to God, “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us.” Yet in spite of his earnest prayers, Dantès remained a prisoner.

Then a gloomy feeling took possession of him. He was simple and without education; he could not, therefore, in the solitude of his dungeon, and of his own thoughts, reconstruct the ages that had passed, reanimate the nations that had perished, and rebuild the ancient cities that imagination renders so vast and stupendous, and that pass before our eyes, illuminated by the fires of heaven, as in Martin’s pictures. He could not do this, he whose past life was so short, whose present so melancholy, and his future so doubtful. Nineteen years of light to reflect upon in eternal darkness. No distraction could come to his aid; his energetic spirit that would have exulted in thus revisiting the past was imprisoned like an eagle in a cage. He clung to one idea, that of his happiness, destroyed without apparent cause by an unheard-of fatality; he considered and reconsidered this idea, devoured it (so to speak) as Ugolino devours the skull of the Archbishop Roger in the Inferno of Dante.

Rage succeeded this. Dantès uttered blasphemies that made his gaoler recoil with horror, dashed himself furiously against the walls of his prison, attacked everything, and chiefly himself, and the least thing,—a grain of sand, a straw, or a breath of air that had annoyed him. Then the letter he had seen that Villefort had showed to him recurred to his mind, and every line seemed visible in fiery letters on the wall, like the Mene Tekel Upharsin of Belshazzar. He said that it was the vengeance of man, and not of Heaven, that had thus plunged him into the deepest misery. He devoted these unknown persecutors to the most horrible tortures he could imagine, and found them all insufficient, because after torture came death, and after death, if not repose, at least that insensibility that resembles it.

By dint of constantly dwelling on the idea that repose was death, and in order to punish, other tortures than death must be invented, he began to reflect of suicide. Unhappy he, who, on the brink of misfortune, broods over these ideas!

It is one of those dead seas that seem clear and smooth to the eye; but he who unwarily ventures within its embrace finds himself entangled in a quagmire that attracts and swallows him. Once thus ensnared, unless the protecting hand of God snatch him thence, all is over, and his struggles but tend to hasten his destruction. This state of mental anguish is, however, less terrible than the sufferings that precede, and the punishment that awaits it. A sort of consolation that points to the yawning abyss, at the bottom of which is darkness and obscurity.

Edmond found some solace in these ideas. All his sorrows, all his sufferings, with their train of gloomy spectres, fled from his cell, where the angel of death seemed about to enter. Dantès reviewed with composure his past life, and looking forward with terror to his future existence, chose that middle line that seemed to afford him a refuge.

“Sometimes,” said he, “in my voyages, when I was a man and commanded other men, I have seen the heavens become overcast, the sea rage and foam, the storm arise, and, like a monstrous bird, cover the sky 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 escape. But I did so because I was happy, because I had not courted death, because this repose on a bed of rocks and sea-weed 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.”

No sooner had this idea taken possession of him than he became more composed, arranged his couch to the best of his power, ate little, and slept less, and found this existence almost supportable, because he felt he could throw it off at pleasure, like a worn-out garment. He had two means of dying; the one was to hang himself with his handkerchief to the stanchions of the window; the other, to refuse food and starve himself. But the former means was repugnant to him. Dantès had always entertained the greatest horror of pirates, who are hung up to the yard-arm; he would not die by what seemed an infamous death. He resolved to adopt the second, and began that day to execute his resolve. Nearly four years had passed away; at the end of the second he had ceased to mark the lapse of time.

Dantès said, “I wish to die,” and had chosen the manner of his death; and fearful of changing his mind, he had taken an oath to die. “When my morning and evening meals are brought,” thought he, “I will cast them out of the window, and I shall be believed to have eaten them.”

He kept his word; twice a day he cast out, by the barred aperture, the provisions his gaoler brought him, at first gaily, then with deliberation, and at last with regret; nothing but the recollection of his oath gave him strength to proceed. Hunger rendered these viands, once so repugnant, acceptable to him; he held the plate in his hand for an hour at a time, and gazed on the morsel of bad meat, of tainted fish, of black and mouldy bread. It was the last struggle of life, which occasionally vanquished his resolve; then his dungeon seemed less sombre, his prospects less desperate. He was still young, he was only four or five and twenty, he had nearly fifty years to live. What unforeseen events might not open his prison door and restore him to liberty? Then he raised to his lips the repast that, like a voluntary Tantalus, he refused himself; but he thought of his oath, and he would not break it. He persisted until, at last, he had not sufficient force to cast his supper out of the loophole.