Chapter 17. The Abbé’s Chamber
After having passed with tolerable ease through the subterraneanpassage, which, however, did not admit of their holding themselveserect, the two friends reached the further end of the corridor, intowhich the abbé’s cell opened; from that point the passage became muchnarrower, 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 oneof the stones in the most obscure corner that Faria had been able tocommence the laborious task of which Dantès had witnessed thecompletion.
As he entered the chamber of his friend, Dantès cast around one eagerand searching glance in quest of the expected marvels, but nothing morethan common met his view.
“It is well,” said the abbé; “we have some hours before us—it is nowjust a quarter past twelve o’clock.” Instinctively Dantès turned roundto observe by what watch or clock the abbé had been able so accuratelyto 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 theselines, which are in accordance with the double motion of the earth, andthe ellipse it describes round the sun, I am enabled to ascertain theprecise hour with more minuteness than if I possessed a watch; for thatmight be broken or deranged in its movements, while the sun and earthnever vary in their appointed paths.”
This last explanation was wholly lost upon Dantès, who had alwaysimagined, from seeing the sun rise from behind the mountains and set inthe Mediterranean, that it moved, and not the earth. A double movementof the globe he inhabited, and of which he could feel nothing, appearedto him perfectly impossible. Each word that fell from his companion’slips seemed fraught with the mysteries of science, as worthy of diggingout as the gold and diamonds in the mines of Guzerat and Golconda, whichhe could just recollect having visited during a voyage made in hisearliest youth.
“Come,” said he to the abbé, “I am anxious to see your treasures.”
The abbé smiled, and, proceeding to the disused fireplace, raised, bythe help of his chisel, a long stone, which had doubtless been thehearth, beneath which was a cavity of considerable depth, serving as asafe depository of the articles mentioned to Dantès.
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“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 oflinen, laid one over the other, like folds of papyrus. These rollsconsisted of slips of cloth about four inches wide and eighteen long;they were all carefully numbered and closely covered with writing, solegible that Dantès could easily read it, as well as make out thesense—it being in Italian, a language he, as a Provençal, perfectlyunderstood.
“There,” said he, “there is the work complete. I wrote the word finis atthe end of the sixty-eighth strip about a week ago. I have torn up twoof my shirts, and as many handkerchiefs as I was master of, to completethe precious pages. Should I ever get out of prison and find in allItaly a printer courageous enough to publish what I have composed, myliterary reputation is forever secured.”
“I see,” answered Dantès. “Now let me behold the curious pens with whichyou have written your work.”
“Look!” said Faria, showing to the young man a slender stick about sixinches long, and much resembling the size of the handle of a finepainting-brush, to the end of which was tied, by a piece of thread, oneof those cartilages of which the abbé had before spoken to Dantès; itwas pointed, and divided at the nib like an ordinary pen. Dantèsexamined it with intense admiration, then looked around to see theinstrument 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.” Thepenknife was sharp and keen as a razor; as for the other knife, it wouldserve a double purpose, and with it one could cut and thrust.
Dantès examined the various articles shown to him with the sameattention that he had bestowed on the curiosities and strange toolsexhibited in the shops at Marseilles as the works of the savages in theSouth Seas from whence they had been brought by the different tradingvessels.
“As for the ink,” said Faria, “I told you how I managed to obtainthat—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 youmanaged 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 cansee to work in the dark?”
“Indeed they are not; but God has supplied man with the intelligencethat enables him to overcome the limitations of natural conditions. Ifurnished myself with a light.”
“You did? Pray tell me how.”
“I separated the fat from the meat served to me, melted it, and so madeoil—here is my lamp.” So saying, the abbé exhibited a sort of torch verysimilar 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 littlesulphur, 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 bythe perseverance and strength of Faria’s mind.
