The Count of Monte Cristo

On the 24th of February, 1815, the look-out at Notre-Dame de
la Garde signalled the three-master, the Pharaon from
Smyrna, Trieste, and Naples.

As usual, a pilot put off immediately, and rounding the
Chateau d’If, got on board the vessel between Cape Morgion
and Rion island.

Immediately, and according to custom, the ramparts of Fort
Saint-Jean were covered with spectators; it is always an
event at Marseilles for a ship to come into port, especially
when this ship, like the Pharaon, has been built, rigged,
and laden at the old Phocee docks, and belongs to an owner
of the city.

The ship drew on and had safely passed the strait, which
some volcanic shock has made between the Calasareigne and
Jaros islands; had doubled Pomegue, and approached the
harbor under topsails, jib, and spanker, but so slowly and
sedately that the idlers, with that instinct which is the
forerunner of evil, asked one another what misfortune could
have happened on board. However, those experienced in
navigation saw plainly that if any accident had occurred, it
was not to the vessel herself, for she bore down with all
the evidence of being skilfully handled, the anchor
a-cockbill, the jib-boom guys already eased off, and
standing by the side of the pilot, who was steering the
Pharaon towards the narrow entrance of the inner port, was a
young man, who, with activity and vigilant eye, watched
every motion of the ship, and repeated each direction of the
pilot.

The vague disquietude which prevailed among the spectators
had so much affected one of the crowd that he did not await
the arrival of the vessel in harbor, but jumping into a
small skiff, desired to be pulled alongside the Pharaon,
which he reached as she rounded into La Reserve basin.

When the young man on board saw this person approach, he
left his station by the pilot, and, hat in hand, leaned over
the ship’s bulwarks.

He was a fine, tall, slim young fellow of eighteen or
twenty, with black eyes, and hair as dark as a raven’s wing;
and his whole appearance bespoke that calmness and
resolution peculiar to men accustomed from their cradle to
contend with danger.

“Ah, is it you, Dantes?” cried the man in the skiff. “What’s
the matter? and why have you such an air of sadness aboard?”

“A great misfortune, M. Morrel,” replied the young man, —
“a great misfortune, for me especially! Off Civita Vecchia
we lost our brave Captain Leclere.”

“And the cargo?” inquired the owner, eagerly.

“Is all safe, M. Morrel; and I think you will be satisfied
on that head. But poor Captain Leclere — “

“What happened to him?” asked the owner, with an air of
considerable resignation. “What happened to the worthy
captain?”

“He died.”

“Fell into the sea?”

“No, sir, he died of brain-fever in dreadful agony.” Then
turning to the crew, he said, “Bear a hand there, to take in
sail!”

All hands obeyed, and at once the eight or ten seamen who
composed the crew, sprang to their respective stations at
the spanker brails and outhaul, topsail sheets and halyards,
the jib downhaul, and the topsail clewlines and buntlines.
The young sailor gave a look to see that his orders were
promptly and accurately obeyed, and then turned again to the
owner.

“And how did this misfortune occur?” inquired the latter,
resuming the interrupted conversation.

“Alas, sir, in the most unexpected manner. After a long talk
with the harbor-master, Captain Leclere left Naples greatly
disturbed in mind. In twenty-four hours he was attacked by a
fever, and died three days afterwards. We performed the
usual burial service, and he is at his rest, sewn up in his
hammock with a thirty-six pound shot at his head and his
heels, off El Giglio island. We bring to his widow his sword
and cross of honor. It was worth while, truly,” added the
young man with a melancholy smile, “to make war against the
English for ten years, and to die in his bed at last, like
everybody else.”

“Why, you see, Edmond,” replied the owner, who appeared more
comforted at every moment, “we are all mortal, and the old
must make way for the young. If not, why, there would be no
promotion; and since you assure me that the cargo — “

“Is all safe and sound, M. Morrel, take my word for it; and
I advise you not to take 25,000 francs for the profits of
the voyage.”

Then, as they were just passing the Round Tower, the young
man shouted: “Stand by there to lower the topsails and jib;
brail up the spanker!”

The order was executed as promptly as it would have been on
board a man-of-war.

“Let go — and clue up!” At this last command all the sails
were lowered, and the vessel moved almost imperceptibly
onwards.

“Now, if you will come on board, M. Morrel,” said Dantes,
observing the owner’s impatience, “here is your supercargo,
M. Danglars, coming out of his cabin, who will furnish you
with every particular. As for me, I must look after the
anchoring, and dress the ship in mourning.”

The owner did not wait for a second invitation. He seized a
rope which Dantes flung to him, and with an activity that
would have done credit to a sailor, climbed up the side of
the ship, while the young man, going to his task, left the
conversation to Danglars, who now came towards the owner. He
was a man of twenty-five or twenty-six years of age, of
unprepossessing countenance, obsequious to his superiors,
insolent to his subordinates; and this, in addition to his
position as responsible agent on board, which is always
obnoxious to the sailors, made him as much disliked by the
crew as Edmond Dantes was beloved by them.

“Well, M. Morrel,” said Danglars, “you have heard of the
misfortune that has befallen us?”

“Yes — yes: poor Captain Leclere! He was a brave and an
honest man.”

“And a first-rate seaman, one who had seen long and
honorable service, as became a man charged with the
interests of a house so important as that of Morrel & Son,”
replied Danglars.

“But,” replied the owner, glancing after Dantes, who was
watching the anchoring of his vessel, “it seems to me that a
sailor needs not be so old as you say, Danglars, to
understand his business, for our friend Edmond seems to
understand it thoroughly, and not to require instruction
from any one.”

“Yes,” said Danglars, darting at Edmond a look gleaming with
hate. “Yes, he is young, and youth is invariably
self-confident. Scarcely was the captain’s breath out of his
body when he assumed the command without consulting any one,
and he caused us to lose a day and a half at the Island of
Elba, instead of making for Marseilles direct.”

“As to taking command of the vessel,” replied Morrel, “that
was his duty as captain’s mate; as to losing a day and a
half off the Island of Elba, he was wrong, unless the vessel
needed repairs.”

“The vessel was in as good condition as I am, and as, I hope
you are, M. Morrel, and this day and a half was lost from
pure whim, for the pleasure of going ashore, and nothing
else.”

“Dantes,” said the shipowner, turning towards the young man,
“come this way!”

“In a moment, sir,” answered Dantes, “and I’m with you.”
Then calling to the crew, he said — “Let go!”

The anchor was instantly dropped, and the chain ran rattling
through the port-hole. Dantes continued at his post in spite
of the presence of the pilot, until this manoeuvre was
completed, and then he added, “Half-mast the colors, and
square the yards!”

“You see,” said Danglars, “he fancies himself captain
already, upon my word.”

“And so, in fact, he is,” said the owner.

“Except your signature and your partner’s, M. Morrel.”

“And why should he not have this?” asked the owner; “he is
young, it is true, but he seems to me a thorough seaman, and
of full experience.”

A cloud passed over Danglars’ brow. “Your pardon, M.
Morrel,” said Dantes, approaching, “the vessel now rides at
anchor, and I am at your service. You hailed me, I think?”

Danglars retreated a step or two. “I wished to inquire why
you stopped at the Island of Elba?”

“I do not know, sir; it was to fulfil the last instructions
of Captain Leclere, who, when dying, gave me a packet for
Marshal Bertrand.”

“Then did you see him, Edmond?”

“Who?”

“The marshal.”

“Yes.”

Morrel looked around him, and then, drawing Dantes on one
side, he said suddenly — “And how is the emperor?”

“Very well, as far as I could judge from the sight of him.”

“You saw the emperor, then?”

“He entered the marshal’s apartment while I was there.”

“And you spoke to him?”

“Why, it was he who spoke to me, sir,” said Dantes, with a
smile.

“And what did he say to you?”

“Asked me questions about the vessel, the time she left
Marseilles, the course she had taken, and what was her
cargo. I believe, if she had not been laden, and I had been
her master, he would have bought her. But I told him I was
only mate, and that she belonged to the firm of Morrel &
Son. `Ah, yes,’ he said, `I know them. The Morrels have been
shipowners from father to son; and there was a Morrel who
served in the same regiment with me when I was in garrison
at Valence.'”

“Pardieu, and that is true!” cried the owner, greatly
delighted. “And that was Policar Morrel, my uncle, who was
afterwards a captain. Dantes, you must tell my uncle that
the emperor remembered him, and you will see it will bring
tears into the old soldier’s eyes. Come, come,” continued
he, patting Edmond’s shoulder kindly, “you did very right,
Dantes, to follow Captain Leclere’s instructions, and touch
at Elba, although if it were known that you had conveyed a
packet to the marshal, and had conversed with the emperor,
it might bring you into trouble.”

“How could that bring me into trouble, sir?” asked Dantes;
“for I did not even know of what I was the bearer; and the
emperor merely made such inquiries as he would of the first
comer. But, pardon me, here are the health officers and the
customs inspectors coming alongside.” And the young man went
to the gangway. As he departed, Danglars approached, and
said, —

“Well, it appears that he has given you satisfactory reasons
for his landing at Porto-Ferrajo?”

“Yes, most satisfactory, my dear Danglars.”

“Well, so much the better,” said the supercargo; “for it is
not pleasant to think that a comrade has not done his duty.”

“Dantes has done his,” replied the owner, “and that is not
saying much. It was Captain Leclere who gave orders for this
delay.”

“Talking of Captain Leclere, has not Dantes given you a
letter from him?”

“To me? — no — was there one?”

“I believe that, besides the packet, Captain Leclere
confided a letter to his care.”

“Of what packet are you speaking, Danglars?”

“Why, that which Dantes left at Porto-Ferrajo.”

“How do you know he had a packet to leave at Porto-Ferrajo?”

Danglars turned very red.

“I was passing close to the door of the captain’s cabin,
which was half open, and I saw him give the packet and
letter to Dantes.”

“He did not speak to me of it,” replied the shipowner; “but
if there be any letter he will give it to me.”

Danglars reflected for a moment. “Then, M. Morrel, I beg of
you,” said he, “not to say a word to Dantes on the subject.
I may have been mistaken.”

At this moment the young man returned; Danglars withdrew.

“Well, my dear Dantes, are you now free?” inquired the
owner.

“Yes, sir.”

“You have not been long detained.”

“No. I gave the custom-house officers a copy of our bill of
lading; and as to the other papers, they sent a man off with
the pilot, to whom I gave them.”

“Then you have nothing more to do here?”

“No — everything is all right now.”

“Then you can come and dine with me?”

“I really must ask you to excuse me, M. Morrel. My first
visit is due to my father, though I am not the less grateful
for the honor you have done me.”

“Right, Dantes, quite right. I always knew you were a good
son.”

“And,” inquired Dantes, with some hesitation, “do you know
how my father is?”

“Well, I believe, my dear Edmond, though I have not seen him
lately.”

“Yes, he likes to keep himself shut up in his little room.”

“That proves, at least, that he has wanted for nothing
during your absence.”

Dantes smiled. “My father is proud, sir, and if he had not a
meal left, I doubt if he would have asked anything from
anyone, except from Heaven.”

“Well, then, after this first visit has been made we shall
count on you.”

“I must again excuse myself, M. Morrel, for after this first
visit has been paid I have another which I am most anxious
to pay.”

“True, Dantes, I forgot that there was at the Catalans some
one who expects you no less impatiently than your father —
the lovely Mercedes.”

Dantes blushed.

“Ah, ha,” said the shipowner, “I am not in the least
surprised, for she has been to me three times, inquiring if
there were any news of the Pharaon. Peste, Edmond, you have
a very handsome mistress!”

“She is not my mistress,” replied the young sailor, gravely;
“she is my betrothed.”

“Sometimes one and the same thing,” said Morrel, with a
smile.

“Not with us, sir,” replied Dantes.

“Well, well, my dear Edmond,” continued the owner, “don’t
let me detain you. You have managed my affairs so well that
I ought to allow you all the time you require for your own.
Do you want any money?”

“No, sir; I have all my pay to take — nearly three months’
wages.”

“You are a careful fellow, Edmond.”

“Say I have a poor father, sir.”

“Yes, yes, I know how good a son you are, so now hasten away
to see your father. I have a son too, and I should be very
wroth with those who detained him from me after a three
months’ voyage.”

“Then I have your leave, sir?”

“Yes, if you have nothing more to say to me.”

“Nothing.”

“Captain Leclere did not, before he died, give you a letter
for me?”

“He was unable to write, sir. But that reminds me that I
must ask your leave of absence for some days.”

“To get married?”

“Yes, first, and then to go to Paris.”

“Very good; have what time you require, Dantes. It will take
quite six weeks to unload the cargo, and we cannot get you
ready for sea until three months after that; only be back
again in three months, for the Pharaon,” added the owner,
patting the young sailor on the back, “cannot sail without
her captain.”

“Without her captain!” cried Dantes, his eyes sparkling with
animation; “pray mind what you say, for you are touching on
the most secret wishes of my heart. Is it really your
intention to make me captain of the Pharaon?”

“If I were sole owner we’d shake hands on it now, my dear
Dantes, and call it settled; but I have a partner, and you
know the Italian proverb — Chi ha compagno ha padrone —
`He who has a partner has a master.’ But the thing is at
least half done, as you have one out of two votes. Rely on
me to procure you the other; I will do my best.”

“Ah, M. Morrel,” exclaimed the young seaman, with tears in
his eyes, and grasping the owner’s hand, “M. Morrel, I thank
you in the name of my father and of Mercedes.”

“That’s all right, Edmond. There’s a providence that watches
over the deserving. Go to your father: go and see Mercedes,
and afterwards come to me.”

“Shall I row you ashore?”

“No, thank you; I shall remain and look over the accounts
with Danglars. Have you been satisfied with him this
voyage?”

“That is according to the sense you attach to the question,
sir. Do you mean is he a good comrade? No, for I think he
never liked me since the day when I was silly enough, after
a little quarrel we had, to propose to him to stop for ten
minutes at the island of Monte Cristo to settle the dispute
— a proposition which I was wrong to suggest, and he quite
right to refuse. If you mean as responsible agent when you
ask me the question, I believe there is nothing to say
against him, and that you will be content with the way in
which he has performed his duty.”

“But tell me, Dantes, if you had command of the Pharaon
should you be glad to see Danglars remain?”

“Captain or mate, M. Morrel, I shall always have the
greatest respect for those who possess the owners’
confidence.”

“That’s right, that’s right, Dantes! I see you are a
thoroughly good fellow, and will detain you no longer. Go,
for I see how impatient you are.”

“Then I have leave?”

“Go, I tell you.”

“May I have the use of your skiff?”

“Certainly.”

“Then, for the present, M. Morrel, farewell, and a thousand
thanks!”

“I hope soon to see you again, my dear Edmond. Good luck to
you.”

The young sailor jumped into the skiff, and sat down in the
stern sheets, with the order that he be put ashore at La
Canebiere. The two oarsmen bent to their work, and the
little boat glided away as rapidly as possible in the midst
of the thousand vessels which choke up the narrow way which
leads between the two rows of ships from the mouth of the
harbor to the Quai d’Orleans.

The shipowner, smiling, followed him with his eyes until he
saw him spring out on the quay and disappear in the midst of
the throng, which from five o’clock in the morning until
nine o’clock at night, swarms in the famous street of La
Canebiere, — a street of which the modern Phocaeans are so
proud that they say with all the gravity in the world, and
with that accent which gives so much character to what is
said, “If Paris had La Canebiere, Paris would be a second
Marseilles.” On turning round the owner saw Danglars behind
him, apparently awaiting orders, but in reality also
watching the young sailor, — but there was a great
difference in the expression of the two men who thus
followed the movements of Edmond Dantes.

We will leave Danglars struggling with the demon of hatred,
and endeavoring to insinuate in the ear of the shipowner
some evil suspicions against his comrade, and follow Dantes,
who, after having traversed La Canebiere, took the Rue de
Noailles, and entering a small house, on the left of the
Allees de Meillan, rapidly ascended four flights of a dark
staircase, holding the baluster with one hand, while with
the other he repressed the beatings of his heart, and paused
before a half-open door, from which he could see the whole
of a small room.

This room was occupied by Dantes’ father. The news of the
arrival of the Pharaon had not yet reached the old man, who,
mounted on a chair, was amusing himself by training with
trembling hand the nasturtiums and sprays of clematis that
clambered over the trellis at his window. Suddenly, he felt
an arm thrown around his body, and a well-known voice behind
him exclaimed, “Father — dear father!”

The old man uttered a cry, and turned round; then, seeing
his son, he fell into his arms, pale and trembling.

“What ails you, my dearest father? Are you ill?” inquired
the young man, much alarmed.

“No, no, my dear Edmond — my boy — my son! — no; but I
did not expect you; and joy, the surprise of seeing you so
suddenly — Ah, I feel as if I were going to die.”

“Come, come, cheer up, my dear father! ‘Tis I — really I!
They say joy never hurts, and so I came to you without any
warning. Come now, do smile, instead of looking at me so
solemnly. Here I am back again, and we are going to be
happy.”

“Yes, yes, my boy, so we will — so we will,” replied the
old man; “but how shall we be happy? Shall you never leave
me again? Come, tell me all the good fortune that has
befallen you.”

“God forgive me,” said the young man, “for rejoicing at
happiness derived from the misery of others, but, Heaven
knows, I did not seek this good fortune; it has happened,
and I really cannot pretend to lament it. The good Captain
Leclere is dead, father, and it is probable that, with the
aid of M. Morrel, I shall have his place. Do you understand,
father? Only imagine me a captain at twenty, with a hundred
louis pay, and a share in the profits! Is this not more than
a poor sailor like me could have hoped for?”

“Yes, my dear boy,” replied the old man, “it is very
fortunate.”

“Well, then, with the first money I touch, I mean you to
have a small house, with a garden in which to plant
clematis, nasturtiums, and honeysuckle. But what ails you,
father? Are you not well?”

“‘Tis nothing, nothing; it will soon pass away” — and as he
said so the old man’s strength failed him, and he fell
backwards.

“Come, come,” said the young man, “a glass of wine, father,
will revive you. Where do you keep your wine?”

“No, no; thanks. You need not look for it; I do not want
it,” said the old man.

“Yes, yes, father, tell me where it is,” and he opened two
or three cupboards.

“It is no use,” said the old man, “there is no wine.”

“What, no wine?” said Dantes, turning pale, and looking
alternately at the hollow cheeks of the old man and the
empty cupboards. “What, no wine? Have you wanted money,
father?”

“I want nothing now that I have you,” said the old man.

“Yet,” stammered Dantes, wiping the perspiration from his
brow, — “yet I gave you two hundred francs when I left,
three months ago.”

“Yes, yes, Edmond, that is true, but you forgot at that time
a little debt to our neighbor, Caderousse. He reminded me of
it, telling me if I did not pay for you, he would be paid by
M. Morrel; and so, you see, lest he might do you an injury”
—

“Well?”

“Why, I paid him.”

“But,” cried Dantes, “it was a hundred and forty francs I
owed Caderousse.”

“Yes,” stammered the old man.

“And you paid him out of the two hundred francs I left you?”

The old man nodded.

“So that you have lived for three months on sixty francs,”
muttered Edmond.

“You know how little I require,” said the old man.

“Heaven pardon me,” cried Edmond, falling on his knees
before his father.

“What are you doing?”

“You have wounded me to the heart.”

“Never mind it, for I see you once more,” said the old man;
“and now it’s all over — everything is all right again.”

“Yes, here I am,” said the young man, “with a promising
future and a little money. Here, father, here!” he said,
“take this — take it, and send for something immediately.”
And he emptied his pockets on the table, the contents
consisting of a dozen gold pieces, five or six five-franc
pieces, and some smaller coin. The countenance of old Dantes
brightened.

“Whom does this belong to?” he inquired.

“To me, to you, to us! Take it; buy some provisions; be
happy, and to-morrow we shall have more.”

“Gently, gently,” said the old man, with a smile; “and by
your leave I will use your purse moderately, for they would
say, if they saw me buy too many things at a time, that I
had been obliged to await your return, in order to be able
to purchase them.”

“Do as you please; but, first of all, pray have a servant,
father. I will not have you left alone so long. I have some
smuggled coffee and most capital tobacco, in a small chest
in the hold, which you shall have to-morrow. But, hush, here
comes somebody.”

“‘Tis Caderousse, who has heard of your arrival, and no
doubt comes to congratulate you on your fortunate return.”

“Ah, lips that say one thing, while the heart thinks
another,” murmured Edmond. “But, never mind, he is a
neighbor who has done us a service on a time, so he’s
welcome.”

As Edmond paused, the black and bearded head of Caderousse
appeared at the door. He was a man of twenty-five or six,
and held a piece of cloth, which, being a tailor, he was
about to make into a coat-lining.

“What, is it you, Edmond, back again?” said he, with a broad
Marseillaise accent, and a grin that displayed his
ivory-white teeth.

“Yes, as you see, neighbor Caderousse; and ready to be
agreeable to you in any and every way,” replied Dantes, but
ill-concealing his coldness under this cloak of civility.

“Thanks — thanks; but, fortunately, I do not want for
anything; and it chances that at times there are others who
have need of me.” Dantes made a gesture. “I do not allude to
you, my boy. No! — no! I lent you money, and you returned
it; that’s like good neighbors, and we are quits.”

“We are never quits with those who oblige us,” was Dantes’
reply; “for when we do not owe them money, we owe them
gratitude.”

“What’s the use of mentioning that? What is done is done.
Let us talk of your happy return, my boy. I had gone on the
quay to match a piece of mulberry cloth, when I met friend
Danglars. `You at Marseilles?’ — `Yes,’ says he.

“`I thought you were at Smyrna.’ — `I was; but am now back
again.’

“`And where is the dear boy, our little Edmond?’

“`Why, with his father, no doubt,’ replied Danglars. And so
I came,” added Caderousse, “as fast as I could to have the
pleasure of shaking hands with a friend.”

“Worthy Caderousse!” said the old man, “he is so much
attached to us.”

“Yes, to be sure I am. I love and esteem you, because honest
folks are so rare. But it seems you have come back rich, my
boy,” continued the tailor, looking askance at the handful
of gold and silver which Dantes had thrown on the table.

The young man remarked the greedy glance which shone in the
dark eyes of his neighbor. “Eh,” he said, negligently. “this
money is not mine. I was expressing to my father my fears
that he had wanted many things in my absence, and to
convince me he emptied his purse on the table. Come, father”
added Dantes, “put this money back in your box — unless
neighbor Caderousse wants anything, and in that case it is
at his service.”