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“You have not seen all yet,” continued Faria, “for I did not think itwise to trust all my treasures in the same hiding-place. Let us shutthis one up.” They put the stone back in its place; the abbé sprinkled alittle 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 theother, and then, going towards his bed, he removed it from the spot itstood in. Behind the head of the bed, and concealed by a stone fittingin so closely as to defy all suspicion, was a hollow space, and in thisspace a ladder of cords between twenty-five and thirty feet in length.Dantès closely and eagerly examined it; he found it firm, solid, andcompact 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 sheetsof my bed, during my three years’ imprisonment at Fenestrelle; and whenI was removed to the Château d’If, I managed to bring the ravellingswith 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 theedges over again.”
“With what?”
“With this needle,” said the abbé, as, opening his ragged vestments, heshowed Dantès a long, sharp fish-bone, with a small perforated eye forthe thread, a small portion of which still remained in it.
“I once thought,” continued Faria, “of removing these iron bars, andletting myself down from the window, which, as you see, is somewhatwider than yours, although I should have enlarged it still morepreparatory to my flight; however, I discovered that I should merelyhave dropped into a sort of inner court, and I therefore renounced theproject altogether as too full of risk and danger. Nevertheless, Icarefully preserved my ladder against one of those unforeseenopportunities of which I spoke just now, and which sudden chancefrequently brings about.”
While affecting to be deeply engaged in examining the ladder, the mindof Dantès was, in fact, busily occupied by the idea that a person sointelligent, ingenious, and clear-sighted as the abbé might probably beable to solve the dark mystery of his own misfortunes, where he himselfcould see nothing.
“What are you thinking of?” asked the abbé smilingly, imputing the deepabstraction in which his visitor was plunged to the excess of his aweand wonder.
“I was reflecting, in the first place,?
?? replied Dantès, “upon theenormous degree of intelligence and ability you must have employed toreach the high perfection to which you have attained. What would you nothave accomplished if you had been free?”
“Possibly nothing at all; the overflow of my brain would probably, in astate of freedom, have evaporated in a thousand follies; misfortune isneeded to bring to light the treasures of the human intellect.Compression is needed to explode gunpowder. Captivity has brought mymental faculties to a focus; and you are well aware that from thecollision of clouds electricity is produced—from electricity, lightning,from lightning, illumination.”
“No,” replied Dantès. “I know nothing. Some of your words are to mequite empty of meaning. You must be blessed indeed to possess theknowledge you have.”
The abbé smiled. “Well,” said he, “but you had another subject for yourthoughts; 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 ofyour past life, you were perfectly unacquainted with mine.”
“Your life, my young friend, has not been of sufficient length to admitof your having passed through any very important events.”
“It has been long enough to inflict on me a great and undeservedmisfortune. I would fain fix the source of it on man that I may nolonger 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 uponearth,—my father and Mercédès.”
“Come,” said the abbé, closing his hiding-place, and pushing the bedback to its original situation, “let me hear your story.”
Dantès obeyed, and commenced what he called his history, but whichconsisted only of the account of a voyage to India, and two or threevoyages to the Levant, until he arrived at the recital of his lastcruise, with the death of Captain Leclere, and the receipt of a packetto be delivered by himself to the grand marshal; his interview with thatpersonage, and his receiving, in place of the packet brought, a letteraddressed to a Monsieur Noirtier—his arrival at Marseilles, andinterview with his father—his affection for Mercédès, and their nuptualfeast—his arrest and subsequent examination, his temporary detention atthe 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 recitalfinished, 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, andthat is, that unless wicked ideas take root in a naturally depravedmind, human nature, in a right and wholesome state, revolts at crime.Still, from an artificial civilization have originated wants, vices, andfalse tastes, which occasionally become so powerful as to stifle withinus all good feelings, and ultimately to lead us into guilt andwickedness. From this view of things, then, comes the axiom that if youvisit to discover the author of any bad action, seek first to discoverthe person to whom the perpetration of that bad action could be in anyway advantageous. Now, to apply it in your case,—to whom could yourdisappearance 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 standsin the way of his successor, to the employee who keeps his rival out ofa place. Now, in the event of the king’s death, his successor inherits acrown,—when the employee dies, the supernumerary steps into his shoes,and receives his salary of twelve thousand livres. Well, these twelvethousand livres are his civil list, and are as essential to him as thetwelve millions of a king. Everyone, from the highest to the lowestdegree, has his place on the social ladder, and is beset by stormypassions and conflicting interests, as in Descartes’ theory of pressureand impulsion. But these forces increase as we go higher, so that wehave a spiral which in defiance of reason rests upon the apex and not onthe base. Now let us return to your particular world. You say you wereon 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 theaccomplishment of these two things? But let us first settle the questionas to its being the interest of anyone to hinder you from being captainof the Pharaon. What say you?”