“No, my boy, no,” said Caderousse. “I am not in any want,
thank God, my living is suited to my means. Keep your money
— keep it, I say; — one never has too much; — but, at the
same time, my boy, I am as much obliged by your offer as if
I took advantage of it.”

“It was offered with good will,” said Dantes.

“No doubt, my boy; no doubt. Well, you stand well with M.
Morrel I hear, — you insinuating dog, you!”

“M. Morrel has always been exceedingly kind to me,” replied
Dantes.

“Then you were wrong to refuse to dine with him.”

“What, did you refuse to dine with him?” said old Dantes;
“and did he invite you to dine?”

“Yes, my dear father,” replied Edmond, smiling at his
father’s astonishment at the excessive honor paid to his
son.

“And why did you refuse, my son?” inquired the old man.

“That I might the sooner see you again, my dear father,”
replied the young man. “I was most anxious to see you.”

“But it must have vexed M. Morrel, good, worthy man,” said
Caderousse. “And when you are looking forward to be captain,
it was wrong to annoy the owner.”

“But I explained to him the cause of my refusal,” replied
Dantes, “and I hope he fully understood it.”

“Yes, but to be captain one must do a little flattery to
one’s patrons.”

“I hope to be captain without that,” said Dantes.

“So much the better — so much the better! Nothing will give
greater pleasure to all your old friends; and I know one
down there behind the Saint Nicolas citadel who will not be
sorry to hear it.”

“Mercedes?” said the old man.

“Yes, my dear father, and with your permission, now I have
seen you, and know you are well and have all you require, I
will ask your consent to go and pay a visit to the
Catalans.”

“Go, my dear boy,” said old Dantes: “and heaven bless you in
your wife, as it has blessed me in my son!”

“His wife!” said Caderousse; “why, how fast you go on,
father Dantes; she is not his wife yet, as it seems to me.”

“So, but according to all probability she soon will be,”
replied Edmond.

“Yes — yes,” said Caderousse; “but you were right to return
as soon as possible, my boy.”

“And why?”

“Because Mercedes is a very fine girl, and fine girls never
lack followers; she particularly has them by dozens.”

“Really?” answered Edmond, with a smile which had in it
traces of slight uneasiness.

“Ah, yes,” continued Caderousse, “and capital offers, too;
but you know, you will be captain, and who could refuse you
then?”

“Meaning to say,” replied Dantes, with a smile which but
ill-concealed his trouble, “that if I were not a captain” —

“Eh — eh!” said Caderousse, shaking his head.

“Come, come,” said the sailor, “I have a better opinion than
you of women in general, and of Mercedes in particular; and
I am certain that, captain or not, she will remain ever
faithful to me.”

“So much the better — so much the better,” said Caderousse.
“When one is going to be married, there is nothing like
implicit confidence; but never mind that, my boy, — go and
announce your arrival, and let her know all your hopes and
prospects.”

“I will go directly,” was Edmond’s reply; and, embracing his
father, and nodding to Caderousse, he left the apartment.

Caderousse lingered for a moment, then taking leave of old
Dantes, he went downstairs to rejoin Danglars, who awaited
him at the corner of the Rue Senac.

“Well,” said Danglars, “did you see him?”

“I have just left him,” answered Caderousse.

“Did he allude to his hope of being captain?”

“He spoke of it as a thing already decided.”

“Indeed!” said Danglars, “he is in too much hurry, it
appears to me.”

“Why, it seems M. Morrel has promised him the thing.”

“So that he is quite elated about it?”

“Why, yes, he is actually insolent over the matter — has
already offered me his patronage, as if he were a grand
personage, and proffered me a loan of money, as though he
were a banker.”

“Which you refused?”

“Most assuredly; although I might easily have accepted it,
for it was I who put into his hands the first silver he ever
earned; but now M. Dantes has no longer any occasion for
assistance — he is about to become a captain.”

“Pooh!” said Danglars, “he is not one yet.”

“Ma foi, it will be as well if he is not,” answered
Caderousse; “for if he should be, there will be really no
speaking to him.”

“If we choose,” replied Danglars, “he will remain what he
is; and perhaps become even less than he is.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing — I was speaking to myself. And is he still in
love with the Catalane?”

“Over head and ears; but, unless I am much mistaken, there
will be a storm in that quarter.”

“Explain yourself.”

“Why should I?”

“It is more important than you think, perhaps. You do not
like Dantes?”

“I never like upstarts.”

“Then tell me all you know about the Catalane.”

“I know nothing for certain; only I have seen things which
induce me to believe, as I told you, that the future captain
will find some annoyance in the vicinity of the Vieilles
Infirmeries.”

“What have you seen? — come, tell me!”

“Well, every time I have seen Mercedes come into the city
she has been accompanied by a tall, strapping, black-eyed
Catalan, with a red complexion, brown skin, and fierce air,
whom she calls cousin.”

“Really; and you think this cousin pays her attentions?”

“I only suppose so. What else can a strapping chap of
twenty-one mean with a fine wench of seventeen?”

“And you say that Dantes has gone to the Catalans?”

“He went before I came down.”

“Let us go the same way; we will stop at La Reserve, and we
can drink a glass of La Malgue, whilst we wait for news.”

“Come along,” said Caderousse; “but you pay the score.”

“Of course,” replied Danglars; and going quickly to the
designated place, they called for a bottle of wine, and two
glasses.

Pere Pamphile had seen Dantes pass not ten minutes before;
and assured that he was at the Catalans, they sat down under
the budding foliage of the planes and sycamores, in the
branches of which the birds were singing their welcome to
one of the first days of spring.

Beyond a bare, weather-worn wall, about a hundred paces from
the spot where the two friends sat looking and listening as
they drank their wine, was the village of the Catalans. Long
ago this mysterious colony quitted Spain, and settled on the
tongue of land on which it is to this day. Whence it came no
one knew, and it spoke an unknown tongue. One of its chiefs,
who understood Provencal, begged the commune of Marseilles
to give them this bare and barren promontory, where, like
the sailors of old, they had run their boats ashore. The
request was granted; and three months afterwards, around the
twelve or fifteen small vessels which had brought these
gypsies of the sea, a small village sprang up. This village,
constructed in a singular and picturesque manner, half
Moorish, half Spanish, still remains, and is inhabited by
descendants of the first comers, who speak the language of
their fathers. For three or four centuries they have
remained upon this small promontory, on which they had
settled like a flight of seabirds, without mixing with the
Marseillaise population, intermarrying, and preserving their
original customs and the costume of their mother-country as
they have preserved its language.

Our readers will follow us along the only street of this
little village, and enter with us one of the houses, which
is sunburned to the beautiful dead-leaf color peculiar to
the buildings of the country, and within coated with
whitewash, like a Spanish posada. A young and beautiful
girl, with hair as black as jet, her eyes as velvety as the
gazelle’s, was leaning with her back against the wainscot,
rubbing in her slender delicately moulded fingers a bunch of
heath blossoms, the flowers of which she was picking off and
strewing on the floor; her arms, bare to the elbow, brown,
and modelled after those of the Arlesian Venus, moved with a
kind of restless impatience, and she tapped the earth with
her arched and supple foot, so as to display the pure and
full shape of her well-turned leg, in its red cotton, gray
and blue clocked, stocking. At three paces from her, seated
in a chair which he balanced on two legs, leaning his elbow
on an old worm-eaten table, was a tall young man of twenty,
or two-and-twenty, who was looking at her with an air in
which vexation and uneasiness were mingled. He questioned
her with his eyes, but the firm and steady gaze of the young
girl controlled his look.

“You see, Mercedes,” said the young man, “here is Easter
come round again; tell me, is this the moment for a
wedding?”

“I have answered you a hundred times, Fernand, and really
you must be very stupid to ask me again.”

“Well, repeat it, — repeat it, I beg of you, that I may at
last believe it! Tell me for the hundredth time that you
refuse my love, which had your mother’s sanction. Make me
understand once for all that you are trifling with my
happiness, that my life or death are nothing to you. Ah, to
have dreamed for ten years of being your husband, Mercedes,
and to lose that hope, which was the only stay of my
existence!”

“At least it was not I who ever encouraged you in that hope,
Fernand,” replied Mercedes; “you cannot reproach me with the
slightest coquetry. I have always said to you, `I love you
as a brother; but do not ask from me more than sisterly
affection, for my heart is another’s.’ Is not this true,
Fernand?”

“Yes, that is very true, Mercedes,” replied the young man,
“Yes, you have been cruelly frank with me; but do you forget
that it is among the Catalans a sacred law to intermarry?”

“You mistake, Fernand; it is not a law, but merely a custom,
and, I pray of you, do not cite this custom in your favor.
You are included in the conscription, Fernand, and are only
at liberty on sufferance, liable at any moment to be called
upon to take up arms. Once a soldier, what would you do with
me, a poor orphan, forlorn, without fortune, with nothing
but a half-ruined hut and a few ragged nets, the miserable
inheritance left by my father to my mother, and by my mother
to me? She has been dead a year, and you know, Fernand, I
have subsisted almost entirely on public charity. Sometimes
you pretend I am useful to you, and that is an excuse to
share with me the produce of your fishing, and I accept it,
Fernand, because you are the son of my father’s brother,
because we were brought up together, and still more because
it would give you so much pain if I refuse. But I feel very
deeply that this fish which I go and sell, and with the
produce of which I buy the flax I spin, — I feel very
keenly, Fernand, that this is charity.”

“And if it were, Mercedes, poor and lone as you are, you
suit me as well as the daughter of the first shipowner or
the richest banker of Marseilles! What do such as we desire
but a good wife and careful housekeeper, and where can I
look for these better than in you?”

“Fernand,” answered Mercedes, shaking her head, “a woman
becomes a bad manager, and who shall say she will remain an
honest woman, when she loves another man better than her
husband? Rest content with my friendship, for I say once
more that is all I can promise, and I will promise no more
than I can bestow.”

“I understand,” replied Fernand, “you can endure your own
wretchedness patiently, but you are afraid to share mine.
Well, Mercedes, beloved by you, I would tempt fortune; you
would bring me good luck, and I should become rich. I could
extend my occupation as a fisherman, might get a place as
clerk in a warehouse, and become in time a dealer myself.”

“You could do no such thing, Fernand; you are a soldier, and
if you remain at the Catalans it is because there is no war;
so remain a fisherman, and contented with my friendship, as
I cannot give you more.”

“Well, I will do better, Mercedes. I will be a sailor;
instead of the costume of our fathers, which you despise, I
will wear a varnished hat, a striped shirt, and a blue
jacket, with an anchor on the buttons. Would not that dress
please you?”

“What do you mean?” asked Mercedes, with an angry glance, —
“what do you mean? I do not understand you?”

“I mean, Mercedes, that you are thus harsh and cruel with
me, because you are expecting some one who is thus attired;
but perhaps he whom you await is inconstant, or if he is
not, the sea is so to him.”

“Fernand,” cried Mercedes, “I believed you were
good-hearted, and I was mistaken! Fernand, you are wicked to
call to your aid jealousy and the anger of God! Yes, I will
not deny it, I do await, and I do love him of whom you
speak; and, if he does not return, instead of accusing him
of the inconstancy which you insinuate, I will tell you that
he died loving me and me only.” The young girl made a
gesture of rage. “I understand you, Fernand; you would be
revenged on him because I do not love you; you would cross
your Catalan knife with his dirk. What end would that
answer? To lose you my friendship if he were conquered, and
see that friendship changed into hate if you were victor.
Believe me, to seek a quarrel with a man is a bad method of
pleasing the woman who loves that man. No, Fernand, you will
not thus give way to evil thoughts. Unable to have me for
your wife, you will content yourself with having me for your
friend and sister; and besides,” she added, her eyes
troubled and moistened with tears, “wait, wait, Fernand; you
said just now that the sea was treacherous, and he has been
gone four months, and during these four months there have
been some terrible storms.”

Fernand made no reply, nor did he attempt to check the tears
which flowed down the cheeks of Mercedes, although for each
of these tears he would have shed his heart’s blood; but
these tears flowed for another. He arose, paced a while up
and down the hut, and then, suddenly stopping before
Mercedes, with his eyes glowing and his hands clinched, —
“Say, Mercedes,” he said, “once for all, is this your final
determination?”

“I love Edmond Dantes,” the young girl calmly replied, “and
none but Edmond shall ever be my husband.”

“And you will always love him?”

“As long as I live.”

Fernand let fall his head like a defeated man, heaved a sigh
that was like a groan, and then suddenly looking her full in
the face, with clinched teeth and expanded nostrils, said,
— “But if he is dead” —

“If he is dead, I shall die too.”

“If he has forgotten you” —

“Mercedes!” called a joyous voice from without, —
“Mercedes!”

“Ah,” exclaimed the young girl, blushing with delight, and
fairly leaping in excess of love, “you see he has not
forgotten me, for here he is!” And rushing towards the door,
she opened it, saying, “Here, Edmond, here I am!”

Fernand, pale and trembling, drew back, like a traveller at
the sight of a serpent, and fell into a chair beside him.
Edmond and Mercedes were clasped in each other’s arms. The
burning Marseilles sun, which shot into the room through the
open door, covered them with a flood of light. At first they
saw nothing around them. Their intense happiness isolated
them from all the rest of the world, and they only spoke in
broken words, which are the tokens of a joy so extreme that
they seem rather the expression of sorrow. Suddenly Edmond
saw the gloomy, pale, and threatening countenance of
Fernand, as it was defined in the shadow. By a movement for
which he could scarcely account to himself, the young
Catalan placed his hand on the knife at his belt.

“Ah, your pardon,” said Dantes, frowning in his turn; “I did
not perceive that there were three of us.” Then, turning to
Mercedes, he inquired, “Who is this gentleman?”

“One who will be your best friend, Dantes, for he is my
friend, my cousin, my brother; it is Fernand — the man
whom, after you, Edmond, I love the best in the world. Do
you not remember him?”

“Yes!” said Dantes, and without relinquishing Mercedes hand
clasped in one of his own, he extended the other to the
Catalan with a cordial air. But Fernand, instead of
responding to this amiable gesture, remained mute and
trembling. Edmond then cast his eyes scrutinizingly at the
agitated and embarrassed Mercedes, and then again on the
gloomy and menacing Fernand. This look told him all, and his
anger waxed hot.

“I did not know, when I came with such haste to you, that I
was to meet an enemy here.”

“An enemy!” cried Mercedes, with an angry look at her
cousin. “An enemy in my house, do you say, Edmond! If I
believed that, I would place my arm under yours and go with
you to Marseilles, leaving the house to return to it no
more.”

Fernand’s eye darted lightning. “And should any misfortune
occur to you, dear Edmond,” she continued with the same
calmness which proved to Fernand that the young girl had
read the very innermost depths of his sinister thought, “if
misfortune should occur to you, I would ascend the highest
point of the Cape de Morgion and cast myself headlong from
it.”

Fernand became deadly pale. “But you are deceived, Edmond,”
she continued. “You have no enemy here — there is no one
but Fernand, my brother, who will grasp your hand as a
devoted friend.”

And at these words the young girl fixed her imperious look
on the Catalan, who, as if fascinated by it, came slowly
towards Edmond, and offered him his hand. His hatred, like a
powerless though furious wave, was broken against the strong
ascendancy which Mercedes exercised over him. Scarcely,
however, had he touched Edmond’s hand than he felt he had
done all he could do, and rushed hastily out of the house.

“Oh,” he exclaimed, running furiously and tearing his hair
— “Oh, who will deliver me from this man? Wretched —
wretched that I am!”

“Hallo, Catalan! Hallo, Fernand! where are you running to?”
exclaimed a voice.

The young man stopped suddenly, looked around him, and
perceived Caderousse sitting at table with Danglars, under
an arbor.

“Well”, said Caderousse, “why don’t you come? Are you really
in such a hurry that you have no time to pass the time of
day with your friends?”

“Particularly when they have still a full bottle before
them,” added Danglars. Fernand looked at them both with a
stupefied air, but did not say a word.

“He seems besotted,” said Danglars, pushing Caderousse with
his knee. “Are we mistaken, and is Dantes triumphant in
spite of all we have believed?”

“Why, we must inquire into that,” was Caderousse’s reply;
and turning towards the young man, said, “Well, Catalan,
can’t you make up your mind?”

Fernand wiped away the perspiration steaming from his brow,
and slowly entered the arbor, whose shade seemed to restore
somewhat of calmness to his senses, and whose coolness
somewhat of refreshment to his exhausted body.

“Good-day,” said he. “You called me, didn’t you?” And he
fell, rather than sat down, on one of the seats which
surrounded the table.

“I called you because you were running like a madman, and I
was afraid you would throw yourself into the sea,” said
Caderousse, laughing. “Why, when a man has friends, they are
not only to offer him a glass of wine, but, moreover, to
prevent his swallowing three or four pints of water
unnecessarily!”

Fernand gave a groan, which resembled a sob, and dropped his
head into his hands, his elbows leaning on the table.

“Well, Fernand, I must say,” said Caderousse, beginning the
conversation, with that brutality of the common people in
which curiosity destroys all diplomacy, “you look uncommonly
like a rejected lover;” and he burst into a hoarse laugh.

“Bah!” said Danglars, “a lad of his make was not born to be
unhappy in love. You are laughing at him, Caderousse.”

“No,” he replied, “only hark how he sighs! Come, come,
Fernand,” said Caderousse, “hold up your head, and answer
us. It’s not polite not to reply to friends who ask news of
your health.”

“My health is well enough,” said Fernand, clinching his
hands without raising his head.

“Ah, you see, Danglars,” said Caderousse, winking at his
friend, “this is how it is; Fernand, whom you see here, is a
good and brave Catalan, one of the best fishermen in
Marseilles, and he is in love with a very fine girl, named
Mercedes; but it appears, unfortunately, that the fine girl
is in love with the mate of the Pharaon; and as the Pharaon
arrived to-day — why, you understand!”

“No; I do not understand,” said Danglars.

“Poor Fernand has been dismissed,” continued Caderousse.

“Well, and what then?” said Fernand, lifting up his head,
and looking at Caderousse like a man who looks for some one
on whom to vent his anger; “Mercedes is not accountable to
any person, is she? Is she not free to love whomsoever she
will?”

“Oh, if you take it in that sense,” said Caderousse, “it is
another thing. But I thought you were a Catalan, and they
told me the Catalans were not men to allow themselves to be
supplanted by a rival. It was even told me that Fernand,
especially, was terrible in his vengeance.”

Fernand smiled piteously. “A lover is never terrible,” he
said.

“Poor fellow!” remarked Danglars, affecting to pity the
young man from the bottom of his heart. “Why, you see, he
did not expect to see Dantes return so suddenly — he
thought he was dead, perhaps; or perchance faithless! These
things always come on us more severely when they come
suddenly.”

“Ah, ma foi, under any circumstances,” said Caderousse, who
drank as he spoke, and on whom the fumes of the wine began
to take effect, — “under any circumstances Fernand is not
the only person put out by the fortunate arrival of Dantes;
is he, Danglars?”

“No, you are right — and I should say that would bring him
ill-luck.”

“Well, never mind,” answered Caderousse, pouring out a glass
of wine for Fernand, and filling his own for the eighth or
ninth time, while Danglars had merely sipped his. “Never
mind — in the meantime he marries Mercedes — the lovely
Mercedes — at least he returns to do that.”

During this time Danglars fixed his piercing glance on the
young man, on whose heart Caderousse’s words fell like
molten lead.

“And when is the wedding to be?” he asked.

“Oh, it is not yet fixed!” murmured Fernand.

“No, but it will be,” said Caderousse, “as surely as Dantes
will be captain of the Pharaon — eh, Danglars?”

Danglars shuddered at this unexpected attack, and turned to
Caderousse, whose countenance he scrutinized, to try and
detect whether the blow was premeditated; but he read
nothing but envy in a countenance already rendered brutal
and stupid by drunkenness.

“Well,” said he, filling the glasses, “let us drink to
Captain Edmond Dantes, husband of the beautiful Catalane!”

Caderousse raised his glass to his mouth with unsteady hand,
and swallowed the contents at a gulp. Fernand dashed his on
the ground.

“Eh, eh, eh!” stammered Caderousse. “What do I see down
there by the wall, in the direction of the Catalans? Look,
Fernand, your eyes are better than mine. I believe I see
double. You know wine is a deceiver; but I should say it was
two lovers walking side by side, and hand in hand. Heaven
forgive me, they do not know that we can see them, and they
are actually embracing!”

Danglars did not lose one pang that Fernand endured.

“Do you know them, Fernand?” he said.

“Yes,” was the reply, in a low voice. “It is Edmond and
Mercedes!”

“Ah, see there, now!” said Caderousse; “and I did not
recognize them! Hallo, Dantes! hello, lovely damsel! Come
this way, and let us know when the wedding is to be, for
Fernand here is so obstinate he will not tell us.”

“Hold your tongue, will you?” said Danglars, pretending to
restrain Caderousse, who, with the tenacity of drunkards,
leaned out of the arbor. “Try to stand upright, and let the
lovers make love without interruption. See, look at Fernand,
and follow his example; he is well-behaved!”

Fernand, probably excited beyond bearing, pricked by
Danglars, as the bull is by the bandilleros, was about to
rush out; for he had risen from his seat, and seemed to be
collecting himself to dash headlong upon his rival, when
Mercedes, smiling and graceful, lifted up her lovely head,
and looked at them with her clear and bright eyes. At this
Fernand recollected her threat of dying if Edmond died, and
dropped again heavily on his seat. Danglars looked at the
two men, one after the other, the one brutalized by liquor,
the other overwhelmed with love.

“I shall get nothing from these fools,” he muttered; “and I
am very much afraid of being here between a drunkard and a
coward. Here’s an envious fellow making himself boozy on
wine when he ought to be nursing his wrath, and here is a
fool who sees the woman he loves stolen from under his nose
and takes on like a big baby. Yet this Catalan has eyes that
glisten like those of the vengeful Spaniards, Sicilians, and
Calabrians, and the other has fists big enough to crush an
ox at one blow. Unquestionably, Edmond’s star is in the
ascendant, and he will marry the splendid girl — he will be
captain, too, and laugh at us all, unless” — a sinister
smile passed over Danglars’ lips — “unless I take a hand in
the affair,” he added.

“Hallo!” continued Caderousse, half-rising, and with his
fist on the table, “hallo, Edmond! do you not see your
friends, or are you too proud to speak to them?”

“No, my dear fellow!” replied Dantes, “I am not proud, but I
am happy, and happiness blinds, I think, more than pride.”

“Ah, very well, that’s an explanation!” said Caderousse.
“How do you do, Madame Dantes?”

Mercedes courtesied gravely, and said — “That is not my
name, and in my country it bodes ill fortune, they say, to
call a young girl by the name of her betrothed before he
becomes her husband. So call me Mercedes, if you please.”

“We must excuse our worthy neighbor, Caderousse,” said
Dantes, “he is so easily mistaken.”

“So, then, the wedding is to take place immediately, M.
Dantes,” said Danglars, bowing to the young couple.

“As soon as possible, M. Danglars; to-day all preliminaries
will be arranged at my father’s, and to-morrow, or next day
at latest, the wedding festival here at La Reserve. My
friends will be there, I hope; that is to say, you are
invited, M. Danglars, and you, Caderousse.”

“And Fernand,” said Caderousse with a chuckle; “Fernand,
too, is invited!”

“My wife’s brother is my brother,” said Edmond; “and we,
Mercedes and I, should be very sorry if he were absent at
such a time.”

Fernand opened his mouth to reply, but his voice died on his
lips, and he could not utter a word.

“To-day the preliminaries, to-morrow or next day the
ceremony! You are in a hurry, captain!”

“Danglars,” said Edmond, smiling, “I will say to you as
Mercedes said just now to Caderousse, `Do not give me a
title which does not belong to me’; that may bring me bad
luck.”

“Your pardon,” replied Danglars, “I merely said you seemed
in a hurry, and we have lots of time; the Pharaon cannot be
under weigh again in less than three months.”

“We are always in a hurry to be happy, M. Danglars; for when
we have suffered a long time, we have great difficulty in
believing in good fortune. But it is not selfishness alone
that makes me thus in haste; I must go to Paris.”

“Ah, really? — to Paris! and will it be the first time you
have ever been there, Dantes?”

“Yes.”

“Have you business there?”

“Not of my own; the last commission of poor Captain Leclere;
you know to what I allude, Danglars — it is sacred.
Besides, I shall only take the time to go and return.”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” said Danglars, and then in a low
tone, he added, “To Paris, no doubt to deliver the letter
which the grand marshal gave him. Ah, this letter gives me
an idea — a capital idea! Ah; Dantes, my friend, you are
not yet registered number one on board the good ship
Pharaon;” then turning towards Edmond, who was walking away,
“A pleasant journey,” he cried.

“Thank you,” said Edmond with a friendly nod, and the two
lovers continued on their way, as calm and joyous as if they
were the very elect of heaven.

Danglars followed Edmond and Mercedes with his eyes until
the two lovers disappeared behind one of the angles of Fort
Saint Nicolas, then turning round, he perceived Fernand, who
had fallen, pale and trembling, into his chair, while
Caderousse stammered out the words of a drinking-song.

“Well, my dear sir,” said Danglars to Fernand, “here is a
marriage which does not appear to make everybody happy.”

“It drives me to despair,” said Fernand.

“Do you, then, love Mercedes?”

“I adore her!”

“For long?”

“As long as I have known her — always.”

“And you sit there, tearing your hair, instead of seeking to
remedy your condition; I did not think that was the way of
your people.”

“What would you have me do?” said Fernand.

“How do I know? Is it my affair? I am not in love with
Mademoiselle Mercedes; but for you — in the words of the
gospel, seek, and you shall find.”

“I have found already.”

“What?”

“I would stab the man, but the woman told me that if any
misfortune happened to her betrothed, she would kill
herself.”

“Pooh! Women say those things, but never do them.”

“You do not know Mercedes; what she threatens she will do.”

“Idiot!” muttered Danglars; “whether she kill herself or
not, what matter, provided Dantes is not captain?”

“Before Mercedes should die,” replied Fernand, with the
accents of unshaken resolution, “I would die myself!”

“That’s what I call love!” said Caderousse with a voice more
tipsy than ever. “That’s love, or I don’t know what love
is.”

“Come,” said Danglars, “you appear to me a good sort of
fellow, and hang me, I should like to help you, but” —

“Yes,” said Caderousse, “but how?”

“My dear fellow,” replied Danglars, “you are three parts
drunk; finish the bottle, and you will be completely so.
Drink then, and do not meddle with what we are discussing,
for that requires all one’s wit and cool judgment.”

“I — drunk!” said Caderousse; “well that’s a good one! I
could drink four more such bottles; they are no bigger than
cologne flasks. Pere Pamphile, more wine!” and Caderousse
rattled his glass upon the table.

“You were saying, sir” — said Fernand, awaiting with great
anxiety the end of this interrupted remark.

“What was I saying? I forget. This drunken Caderousse has
made me lose the thread of my sentence.”

“Drunk, if you like; so much the worse for those who fear
wine, for it is because they have bad thoughts which they
are afraid the liquor will extract from their hearts;” and
Caderousse began to sing the two last lines of a song very
popular at the time, —

`Tous les mechants sont beuveurs d’eau;
C’est bien prouve par le deluge.’*

* “The wicked are great drinkers of water
As the flood proved once for all.”

“You said, sir, you would like to help me, but” —

“Yes; but I added, to help you it would be sufficient that
Dantes did not marry her you love; and the marriage may
easily be thwarted, methinks, and yet Dantes need not die.”

“Death alone can separate them,” remarked Fernand.

“You talk like a noodle, my friend,” said Caderousse; “and
here is Danglars, who is a wide-awake, clever, deep fellow,
who will prove to you that you are wrong. Prove it,
Danglars. I have answered for you. Say there is no need why
Dantes should die; it would, indeed, be a pity he should.
Dantes is a good fellow; I like Dantes. Dantes, your
health.”

Fernand rose impatiently. “Let him run on,” said Danglars,
restraining the young man; “drunk as he is, he is not much
out in what he says. Absence severs as well as death, and if
the walls of a prison were between Edmond and Mercedes they
would be as effectually separated as if he lay under a
tombstone.”

“Yes; but one gets out of prison,” said Caderousse, who,
with what sense was left him, listened eagerly to the
conversation, “and when one gets out and one’s name is
Edmond Dantes, one seeks revenge” —

“What matters that?” muttered Fernand.

“And why, I should like to know,” persisted Caderousse,
“should they put Dantes in prison? he has not robbed or
killed or murdered.”

“Hold your tongue!” said Danglars.

“I won’t hold my tongue!” replied Caderousse; “I say I want
to know why they should put Dantes in prison; I like Dantes;
Dantes, your health!” and he swallowed another glass of
wine.

Danglars saw in the muddled look of the tailor the progress
of his intoxication, and turning towards Fernand, said,
“Well, you understand there is no need to kill him.”

“Certainly not, if, as you said just now, you have the means
of having Dantes arrested. Have you that means?”

“It is to be found for the searching. But why should I
meddle in the matter? it is no affair of mine.”

“I know not why you meddle,” said Fernand, seizing his arm;
“but this I know, you have some motive of personal hatred
against Dantes, for he who himself hates is never mistaken
in the sentiments of others.”

“I! — motives of hatred against Dantes? None, on my word! I
saw you were unhappy, and your unhappiness interested me;
that’s all; but since you believe I act for my own account,
adieu, my dear friend, get out of the affair as best you
may;” and Danglars rose as if he meant to depart.

“No, no,” said Fernand, restraining him, “stay! It is of
very little consequence to me at the end of the matter
whether you have any angry feeling or not against Dantes. I
hate him! I confess it openly. Do you find the means, I will
execute it, provided it is not to kill the man, for Mercedes
has declared she will kill herself if Dantes is killed.”

Caderousse, who had let his head drop on the table, now
raised it, and looking at Fernand with his dull and fishy
eyes, he said, — “Kill Dantes! who talks of killing Dantes?
I won’t have him killed — I won’t! He’s my friend, and this
morning offered to share his money with me, as I shared mine
with him. I won’t have Dantes killed — I won’t!”

“And who has said a word about killing him, muddlehead?”
replied Danglars. “We were merely joking; drink to his
health,” he added, filling Caderousse’s glass, “and do not
interfere with us.”

“Yes, yes, Dantes’ good health!” said Caderousse, emptying
his glass, “here’s to his health! his health — hurrah!”

“But the means — the means?” said Fernand.

“Have you not hit upon any?” asked Danglars.

“No! — you undertook to do so.”

“True,” replied Danglars; “the French have the superiority
over the Spaniards, that the Spaniards ruminate, while the
French invent.”

“Do you invent, then,” said Fernand impatiently.

“Waiter,” said Danglars, “pen, ink, and paper.”

“Pen, ink, and paper,” muttered Fernand.

“Yes; I am a supercargo; pen, ink, and paper are my tools,
and without my tools I am fit for nothing.”

“Pen, ink, and paper, then,” called Fernand loudly.

“There’s what you want on that table,” said the waiter.

“Bring them here.” The waiter did as he was desired.

“When one thinks,” said Caderousse, letting his hand drop on
the paper, “there is here wherewithal to kill a man more
sure than if we waited at the corner of a wood to
assassinate him! I have always had more dread of a pen, a
bottle of ink, and a sheet of paper, than of a sword or
pistol.”

“The fellow is not so drunk as he appears to be,” said
Danglars. “Give him some more wine, Fernand.” Fernand filled
Caderousse’s glass, who, like the confirmed toper he was,
lifted his hand from the paper and seized the glass.

The Catalan watched him until Caderousse, almost overcome by
this fresh assault on his senses, rested, or rather dropped,
his glass upon the table.

“Well!” resumed the Catalan, as he saw the final glimmer of
Caderousse’s reason vanishing before the last glass of wine.

“Well, then, I should say, for instance,” resumed Danglars,
“that if after a voyage such as Dantes has just made, in
which he touched at the Island of Elba, some one were to
denounce him to the king’s procureur as a Bonapartist agent”
—

“I will denounce him!” exclaimed the young man hastily.

“Yes, but they will make you then sign your declaration, and
confront you with him you have denounced; I will supply you
with the means of supporting your accusation, for I know the
fact well. But Dantes cannot remain forever in prison, and
one day or other he will leave it, and the day when he comes
out, woe betide him who was the cause of his incarceration!”

“Oh, I should wish nothing better than that he would come
and seek a quarrel with me.”

“Yes, and Mercedes! Mercedes, who will detest you if you
have only the misfortune to scratch the skin of her dearly
beloved Edmond!”

“True!” said Fernand.

“No, no,” continued Danglars; “if we resolve on such a step,
it would be much better to take, as I now do, this pen, dip
it into this ink, and write with the left hand (that the
writing may not be recognized) the denunciation we propose.”
And Danglars, uniting practice with theory, wrote with his
left hand, and in a writing reversed from his usual style,
and totally unlike it, the following lines, which he handed
to Fernand, and which Fernand read in an undertone: —

“The honorable, the king’s attorney, is informed by a friend
of the throne and religion, that one Edmond Dantes, mate of
the ship Pharaon, arrived this morning from Smyrna, after
having touched at Naples and Porto-Ferrajo, has been
intrusted by Murat with a letter for the usurper, and by the
usurper with a letter for the Bonapartist committee in
Paris. Proof of this crime will be found on arresting him,
for the letter will be found upon him, or at his father’s,
or in his cabin on board the Pharaon.”

“Very good,” resumed Danglars; “now your revenge looks like
common-sense, for in no way can it revert to yourself, and
the matter will thus work its own way; there is nothing to
do now but fold the letter as I am doing, and write upon it,
`To the king’s attorney,’ and that’s all settled.” And
Danglars wrote the address as he spoke.

“Yes, and that’s all settled!” exclaimed Caderousse, who, by
a last effort of intellect, had followed the reading of the
letter, and instinctively comprehended all the misery which
such a denunciation must entail. “Yes, and that’s all
settled; only it will be an infamous shame;” and he
stretched out his hand to reach the letter.

“Yes,” said Danglars, taking it from beyond his reach; “and
as what I say and do is merely in jest, and I, amongst the
first and foremost, should be sorry if anything happened to
Dantes — the worthy Dantes — look here!” And taking the
letter, he squeezed it up in his hands and threw it into a
corner of the arbor.

“All right!” said Caderousse. “Dantes is my friend, and I
won’t have him ill-used.”

“And who thinks of using him ill? Certainly neither I nor
Fernand,” said Danglars, rising and looking at the young
man, who still remained seated, but whose eye was fixed on
the denunciatory sheet of paper flung into the corner.

“In this case,” replied Caderousse, “let’s have some more
wine. I wish to drink to the health of Edmond and the lovely
Mercedes.”

“You have had too much already, drunkard,” said Danglars;
“and if you continue, you will be compelled to sleep here,
because unable to stand on your legs.”

“I?” said Caderousse, rising with all the offended dignity
of a drunken man, “I can’t keep on my legs? Why, I’ll wager
I can go up into the belfry of the Accoules, and without
staggering, too!”

“Done!” said Danglars, “I’ll take your bet; but to-morrow —
to-day it is time to return. Give me your arm, and let us
go.”

“Very well, let us go,” said Caderousse; “but I don’t want
your arm at all. Come, Fernand, won’t you return to
Marseilles with us?”

“No,” said Fernand; “I shall return to the Catalans.”

“You’re wrong. Come with us to Marseilles — come along.”

“I will not.”

“What do you mean? you will not? Well, just as you like, my
prince; there’s liberty for all the world. Come along,
Danglars, and let the young gentleman return to the Catalans
if he chooses.”

Danglars took advantage of Caderousse’s temper at the
moment, to take him off towards Marseilles by the Porte
Saint-Victor, staggering as he went.

When they had advanced about twenty yards, Danglars looked
back and saw Fernand stoop, pick up the crumpled paper, and
putting it into his pocket then rush out of the arbor
towards Pillon.

“Well,” said Caderousse, “why, what a lie he told! He said
he was going to the Catalans, and he is going to the city.
Hallo, Fernand!”

“Oh, you don’t see straight,” said Danglars; “he’s gone
right enough.”

“Well,” said Caderousse, “I should have said not — how
treacherous wine is!”

“Come, come,” said Danglars to himself, “now the thing is at
work and it will effect its purpose unassisted.”

The morning’s sun rose clear and resplendent, touching the
foamy waves into a network of ruby-tinted light.

The feast had been made ready on the second floor at La
Reserve, with whose arbor the reader is already familiar.
The apartment destined for the purpose was spacious and
lighted by a number of windows, over each of which was
written in golden letters for some inexplicable reason the
name of one of the principal cities of France; beneath these
windows a wooden balcony extended the entire length of the
house. And although the entertainment was fixed for twelve
o’clock, an hour previous to that time the balcony was
filled with impatient and expectant guests, consisting of
the favored part of the crew of the Pharaon, and other
personal friends of the bride-groom, the whole of whom had
arrayed themselves in their choicest costumes, in order to
do greater honor to the occasion.

Various rumors were afloat to the effect that the owners of
the Pharaon had promised to attend the nuptial feast; but
all seemed unanimous in doubting that an act of such rare
and exceeding condescension could possibly be intended.

Danglars, however, who now made his appearance, accompanied
by Caderousse, effectually confirmed the report, stating
that he had recently conversed with M. Morrel, who had
himself assured him of his intention to dine at La Reserve.

In fact, a moment later M. Morrel appeared and was saluted
with an enthusiastic burst of applause from the crew of the
Pharaon, who hailed the visit of the shipowner as a sure
indication that the man whose wedding feast he thus
delighted to honor would ere long be first in command of the
ship; and as Dantes was universally beloved on board his
vessel, the sailors put no restraint on their tumultuous joy
at finding that the opinion and choice of their superiors so
exactly coincided with their own.

With the entrance of M. Morrel, Danglars and Caderousse were
despatched in search of the bride-groom to convey to him the
intelligence of the arrival of the important personage whose
coming had created such a lively sensation, and to beseech
him to make haste.

Danglars and Caderousse set off upon their errand at full
speed; but ere they had gone many steps they perceived a
group advancing towards them, composed of the betrothed
pair, a party of young girls in attendance on the bride, by
whose side walked Dantes’ father; the whole brought up by
Fernand, whose lips wore their usual sinister smile.

Neither Mercedes nor Edmond observed the strange expression
of his countenance; they were so happy that they were
conscious only of the sunshine and the presence of each
other.

Having acquitted themselves of their errand, and exchanged a
hearty shake of the hand with Edmond, Danglars and
Caderousse took their places beside Fernand and old Dantes,
— the latter of whom attracted universal notice. The old
man was attired in a suit of glistening watered silk,
trimmed with steel buttons, beautifully cut and polished.
His thin but wiry legs were arrayed in a pair of richly
embroidered clocked stockings, evidently of English
manufacture, while from his three-cornered hat depended a
long streaming knot of white and blue ribbons. Thus he came
along, supporting himself on a curiously carved stick, his
aged countenance lit up with happiness, looking for all the
world like one of the aged dandies of 1796, parading the
newly opened gardens of the Tuileries and Luxembourg. Beside
him glided Caderousse, whose desire to partake of the good
things provided for the wedding-party had induced him to
become reconciled to the Dantes, father and son, although
there still lingered in his mind a faint and unperfect
recollection of the events of the preceding night; just as
the brain retains on waking in the morning the dim and misty
outline of a dream.

As Danglars approached the disappointed lover, he cast on
him a look of deep meaning, while Fernand, as he slowly
paced behind the happy pair, who seemed, in their own
unmixed content, to have entirely forgotten that such a
being as himself existed, was pale and abstracted;
occasionally, however, a deep flush would overspread his
countenance, and a nervous contraction distort his features,
while, with an agitated and restless gaze, he would glance
in the direction of Marseilles, like one who either
anticipated or foresaw some great and important event.

Dantes himself was simply, but becomingly, clad in the dress
peculiar to the merchant service — a costume somewhat
between a military and a civil garb; and with his fine
countenance, radiant with joy and happiness, a more perfect
specimen of manly beauty could scarcely be imagined.

Lovely as the Greek girls of Cyprus or Chios, Mercedes
boasted the same bright flashing eyes of jet, and ripe,
round, coral lips. She moved with the light, free step of an
Arlesienne or an Andalusian. One more practiced in the arts
of great cities would have hid her blushes beneath a veil,
or, at least, have cast down her thickly fringed lashes, so
as to have concealed the liquid lustre of her animated eyes;
but, on the contrary, the delighted girl looked around her
with a smile that seemed to say: “If you are my friends,
rejoice with me, for I am very happy.”

As soon as the bridal party came in sight of La Reserve, M.
Morrel descended and came forth to meet it, followed by the
soldiers and sailors there assembled, to whom he had
repeated the promise already given, that Dantes should be
the successor to the late Captain Leclere. Edmond, at the
approach of his patron, respectfully placed the arm of his
affianced bride within that of M. Morrel, who, forthwith
conducting her up the flight of wooden steps leading to the
chamber in which the feast was prepared, was gayly followed
by the guests, beneath whose heavy tread the slight
structure creaked and groaned for the space of several
minutes.

“Father,” said Mercedes, stopping when she had reached the
centre of the table, “sit, I pray you, on my right hand; on
my left I will place him who has ever been as a brother to
me,” pointing with a soft and gentle smile to Fernand; but
her words and look seemed to inflict the direst torture on
him, for his lips became ghastly pale, and even beneath the
dark hue of his complexion the blood might be seen
retreating as though some sudden pang drove it back to the
heart.

During this time, Dantes, at the opposite side of the table,
had been occupied in similarly placing his most honored
guests. M. Morrel was seated at his right hand, Danglars at
his left; while, at a sign from Edmond, the rest of the
company ranged themselves as they found it most agreeable.

Then they began to pass around the dusky, piquant, Arlesian
sausages, and lobsters in their dazzling red cuirasses,
prawns of large size and brilliant color, the echinus with
its prickly outside and dainty morsel within, the clovis,
esteemed by the epicures of the South as more than rivalling
the exquisite flavor of the oyster, — all the delicacies,
in fact, that are cast up by the wash of waters on the sandy
beach, and styled by the grateful fishermen “fruits of the
sea.”

“A pretty silence truly!” said the old father of the
bride-groom, as he carried to his lips a glass of wine of
the hue and brightness of the topaz, and which had just been
placed before Mercedes herself. “Now, would anybody think
that this room contained a happy, merry party, who desire
nothing better than to laugh and dance the hours away?”

“Ah,” sighed Caderousse, “a man cannot always feel happy
because he is about to be married.”

“The truth is,” replied Dantes, “that I am too happy for
noisy mirth; if that is what you meant by your observation,
my worthy friend, you are right; joy takes a strange effect
at times, it seems to oppress us almost the same as sorrow.”

Danglars looked towards Fernand, whose excitable nature
received and betrayed each fresh impression.

“Why, what ails you?” asked he of Edmond. “Do you fear any
approaching evil? I should say that you were the happiest
man alive at this instant.”

“And that is the very thing that alarms me,” returned
Dantes. “Man does not appear to me to be intended to enjoy
felicity so unmixed; happiness is like the enchanted palaces
we read of in our childhood, where fierce, fiery dragons
defend the entrance and approach; and monsters of all shapes
and kinds, requiring to be overcome ere victory is ours. I
own that I am lost in wonder to find myself promoted to an
honor of which I feel myself unworthy — that of being the
husband of Mercedes.”

“Nay, nay!” cried Caderousse, smiling, “you have not
attained that honor yet. Mercedes is not yet your wife. Just
assume the tone and manner of a husband, and see how she
will remind you that your hour is not yet come!”

The bride blushed, while Fernand, restless and uneasy,
seemed to start at every fresh sound, and from time to time
wiped away the large drops of perspiration that gathered on
his brow.

“Well, never mind that, neighbor Caderousse; it is not worth
while to contradict me for such a trifle as that. ‘Tis true
that Mercedes is not actually my wife; but,” added he,
drawing out his watch, “in an hour and a half she will be.”

A general exclamation of surprise ran round the table, with
the exception of the elder Dantes, whose laugh displayed the
still perfect beauty of his large white teeth. Mercedes
looked pleased and gratified, while Fernand grasped the
handle of his knife with a convulsive clutch.

“In an hour?” inquired Danglars, turning pale. “How is that,
my friend?”