“I cannot believe such was the case. I was generally liked on board, andhad the sailors possessed the right of selecting a captain themselves, Ifeel convinced their choice would have fallen on me. There was only oneperson among the crew who had any feeling of ill-will towards me. I hadquarelled with him some time previously, and had even challenged him tofight 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 hisemployment?”
“Not if the choice had remained with me, for I had frequently observedinaccuracies in his accounts.”
“Good again! Now then, tell me, was any person present during your lastconversation 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 Irecollect,—Danglars himself passed by just as Captain Leclere was givingme the packet for the grand marshal.”
“That’s better,” cried the abbé; “now we are on the right scent. Did youtake anybody with you when you put into the port of Elba?”
“Nobody.”
“Somebody there received your packet, and gave you a letter in place ofit, 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 findroom in his pocket for a portfolio large enough to contain an officialletter?”
“You are right; it was left on board.”
“Then it was not till your return to the ship that you put the letter inthe 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 thatyou 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 yourarrest. Do you recollect the words in which the information against youwas formulated?”
“Oh yes, I read it over three times, and the words sank deeply into mymemory.”
“Repeat it to me.”
Dantès paused a moment, then said, “This is it, word for word: ‘Theking’s attorney is informed by a friend to the throne and religion, thatone Edmond Dantès, mate on board the Pharaon, this day arrived fromSmyrna, after having touched at Naples and Porto-Ferrajo, has beenintrusted 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 guiltmay be procured by his immediate arrest, as the letter will be foundeither about his person, at his father’s residence, or in his cabin onboard 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 almostamounting to terror.
“How very astonishing!” cried he at length. “Why your writing exactlyresembles that of the accusation.”
“Simply because that accusation had been written with the left hand; andI have noticed that——”
“What?”
“That while the writing of different persons done with the right handvaries, 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 marriagewith 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 knifeinto me.”
“That is in strict accordance with the Spanish character; anassassination they will unhesitatingly commit, but an act of cowardice,never.”
“Besides,” said Dantès, “the various circumstances mentioned in theletter 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 PèrePamphile’s the evening before the day fixed for my wedding. They were inearnest conversation. Danglars was joking in a friendly way, but Fernandlooked pale and agitated.”
“Were they alone?”
“There was a third person with them whom I knew perfectly well, and whohad, in all probability made their acquaintance; he was a tailor namedCaderousse, but he was very drunk. Stay!—stay!—How strange that itshould not have occurred to me before! Now I remember quite well, thaton the table round which they were sitting were pens, ink, and paper.Oh, the heartless, treacherous scoundrels!” exclaimed Dantès, pressinghis hand to his throbbing brows.
“Is there anything else I can assist you in discovering, besides thevillany of your friends?” inquired the abbé with a laugh.
“Yes, yes,” replied Dantès eagerly; “I would beg of you, who see socompletely to the depths of things, and to whom the greatest mysteryseems but an easy riddle, to explain to me how it was that I underwentno second examination, was never brought to trial, and, above all, wascondemned without ever having had sentence passed on me?”
“That is altogether a different and more serious matter,” responded theabbé. “The ways of justice are frequently too dark and mysterious to beeasily penetrated. All we have hitherto done in the matter has beenchild’s play. If you wish me to enter upon the more difficult part ofthe business, you must assist me by the most minute information on everypoint.”
“Pray ask me whatever questions you please; for, in good truth, you seemore clearly into my life than I do myself.”
“In the first place, then, who examined you,—the king’s attorney, hisdeputy, 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 tobe 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 broughtme 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 scoundrelthan you have thought possible.”
“Upon my word,” said Dantès, “you make me shudder. Is the world filledwith tigers and crocodiles?”