“Why, thus it is,” replied Dantes. “Thanks to the influence
of M. Morrel, to whom, next to my father, I owe every
blessing I enjoy, every difficulty his been removed. We have
purchased permission to waive the usual delay; and at
half-past two o’clock the mayor of Marseilles will be
waiting for us at the city hall. Now, as a quarter-past one
has already struck, I do not consider I have asserted too
much in saying, that, in another hour and thirty minutes
Mercedes will have become Madame Dantes.”

Fernand closed his eyes, a burning sensation passed across
his brow, and he was compelled to support himself by the
table to prevent his falling from his chair; but in spite of
all his efforts, he could not refrain from uttering a deep
groan, which, however, was lost amid the noisy felicitations
of the company.

“Upon my word,” cried the old man, “you make short work of
this kind of affair. Arrived here only yesterday morning,
and married to-day at three o’clock! Commend me to a sailor
for going the quick way to work!”

“But,” asked Danglars, in a timid tone, “how did you manage
about the other formalities — the contract — the
settlement?”

“The contract,” answered Dantes, laughingly, “it didn’t take
long to fix that. Mercedes has no fortune; I have none to
settle on her. So, you see, our papers were quickly written
out, and certainly do not come very expensive.” This joke
elicited a fresh burst of applause.

“So that what we presumed to be merely the betrothal feast
turns out to be the actual wedding dinner!” said Danglars.

“No, no,” answered Dantes; “don’t imagine I am going to put
you off in that shabby manner. To-morrow morning I start for
Paris; four days to go, and the same to return, with one day
to discharge the commission intrusted to me, is all the time
I shall be absent. I shall be back here by the first of
March, and on the second I give my real marriage feast.”

This prospect of fresh festivity redoubled the hilarity of
the guests to such a degree, that the elder Dantes, who, at
the commencement of the repast, had commented upon the
silence that prevailed, now found it difficult, amid the
general din of voices, to obtain a moment’s tranquillity in
which to drink to the health and prosperity of the bride and
bride-groom.

Dantes, perceiving the affectionate eagerness of his father,
responded by a look of grateful pleasure; while Mercedes
glanced at the clock and made an expressive gesture to
Edmond.

Around the table reigned that noisy hilarity which usually
prevails at such a time among people sufficiently free from
the demands of social position not to feel the trammels of
etiquette. Such as at the commencement of the repast had not
been able to seat themselves according to their inclination
rose unceremoniously, and sought out more agreeable
companions. Everybody talked at once, without waiting for a
reply and each one seemed to be contented with expressing
his or her own thoughts.

Fernand’s paleness appeared to have communicated itself to
Danglars. As for Fernand himself, he seemed to be enduring
the tortures of the damned; unable to rest, he was among the
first to quit the table, and, as though seeking to avoid the
hilarious mirth that rose in such deafening sounds, he
continued, in utter silence, to pace the farther end of the
salon.

Caderousse approached him just as Danglars, whom Fernand
seemed most anxious to avoid, had joined him in a corner of
the room.

“Upon my word,” said Caderousse, from whose mind the
friendly treatment of Dantes, united with the effect of the
excellent wine he had partaken of, had effaced every feeling
of envy or jealousy at Dantes’ good fortune, — “upon my
word, Dantes is a downright good fellow, and when I see him
sitting there beside his pretty wife that is so soon to be.
I cannot help thinking it would have been a great pity to
have served him that trick you were planning yesterday.”

“Oh, there was no harm meant,” answered Danglars; “at first
I certainly did feel somewhat uneasy as to what Fernand
might be tempted to do; but when I saw how completely he had
mastered his feelings, even so far as to become one of his
rival’s attendants, I knew there was no further cause for
apprehension.” Caderousse looked full at Fernand — he was
ghastly pale.

“Certainly,” continued Danglars, “the sacrifice was no
trifling one, when the beauty of the bride is concerned.
Upon my soul, that future captain of mine is a lucky dog!
Gad, I only wish he would let me take his place.”

“Shall we not set forth?” asked the sweet, silvery voice of
Mercedes; “two o’clock has just struck, and you know we are
expected in a quarter of an hour.”

“To be sure! — to be sure!” cried Dantes, eagerly quitting
the table; “let us go directly!”

His words were re-echoed by the whole party, with vociferous
cheers.

At this moment Danglars, who had been incessantly observing
every change in Fernand’s look and manner, saw him stagger
and fall back, with an almost convulsive spasm, against a
seat placed near one of the open windows. At the same
instant his ear caught a sort of indistinct sound on the
stairs, followed by the measured tread of soldiery, with the
clanking of swords and military accoutrements; then came a
hum and buzz as of many voices, so as to deaden even the
noisy mirth of the bridal party, among whom a vague feeling
of curiosity and apprehension quelled every disposition to
talk, and almost instantaneously the most deathlike
stillness prevailed.

The sounds drew nearer. Three blows were struck upon the
panel of the door. The company looked at each other in
consternation.

“I demand admittance,” said a loud voice outside the room,
“in the name of the law!” As no attempt was made to prevent
it, the door was opened, and a magistrate, wearing his
official scarf, presented himself, followed by four soldiers
and a corporal. Uneasiness now yielded to the most extreme
dread on the part of those present.

“May I venture to inquire the reason of this unexpected
visit?” said M. Morrel, addressing the magistrate, whom he
evidently knew; “there is doubtless some mistake easily
explained.”

“If it be so,” replied the magistrate, “rely upon every
reparation being made; meanwhile, I am the bearer of an
order of arrest, and although I most reluctantly perform the
task assigned me, it must, nevertheless, be fulfilled. Who
among the persons here assembled answers to the name of
Edmond Dantes?” Every eye was turned towards the young man
who, spite of the agitation he could not but feel, advanced
with dignity, and said, in a firm voice, “I am he; what is
your pleasure with me?”

“Edmond Dantes,” replied the magistrate, “I arrest you in
the name of the law!”

“Me!” repeated Edmond, slightly changing color, “and
wherefore, I pray?”

“I cannot inform you, but you will be duly acquainted with
the reasons that have rendered such a step necessary at the
preliminary examination.”

M. Morrel felt that further resistance or remonstrance was
useless. He saw before him an officer delegated to enforce
the law, and perfectly well knew that it would be as
unavailing to seek pity from a magistrate decked with his
official scarf, as to address a petition to some cold marble
effigy. Old Dantes, however, sprang forward. There are
situations which the heart of a father or a mother cannot be
made to understand. He prayed and supplicated in terms so
moving, that even the officer was touched, and, although
firm in his duty, he kindly said, “My worthy friend, let me
beg of you to calm your apprehensions. Your son has probably
neglected some prescribed form or attention in registering
his cargo, and it is more than probable he will be set at
liberty directly he has given the information required,
whether touching the health of his crew, or the value of his
freight.”

“What is the meaning of all this?” inquired Caderousse,
frowningly, of Danglars, who had assumed an air of utter
surprise.

“How can I tell you?” replied he; “I am, like yourself,
utterly bewildered at all that is going on, and cannot in
the least make out what it is about.” Caderousse then looked
around for Fernand, but he had disappeared.

The scene of the previous night now came back to his mind
with startling clearness. The painful catastrophe he had
just witnessed appeared effectually to have rent away the
veil which the intoxication of the evening before had raised
between himself and his memory.

“So, so,” said he, in a hoarse and choking voice, to
Danglars, “this, then, I suppose, is a part of the trick you
were concerting yesterday? All I can say is, that if it be
so, ’tis an ill turn, and well deserves to bring double evil
on those who have projected it.”

“Nonsense,” returned Danglars, “I tell you again I have
nothing whatever to do with it; besides, you know very well
that I tore the paper to pieces.”

“No, you did not!” answered Caderousse, “you merely threw it
by — I saw it lying in a corner.”

“Hold your tongue, you fool! — what should you know about
it? — why, you were drunk!”

“Where is Fernand?” inquired Caderousse.

“How do I know?” replied Danglars; “gone, as every prudent
man ought to be, to look after his own affairs, most likely.
Never mind where he is, let you and I go and see what is to
be done for our poor friends.”

During this conversation, Dantes, after having exchanged a
cheerful shake of the hand with all his sympathizing
friends, had surrendered himself to the officer sent to
arrest him, merely saying, “Make yourselves quite easy, my
good fellows, there is some little mistake to clear up,
that’s all, depend upon it; and very likely I may not have
to go so far as the prison to effect that.”

“Oh, to be sure!” responded Danglars, who had now approached
the group, “nothing more than a mistake, I feel quite
certain.”

Dantes descended the staircase, preceded by the magistrate,
and followed by the soldiers. A carriage awaited him at the
door; he got in, followed by two soldiers and the
magistrate, and the vehicle drove off towards Marseilles.

“Adieu, adieu, dearest Edmond!” cried Mercedes, stretching
out her arms to him from the balcony.

The prisoner heard the cry, which sounded like the sob of a
broken heart, and leaning from the coach he called out,
“Good-by, Mercedes — we shall soon meet again!” Then the
vehicle disappeared round one of the turnings of Fort Saint
Nicholas.

“Wait for me here, all of you!” cried M. Morrel; “I will
take the first conveyance I find, and hurry to Marseilles,
whence I will bring you word how all is going on.”

“That’s right!” exclaimed a multitude of voices, “go, and
return as quickly as you can!”

This second departure was followed by a long and fearful
state of terrified silence on the part of those who were
left behind. The old father and Mercedes remained for some
time apart, each absorbed in grief; but at length the two
poor victims of the same blow raised their eyes, and with a
simultaneous burst of feeling rushed into each other’s arms.

Meanwhile Fernand made his appearance, poured out for
himself a glass of water with a trembling hand; then hastily
swallowing it, went to sit down at the first vacant place,
and this was, by mere chance, placed next to the seat on
which poor Mercedes had fallen half fainting, when released
from the warm and affectionate embrace of old Dantes.
Instinctively Fernand drew back his chair.

“He is the cause of all this misery — I am quite sure of
it,” whispered Caderousse, who had never taken his eyes off
Fernand, to Danglars.

“I don’t think so,” answered the other; he’s too stupid to
imagine such a scheme. I only hope the mischief will fall
upon the head of whoever wrought it.”

“You don’t mention those who aided and abetted the deed,”
said Caderousse.

“Surely,” answered Danglars, “one cannot be held responsible
for every chance arrow shot into the air.”

“You can, indeed, when the arrow lights point downward on
somebody’s head.”

Meantime the subject of the arrest was being canvassed in
every different form.

“What think you, Danglars,” said one of the party, turning
towards him, “of this event?”

“Why,” replied he, “I think it just possible Dantes may have
been detected with some trifling article on board ship
considered here as contraband.”

“But how could he have done so without your knowledge,
Danglars, since you are the ship’s supercargo?”

“Why, as for that, I could only know what I was told
respecting the merchandise with which the vessel was laden.
I know she was loaded with cotton, and that she took in her
freight at Alexandria from Pastret’s warehouse, and at
Smyrna from Pascal’s; that is all I was obliged to know, and
I beg I may not be asked for any further particulars.”

“Now I recollect,” said the afflicted old father; “my poor
boy told me yesterday he had got a small case of coffee, and
another of tobacco for me!”

“There, you see,” exclaimed Danglars. “Now the mischief is
out; depend upon it the custom-house people went rummaging
about the ship in our absence, and discovered poor Dantes’
hidden treasures.”

Mercedes, however, paid no heed to this explanation of her
lover’s arrest. Her grief, which she had hitherto tried to
restrain, now burst out in a violent fit of hysterical
sobbing.

“Come, come,” said the old man, “be comforted, my poor
child; there is still hope!”

“Hope!” repeated Danglars.

“Hope!” faintly murmured Fernand, but the word seemed to die
away on his pale agitated lips, and a convulsive spasm
passed over his countenance.

“Good news! good news!” shouted forth one of the party
stationed in the balcony on the lookout. “Here comes M.
Morrel back. No doubt, now, we shall hear that our friend is
released!”

Mercedes and the old man rushed to meet the shipowner and
greeted him at the door. He was very pale.

“What news?” exclaimed a general burst of voices.

“Alas, my friends,” replied M. Morrel, with a mournful shake
of his head, “the thing has assumed a more serious aspect
than I expected.”

“Oh, indeed — indeed, sir, he is innocent!” sobbed forth
Mercedes.

“That I believe!” answered M. Morrel; “but still he is
charged” —

“With what?” inquired the elder Dantes.

“With being an agent of the Bonapartist faction!” Many of
our readers may be able to recollect how formidable such an
accusation became in the period at which our story is dated.

A despairing cry escaped the pale lips of Mercedes; the old
man sank into a chair.

“Ah, Danglars!” whispered Caderousse, “you have deceived me
— the trick you spoke of last night has been played; but I
cannot suffer a poor old man or an innocent girl to die of
grief through your fault. I am determined to tell them all
about it.”

“Be silent, you simpleton!” cried Danglars, grasping him by
the arm, “or I will not answer even for your own safety. Who
can tell whether Dantes be innocent or guilty? The vessel
did touch at Elba, where he quitted it, and passed a whole
day in the island. Now, should any letters or other
documents of a compromising character be found upon him,
will it not be taken for granted that all who uphold him are
his accomplices?”

With the rapid instinct of selfishness, Caderousse readily
perceived the solidity of this mode of reasoning; he gazed,
doubtfully, wistfully, on Danglars, and then caution
supplanted generosity.

“Suppose we wait a while, and see what comes of it,” said
he, casting a bewildered look on his companion.

“To be sure!” answered Danglars. “Let us wait, by all means.
If he be innocent, of course he will be set at liberty; if
guilty, why, it is no use involving ourselves in a
conspiracy.”

“Let us go, then. I cannot stay here any longer.”

“With all my heart!” replied Danglars, pleased to find the
other so tractable. “Let us take ourselves out of the way,
and leave things for the present to take their course.”

After their departure, Fernand, who had now again become the
friend and protector of Mercedes, led the girl to her home,
while the friends of Dantes conducted the now half-fainting
man back to his abode.

The rumor of Edmond’s arrest as a Bonapartist agent was not
slow in circulating throughout the city.

“Could you ever have credited such a thing, my dear
Danglars?” asked M. Morrel, as, on his return to the port
for the purpose of gleaning fresh tidings of Dantes, from M.
de Villefort, the assistant procureur, he overtook his
supercargo and Caderousse. “Could you have believed such a
thing possible?”

“Why, you know I told you,” replied Danglars, “that I
considered the circumstance of his having anchored at the
Island of Elba as a very suspicious circumstance.”

“And did you mention these suspicions to any person beside
myself?”

“Certainly not!” returned Danglars. Then added in a low
whisper, “You understand that, on account of your uncle, M.
Policar Morrel, who served under the other government, and
who does not altogether conceal what he thinks on the
subject, you are strongly suspected of regretting the
abdication of Napoleon. I should have feared to injure both
Edmond and yourself, had I divulged my own apprehensions to
a soul. I am too well aware that though a subordinate, like
myself, is bound to acquaint the shipowner with everything
that occurs, there are many things he ought most carefully
to conceal from all else.”

“‘Tis well, Danglars — ’tis well!” replied M. Morrel. “You
are a worthy fellow; and I had already thought of your
interests in the event of poor Edmond having become captain
of the Pharaon.”

“Is it possible you were so kind?”

“Yes, indeed; I had previously inquired of Dantes what was
his opinion of you, and if he should have any reluctance to
continue you in your post, for somehow I have perceived a
sort of coolness between you.”

“And what was his reply?”

“That he certainly did think he had given you offence in an
affair which he merely referred to without entering into
particulars, but that whoever possessed the good opinion and
confidence of the ship’s owner would have his preference
also.”

“The hypocrite!” murmured Danglars.

“Poor Dantes!” said Caderousse. “No one can deny his being a
noble-hearted young fellow.”

“But meanwhile,” continued M. Morrel, “here is the Pharaon
without a captain.”

“Oh,” replied Danglars, “since we cannot leave this port for
the next three months, let us hope that ere the expiration
of that period Dantes will be set at liberty.”

“No doubt; but in the meantime?”

“I am entirely at your service, M. Morrel,” answered
Danglars. “You know that I am as capable of managing a ship
as the most experienced captain in the service; and it will
be so far advantageous to you to accept my services, that
upon Edmond’s release from prison no further change will be
requisite on board the Pharaon than for Dantes and myself
each to resume our respective posts.”

“Thanks, Danglars — that will smooth over all difficulties.
I fully authorize you at once to assume the command of the
Pharaon, and look carefully to the unloading of her freight.
Private misfortunes must never be allowed to interfere with
business.”

“Be easy on that score, M. Morrel; but do you think we shall
be permitted to see our poor Edmond?”

“I will let you know that directly I have seen M. de
Villefort, whom I shall endeavor to interest in Edmond’s
favor. I am aware he is a furious royalist; but, in spite of
that, and of his being king’s attorney, he is a man like
ourselves, and I fancy not a bad sort of one.”

“Perhaps not,” replied Danglars; “but I hear that he is
ambitious, and that’s rather against him.”

“Well, well,” returned M. Morrel, “we shall see. But now
hasten on board, I will join you there ere long.” So saying,
the worthy shipowner quitted the two allies, and proceeded
in the direction of the Palais de Justice.

“You see,” said Danglars, addressing Caderousse, “the turn
things have taken. Do you still feel any desire to stand up
in his defence?”

“Not the slightest, but yet it seems to me a shocking thing
that a mere joke should lead to such consequences.”

“But who perpetrated that joke, let me ask? neither you nor
myself, but Fernand; you knew very well that I threw the
paper into a corner of the room — indeed, I fancied I had
destroyed it.”

“Oh, no,” replied Caderousse, “that I can answer for, you
did not. I only wish I could see it now as plainly as I saw
it lying all crushed and crumpled in a corner of the arbor.”

“Well, then, if you did, depend upon it, Fernand picked it
up, and either copied it or caused it to be copied; perhaps,
even, he did not take the trouble of recopying it. And now I
think of it, by Heavens, he may have sent the letter itself!
Fortunately, for me, the handwriting was disguised.”

“Then you were aware of Dantes being engaged in a
conspiracy?”

“Not I. As I before said, I thought the whole thing was a
joke, nothing more. It seems, however, that I have
unconsciously stumbled upon the truth.”

“Still,” argued Caderousse, “I would give a great deal if
nothing of the kind had happened; or, at least, that I had
had no hand in it. You will see, Danglars, that it will turn
out an unlucky job for both of us.”

“Nonsense! If any harm come of it, it should fall on the
guilty person; and that, you know, is Fernand. How can we be
implicated in any way? All we have got to do is, to keep our
own counsel, and remain perfectly quiet, not breathing a
word to any living soul; and you will see that the storm
will pass away without in the least affecting us.”

“Amen!” responded Caderousse, waving his hand in token of
adieu to Danglars, and bending his steps towards the Allees
de Meillan, moving his head to and fro, and muttering as he
went, after the manner of one whose mind was overcharged
with one absorbing idea.

“So far, then,” said Danglars, mentally, “all has gone as I
would have it. I am, temporarily, commander of the Pharaon,
with the certainty of being permanently so, if that fool of
a Caderousse can be persuaded to hold his tongue. My only
fear is the chance of Dantes being released. But, there, he
is in the hands of Justice; and,” added he with a smile,
“she will take her own.” So saying, he leaped into a boat,
desiring to be rowed on board the Pharaon, where M. Morrel
had agreed to meet him.

In one of the aristocratic mansions built by Puget in the
Rue du Grand Cours opposite the Medusa fountain, a second
marriage feast was being celebrated, almost at the same hour
with the nuptial repast given by Dantes. In this case,
however, although the occasion of the entertainment was
similar, the company was strikingly dissimilar. Instead of a
rude mixture of sailors, soldiers, and those belonging to
the humblest grade of life, the present assembly was
composed of the very flower of Marseilles society, —
magistrates who had resigned their office during the
usurper’s reign; officers who had deserted from the imperial
army and joined forces with Conde; and younger members of
families, brought up to hate and execrate the man whom five
years of exile would convert into a martyr, and fifteen of
restoration elevate to the rank of a god.

The guests were still at table, and the heated and energetic
conversation that prevailed betrayed the violent and
vindictive passions that then agitated each dweller of the
South, where unhappily, for five centuries religious strife
had long given increased bitterness to the violence of party
feeling.

The emperor, now king of the petty Island of Elba, after
having held sovereign sway over one-half of the world,
counting as his subjects a small population of five or six
thousand souls, — after having been accustomed to hear the
“Vive Napoleons” of a hundred and twenty millions of human
beings, uttered in ten different languages, — was looked
upon here as a ruined man, separated forever from any fresh
connection with France or claim to her throne.

The magistrates freely discussed their political views; the
military part of the company talked unreservedly of Moscow
and Leipsic, while the women commented on the divorce of
Josephine. It was not over the downfall of the man, but over
the defeat of the Napoleonic idea, that they rejoiced, and
in this they foresaw for themselves the bright and cheering
prospect of a revivified political existence.

An old man, decorated with the cross of Saint Louis, now
rose and proposed the health of King Louis XVIII. It was the
Marquis de Saint-Meran. This toast, recalling at once the
patient exile of Hartwell and the peace-loving King of
France, excited universal enthusiasm; glasses were elevated
in the air a l’Anglais, and the ladies, snatching their
bouquets from their fair bosoms, strewed the table with
their floral treasures. In a word, an almost poetical fervor
prevailed.

“Ah,” said the Marquise de Saint-Meran, a woman with a
stern, forbidding eye, though still noble and distinguished
in appearance, despite her fifty years — “ah, these
revolutionists, who have driven us from those very
possessions they afterwards purchased for a mere trifle
during the Reign of Terror, would be compelled to own, were
they here, that all true devotion was on our side, since we
were content to follow the fortunes of a falling monarch,
while they, on the contrary, made their fortune by
worshipping the rising sun; yes, yes, they could not help
admitting that the king, for whom we sacrificed rank,
wealth, and station was truly our `Louis the well-beloved,’
while their wretched usurper his been, and ever will be, to
them their evil genius, their `Napoleon the accursed.’ Am I
not right, Villefort?”

“I beg your pardon, madame. I really must pray you to excuse
me, but — in truth — I was not attending to the
conversation.”

“Marquise, marquise!” interposed the old nobleman who had
proposed the toast, “let the young people alone; let me tell
you, on one’s wedding day there are more agreeable subjects
of conversation than dry politics.”

“Never mind, dearest mother,” said a young and lovely girl,
with a profusion of light brown hair, and eyes that seemed
to float in liquid crystal, “’tis all my fault for seizing
upon M. de Villefort, so as to prevent his listening to what
you said. But there — now take him — he is your own for as
long as you like. M. Villefort, I beg to remind you my
mother speaks to you.”

“If the marquise will deign to repeat the words I but
imperfectly caught, I shall be delighted to answer,” said M.
de Villefort.

“Never mind, Renee,” replied the marquise, with a look of
tenderness that seemed out of keeping with her harsh dry
features; but, however all other feelings may be withered in
a woman’s nature, there is always one bright smiling spot in
the desert of her heart, and that is the shrine of maternal
love. “I forgive you. What I was saying, Villefort, was,
that the Bonapartists had not our sincerity, enthusiasm, or
devotion.”

“They had, however, what supplied the place of those fine
qualities,” replied the young man, “and that was fanaticism.
Napoleon is the Mahomet of the West, and is worshipped by
his commonplace but ambitions followers, not only as a
leader and lawgiver, but also as the personification of
equality.”

“He!” cried the marquise: “Napoleon the type of equality!
For mercy’s sake, then, what would you call Robespierre?
Come, come, do not strip the latter of his just rights to
bestow them on the Corsican, who, to my mind, has usurped
quite enough.”

“Nay, madame; I would place each of these heroes on his
right pedestal — that of Robespierre on his scaffold in the
Place Louis Quinze; that of Napoleon on the column of the
Place Vendome. The only difference consists in the opposite
character of the equality advocated by these two men; one is
the equality that elevates, the other is the equality that
degrades; one brings a king within reach of the guillotine,
the other elevates the people to a level with the throne.
Observe,” said Villefort, smiling, “I do not mean to deny
that both these men were revolutionary scoundrels, and that
the 9th Thermidor and the 4th of April, in the year 1814,
were lucky days for France, worthy of being gratefully
remembered by every friend to monarchy and civil order; and
that explains how it comes to pass that, fallen, as I trust
he is forever, Napoleon has still retained a train of
parasitical satellites. Still, marquise, it has been so with
other usurpers — Cromwell, for instance, who was not half
so bad as Napoleon, had his partisans and advocates.”

“Do you know, Villefort, that you are talking in a most
dreadfully revolutionary strain? But I excuse it, it is
impossible to expect the son of a Girondin to be free from a
small spice of the old leaven.” A deep crimson suffused the
countenance of Villefort.

“‘Tis true, madame,” answered he, “that my father was a
Girondin, but he was not among the number of those who voted
for the king’s death; he was an equal sufferer with yourself
during the Reign of Terror, and had well-nigh lost his head
on the same scaffold on which your father perished.”

“True,” replied the marquise, without wincing in the
slightest degree at the tragic remembrance thus called up;
“but bear in mind, if you please, that our respective
parents underwent persecution and proscription from
diametrically opposite principles; in proof of which I may
remark, that while my family remained among the stanchest
adherents of the exiled princes, your father lost no time in
joining the new government; and that while the Citizen
Noirtier was a Girondin, the Count Noirtier became a
senator.”

“Dear mother,” interposed Renee, “you know very well it was
agreed that all these disagreeable reminiscences should
forever be laid aside.”

“Suffer me, also, madame,” replied Villefort, “to add my
earnest request to Mademoiselle de Saint-Meran’s, that you
will kindly allow the veil of oblivion to cover and conceal
the past. What avails recrimination over matters wholly past
recall? For my own part, I have laid aside even the name of
my father, and altogether disown his political principles.
He was — nay, probably may still be — a Bonapartist, and
is called Noirtier; I, on the contrary, am a stanch
royalist, and style myself de Villefort. Let what may remain
of revolutionary sap exhaust itself and die away with the
old trunk, and condescend only to regard the young shoot
which has started up at a distance from the parent tree,
without having the power, any more than the wish, to
separate entirely from the stock from which it sprung.”

“Bravo, Villefort!” cried the marquis; “excellently well
said! Come, now, I have hopes of obtaining what I have been
for years endeavoring to persuade the marquise to promise;
namely, a perfect amnesty and forgetfulness of the past.”

“With all my heart,” replied the marquise; “let the past be
forever forgotten. I promise you it affords me as little
pleasure to revive it as it does you. All I ask is, that
Villefort will be firm and inflexible for the future in his
political principles. Remember, also, Villefort, that we
have pledged ourselves to his majesty for your fealty and
strict loyalty, and that at our recommendation the king
consented to forget the past, as I do” (and here she
extended to him her hand) — “as I now do at your entreaty.
But bear in mind, that should there fall in your way any one
guilty of conspiring against the government, you will be so
much the more bound to visit the offence with rigorous
punishment, as it is known you belong to a suspected
family.”

“Alas, madame,” returned Villefort, “my profession, as well
as the times in which we live, compels me to be severe. I
have already successfully conducted several public
prosecutions, and brought the offenders to merited
punishment. But we have not done with the thing yet.”

“Do you, indeed, think so?” inquired the marquise.

“I am, at least, fearful of it. Napoleon, in the Island of
Elba, is too near France, and his proximity keeps up the
hopes of his partisans. Marseilles is filled with half-pay
officers, who are daily, under one frivolous pretext or
other, getting up quarrels with the royalists; from hence
arise continual and fatal duels among the higher classes of
persons, and assassinations in the lower.”

“You have heard, perhaps,” said the Comte de Salvieux, one
of M. de Saint-Meran’s oldest friends, and chamberlain to
the Comte d’Artois, “that the Holy Alliance purpose removing
him from thence?”

“Yes; they were talking about it when we left Paris,” said
M. de Saint-Meran; “and where is it decided to transfer
him?”

“To Saint Helena.”

“For heaven’s sake, where is that?” asked the marquise.

“An island situated on the other side of the equator, at
least two thousand leagues from here,” replied the count.

“So much the better. As Villefort observes, it is a great
act of folly to have left such a man between Corsica, where
he was born, and Naples, of which his brother-in-law is
king, and face to face with Italy, the sovereignty of which
he coveted for his son.”

“Unfortunately,” said Villefort, “there are the treaties of
1814, and we cannot molest Napoleon without breaking those
compacts.”

“Oh, well, we shall find some way out of it,” responded M.
de Salvieux. “There wasn’t any trouble over treaties when it
was a question of shooting the poor Duc d’Enghien.”

“Well,” said the marquise, “it seems probable that, by the
aid of the Holy Alliance, we shall be rid of Napoleon; and
we must trust to the vigilance of M. de Villefort to purify
Marseilles of his partisans. The king is either a king or no
king; if he be acknowledged as sovereign of France, he
should be upheld in peace and tranquillity; and this can
best be effected by employing the most inflexible agents to
put down every attempt at conspiracy — ’tis the best and
surest means of preventing mischief.”

“Unfortunately, madame,” answered Villefort, “the strong arm
of the law is not called upon to interfere until the evil
has taken place.”

“Then all he has got to do is to endeavor to repair it.”

“Nay, madame, the law is frequently powerless to effect
this; all it can do is to avenge the wrong done.”

“Oh, M. de Villefort,” cried a beautiful young creature,
daughter to the Comte de Salvieux, and the cherished friend
of Mademoiselle de Saint-Meran, “do try and get up some
famous trial while we are at Marseilles. I never was in a
law-court; I am told it is so very amusing!”

“Amusing, certainly,” replied the young man, “inasmuch as,
instead of shedding tears as at the fictitious tale of woe
produced at a theatre, you behold in a law-court a case of
real and genuine distress — a drama of life. The prisoner
whom you there see pale, agitated, and alarmed, instead of
— as is the case when a curtain falls on a tragedy — going
home to sup peacefully with his family, and then retiring to
rest, that he may recommence his mimic woes on the morrow,
— is removed from your sight merely to be reconducted to
his prison and delivered up to the executioner. I leave you
to judge how far your nerves are calculated to bear you
through such a scene. Of this, however, be assured, that
should any favorable opportunity present itself, I will not
fail to offer you the choice of being present.”

“For shame, M. de Villefort!” said Renee, becoming quite
pale; “don’t you see how you are frightening us? — and yet
you laugh.”

“What would you have? ‘Tis like a duel. I have already
recorded sentence of death, five or six times, against the
movers of political conspiracies, and who can say how many
daggers may be ready sharpened, and only waiting a favorable
opportunity to be buried in my heart?”

“Gracious heavens, M. de Villefort,” said Renee, becoming
more and more terrified; “you surely are not in earnest.”

“Indeed I am,” replied the young magistrate with a smile;
“and in the interesting trial that young lady is anxious to
witness, the case would only be still more aggravated.
Suppose, for instance, the prisoner, as is more than
probable, to have served under Napoleon — well, can you
expect for an instant, that one accustomed, at the word of
his commander, to rush fearlessly on the very bayonets of
his foe, will scruple more to drive a stiletto into the
heart of one he knows to be his personal enemy, than to
slaughter his fellow-creatures, merely because bidden to do
so by one he is bound to obey? Besides, one requires the
excitement of being hateful in the eyes of the accused, in
order to lash one’s self into a state of sufficient
vehemence and power. I would not choose to see the man
against whom I pleaded smile, as though in mockery of my
words. No; my pride is to see the accused pale, agitated,
and as though beaten out of all composure by the fire of my
eloquence.” Renee uttered a smothered exclamation.

“Bravo!” cried one of the guests; “that is what I call
talking to some purpose.”

“Just the person we require at a time like the present,”
said a second.

“What a splendid business that last case of yours was, my
dear Villefort!” remarked a third; “I mean the trial of the
man for murdering his father. Upon my word, you killed him
ere the executioner had laid his hand upon him.”

“Oh, as for parricides, and such dreadful people as that,”
interposed Renee, “it matters very little what is done to
them; but as regards poor unfortunate creatures whose only
crime consists in having mixed themselves up in political
intrigues” —

“Why, that is the very worst offence they could possibly
commit; for, don’t you see, Renee, the king is the father of
his people, and he who shall plot or contrive aught against
the life and safety of the parent of thirty-two millions of
souls, is a parricide upon a fearfully great scale?”

“I don’t know anything about that,” replied Renee; “but, M.
de Villefort, you have promised me — have you not? —
always to show mercy to those I plead for.”

“Make yourself quite easy on that point,” answered
Villefort, with one of his sweetest smiles; “you and I will
always consult upon our verdicts.”

“My love,” said the marquise, “attend to your doves, your
lap-dogs, and embroidery, but do not meddle with what you do
not understand. Nowadays the military profession is in
abeyance and the magisterial robe is the badge of honor.
There is a wise Latin proverb that is very much in point.”

“Cedant arma togae,” said Villefort with a bow.

“I cannot speak Latin,” responded the marquise.

“Well,” said Renee, “I cannot help regretting you had not
chosen some other profession than your own — a physician,
for instance. Do you know I always felt a shudder at the
idea of even a destroying angel?”

“Dear, good Renee,” whispered Villefort, as he gazed with
unutterable tenderness on the lovely speaker.

“Let us hope, my child,” cried the marquis, “that M. de
Villefort may prove the moral and political physician of
this province; if so, he will have achieved a noble work.”

“And one which will go far to efface the recollection of his
father’s conduct,” added the incorrigible marquise.

“Madame,” replied Villefort, with a mournful smile, “I have
already had the honor to observe that my father has — at
least, I hope so — abjured his past errors, and that he is,
at the present moment, a firm and zealous friend to religion
and order — a better royalist, possibly, than his son; for
he has to atone for past dereliction, while I have no other
impulse than warm, decided preference and conviction.”
Having made this well-turned speech, Villefort looked
carefully around to mark the effect of his oratory, much as
he would have done had he been addressing the bench in open
court.

“Do you know, my dear Villefort,” cried the Comte de
Salvieux, “that is exactly what I myself said the other day
at the Tuileries, when questioned by his majesty’s principal
chamberlain touching the singularity of an alliance between
the son of a Girondin and the daughter of an officer of the
Duc de Conde; and I assure you he seemed fully to comprehend
that this mode of reconciling political differences was
based upon sound and excellent principles. Then the king,
who, without our suspecting it, had overheard our
conversation, interrupted us by saying, `Villefort’ —
observe that the king did not pronounce the word Noirtier,
but, on the contrary, placed considerable emphasis on that
of Villefort — `Villefort,’ said his majesty, `is a young
man of great judgment and discretion, who will be sure to
make a figure in his profession; I like him much, and it
gave me great pleasure to hear that he was about to become
the son-in-law of the Marquis and Marquise de Saint-Meran. I
should myself have recommended the match, had not the noble
marquis anticipated my wishes by requesting my consent to
it.'”

“Is it possible the king could have condescended so far as
to express himself so favorably of me?” asked the enraptured
Villefort.

“I give you his very words; and if the marquis chooses to be
candid, he will confess that they perfectly agree with what
his majesty said to him, when he went six months ago to
consult him upon the subject of your espousing his
daughter.”

“That is true,” answered the marquis.

“How much do I owe this gracious prince! What is there I
would not do to evince my earnest gratitude!”

“That is right,” cried the marquise. “I love to see you
thus. Now, then, were a conspirator to fall into your hands,
he would be most welcome.”

“For my part, dear mother.” interposed Renee, “I trust your
wishes will not prosper, and that Providence will only
permit petty offenders, poor debtors, and miserable cheats
to fall into M. de Villefort’s hands, — then I shall be
contented.”

“Just the same as though you prayed that a physician might
only be called upon to prescribe for headaches, measles, and
the stings of wasps, or any other slight affection of the
epidermis. If you wish to see me the king’s attorney, you
must desire for me some of those violent and dangerous
diseases from the cure of which so much honor redounds to
the physician.”

At this moment, and as though the utterance of Villefort’s
wish had sufficed to effect its accomplishment, a servant
entered the room, and whispered a few words in his ear.
Villefort immediately rose from table and quitted the room
upon the plea of urgent business; he soon, however,
returned, his whole face beaming with delight. Renee
regarded him with fond affection; and certainly his handsome
features, lit up as they then were with more than usual fire
and animation, seemed formed to excite the innocent
admiration with which she gazed on her graceful and
intelligent lover.

“You were wishing just now,” said Villefort, addressing her,
“that I were a doctor instead of a lawyer. Well, I at least
resemble the disciples of Esculapius in one thing — that of
not being able to call a day my own, not even that of my
betrothal.”

“And wherefore were you called away just now?” asked
Mademoiselle de Saint-Meran, with an air of deep interest.

“For a very serious matter, which bids fair to make work for
the executioner.”

“How dreadful!” exclaimed Renee, turning pale.

“Is it possible?” burst simultaneously from all who were
near enough to the magistrate to hear his words.

“Why, if my information prove correct, a sort of Bonaparte
conspiracy has just been discovered.”

“Can I believe my ears?” cried the marquise.

“I will read you the letter containing the accusation, at
least,” said Villefort: —

“`The king’s attorney is informed by a friend to the throne
and the religions institutions of his country, that one
named Edmond Dantes, mate of the ship Pharaon, this day
arrived from Smyrna, after having touched at Naples and
Porto-Ferrajo, has been the bearer of a letter from Murat to
the usurper, and again taken charge of another letter from
the usurper to the Bonapartist club in Paris. Ample
corroboration of this statement may be obtained by arresting
the above-mentioned Edmond Dantes, who either carries the
letter for Paris about with him, or has it at his father’s
abode. Should it not be found in the possession of father or
son, then it will assuredly be discovered in the cabin
belonging to the said Dantes on board the Pharaon.'”

“But,” said Renee, “this letter, which, after all, is but an
anonymous scrawl, is not even addressed to you, but to the
king’s attorney.”

“True; but that gentleman being absent, his secretary, by
his orders, opened his letters; thinking this one of
importance, he sent for me, but not finding me, took upon
himself to give the necessary orders for arresting the
accused party.”

“Then the guilty person is absolutely in custody?” said the
marquise.

“Nay, dear mother, say the accused person. You know we
cannot yet pronounce him guilty.”

“He is in safe custody,” answered Villefort; “and rely upon
it, if the letter is found, he will not be likely to be
trusted abroad again, unless he goes forth under the
especial protection of the headsman.”

“And where is the unfortunate being?” asked Renee.

“He is at my house.”

“Come, come, my friend,” interrupted the marquise, “do not
neglect your duty to linger with us. You are the king’s
servant, and must go wherever that service calls you.”

“O Villefort!” cried Renee, clasping her hands, and looking
towards her lover with piteous earnestness, “be merciful on
this the day of our betrothal.”

The young man passed round to the side of the table where
the fair pleader sat, and leaning over her chair said
tenderly, —

“To give you pleasure, my sweet Renee, I promise to show all
the lenity in my power; but if the charges brought against
this Bonapartist hero prove correct, why, then, you really
must give me leave to order his head to be cut off.” Renee
shuddered.

“Never mind that foolish girl, Villefort,” said the
marquise. “She will soon get over these things.” So saying,
Madame de Saint-Meran extended her dry bony hand to
Villefort, who, while imprinting a son-in-law’s respectful
salute on it, looked at Renee, as much as to say, “I must
try and fancy ’tis your dear hand I kiss, as it should have
been.”

“These are mournful auspices to accompany a betrothal,”
sighed poor Renee.

“Upon my word, child!” exclaimed the angry marquise, “your
folly exceeds all bounds. I should be glad to know what
connection there can possibly be between your sickly
sentimentality and the affairs of the state!”

“O mother!” murmured Renee.

“Nay, madame, I pray you pardon this little traitor. I
promise you that to make up for her want of loyalty, I will
be most inflexibly severe;” then casting an expressive
glance at his betrothed, which seemed to say, “Fear not, for
your dear sake my justice shall be tempered with mercy,” and
receiving a sweet and approving smile in return, Villefort
quitted the room.

No sooner had Villefort left the salon, than he assumed the
grave air of a man who holds the balance of life and death
in his hands. Now, in spite of the mobility of his
countenance, the command of which, like a finished actor, he
had carefully studied before the glass, it was by no means
easy for him to assume an air of judicial severity. Except
the recollection of the line of politics his father had
adopted, and which might interfere, unless he acted with the
greatest prudence, with his own career, Gerard de Villefort
was as happy as a man could be. Already rich, he held a high
official situation, though only twenty-seven. He was about
to marry a young and charming woman, whom he loved, not
passionately, but reasonably, as became a deputy attorney of
the king; and besides her personal attractions, which were
very great, Mademoiselle de Saint-Meran’s family possessed
considerable political influence, which they would, of
course, exert in his favor. The dowry of his wife amounted
to fifty thousand crowns, and he had, besides, the prospect
of seeing her fortune increased to half a million at her
father’s death. These considerations naturally gave
Villefort a feeling of such complete felicity that his mind
was fairly dazzled in its contemplation.

At the door he met the commissary of police, who was waiting
for him. The sight of this officer recalled Villefort from
the third heaven to earth; he composed his face, as we have
before described, and said, “I have read the letter, sir,
and you have acted rightly in arresting this man; now inform
me what you have discovered concerning him and the
conspiracy.”

“We know nothing as yet of the conspiracy, monsieur; all the
papers found have been sealed up and placed on your desk.
The prisoner himself is named Edmond Dantes, mate on board
the three-master the Pharaon, trading in cotton with
Alexandria and Smyrna, and belonging to Morrel & Son, of
Marseilles.”

“Before he entered the merchant service, had he ever served
in the marines?”

“Oh, no, monsieur, he is very young.”

“How old?”

“Nineteen or twenty at the most.”

At this moment, and as Villefort had arrived at the corner
of the Rue des Conseils, a man, who seemed to have been
waiting for him, approached; it was M. Morrel.

“Ah, M. de Villefort,” cried he, “I am delighted to see you.
Some of your people have committed the strangest mistake —
they have just arrested Edmond Dantes, mate of my vessel.”

“I know it, monsieur,” replied Villefort, “and I am now
going to examine him.”

“Oh,” said Morrel, carried away by his friendship, “you do
not know him, and I do. He is the most estimable, the most
trustworthy creature in the world, and I will venture to
say, there is not a better seaman in all the merchant
service. Oh, M. de Villefort, I beseech your indulgence for
him.”

Villefort, as we have seen, belonged to the aristocratic
party at Marseilles, Morrel to the plebeian; the first was a
royalist, the other suspected of Bonapartism. Villefort
looked disdainfully at Morrel, and replied, —

“You are aware, monsieur, that a man may be estimable and
trustworthy in private life, and the best seaman in the
merchant service, and yet be, politically speaking, a great
criminal. Is it not true?”

The magistrate laid emphasis on these words, as if he wished
to apply them to the owner himself, while his eyes seemed to
plunge into the heart of one who, interceding for another,
had himself need of indulgence. Morrel reddened, for his own
conscience was not quite clear on politics; besides, what
Dantes had told him of his interview with the grand-marshal,
and what the emperor had said to him, embarrassed him. He
replied, however, —

“I entreat you, M. de Villefort, be, as you always are, kind
and equitable, and give him back to us soon.” This give us
sounded revolutionary in the deputy’s ears.

“Ah, ah,” murmured he, “is Dantes then a member of some
Carbonari society, that his protector thus employs the
collective form? He was, if I recollect, arrested in a
tavern, in company with a great many others.” Then he added,
“Monsieur, you may rest assured I shall perform my duty
impartially, and that if he be innocent you shall not have
appealed to me in vain; should he, however, be guilty, in
this present epoch, impunity would furnish a dangerous
example, and I must do my duty.”

As he had now arrived at the door of his own house, which
adjoined the Palais de Justice, he entered, after having,
coldly saluted the shipowner, who stood, as if petrified, on
the spot where Villefort had left him. The ante-chamber was
full of police agents and gendarmes, in the midst of whom,
carefully watched, but calm and smiling, stood the prisoner.
Villefort traversed the ante-chamber, cast a side glance at
Dantes, and taking a packet which a gendarme offered him,
disappeared, saying, “Bring in the prisoner.”

Rapid as had been Villefort’s glance, it had served to give
him an idea of the man he was about to interrogate. He had
recognized intelligence in the high forehead, courage in the
dark eye and bent brow, and frankness in the thick lips that
showed a set of pearly teeth. Villefort’s first impression
was favorable; but he had been so often warned to mistrust
first impulses, that he applied the maxim to the impression,
forgetting the difference between the two words. He stifled,
therefore, the feelings of compassion that were rising,
composed his features, and sat down, grim and sombre, at his
desk. An instant after Dantes entered. He was pale, but calm
and collected, and saluting his judge with easy politeness,
looked round for a seat, as if he had been in M. Morrel’s
salon. It was then that he encountered for the first time
Villefort’s look, — that look peculiar to the magistrate,
who, while seeming to read the thoughts of others, betrays
nothing of his own.