“Yes; and remember that two-legged tigers and crocodiles are moredangerous 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 proofexisting 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 couldpossibly have had in the destruction of that letter?”
“Why, it is not altogether impossible he might have had, for he made mepromise several times never to speak of that letter to anyone, assuringme he so advised me for my own interest; and, more than this, heinsisted on my taking a solemn oath never to utter the name mentioned inthe address.”
“Noirtier!” repeated the abbé; “Noirtier!—I knew a person of that nameat the court of the Queen of Etruria,—a Noirtier, who had been aGirondin during the Revolution! What was your deputy called?”
“De Villefort!” The abbé burst into a fit of laughter, while Dantèsgazed 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 expressedgreat 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 thisNoirtier was, whose very name he was so careful to keep concealed? ThisNoirtier was his father!”
Had a thunderbolt fallen at the feet of Dantès, or hell opened itsyawning gulf before him, he could not have been more completelytransfixed with horror than he was at the sound of these unexpectedwords. Starting up, he clasped his hands around his head as though toprevent his very brain from bursting, and exclaimed, “His father! hisfather!”
“Yes, his father,” replied the abbé; “his right name was Noirtier deVillefort.”
At this instant a bright light shot through the mind of Dantès, andcleared up all that had been dark and obscure before. The change thath
ad come over Villefort during the examination, the destruction of theletter, the exacted promise, the almost supplicating tones of themagistrate, who seemed rather to implore mercy than to pronouncepunishment,—all returned with a stunning force to his memory. He criedout, and staggered against the wall like a drunken man, then he hurriedto the opening that led from the abbé’s cell to his own, and said, “Imust be alone, to think over all this.”
When he regained his dungeon, he threw himself on his bed, where theturnkey found him in the evening visit, sitting with fixed gaze andcontracted features, dumb and motionless as a statue. During these hoursof profound meditation, which to him had seemed only minutes, he hadformed a fearful resolution, and bound himself to its fulfilment by asolemn 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 abbéunusual privileges. He was supplied with bread of a finer, whiterquality than the usual prison fare, and even regaled each Sunday with asmall quantity of wine. Now this was a Sunday, and the abbé had come toask his young companion to share the luxuries with him.
Dantès followed him; his features were no longer contracted, and nowwore their usual expression, but there was that in his whole appearancethat bespoke one who had come to a fixed and desperate resolve. Fariabent on him his penetrating eye.
“I regret now,” said he, “having helped you in your late inquiries, orhaving given you the information I did.”
“Why so?” inquired Dantès.
“Because it has instilled a new passion in your heart—that ofvengeance.”
Dantès smiled. “Let us talk of something else,” said he.
Again the abbé looked at him, then mournfully shook his head; but inaccordance with Dantès’ request, he began to speak of other matters. Theelder prisoner was one of those persons whose conversation, like that ofall who have experienced many trials, contained many useful andimportant hints as well as sound information; but it was neveregotistical, for the unfortunate man never alluded to his own sorrows.Dantès listened with admiring attention to all he said; some of hisremarks corresponded with what he already knew, or applied to the sortof knowledge his nautical life had enabled him to acquire. A part of thegood abbé’s words, however, were wholly incomprehensible to him; but,like the aurora which guides the navigator in northern latitudes, openednew vistas to the inquiring mind of the listener, and gave fantasticglimpses of new horizons, enabling him justly to estimate the delight anintellectual mind would have in following one so richly gifted as Fariaalong 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 onlyto prevent your growing weary of me. I can well believe that so learneda person as yourself would prefer absolute solitude to being tormentedwith the company of one as ignorant and uninformed as myself. If youwill only agree to my request, I promise you never to mention anotherword about escaping.”
The abbé smiled.
“Alas, my boy,” said he, “human knowledge is confined within very narrowlimits; and when I have taught you mathematics, physics, history, andthe three or four modern languages with which I am acquainted, you willknow as much as I do myself. Now, it will scarcely require two years forme to communicate to you the stock of learning I possess.”
“Two years!” exclaimed Dantès; “do you really believe I can acquire allthese things in so short a time?”