“Who and what are you?” demanded Villefort, turning over a
pile of papers, containing information relative to the
prisoner, that a police agent had given to him on his entry,
and that, already, in an hour’s time, had swelled to
voluminous proportions, thanks to the corrupt espionage of
which “the accused” is always made the victim.

“My name is Edmond Dantes,” replied the young man calmly; “I
am mate of the Pharaon, belonging to Messrs. Morrel & Son.”

“Your age?” continued Villefort.

“Nineteen,” returned Dantes.

“What were you doing at the moment you were arrested?”

“I was at the festival of my marriage, monsieur,” said the
young man, his voice slightly tremulous, so great was the
contrast between that happy moment and the painful ceremony
he was now undergoing; so great was the contrast between the
sombre aspect of M. de Villefort and the radiant face of
Mercedes.

“You were at the festival of your marriage?” said the
deputy, shuddering in spite of himself.

“Yes, monsieur; I am on the point of marrying a young girl I
have been attached to for three years.” Villefort, impassive
as he was, was struck with this coincidence; and the
tremulous voice of Dantes, surprised in the midst of his
happiness, struck a sympathetic chord in his own bosom — he
also was on the point of being married, and he was summoned
from his own happiness to destroy that of another. “This
philosophic reflection,” thought he, “will make a great
sensation at M. de Saint-Meran’s;” and he arranged mentally,
while Dantes awaited further questions, the antithesis by
which orators often create a reputation for eloquence. When
this speech was arranged, Villefort turned to Dantes.

“Go on, sir,” said he.

“What would you have me say?”

“Give all the information in your power.”

“Tell me on which point you desire information, and I will
tell all I know; only,” added he, with a smile, “I warn you
I know very little.”

“Have you served under the usurper?”

“I was about to be mustered into the Royal Marines when he
fell.”

“It is reported your political opinions are extreme,” said
Villefort, who had never heard anything of the kind, but was
not sorry to make this inquiry, as if it were an accusation.

“My political opinions!” replied Dantes. “Alas, sir, I never
had any opinions. I am hardly nineteen; I know nothing; I
have no part to play. If I obtain the situation I desire, I
shall owe it to M. Morrel. Thus all my opinions — I will
not say public, but private — are confined to these three
sentiment, — I love my father, I respect M. Morrel, and I
adore Mercedes. This, sir, is all I can tell you, and you
see how uninteresting it is.” As Dantes spoke, Villefort
gazed at his ingenuous and open countenance, and recollected
the words of Renee, who, without knowing who the culprit
was, had besought his indulgence for him. With the deputy’s
knowledge of crime and criminals, every word the young man
uttered convinced him more and more of his innocence. This
lad, for he was scarcely a man, — simple, natural, eloquent
with that eloquence of the heart never found when sought
for; full of affection for everybody, because he was happy,
and because happiness renders even the wicked good —
extended his affection even to his judge, spite of
Villefort’s severe look and stern accent. Dantes seemed full
of kindness.

“Pardieu,” said Villefort, “he is a noble fellow. I hope I
shall gain Renee’s favor easily by obeying the first command
she ever imposed on me. I shall have at least a pressure of
the hand in public, and a sweet kiss in private.” Full of
this idea, Villefort’s face became so joyous, that when he
turned to Dantes, the latter, who had watched the change on
his physiognomy, was smiling also.

“Sir,” said Villefort, “have you any enemies, at least, that
you know.”

“I have enemies?” replied Dantes; “my position is not
sufficiently elevated for that. As for my disposition, that
is, perhaps, somewhat too hasty; but I have striven to
repress it. I have had ten or twelve sailors under me, and
if you question them, they will tell you that they love and
respect me, not as a father, for I am too young, but as an
elder brother.”

“But you may have excited jealousy. You are about to become
captain at nineteen — an elevated post; you are about to
marry a pretty girl, who loves you; and these two pieces of
good fortune may have excited the envy of some one.”

“You are right; you know men better than I do, and what you
say may possibly be the case, I confess; but if such persons
are among my acquaintances I prefer not to know it, because
then I should be forced to hate them.”

“You are wrong; you should always strive to see clearly
around you. You seem a worthy young man; I will depart from
the strict line of my duty to aid you in discovering the
author of this accusation. Here is the paper; do you know
the writing?” As he spoke, Villefort drew the letter from
his pocket, and presented it to Dantes. Dantes read it. A
cloud passed over his brow as he said, —

“No, monsieur, I do not know the writing, and yet it is
tolerably plain. Whoever did it writes well. I am very
fortunate,” added he, looking gratefully at Villefort, “to
be examined by such a man as you; for this envious person is
a real enemy.” And by the rapid glance that the young man’s
eyes shot forth, Villefort saw how much energy lay hid
beneath this mildness.

“Now,” said the deputy, “answer me frankly, not as a
prisoner to a judge, but as one man to another who takes an
interest in him, what truth is there in the accusation
contained in this anonymous letter?” And Villefort threw
disdainfully on his desk the letter Dantes had just given
back to him.

“None at all. I will tell you the real facts. I swear by my
honor as a sailor, by my love for Mercedes, by the life of
my father” —

“Speak, monsieur,” said Villefort. Then, internally, “If
Renee could see me, I hope she would be satisfied, and would
no longer call me a decapitator.”

“Well, when we quitted Naples, Captain Leclere was attacked
with a brain fever. As we had no doctor on board, and he was
so anxious to arrive at Elba, that he would not touch at any
other port, his disorder rose to such a height, that at the
end of the third day, feeling he was dying, he called me to
him. `My dear Dantes,’ said he, `swear to perform what I am
going to tell you, for it is a matter of the deepest
importance.’

“`I swear, captain,’ replied I.

“`Well, as after my death the command devolves on you as
mate, assume the command, and bear up for the Island of
Elba, disembark at Porto-Ferrajo, ask for the grand-marshal,
give him this letter — perhaps they will give you another
letter, and charge you with a commission. You will
accomplish what I was to have done, and derive all the honor
and profit from it.’

“`I will do it, captain; but perhaps I shall not be admitted
to the grand marshal’s presence as easily as you expect?’

“`Here is a ring that will obtain audience of him, and
remove every difficulty,’ said the captain. At these words
he gave me a ring. It was time — two hours after he was
delirious; the next day he died.”

“And what did you do then?”

“What I ought to have done, and what every one would have
done in my place. Everywhere the last requests of a dying
man are sacred; but with a sailor the last requests of his
superior are commands. I sailed for the Island of Elba,
where I arrived the next day; I ordered everybody to remain
on board, and went on shore alone. As I had expected, I
found some difficulty in obtaining access to the
grand-marshal; but I sent the ring I had received from the
captain to him, and was instantly admitted. He questioned me
concerning Captain Leclere’s death; and, as the latter had
told me, gave me a letter to carry on to a person in Paris.
I undertook it because it was what my captain had bade me
do. I landed here, regulated the affairs of the vessel, and
hastened to visit my affianced bride, whom I found more
lovely than ever. Thanks to M. Morrel, all the forms were
got over; in a word I was, as I told you, at my
marriage-feast; and I should have been married in an hour,
and to-morrow I intended to start for Paris, had I not been
arrested on this charge which you as well as I now see to be
unjust.”

“Ah,” said Villefort, “this seems to me the truth. If you
have been culpable, it was imprudence, and this imprudence
was in obedience to the orders of your captain. Give up this
letter you have brought from Elba, and pass your word you
will appear should you be required, and go and rejoin your
friends.

“I am free, then, sir?” cried Dantes joyfully.

“Yes; but first give me this letter.”

“You have it already, for it was taken from me with some
others which I see in that packet.”

“Stop a moment,” said the deputy, as Dantes took his hat and
gloves. “To whom is it addressed?”

“To Monsieur Noirtier, Rue Coq-Heron, Paris.” Had a
thunderbolt fallen into the room, Villefort could not have
been more stupefied. He sank into his seat, and hastily
turning over the packet, drew forth the fatal letter, at
which he glanced with an expression of terror.

“M. Noirtier, Rue Coq-Heron, No. 13,” murmured he, growing
still paler.

“Yes,” said Dantes; “do you know him?”

“No,” replied Villefort; “a faithful servant of the king
does not know conspirators.”

“It is a conspiracy, then?” asked Dantes, who after
believing himself free, now began to feel a tenfold alarm.
“I have, however, already told you, sir, I was entirely
ignorant of the contents of the letter.”

“Yes; but you knew the name of the person to whom it was
addressed,” said Villefort.

“I was forced to read the address to know to whom to give
it.”

“Have you shown this letter to any one?” asked Villefort,
becoming still more pale.

“To no one, on my honor.”

“Everybody is ignorant that you are the bearer of a letter
from the Island of Elba, and addressed to M. Noirtier?”

“Everybody, except the person who gave it to me.”

“And that was too much, far too much,” murmured Villefort.
Villefort’s brow darkened more and more, his white lips and
clinched teeth filled Dantes with apprehension. After
reading the letter, Villefort covered his face with his
hands.

“Oh,” said Dantes timidly, “what is the matter?” Villefort
made no answer, but raised his head at the expiration of a
few seconds, and again perused the letter.

“And you say that you are ignorant of the contents of this
letter?”

“I give you my word of honor, sir,” said Dantes; “but what
is the matter? You are ill — shall I ring for assistance?
— shall I call?”

“No,” said Villefort, rising hastily; “stay where you are.
It is for me to give orders here, and not you.”

“Monsieur,” replied Dantes proudly, “it was only to summon
assistance for you.”

“I want none; it was a temporary indisposition. Attend to
yourself; answer me.” Dantes waited, expecting a question,
but in vain. Villefort fell back on his chair, passed his
hand over his brow, moist with perspiration, and, for the
third time, read the letter.

“Oh, if he knows the contents of this!” murmured he, “and
that Noirtier is the father of Villefort, I am lost!” And he
fixed his eyes upon Edmond as if he would have penetrated
his thoughts.

“Oh, it is impossible to doubt it,” cried he, suddenly.

“In heaven’s name!” cried the unhappy young man, “if you
doubt me, question me; I will answer you.” Villefort made a
violent effort, and in a tone he strove to render firm, —

“Sir,” said he, “I am no longer able, as I had hoped, to
restore you immediately to liberty; before doing so, I must
consult the trial justice; what my own feeling is you
already know.”

“Oh, monsieur,” cried Dantes, “you have been rather a friend
than a judge.”

“Well, I must detain you some time longer, but I will strive
to make it as short as possible. The principal charge
against you is this letter, and you see” — Villefort
approached the fire, cast it in, and waited until it was
entirely consumed.

“You see, I destroy it?”

“Oh,” exclaimed Dantes, “you are goodness itself.”

“Listen,” continued Villefort; “you can now have confidence
in me after what I have done.”

“Oh, command, and I will obey.”

“Listen; this is not a command, but advice I give you.”

“Speak, and I will follow your advice.”

“I shall detain you until this evening in the Palais de
Justice. Should any one else interrogate you, say to him
what you have said to me, but do not breathe a word of this
letter.”

“I promise.” It was Villefort who seemed to entreat, and the
prisoner who reassured him.

“You see,” continued he, glancing toward the grate, where
fragments of burnt paper fluttered in the flames, “the
letter is destroyed; you and I alone know of its existence;
should you, therefore, be questioned, deny all knowledge of
it — deny it boldly, and you are saved.”

“Be satisfied; I will deny it.”

“It was the only letter you had?”

“It was.”

“Swear it.”

“I swear it.”

Villefort rang. A police agent entered. Villefort whispered
some words in his ear, to which the officer replied by a
motion of his head.

“Follow him,” said Villefort to Dantes. Dantes saluted
Villefort and retired. Hardly had the door closed when
Villefort threw himself half-fainting into a chair.

“Alas, alas,” murmured he, “if the procureur himself had
been at Marseilles I should have been ruined. This accursed
letter would have destroyed all my hopes. Oh, my father,
must your past career always interfere with my successes?”
Suddenly a light passed over his face, a smile played round
his set mouth, and his haggard eyes were fixed in thought.

“This will do,” said he, “and from this letter, which might
have ruined me, I will make my fortune. Now to the work I
have in hand.” And after having assured himself that the
prisoner was gone, the deputy procureur hastened to the
house of his betrothed.

The commissary of police, as he traversed the ante-chamber,
made a sign to two gendarmes, who placed themselves one on
Dantes’ right and the other on his left. A door that
communicated with the Palais de Justice was opened, and they
went through a long range of gloomy corridors, whose
appearance might have made even the boldest shudder. The
Palais de Justice communicated with the prison, — a sombre
edifice, that from its grated windows looks on the
clock-tower of the Accoules. After numberless windings,
Dantes saw a door with an iron wicket. The commissary took
up an iron mallet and knocked thrice, every blow seeming to
Dantes as if struck on his heart. The door opened, the two
gendarmes gently pushed him forward, and the door closed
with a loud sound behind him. The air he inhaled was no
longer pure, but thick and mephitic, — he was in prison. He
was conducted to a tolerably neat chamber, but grated and
barred, and its appearance, therefore, did not greatly alarm
him; besides, the words of Villefort, who seemed to interest
himself so much, resounded still in his ears like a promise
of freedom. It was four o’clock when Dantes was placed in
this chamber. It was, as we have said, the 1st of March, and
the prisoner was soon buried in darkness. The obscurity
augmented the acuteness of his hearing; at the slightest
sound he rose and hastened to the door, convinced they were
about to liberate him, but the sound died away, and Dantes
sank again into his seat. At last, about ten o’clock, and
just as Dantes began to despair, steps were heard in the
corridor, a key turned in the lock, the bolts creaked, the
massy oaken door flew open, and a flood of light from two
torches pervaded the apartment. By the torchlight Dantes saw
the glittering sabres and carbines of four gendarmes. He had
advanced at first, but stopped at the sight of this display
of force.

“Are you come to fetch me?” asked he.

“Yes,” replied a gendarme.

“By the orders of the deputy procureur?”

“I believe so.” The conviction that they came from M. de
Villefort relieved all Dantes’ apprehensions; he advanced
calmly, and placed himself in the centre of the escort. A
carriage waited at the door, the coachman was on the box,
and a police officer sat beside him.

“Is this carriage for me?” said Dantes.

“It is for you,” replied a gendarme.

Dantes was about to speak; but feeling himself urged
forward, and having neither the power nor the intention to
resist, he mounted the steps, and was in an instant seated
inside between two gendarmes; the two others took their
places opposite, and the carriage rolled heavily over the
stones.

The prisoner glanced at the windows — they were grated; he
had changed his prison for another that was conveying him he
knew not whither. Through the grating, however, Dantes saw
they were passing through the Rue Caisserie, and by the Rue
Saint-Laurent and the Rue Taramis, to the port. Soon he saw
the lights of La Consigne.

The carriage stopped, the officer descended, approached the
guardhouse, a dozen soldiers came out and formed themselves
in order; Dantes saw the reflection of their muskets by the
light of the lamps on the quay.

“Can all this force be summoned on my account?” thought he.

The officer opened the door, which was locked, and, without
speaking a word, answered Dantes’ question; for he saw
between the ranks of the soldiers a passage formed from the
carriage to the port. The two gendarmes who were opposite to
him descended first, then he was ordered to alight and the
gendarmes on each side of him followed his example. They
advanced towards a boat, which a custom-house officer held
by a chain, near the quay.

The soldiers looked at Dantes with an air of stupid
curiosity. In an instant he was placed in the stern-sheets
of the boat, between the gendarmes, while the officer
stationed himself at the bow; a shove sent the boat adrift,
and four sturdy oarsmen impelled it rapidly towards the
Pilon. At a shout from the boat, the chain that closes the
mouth of the port was lowered and in a second they were, as
Dantes knew, in the Frioul and outside the inner harbor.

The prisoner’s first feeling was of joy at again breathing
the pure air — for air is freedom; but he soon sighed, for
he passed before La Reserve, where he had that morning been
so happy, and now through the open windows came the laughter
and revelry of a ball. Dantes folded his hands, raised his
eyes to heaven, and prayed fervently.

The boat continued her voyage. They had passed the Tete de
Morte, were now off the Anse du Pharo, and about to double
the battery. This manoeuvre was incomprehensible to Dantes.

“Whither are you taking me?” asked he.

“You will soon know.”

“But still” —

“We are forbidden to give you any explanation.” Dantes,
trained in discipline, knew that nothing would be more
absurd than to question subordinates, who were forbidden to
reply; and so he remained silent.

The most vague and wild thoughts passed through his mind.
The boat they were in could not make a long voyage; there
was no vessel at anchor outside the harbor; he thought,
perhaps, they were going to leave him on some distant point.
He was not bound, nor had they made any attempt to handcuff
him; this seemed a good augury. Besides, had not the deputy,
who had been so kind to him, told him that provided he did
not pronounce the dreaded name of Noirtier, he had nothing
to apprehend? Had not Villefort in his presence destroyed
the fatal letter, the only proof against him?

He waited silently, striving to pierce through the darkness.

They had left the Ile Ratonneau, where the lighthouse stood,
on the right, and were now opposite the Point des Catalans.
It seemed to the prisoner that he could distinguish a
feminine form on the beach, for it was there Mercedes dwelt.
How was it that a presentiment did not warn Mercedes that
her lover was within three hundred yards of her?

One light alone was visible; and Dantes saw that it came
from Mercedes’ chamber. Mercedes was the only one awake in
the whole settlement. A loud cry could be heard by her. But
pride restrained him and he did not utter it. What would his
guards think if they heard him shout like a madman?

He remained silent, his eyes fixed upon the light; the boat
went on, but the prisoner thought only of Mercedes. An
intervening elevation of land hid the light. Dantes turned
and perceived that they had got out to sea. While he had
been absorbed in thought, they had shipped their oars and
hoisted sail; the boat was now moving with the wind.

In spite of his repugnance to address the guards, Dantes
turned to the nearest gendarme, and taking his hand, —

“Comrade,” said he, “I adjure you, as a Christian and a
soldier, to tell me where we are going. I am Captain Dantes,
a loyal Frenchman, thought accused of treason; tell me where
you are conducting me, and I promise you on my honor I will
submit to my fate.”

The gendarme looked irresolutely at his companion, who
returned for answer a sign that said, “I see no great harm
in telling him now,” and the gendarme replied, —

“You are a native of Marseilles, and a sailor, and yet you
do not know where you are going?”

“On my honor, I have no idea.”

“Have you no idea whatever?”

“None at all.”

“That is impossible.”

“I swear to you it is true. Tell me, I entreat.”

“But my orders.”

“Your orders do not forbid your telling me what I must know
in ten minutes, in half an hour, or an hour. You see I
cannot escape, even if I intended.”

“Unless you are blind, or have never been outside the
harbor, you must know.”

“I do not.”

“Look round you then.” Dantes rose and looked forward, when
he saw rise within a hundred yards of him the black and
frowning rock on which stands the Chateau d’If. This gloomy
fortress, which has for more than three hundred years
furnished food for so many wild legends, seemed to Dantes
like a scaffold to a malefactor.

“The Chateau d’If?” cried he, “what are we going there for?”
The gendarme smiled.

“I am not going there to be imprisoned,” said Dantes; “it is
only used for political prisoners. I have committed no
crime. Are there any magistrates or judges at the Chateau
d’If?”

“There are only,” said the gendarme, “a governor, a
garrison, turnkeys, and good thick walls. Come, come, do not
look so astonished, or you will make me think you are
laughing at me in return for my good nature.” Dantes pressed
the gendarme’s hand as though he would crush it.

“You think, then,” said he, “that I am taken to the Chateau
d’If to be imprisoned there?”

“It is probable; but there is no occasion to squeeze so
hard.”

“Without any inquiry, without any formality?”

“All the formalities have been gone through; the inquiry is
already made.”

“And so, in spite of M. de Villefort’s promises?”

“I do not know what M. de Villefort promised you,” said the
gendarme, “but I know we are taking you to the Chateau d’If.
But what are you doing? Help, comrades, help!”

By a rapid movement, which the gendarme’s practiced eye had
perceived, Dantes sprang forward to precipitate himself into
the sea; but four vigorous arms seized him as his feet
quitted the bottom of the boat. He fell back cursing with
rage.

“Good!” said the gendarme, placing his knee on his chest;
“believe soft-spoken gentlemen again! Harkye, my friend, I
have disobeyed my first order, but I will not disobey the
second; and if you move, I will blow your brains out.” And
he levelled his carbine at Dantes, who felt the muzzle
against his temple.

For a moment the idea of struggling crossed his mind, and of
so ending the unexpected evil that had overtaken him. But he
bethought him of M. de Villefort’s promise; and, besides,
death in a boat from the hand of a gendarme seemed too
terrible. He remained motionless, but gnashing his teeth and
wringing his hands with fury.

At this moment the boat came to a landing with a violent
shock. One of the sailors leaped on shore, a cord creaked as
it ran through a pulley, and Dantes guessed they were at the
end of the voyage, and that they were mooring the boat.

His guards, taking him by the arms and coat-collar, forced
him to rise, and dragged him towards the steps that lead to
the gate of the fortress, while the police officer carrying
a musket with fixed bayonet followed behind.

Dantes made no resistance; he was like a man in a dream: he
saw soldiers drawn up on the embankment; he knew vaguely
that he was ascending a flight of steps; he was conscious
that he passed through a door, and that the door closed
behind him; but all this indistinctly as through a mist. He
did not even see the ocean, that terrible barrier against
freedom, which the prisoners look upon with utter despair.

They halted for a minute, during which he strove to collect
his thoughts. He looked around; he was in a court surrounded
by high walls; he heard the measured tread of sentinels, and
as they passed before the light he saw the barrels of their
muskets shine.

They waited upwards of ten minutes. Certain Dantes could not
escape, the gendarmes released him. They seemed awaiting
orders. The orders came.

“Where is the prisoner?” said a voice.

“Here,” replied the gendarmes.

“Let him follow me; I will take him to his cell.”

“Go!” said the gendarmes, thrusting Dantes forward.

The prisoner followed his guide, who led him into a room
almost under ground, whose bare and reeking walls seemed as
though impregnated with tears; a lamp placed on a stool
illumined the apartment faintly, and showed Dantes the
features of his conductor, an under-jailer, ill-clothed, and
of sullen appearance.

“Here is your chamber for to-night,” said he. “It is late,
and the governor is asleep. To-morrow, perhaps, he may
change you. In the meantime there is bread, water, and fresh
straw; and that is all a prisoner can wish for. Goodnight.”
And before Dantes could open his mouth — before he had
noticed where the jailer placed his bread or the water —
before he had glanced towards the corner where the straw
was, the jailer disappeared, taking with him the lamp and
closing the door, leaving stamped upon the prisoner’s mind
the dim reflection of the dripping walls of his dungeon.

Dantes was alone in darkness and in silence — cold as the
shadows that he felt breathe on his burning forehead. With
the first dawn of day the jailer returned, with orders to
leave Dantes where he was. He found the prisoner in the same
position, as if fixed there, his eyes swollen with weeping.
He had passed the night standing, and without sleep. The
jailer advanced; Dantes appeared not to perceive him. He
touched him on the shoulder. Edmond started.

“Have you not slept?” said the jailer.

“I do not know,” replied Dantes. The jailer stared.

“Are you hungry?” continued he.

“I do not know.”

“Do you wish for anything?”

“I wish to see the governor.” The jailer shrugged his
shoulders and left the chamber.

Dantes followed him with his eyes, and stretched forth his
hands towards the open door; but the door closed. All his
emotion then burst forth; he cast himself on the ground,
weeping bitterly, and asking himself what crime he had
committed that he was thus punished.

The day passed thus; he scarcely tasted food, but walked
round and round the cell like a wild beast in its cage. One
thought in particular tormented him: namely, that during his
journey hither he had sat so still, whereas he might, a
dozen times, have plunged into the sea, and, thanks to his
powers of swimming, for which he was famous, have gained the
shore, concealed himself until the arrival of a Genoese or
Spanish vessel, escaped to Spain or Italy, where Mercedes
and his father could have joined him. He had no fears as to
how he should live — good seamen are welcome everywhere. He
spoke Italian like a Tuscan, and Spanish like a Castilian;
he would have been free, and happy with Mercedes and his
father, whereas he was now confined in the Chateau d’If,
that impregnable fortress, ignorant of the future destiny of
his father and Mercedes; and all this because he had trusted
to Villefort’s promise. The thought was maddening, and
Dantes threw himself furiously down on his straw. The next
morning at the same hour, the jailer came again.

“Well,” said the jailer, “are you more reasonable to-day?”
Dantes made no reply.

“Come, cheer up; is there anything that I can do for you?”

“I wish to see the governor.”

“I have already told you it was impossible.”

“Why so?”

“Because it is against prison rules, and prisoners must not
even ask for it.”

“What is allowed, then?”

“Better fare, if you pay for it, books, and leave to walk
about.”

“I do not want books, I am satisfied with my food, and do
not care to walk about; but I wish to see the governor.”

“If you worry me by repeating the same thing, I will not
bring you any more to eat.”

“Well, then,” said Edmond, “if you do not, I shall die of
hunger — that is all.”

The jailer saw by his tone he would be happy to die; and as
every prisoner is worth ten sous a day to his jailer, he
replied in a more subdued tone.

“What you ask is impossible; but if you are very well
behaved you will be allowed to walk about, and some day you
will meet the governor, and if he chooses to reply, that is
his affair.”

“But,” asked Dantes, “how long shall I have to wait?”

“Ah, a month — six months — a year.”

“It is too long a time. I wish to see him at once.”

“Ah,” said the jailer, “do not always brood over what is
impossible, or you will be mad in a fortnight.”

“You think so?”

“Yes; we have an instance here; it was by always offering a
million of francs to the governor for his liberty that an
abbe became mad, who was in this chamber before you.”

“How long has he left it?”

“Two years.”

“Was he liberated, then?”

“No; he was put in a dungeon.”

“Listen!” said Dantes. “I am not an abbe, I am not mad;
perhaps I shall be, but at present, unfortunately, I am not.
I will make you another offer.”

“What is that?”

“I do not offer you a million, because I have it not; but I
will give you a hundred crowns if, the first time you go to
Marseilles, you will seek out a young girl named Mercedes,
at the Catalans, and give her two lines from me.”

“If I took them, and were detected, I should lose my place,
which is worth two thousand francs a year; so that I should
be a great fool to run such a risk for three hundred.”

“Well,” said Dantes, “mark this; if you refuse at least to
tell Mercedes I am here, I will some day hide myself behind
the door, and when you enter I will dash out your brains
with this stool.”

“Threats!” cried the jailer, retreating and putting himself
on the defensive; “you are certainly going mad. The abbe
began like you, and in three days you will be like him, mad
enough to tie up; but, fortunately, there are dungeons
here.” Dantes whirled the stool round his head.

“All right, all right,” said the jailer; “all right, since
you will have it so. I will send word to the governor.”

“Very well,” returned Dantes, dropping the stool and sitting
on it as if he were in reality mad. The jailer went out, and
returned in an instant with a corporal and four soldiers.

“By the governor’s orders,” said he, “conduct the prisoner
to the tier beneath.”

“To the dungeon, then,” said the corporal.

“Yes; we must put the madman with the madmen.” The soldiers
seized Dantes, who followed passively.

He descended fifteen steps, and the door of a dungeon was
opened, and he was thrust in. The door closed, and Dantes
advanced with outstretched hands until he touched the wall;
he then sat down in the corner until his eyes became
accustomed to the darkness. The jailer was right; Dantes
wanted but little of being utterly mad.

Villefort had, as we have said, hastened back to Madame de
Saint-Meran’s in the Place du Grand Cours, and on entering
the house found that the guests whom he had left at table
were taking coffee in the salon. Renee was, with all the
rest of the company, anxiously awaiting him, and his
entrance was followed by a general exclamation.

“Well, Decapitator, Guardian of the State, Royalist, Brutus,
what is the matter?” said one. “Speak out.”

“Are we threatened with a fresh Reign of Terror?” asked
another.

“Has the Corsican ogre broken loose?” cried a third.

“Marquise,” said Villefort, approaching his future
mother-in-law, “I request your pardon for thus leaving you.
Will the marquis honor me by a few moments’ private
conversation?”

“Ah, it is really a serious matter, then?” asked the
marquis, remarking the cloud on Villefort’s brow.

“So serious that I must take leave of you for a few days;
so,” added he, turning to Renee, “judge for yourself if it
be not important.”

“You are going to leave us?” cried Renee, unable to hide her
emotion at this unexpected announcement.

“Alas,” returned Villefort, “I must!”

“Where, then, are you going?” asked the marquise.

“That, madame, is an official secret; but if you have any
commissions for Paris, a friend of mine is going there
to-night, and will with pleasure undertake them.” The guests
looked at each other.

“You wish to speak to me alone?” said the marquis.

“Yes, let us go to the library, please.” The marquis took
his arm, and they left the salon.

“Well,” asked he, as soon as they were by themselves, “tell
me what it is?”

“An affair of the greatest importance, that demands my
immediate presence in Paris. Now, excuse the indiscretion,
marquis, but have you any landed property?”

“All my fortune is in the funds; seven or eight hundred
thousand francs.”

“Then sell out — sell out, marquis, or you will lose it
all.”

“But how can I sell out here?”

“You have a broker, have you not?”

“Yes.”

“Then give me a letter to him, and tell him to sell out
without an instant’s delay, perhaps even now I shall arrive
too late.”

“The deuce you say!” replied the marquis, “let us lose no
time, then!”

And, sitting down, he wrote a letter to his broker, ordering
him to sell out at the market price.

“Now, then,” said Villefort, placing the letter in his
pocketbook, “I must have another!”

“To whom?”

“To the king.”

“To the king?”

“Yes.”

“I dare not write to his majesty.”

“I do not ask you to write to his majesty, but ask M. de
Salvieux to do so. I want a letter that will enable me to
reach the king’s presence without all the formalities of
demanding an audience; that would occasion a loss of
precious time.”

“But address yourself to the keeper of the seals; he has the
right of entry at the Tuileries, and can procure you
audience at any hour of the day or night.”

“Doubtless; but there is no occasion to divide the honors of
my discovery with him. The keeper would leave me in the
background, and take all the glory to himself. I tell you,
marquis, my fortune is made if I only reach the Tuileries
the first, for the king will not forget the service I do
him.”

“In that case go and get ready. I will call Salvieux and
make him write the letter.”

“Be as quick as possible, I must be on the road in a quarter
of an hour.”

“Tell your coachman to stop at the door.”

“You will present my excuses to the marquise and
Mademoiselle Renee, whom I leave on such a day with great
regret.”

“You will find them both here, and can make your farewells
in person.”

“A thousand thanks — and now for the letter.”

The marquis rang, a servant entered.

“Say to the Comte de Salvieux that I would like to see him.”

“Now, then, go,” said the marquis.

“I shall be gone only a few moments.”

Villefort hastily quitted the apartment, but reflecting that
the sight of the deputy procureur running through the
streets would be enough to throw the whole city into
confusion, he resumed his ordinary pace. At his door he
perceived a figure in the shadow that seemed to wait for
him. It was Mercedes, who, hearing no news of her lover, had
come unobserved to inquire after him.

As Villefort drew near, she advanced and stood before him.
Dantes had spoken of Mercedes, and Villefort instantly
recognized her. Her beauty and high bearing surprised him,
and when she inquired what had become of her lover, it
seemed to him that she was the judge, and he the accused.

“The young man you speak of,” said Villefort abruptly, “is a
great criminal. and I can do nothing for him, mademoiselle.”
Mercedes burst into tears, and, as Villefort strove to pass
her, again addressed him.

“But, at least, tell me where he is, that I may know whether
he is alive or dead,” said she.

“I do not know; he is no longer in my hands,” replied
Villefort.

And desirous of putting an end to the interview, he pushed
by her, and closed the door, as if to exclude the pain he
felt. But remorse is not thus banished; like Virgil’s
wounded hero, he carried the arrow in his wound, and,
arrived at the salon, Villefort uttered a sigh that was
almost a sob, and sank into a chair.

Then the first pangs of an unending torture seized upon his
heart. The man he sacrificed to his ambition, that innocent
victim immolated on the altar of his father’s faults,
appeared to him pale and threatening, leading his affianced
bride by the hand, and bringing with him remorse, not such
as the ancients figured, furious and terrible, but that slow
and consuming agony whose pangs are intensified from hour to
hour up to the very moment of death. Then he had a moment’s
hesitation. He had frequently called for capital punishment
on criminals, and owing to his irresistible eloquence they
had been condemned, and yet the slightest shadow of remorse
had never clouded Villefort’s brow, because they were
guilty; at least, he believed so; but here was an innocent
man whose happiness he had destroyed: in this case he was
not the judge, but the executioner.

As he thus reflected, he felt the sensation we have
described, and which had hitherto been unknown to him, arise
in his bosom, and fill him with vague apprehensions. It is
thus that a wounded man trembles instinctively at the
approach of the finger to his wound until it be healed, but
Villefort’s was one of those that never close, or if they
do, only close to reopen more agonizing than ever. If at
this moment the sweet voice of Renee had sounded in his ears
pleading for mercy, or the fair Mercedes had entered and
said, “In the name of God, I conjure you to restore me my
affianced husband,” his cold and trembling hands would have
signed his release; but no voice broke the stillness of the
chamber, and the door was opened only by Villefort’s valet,
who came to tell him that the travelling carriage was in
readiness.

Villefort rose, or rather sprang, from his chair, hastily
opened one of the drawers of his desk, emptied all the gold
it contained into his pocket, stood motionless an instant,
his hand pressed to his head, muttered a few inarticulate
sounds, and then, perceiving that his servant had placed his
cloak on his shoulders, he sprang into the carriage,
ordering the postilions to drive to M. de Saint-Meran’s. The
hapless Dantes was doomed.

As the marquis had promised, Villefort found the marquise
and Renee in waiting. He started when he saw Renee, for he
fancied she was again about to plead for Dantes. Alas, her
emotions were wholly personal: she was thinking only of
Villefort’s departure.

She loved Villefort, and he left her at the moment he was
about to become her husband. Villefort knew not when he
should return, and Renee, far from pleading for Dantes,
hated the man whose crime separated her from her lover.

Meanwhile what of Mercedes? She had met Fernand at the
corner of the Rue de la Loge; she had returned to the
Catalans, and had despairingly cast herself on her couch.
Fernand, kneeling by her side, took her hand, and covered it
with kisses that Mercedes did not even feel. She passed the
night thus. The lamp went out for want of oil, but she paid
no heed to the darkness, and dawn came, but she knew not
that it was day. Grief had made her blind to all but one
object — that was Edmond.

“Ah, you are there,” said she, at length, turning towards
Fernand.

“I have not quitted you since yesterday,” returned Fernand
sorrowfully.

M. Morrel had not readily given up the fight. He had learned
that Dantes had been taken to prison, and he had gone to all
his friends, and the influential persons of the city; but
the report was already in circulation that Dantes was
arrested as a Bonapartist agent; and as the most sanguine
looked upon any attempt of Napoleon to remount the throne as
impossible, he met with nothing but refusal, and had
returned home in despair, declaring that the matter was
serious and that nothing more could be done.

Caderousse was equally restless and uneasy, but instead of
seeking, like M. Morrel, to aid Dantes, he had shut himself
up with two bottles of black currant brandy, in the hope of
drowning reflection. But he did not succeed, and became too
intoxicated to fetch any more drink, and yet not so
intoxicated as to forget what had happened. With his elbows
on the table he sat between the two empty bottles, while
spectres danced in the light of the unsnuffed candle —
spectres such as Hoffmann strews over his punch-drenched
pages, like black, fantastic dust.

Danglars alone was content and joyous — he had got rid of
an enemy and made his own situation on the Pharaon secure.
Danglars was one of those men born with a pen behind the
ear, and an inkstand in place of a heart. Everything with
him was multiplication or subtraction. The life of a man was
to him of far less value than a numeral, especially when, by
taking it away, he could increase the sum total of his own
desires. He went to bed at his usual hour, and slept in
peace.

Villefort, after having received M. de Salvieux’ letter,
embraced Renee, kissed the marquise’s hand, and shaken that
of the marquis, started for Paris along the Aix road.

Old Dantes was dying with anxiety to know what had become of
Edmond. But we know very well what had become of Edmond.

We will leave Villefort on the road to Paris, travelling —
thanks to trebled fees — with all speed, and passing
through two or three apartments, enter at the Tuileries the
little room with the arched window, so well known as having
been the favorite closet of Napoleon and Louis XVIII., and
now of Louis Philippe.

There, seated before a walnut table he had brought with him
from Hartwell, and to which, from one of those fancies not
uncommon to great people, he was particularly attached, the
king, Louis XVIII., was carelessly listening to a man of
fifty or fifty-two years of age, with gray hair,
aristocratic bearing, and exceedingly gentlemanly attire,
and meanwhile making a marginal note in a volume of
Gryphius’s rather inaccurate, but much sought-after, edition
of Horace — a work which was much indebted to the sagacious
observations of the philosophical monarch.

“You say, sir” — said the king.

“That I am exceedingly disquieted, sire.”

“Really, have you had a vision of the seven fat kine and the
seven lean kine?”

“No, sire, for that would only betoken for us seven years of
plenty and seven years of scarcity; and with a king as full
of foresight as your majesty, scarcity is not a thing to be
feared.”

“Then of what other scourge are you afraid, my dear Blacas?”

“Sire, I have every reason to believe that a storm is
brewing in the south.”

“Well, my dear duke,” replied Louis XVIII., “I think you are
wrongly informed, and know positively that, on the contrary,
it is very fine weather in that direction.” Man of ability
as he was, Louis XVIII. liked a pleasant jest.

“Sire,” continued M. de Blacas, “if it only be to reassure a
faithful servant, will your majesty send into Languedoc,
Provence, and Dauphine, trusty men, who will bring you back
a faithful report as to the feeling in these three
provinces?”

“Caninus surdis,” replied the king, continuing the
annotations in his Horace.

“Sire,” replied the courtier, laughing, in order that he
might seem to comprehend the quotation, “your majesty may be
perfectly right in relying on the good feeling of France,
but I fear I am not altogether wrong in dreading some
desperate attempt.”

“By whom?”

“By Bonaparte, or, at least, by his adherents.”

“My dear Blacas,” said the king, “you with your alarms
prevent me from working.”

“And you, sire, prevent me from sleeping with your
security.”

“Wait, my dear sir, wait a moment; for I have such a
delightful note on the Pastor quum traheret — wait, and I
will listen to you afterwards.”

There was a brief pause, during which Louis XVIII. wrote, in
a hand as small as possible, another note on the margin of
his Horace, and then looking at the duke with the air of a
man who thinks he has an idea of his own, while he is only
commenting upon the idea of another, said, —

“Go on, my dear duke, go on — I listen.”

“Sire,” said Blacas, who had for a moment the hope of
sacrificing Villefort to his own profit, “I am compelled to
tell you that these are not mere rumors destitute of
foundation which thus disquiet me; but a serious-minded man,
deserving all my confidence, and charged by me to watch over
the south” (the duke hesitated as he pronounced these
words), “has arrived by post to tell me that a great peril
threatens the king, and so I hastened to you, sire.”

“Mala ducis avi domum,” continued Louis XVIII., still
annotating.

“Does your majesty wish me to drop the subject?”

“By no means, my dear duke; but just stretch out your hand.”

“Which?”

“Whichever you please — there to the left.”

“Here, sire?”

“I tell you to the left, and you are looking to the right; I
mean on my left — yes, there. You will find yesterday’s
report of the minister of police. But here is M. Dandre
himself;” and M. Dandre, announced by the
chamberlain-in-waiting, entered.

“Come in,” said Louis XVIII., with repressed smile, “come
in, Baron, and tell the duke all you know — the latest news
of M. de Bonaparte; do not conceal anything, however
serious, — let us see, the Island of Elba is a volcano, and
we may expect to have issuing thence flaming and bristling
war — bella, horrida bella.” M. Dandre leaned very
respectfully on the back of a chair with his two hands, and
said, —

“Has your majesty perused yesterday’s report?”

“Yes, yes; but tell the duke himself, who cannot find
anything, what the report contains — give him the
particulars of what the usurper is doing in his islet.”

“Monsieur,” said the baron to the duke, “all the servants of
his majesty must approve of the latest intelligence which we
have from the Island of Elba. Bonaparte” — M. Dandre looked
at Louis XVIII., who, employed in writing a note, did not
even raise his head. “Bonaparte,” continued the baron, “is
mortally wearied, and passes whole days in watching his
miners at work at Porto-Longone.”

“And scratches himself for amusement,” added the king.

“Scratches himself?” inquired the duke, “what does your
majesty mean?”

“Yes, indeed, my dear duke. Did you forget that this great
man, this hero, this demigod, is attacked with a malady of
the skin which worries him to death, prurigo?”

“And, moreover, my dear duke,” continued the minister of
police, “we are almost assured that, in a very short time,
the usurper will be insane.”

“Insane?”

“Raving mad; his head becomes weaker. Sometimes he weeps
bitterly, sometimes laughs boisterously, at other time he
passes hours on the seashore, flinging stones in the water
and when the flint makes `duck-and-drake’ five or six times,
he appears as delighted as if he had gained another Marengo
or Austerlitz. Now, you must agree that these are
indubitable symptoms of insanity.”

“Or of wisdom, my dear baron — or of wisdom,” said Louis
XVIII., laughing; “the greatest captains of antiquity amused
themselves by casting pebbles into the ocean — see
Plutarch’s life of Scipio Africanus.”

M. de Blacas pondered deeply between the confident monarch
and the truthful minister. Villefort, who did not choose to
reveal the whole secret, lest another should reap all the
benefit of the disclosure, had yet communicated enough to
cause him the greatest uneasiness.

“Well, well, Dandre,” said Louis XVIII., “Blacas is not yet
convinced; let us proceed, therefore, to the usurper’s
conversion.” The minister of police bowed.

“The usurper’s conversion!” murmured the duke, looking at
the king and Dandre, who spoke alternately, like Virgil’s
shepherds. “The usurper converted!”

“Decidedly, my dear duke.”

“In what way converted?”

“To good principles. Tell him all about it, baron.”

“Why, this is the way of it,” said the minister, with the
gravest air in the world: “Napoleon lately had a review, and
as two or three of his old veterans expressed a desire to
return to France, he gave them their dismissal, and exhorted
them to `serve the good king.’ These were his own words, of
that I am certain.”

“Well, Blacas, what think you of this?” inquired the king
triumphantly, and pausing for a moment from the voluminous
scholiast before him.

“I say, sire, that the minister of police is greatly
deceived or I am; and as it is impossible it can be the
minister of police as he has the guardianship of the safety
and honor of your majesty, it is probable that I am in
error. However, sire, if I might advise, your majesty will
interrogate the person of whom I spoke to you, and I will
urge your majesty to do him this honor.”

“Most willingly, duke; under your auspices I will receive
any person you please, but you must not expect me to be too
confiding. Baron, have you any report more recent than this
dated the 20th February. — this is the 4th of March?”

“No, sire, but I am hourly expecting one; it may have
arrived since I left my office.”

“Go thither, and if there be none — well, well,” continued
Louis XVIII., “make one; that is the usual way, is it not?”
and the king laughed facetiously.

“Oh, sire,” replied the minister, “we have no occasion to
invent any; every day our desks are loaded with most
circumstantial denunciations, coming from hosts of people
who hope for some return for services which they seek to
render, but cannot; they trust to fortune, and rely upon
some unexpected event in some way to justify their
predictions.”

“Well, sir, go”; said Louis XVIII., “and remember that I am
waiting for you.”

“I will but go and return, sire; I shall be back in ten
minutes.”

“And I, sire,” said M. de Blacas, “will go and find my
messenger.”

“Wait, sir, wait,” said Louis XVIII. “Really, M. de Blacas,
I must change your armorial bearings; I will give you an
eagle with outstretched wings, holding in its claws a prey
which tries in vain to escape, and bearing this device —
Tenax.”

“Sire, I listen,” said De Blacas, biting his nails with
impatience.

“I wish to consult you on this passage, `Molli fugiens
anhelitu,’ you know it refers to a stag flying from a wolf.
Are you not a sportsman and a great wolf-hunter? Well, then,
what do you think of the molli anhelitu?”

“Admirable, sire; but my messenger is like the stag you
refer to, for he has posted two hundred and twenty leagues
in scarcely three days.”

“Which is undergoing great fatigue and anxiety, my dear
duke, when we have a telegraph which transmits messages in
three or four hours, and that without getting in the least
out of breath.”