“Not their application, certainly, but their principles you may; tolearn is not to know; there are the learners and the learned. Memorymakes the one, philosophy the other.”
“But cannot one learn philosophy?”
“Philosophy cannot be taught; it is the application of the sciences totruth; it is like the golden cloud in which the Messiah went up intoheaven.”
“Well, then,” said Dantès, “What shall you teach me first? I am in ahurry to begin. I want to learn.”
“Everything,” said the abbé. And that very evening the prisonerssketched a plan of education, to be entered upon the following day.Dantès possessed a prodigious memory, combined with an astonishingquickness and readiness of conception; the mathematical turn of his mindrendered him apt at all kinds of calculation, while his naturallypoetical feelings threw a light and pleasing veil over the dry realityof arithmetical computation, or the rigid severity of geometry. Healready knew Italian, and had also picked up a little of the Romaicdialect during voyages to the East; and by the aid of these twolanguages he easily comprehended the construction of all the others, sothat at the end of six months he began to speak Spanish, English, andGerman.
In strict accordance with the promise made to the abbé, Dantès spoke nomore of escape. Perhaps the delight his studies afforded him left noroom for such thoughts; perhaps the recollection that he had pledged hisword (on which his sense of honor was keen) kept him from referring inany way to the possibilities of flight. Days, even months, passed byunheeded in one rapid and instructive course. At the end of a yearDantès was a new man. Dantès observed, however, that Faria, in spite ofthe relief his society afforded, daily grew sadder; one thought seemedincessantly to harass and distract his mind. Sometimes he would fallinto 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 hisbrain were enclosed in crystal so clear as to display its minutestoperations.
“I have already told you,” answered the abbé, “that I loathe the idea ofshedding blood.”
“And yet the murder, if you choose to call it so, would be simply ameasure 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 younot?” asked Dantès eagerly.
“I have; if it were only possible to place a deaf and blind sentinel inthe gallery beyond us.”
“He shall be both blind and deaf,” replied the young man, with an air ofdetermination that made his companion shudder.
“No, no,” cried the abbé; “impossible!”
Dantès endeavored to renew the subject; the abbé shook his head in tokenof disapproval, and refused to make any further response. Three monthspassed away.
“Are you strong?” the abbé asked one day of Dantès. The young man, inreply, took up the chisel, bent it into the form of a horseshoe, andthen as readily straightened it.
“And will you engage not to do any harm to the sentry, except as a lastresort?”
“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 theabbé.
“Forgive me!” cried Edmond, blushing deeply.
“Tut, tut!” answered the abbé, “man is but man after all, and you areabout the best specimen of the genus I have ever known. Come, let meshow you my plan.”
The abbé then showed Dantès the sketch he had made for their escape. Itconsisted of a plan of his own cell and that of Dantès, with the passagewhich united them. In this passage he proposed to drive a level as theydo in mines; this level would bring the two prisoners immediatelybeneath the gallery where the sentry kept watch; once there, a largeexcavation would be m
ade, and one of the flag-stones with which thegallery was paved be so completely loosened that at the desired momentit would give way beneath the feet of the soldier, who, stunned by hisfall, would be immediately bound and gagged by Dantès before he hadpower to offer any resistance. The prisoners were then to make their waythrough one of the gallery windows, and to let themselves down from theouter walls by means of the abbé’s ladder of cords.
Dantès’ eyes sparkled with joy, and he rubbed his hands with delight atthe idea of a plan so simple, yet apparently so certain to succeed. Thatvery day the miners began their labors, with a vigor and alacrityproportionate to their long rest from fatigue and their hopes ofultimate success. Nothing interrupted the progress of the work exceptthe necessity that each was under of returning to his cell inanticipation of the turnkey’s visits. They had learned to distinguishthe almost imperceptible sound of his footsteps as he descended towardstheir dungeons, and happily, never failed of being prepared for hiscoming. The fresh earth excavated during their present work, and whichwould have entirely blocked up the old passage, was thrown, by degreesand with the utmost precaution, out of the window in either Faria’s orDantès’ cell, the rubbish being first pulverized so finely that thenight wind carried it far away without permitting the smallest trace toremain.
More than a year had been consumed in this undertaking, the only toolsfor which had been a chisel, a knife, and a wooden lever; Faria stillcontinuing to instruct Dantès by conversing with him, sometimes in onelanguage, sometimes in another; at others, relating to him the historyof nations and great men who from time to time have risen to fame andtrodden 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 ofmelancholy dignity which Dantès, thanks to the imitative powers bestowedon him by nature, easily acquired, as well as that outward polish andpoliteness he had before been wanting in, and which is seldom possessedexcept by those who have been placed in constant intercourse withpersons of high birth and breeding.
At the end of fifteen months the level was finished, and the excavationcompleted beneath the gallery, and the two workmen could distinctly hearthe measured tread of the sentinel as he paced to and fro over theirheads. Compelled, as they were, to await a night sufficiently dark tofavor their flight, they were obliged to defer their final attempt tillthat auspicious moment should arrive; their greatest dread now was lestthe stone through which the sentry was doomed to fall should give waybefore its right time, and this they had in some measure providedagainst by propping it up with a small beam which they had discovered inthe walls through which they had worked their way. Dantès was occupiedin arranging this piece of wood when he heard Faria, who had remained inEdmond’s cell for the purpose of cutting a peg to secure their rope-ladder, call to him in a tone indicative of great suffering. Dantèshastened to his dungeon, where he found him standing in the middle ofthe room, pale as death, his forehead streaming with perspiration, andhis hands clenched tightly together.
“Gracious heavens!” exclaimed Dantès, “what is the matter? what hashappened?”
“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 seemedto stand on end.
“Tell me, I beseech you, what ails you?” cried Dantès, letting hischisel fall to the floor.
“Alas,” faltered out the abbé, “all is over with me. I am seized with aterrible, perhaps mortal illness; I can feel that the paroxysm is fastapproaching. I had a similar attack the year previous to myimprisonment. This malady admits but of one remedy; I will tell you whatthat is. Go into my cell as quickly as you can; draw out one of the feetthat support the bed; you will find it has been hollowed out for thepurpose of containing a small phial you will see there half-filled witha red-looking fluid. Bring it to me—or rather—no, no!—I may be foundhere, therefore help me back to my room while I have the strength todrag myself along. Who knows what may happen, or how long the attack maylast?”
In spite of the magnitude of the misfortune which thus suddenlyfrustrated his hopes, Dantès did not lose his presence of mind, butdescended into the passage, dragging his unfortunate companion with him;then, half-carrying, half-supporting him, he managed to reach the abbé’schamber, when he immediately laid the sufferer on his bed.
“Thanks,” said the poor abbé, shivering as though his veins were filledwith ice. “I am about to be seized with a fit of catalepsy; when itcomes to its height I shall probably lie still and motionless as thoughdead, uttering neither sigh nor groan. On the other hand, the symptomsmay 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 anotherpart of the prison, and we be separated forever. When I become quitemotionless, cold, and rigid as a corpse, then, and not before,—becareful about this,—force open my teeth with the knife, pour from eightto ten drops of the liquor contained in the phial down my throat, and Imay perhaps revive.”
“Perhaps!” exclaimed Dantès in grief-stricken tones.
“Help! help!” cried the abbé, “I—I—die—I——”
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So sudden and violent was the fit that the unfortunate prisoner wasunable to complete the sentence; a violent convulsion shook his wholeframe, his eyes started from their sockets, his mouth was drawn on oneside, his cheeks became purple, he struggled, foamed, dashed himselfabout, and uttered the most dreadful cries, which, however, Dantèsprevented from being heard by covering his head with the blanket. Thefit lasted two hours; then, more helpless than an infant, and colder andpaler than marble, more crushed and broken than a reed trampled underfoot, he fell back, doubled up in one last convulsion, and became asrigid 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 fixedjaws, carefully administered the appointed number of drops, andanxiously awaited the result. An hour passed away and the old man gaveno sign of returning animation. Dantès began to fear he had delayed toolong ere he administered the remedy, and, thrusting his hands into hishair, continued gazing on the lifeless features of his friend. At lengtha slight color tinged the livid cheeks, consciousness returned to thedull, open eyeballs, a faint sigh issued from the lips, and the sufferermade 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 evidentanxiety towards the door. Dantès listened, and plainly distinguished theapproaching 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, carefullydrawing the stone over the opening, and hurried to his cell. He hadscarcely done so before the door opened, and the jailer saw the prisonerseated as usual on the side of his bed. Almost before the key had turnedin the lock, and before the departing steps of the jailer had died awayin the long corridor he had to traverse, Dantès, whose restless anxietyconcerning his friend left him no desire to touch the food brought him,hurried back to the abbé’s chamber, and raising the stone by pressinghis head against it, was soon beside the sick man’s couch. Faria had nowfully regained his consciousness, but he still lay helpless andexhausted 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, Ithought 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?”
“A
t least,” said the abbé, “I now see how wrong such an opinion wouldhave been. Alas, alas! I am fearfully exhausted and debilitated by thisattack.”
“Be of good cheer,” replied Dantès; “your strength will return.” And ashe spoke he seated himself near the bed beside Faria, and took hishands. The abbé shook his head.
“The last attack I had,” said he, “lasted but half an hour, and after itI was hungry, and got up without help; now I can move neither my rightarm nor leg, and my head seems uncomfortable, which shows that there hasbeen a suffusion of blood on the brain. The third attack will eithercarry me off, or leave me paralyzed for life.”
“No, no,” cried Dantès; “you are mistaken—you will not die! And yourthird attack (if, indeed, you should have another) will find you atliberty. We shall save you another time, as we have done this, only witha better chance of success, because we shall be able to command everyrequisite assistance.”
“My good Edmond,” answered the abbé, “be not deceived. The attack whichhas just passed away, condemns me forever to the walls of a prison. Nonecan fly from a dungeon who cannot walk.”
“Well, we will wait,—a week, a month, two months, if need be,—andmeanwhile your strength will return. Everything is in readiness for ourflight, and we can select any time we choose. As soon as you feel ableto swim we will go.”
“I shall never swim again,” replied Faria. “This arm is paralyzed; notfor 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. “Dependupon it, I know what I say. Since the first attack I experienced of thismalady, I have continually reflected on it. Indeed, I expected it, forit is a family inheritance; both my father and grandfather died of it ina third attack. The physician who prepared for me the remedy I havetwice successfully taken, was no other than the celebrated Cabanis, andhe predicted a similar end for me.”
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“The physician may be mistaken!” exclaimed Dantès. “And as for your poorarm, what difference will that make? I can take you on my shoulders, andswim for both of us.”
“My son,” said the abbé, “you, who are a sailor and a swimmer, must knowas well as I do that a man so loaded would sink before he had done fiftystrokes. Cease, then, to allow yourself to be duped by vain hopes, thateven your own excellent heart refuses to believe in. Here I shall remaintill the hour of my deliverance arrives, and that, in all humanprobability, will be the hour of my death. As for you, who are young andactive, delay not on my account, but fly—go—I give you back yourpromise.”
“It is well,” said Dantès. “Then I shall also remain.” Then, rising andextending his hand with an air of solemnity over the old man’s head, heslowly added, “By the blood of Christ I swear never to leave you whileyou live.”
Faria gazed fondly on his noble-minded, single-hearted, high-principledyoung friend, and read in his countenance ample confirmation of thesincerity of his devotion and the loyalty of his purpose.
“Thanks,” murmured the invalid, extending one hand. “I accept. You mayone of these days reap the reward of your disinterested devotion. But asI cannot, and you will not, quit this place, it becomes necessary tofill up the excavation beneath the soldier’s gallery; he might, bychance, hear the hollow sound of his footsteps, and call the attentionof his officer to the circumstance. That would bring about a discoverywhich would inevitably lead to our being separated. Go, then, and setabout this work, in which, unhappily, I can offer you no assistance;keep at it all night, if necessary, and do not return here tomorrow tillafter the jailer has visited me. I shall have something of the greatestimportance 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 histask, in the spirit of obedience and respect which he had sworn to showtowards his aged friend.