“Ah, sire, you recompense but badly this poor young man, who
has come so far, and with so much ardor, to give your
majesty useful information. If only for the sake of M. de
Salvieux, who recommends him to me, I entreat your majesty
to receive him graciously.”

“M. de Salvieux, my brother’s chamberlain?”

“Yes, sire.”

“He is at Marseilles.”

“And writes me thence.”

“Does he speak to you of this conspiracy?”

“No; but strongly recommends M. de Villefort, and begs me to
present him to your majesty.”

“M. de Villefort!” cried the king, “is the messenger’s name
M. de Villefort?”

“Yes, sire.”

“And he comes from Marseilles?”

“In person.”

“Why did you not mention his name at once?” replied the
king, betraying some uneasiness.

“Sire, I thought his name was unknown to your majesty.”

“No, no, Blacas; he is a man of strong and elevated
understanding, ambitious, too, and, pardieu, you know his
father’s name!”

“His father?”

“Yes, Noirtier.”

“Noirtier the Girondin? — Noirtier the senator?”

“He himself.”

“And your majesty has employed the son of such a man?”

“Blacas, my friend, you have but limited comprehension. I
told you Villefort was ambitious, and to attain this
ambition Villefort would sacrifice everything, even his
father.”

“Then, sire, may I present him?”

“This instant, duke! Where is he?”

“Waiting below, in my carriage.”

“Seek him at once.”

“I hasten to do so.” The duke left the royal presence with
the speed of a young man; his really sincere royalism made
him youthful again. Louis XVIII. remained alone, and turning
his eyes on his half-opened Horace, muttered, —

“Justum et tenacem propositi virum.”

M. de Blacas returned as speedily as he had departed, but in
the ante-chamber he was forced to appeal to the king’s
authority. Villefort’s dusty garb, his costume, which was
not of courtly cut, excited the susceptibility of M. de
Breze, who was all astonishment at finding that this young
man had the audacity to enter before the king in such
attire. The duke, however, overcame all difficulties with a
word — his majesty’s order; and, in spite of the
protestations which the master of ceremonies made for the
honor of his office and principles, Villefort was
introduced.

The king was seated in the same place where the duke had
left him. On opening the door, Villefort found himself
facing him, and the young magistrate’s first impulse was to
pause.

“Come in, M. de Villefort,” said the king, “come in.”
Villefort bowed, and advancing a few steps, waited until the
king should interrogate him.

“M. de Villefort,” said Louis XVIII., “the Duc de Blacas
assures me you have some interesting information to
communicate.”

“Sire, the duke is right, and I believe your majesty will
think it equally important.”

“In the first place, and before everything else, sir, is the
news as bad in your opinion as I am asked to believe?”

“Sire, I believe it to be most urgent, but I hope, by the
speed I have used, that it is not irreparable.”

“Speak as fully as you please, sir,” said the king, who
began to give way to the emotion which had showed itself in
Blacas’s face and affected Villefort’s voice. “Speak, sir,
and pray begin at the beginning; I like order in
everything.”

“Sire,” said Villefort, “I will render a faithful report to
your majesty, but I must entreat your forgiveness if my
anxiety leads to some obscurity in my language.” A glance at
the king after this discreet and subtle exordium, assured
Villefort of the benignity of his august auditor, and he
went on: —

“Sire, I have come as rapidly to Paris as possible, to
inform your majesty that I have discovered, in the exercise
of my duties, not a commonplace and insignificant plot, such
as is every day got up in the lower ranks of the people and
in the army, but an actual conspiracy — a storm which
menaces no less than your majesty’s throne. Sire, the
usurper is arming three ships, he meditates some project,
which, however mad, is yet, perhaps, terrible. At this
moment he will have left Elba, to go whither I know not, but
assuredly to attempt a landing either at Naples, or on the
coast of Tuscany, or perhaps on the shores of France. Your
majesty is well aware that the sovereign of the Island of
Elba has maintained his relations with Italy and France?”

“I am, sir,” said the king, much agitated; “and recently we
have had information that the Bonapartist clubs have had
meetings in the Rue Saint-Jacques. But proceed, I beg of
you. How did you obtain these details?”

“Sire, they are the results of an examination which I have
made of a man of Marseilles, whom I have watched for some
time, and arrested on the day of my departure. This person,
a sailor, of turbulent character, and whom I suspected of
Bonapartism, has been secretly to the Island of Elba. There
he saw the grand-marshal, who charged him with an oral
message to a Bonapartist in Paris, whose name I could not
extract from him; but this mission was to prepare men’s
minds for a return (it is the man who says this, sire) — a
return which will soon occur.”

“And where is this man?”

“In prison, sire.”

“And the matter seems serious to you?”

“So serious, sire, that when the circumstance surprised me
in the midst of a family festival, on the very day of my
betrothal, I left my bride and friends, postponing
everything, that I might hasten to lay at your majesty’s
feet the fears which impressed me, and the assurance of my
devotion.”

“True,” said Louis XVIII., “was there not a marriage
engagement between you and Mademoiselle de Saint-Meran?”

“Daughter of one of your majesty’s most faithful servants.”

“Yes, yes; but let us talk of this plot, M. de Villefort.”

“Sire, I fear it is more than a plot; I fear it is a
conspiracy.”

“A conspiracy in these times,” said Louis XVIII., smiling,
“is a thing very easy to meditate, but more difficult to
conduct to an end, inasmuch as, re-established so recently
on the throne of our ancestors, we have our eyes open at
once upon the past, the present, and the future. For the
last ten months my ministers have redoubled their vigilance,
in order to watch the shore of the Mediterranean. If
Bonaparte landed at Naples, the whole coalition would be on
foot before he could even reach Piomoino; if he land in
Tuscany, he will be in an unfriendly territory; if he land
in France, it must be with a handful of men, and the result
of that is easily foretold, execrated as he is by the
population. Take courage, sir; but at the same time rely on
our royal gratitude.”

“Ah, here is M. Dandre!” cried de Blacas. At this instant
the minister of police appeared at the door, pale,
trembling, and as if ready to faint. Villefort was about to
retire, but M. de Blacas, taking his hand, restrained him.

At the sight of this agitation Louis XVIII. pushed from him
violently the table at which he was sitting.

“What ails you, baron?” he exclaimed. “You appear quite
aghast. Has your uneasiness anything to do with what M. de
Blacas has told me, and M. de Villefort has just confirmed?”
M. de Blacas moved suddenly towards the baron, but the
fright of the courtier pleaded for the forbearance of the
statesman; and besides, as matters were, it was much more to
his advantage that the prefect of police should triumph over
him than that he should humiliate the prefect.

“Sire” — stammered the baron.

“Well, what is it?” asked Louis XVIII. The minister of
police, giving way to an impulse of despair, was about to
throw himself at the feet of Louis XVIII., who retreated a
step and frowned.

“Will you speak?” he said.

“Oh, sire, what a dreadful misfortune! I am, indeed, to be
pitied. I can never forgive myself!”

“Monsieur,” said Louis XVIII., “I command you to speak.”

“Well, sire, the usurper left Elba on the 26th February, and
landed on the 1st of March.”

“And where? In Italy?” asked the king eagerly.

“In France, sire, — at a small port, near Antibes, in the
Gulf of Juan.”

“The usurper landed in France, near Antibes, in the Gulf of
Juan, two hundred and fifty leagues from Paris, on the 1st
of March, and you only acquired this information to-day, the
4th of March! Well, sir, what you tell me is impossible. You
must have received a false report, or you have gone mad.”

“Alas, sire, it is but too true!” Louis made a gesture of
indescribable anger and alarm, and then drew himself up as
if this sudden blow had struck him at the same moment in
heart and countenance.

“In France!” he cried, “the usurper in France! Then they did
not watch over this man. Who knows? they were, perhaps, in
league with him.”

“Oh, sire,” exclaimed the Duc de Blacas, “M. Dandre is not a
man to be accused of treason! Sire, we have all been blind,
and the minister of police has shared the general blindness,
that is all.”

“But” — said Villefort, and then suddenly checking himself,
he was silent; then he continued, “Your pardon, sire,” he
said, bowing, “my zeal carried me away. Will your majesty
deign to excuse me?”

“Speak, sir, speak boldly,” replied Louis. “You alone
forewarned us of the evil; now try and aid us with the
remedy.”

“Sire,” said Villefort, “the usurper is detested in the
south; and it seems to me that if he ventured into the
south, it would be easy to raise Languedoc and Provence
against him.”

“Yes, assuredly,” replied the minister; “but he is advancing
by Gap and Sisteron.”

“Advancing — he is advancing!” said Louis XVIII. “Is he
then advancing on Paris?” The minister of police maintained
a silence which was equivalent to a complete avowal.

“And Dauphine, sir?” inquired the king, of Villefort. “Do
you think it possible to rouse that as well as Provence?”

“Sire, I am sorry to tell your majesty a cruel fact; but the
feeling in Dauphine is quite the reverse of that in Provence
or Languedoc. The mountaineers are Bonapartists, sire.”

“Then,” murmured Louis, “he was well informed. And how many
men had he with him?”

“I do not know, sire,” answered the minister of police.

“What, you do not know! Have you neglected to obtain
information on that point? Of course it is of no
consequence,” he added, with a withering smile.

“Sire, it was impossible to learn; the despatch simply
stated the fact of the landing and the route taken by the
usurper.”

“And how did this despatch reach you?” inquired the king.
The minister bowed his head, and while a deep color
overspread his cheeks, he stammered out, —

“By the telegraph, sire.” — Louis XVIII. advanced a step,
and folded his arms over his chest as Napoleon would have
done.

“So then,” he exclaimed, turning pale with anger, “seven
conjoined and allied armies overthrew that man. A miracle of
heaven replaced me on the throne of my fathers after
five-and-twenty years of exile. I have, during those
five-and-twenty years, spared no pains to understand the
people of France and the interests which were confided to
me; and now, when I see the fruition of my wishes almost
within reach, the power I hold in my hands bursts, and
shatters me to atoms!”

“Sire, it is fatality!” murmured the minister, feeling that
the pressure of circumstances, however light a thing to
destiny, was too much for any human strength to endure.

“What our enemies say of us is then true. We have learnt
nothing, forgotten nothing! If I were betrayed as he was, I
would console myself; but to be in the midst of persons
elevated by myself to places of honor, who ought to watch
over me more carefully than over themselves, — for my
fortune is theirs — before me they were nothing — after me
they will be nothing, and perish miserably from incapacity
— ineptitude! Oh, yes, sir, you are right — it is
fatality!”

The minister quailed before this outburst of sarcasm. M. de
Blacas wiped the moisture from his brow. Villefort smiled
within himself, for he felt his increased importance.

“To fall,” continued King Louis, who at the first glance had
sounded the abyss on which the monarchy hung suspended, —
“to fall, and learn of that fall by telegraph! Oh, I would
rather mount the scaffold of my brother, Louis XVI., than
thus descend the staircase at the Tuileries driven away by
ridicule. Ridicule, sir — why, you know not its power in
France, and yet you ought to know it!”

“Sire, sire,” murmured the minister, “for pity’s” —

“Approach, M. de Villefort,” resumed the king, addressing
the young man, who, motionless and breathless, was listening
to a conversation on which depended the destiny of a
kingdom. “Approach, and tell monsieur that it is possible to
know beforehand all that he has not known.”

“Sire, it was really impossible to learn secrets which that
man concealed from all the world.”

“Really impossible! Yes — that is a great word, sir.
Unfortunately, there are great words, as there are great
men; I have measured them. Really impossible for a minister
who has an office, agents, spies, and fifteen hundred
thousand francs for secret service money, to know what is
going on at sixty leagues from the coast of France! Well,
then, see, here is a gentleman who had none of these
resources at his disposal — a gentleman, only a simple
magistrate, who learned more than you with all your police,
and who would have saved my crown, if, like you, he had the
power of directing a telegraph.” The look of the minister of
police was turned with concentrated spite on Villefort, who
bent his head in modest triumph.

“I do not mean that for you, Blacas,” continued Louis
XVIII.; “for if you have discovered nothing, at least you
have had the good sense to persevere in your suspicions. Any
other than yourself would have considered the disclosure of
M. de Villefort insignificant, or else dictated by venal
ambition,” These words were an allusion to the sentiments
which the minister of police had uttered with so much
confidence an hour before.

Villefort understood the king’s intent. Any other person
would, perhaps, have been overcome by such an intoxicating
draught of praise; but he feared to make for himself a
mortal enemy of the police minister, although he saw that
Dandre was irrevocably lost. In fact, the minister, who, in
the plenitude of his power, had been unable to unearth
Napoleon’s secret, might in despair at his own downfall
interrogate Dantes and so lay bare the motives of
Villefort’s plot. Realizing this, Villefort came to the
rescue of the crest-fallen minister, instead of aiding to
crush him.

“Sire,” said Villefort, “the suddenness of this event must
prove to your majesty that the issue is in the hands of
Providence; what your majesty is pleased to attribute to me
as profound perspicacity is simply owing to chance, and I
have profited by that chance, like a good and devoted
servant — that’s all. Do not attribute to me more than I
deserve, sire, that your majesty may never have occasion to
recall the first opinion you have been pleased to form of
me.” The minister of police thanked the young man by an
eloquent look, and Villefort understood that he had
succeeded in his design; that is to say, that without
forfeiting the gratitude of the king, he had made a friend
of one on whom, in case of necessity, he might rely.

“‘Tis well,” resumed the king. “And now, gentlemen,” he
continued, turning towards M. de Blacas and the minister of
police, “I have no further occasion for you, and you may
retire; what now remains to do is in the department of the
minister of war.”

“Fortunately, sire,” said M. de Blacas, “we can rely on the
army; your majesty knows how every report confirms their
loyalty and attachment.”

“Do not mention reports, duke, to me, for I know now what
confidence to place in them. Yet, speaking of reports,
baron, what have you learned with regard to the affair in
the Rue Saint-Jacques?”

“The affair in the Rue Saint-Jacques!” exclaimed Villefort,
unable to repress an exclamation. Then, suddenly pausing, he
added, “Your pardon, sire, but my devotion to your majesty
has made me forget, not the respect I have, for that is too
deeply engraved in my heart, but the rules of etiquette.”

“Go on, go on, sir,” replied the king; “you have to-day
earned the right to make inquiries here.”

“Sire,” interposed the minister of police, “I came a moment
ago to give your majesty fresh information which I had
obtained on this head, when your majesty’s attention was
attracted by the terrible event that has occurred in the
gulf, and now these facts will cease to interest your
majesty.”

“On the contrary, sir, — on the contrary,” said Louis
XVIII., “this affair seems to me to have a decided
connection with that which occupies our attention, and the
death of General Quesnel will, perhaps, put us on the direct
track of a great internal conspiracy.” At the name of
General Quesnel, Villefort trembled.

“Everything points to the conclusion, sire,” said the
minister of police, “that death was not the result of
suicide, as we first believed, but of assassination. General
Quesnel, it appears, had just left a Bonapartist club when
he disappeared. An unknown person had been with him that
morning, and made an appointment with him in the Rue
Saint-Jacques; unfortunately, the general’s valet, who was
dressing his hair at the moment when the stranger entered,
heard the street mentioned, but did not catch the number.”
As the police minister related this to the king, Villefort,
who looked as if his very life hung on the speaker’s lips,
turned alternately red and pale. The king looked towards
him.

“Do you not think with me, M. de Villefort, that General
Quesnel, whom they believed attached to the usurper, but who
was really entirely devoted to me, has perished the victim
of a Bonapartist ambush?”

“It is probable, sire,” replied Villefort. “But is this all
that is known?”

“They are on the track of the man who appointed the meeting
with him.”

“On his track?” said Villefort.

“Yes, the servant has given his description. He is a man of
from fifty to fifty-two years of age, dark, with black eyes
covered with shaggy eyebrows, and a thick mustache. He was
dressed in a blue frock-coat, buttoned up to the chin, and
wore at his button-hole the rosette of an officer of the
Legion of Honor. Yesterday a person exactly corresponding
with this description was followed, but he was lost sight of
at the corner of the Rue de la Jussienne and the Rue
Coq-Heron.” Villefort leaned on the back of an arm-chair,
for as the minister of police went on speaking he felt his
legs bend under him; but when he learned that the unknown
had escaped the vigilance of the agent who followed him, he
breathed again.

“Continue to seek for this man, sir,” said the king to the
minister of police; “for if, as I am all but convinced,
General Quesnel, who would have been so useful to us at this
moment, has been murdered, his assassins, Bonapartists or
not, shall be cruelly punished.” It required all Villefort’s
coolness not to betray the terror with which this
declaration of the king inspired him.

“How strange,” continued the king, with some asperity; “the
police think that they have disposed of the whole matter
when they say, `A murder has been committed,’ and especially
so when they can add, `And we are on the track of the guilty
persons.'”

“Sire, your majesty will, I trust, be amply satisfied on
this point at least.”

“We shall see. I will no longer detain you, M. de Villefort,
for you must be fatigued after so long a journey; go and
rest. Of course you stopped at your father’s?” A feeling of
faintness came over Villefort.

“No, sire,” he replied, “I alighted at the Hotel de Madrid,
in the Rue de Tournon.”

“But you have seen him?”

“Sire, I went straight to the Duc de Blacas.”

“But you will see him, then?”

“I think not, sire.”

“Ah, I forgot,” said Louis, smiling in a manner which proved
that all these questions were not made without a motive; “I
forgot you and M. Noirtier are not on the best terms
possible, and that is another sacrifice made to the royal
cause, and for which you should be recompensed.”

“Sire, the kindness your majesty deigns to evince towards me
is a recompense which so far surpasses my utmost ambition
that I have nothing more to ask for.”

“Never mind, sir, we will not forget you; make your mind
easy. In the meanwhile” (the king here detached the cross of
the Legion of Honor which he usually wore over his blue
coat, near the cross of St. Louis, above the order of
Notre-Dame-du-Mont-Carmel and St. Lazare, and gave it to
Villefort) — “in the meanwhile take this cross.”

“Sire,” said Villefort, “your majesty mistakes; this is an
officer’s cross.”

“Ma foi,” said Louis XVIII., “take it, such as it is, for I
have not the time to procure you another. Blacas, let it be
your care to see that the brevet is made out and sent to M.
de Villefort.” Villefort’s eyes were filled with tears of
joy and pride; he took the cross and kissed it.

“And now,” he said, “may I inquire what are the orders with
which your majesty deigns to honor me?”

“Take what rest you require, and remember that if you are
not able to serve me here in Paris, you may be of the
greatest service to me at Marseilles.”

“Sire,” replied Villefort, bowing, “in an hour I shall have
quitted Paris.”

“Go, sir,” said the king; “and should I forget you (kings’
memories are short), do not be afraid to bring yourself to
my recollection. Baron, send for the minister of war.
Blacas, remain.”

“Ah, sir,” said the minister of police to Villefort, as they
left the Tuileries, “you entered by luck’s door — your
fortune is made.”

“Will it be long first?” muttered Villefort, saluting the
minister, whose career was ended, and looking about him for
a hackney-coach. One passed at the moment, which he hailed;
he gave his address to the driver, and springing in, threw
himself on the seat, and gave loose to dreams of ambition.

Ten minutes afterwards Villefort reached his hotel, ordered
horses to be ready in two hours, and asked to have his
breakfast brought to him. He was about to begin his repast
when the sound of the bell rang sharp and loud. The valet
opened the door, and Villefort heard some one speak his
name.

“Who could know that I was here already?” said the young
man. The valet entered.

“Well,” said Villefort, “what is it? — Who rang? — Who
asked for me?”

“A stranger who will not send in his name.”

“A stranger who will not send in his name! What can he want
with me?”

“He wishes to speak to you.”

“To me?”

“Yes.”

“Did he mention my name?”

“Yes.”

“What sort of person is he?”

“Why, sir, a man of about fifty.”

“Short or tall?”

“About your own height, sir.”

“Dark or fair?”

“Dark, — very dark; with black eyes, black hair, black
eyebrows.”

“And how dressed?” asked Villefort quickly.

“In a blue frock-coat, buttoned up close, decorated with the
Legion of Honor.”

“It is he!” said Villefort, turning pale.

“Eh, pardieu,” said the individual whose description we have
twice given, entering the door, “what a great deal of
ceremony! Is it the custom in Marseilles for sons to keep
their fathers waiting in their anterooms?”

“Father!” cried Villefort, “then I was not deceived; I felt
sure it must be you.”

“Well, then, if you felt so sure,” replied the new-comer,
putting his cane in a corner and his hat on a chair, “allow
me to say, my dear Gerard, that it was not very filial of
you to keep me waiting at the door.”

“Leave us, Germain,” said Villefort. The servant quitted the
apartment with evident signs of astonishment.

M. Noirtier — for it was, indeed, he who entered — looked
after the servant until the door was closed, and then,
fearing, no doubt, that he might be overheard in the
ante-chamber, he opened the door again, nor was the
precaution useless, as appeared from the rapid retreat of
Germain, who proved that he was not exempt from the sin
which ruined our first parents. M. Noirtier then took the
trouble to close and bolt the ante-chamber door, then that
of the bed-chamber, and then extended his hand to Villefort,
who had followed all his motions with surprise which he
could not conceal.

“Well, now, my dear Gerard,” said he to the young man, with
a very significant look, “do you know, you seem as if you
were not very glad to see me?”

“My dear father,” said Villefort, “I am, on the contrary,
delighted; but I so little expected your visit, that it has
somewhat overcome me.”

“But, my dear fellow,” replied M. Noirtier, seating himself,
“I might say the same thing to you, when you announce to me
your wedding for the 28th of February, and on the 3rd of
March you turn up here in Paris.”

“And if I have come, my dear father,” said Gerard, drawing
closer to M. Noirtier, “do not complain, for it is for you
that I came, and my journey will be your salvation.”

“Ah, indeed!” said M. Noirtier, stretching himself out at
his ease in the chair. “Really, pray tell me all about it,
for it must be interesting.”

“Father, you have heard speak of a certain Bonapartist club
in the Rue Saint-Jacques?”

“No. 53; yes, I am vice-president.”

“Father, your coolness makes me shudder.”

“Why, my dear boy, when a man has been proscribed by the
mountaineers, has escaped from Paris in a hay-cart, been
hunted over the plains of Bordeaux by Robespierre’s
bloodhounds, he becomes accustomed to most things. But go
on, what about the club in the Rue Saint-Jacques?”

“Why, they induced General Quesnel to go there, and General
Quesnel, who quitted his own house at nine o’clock in the
evening, was found the next day in the Seine.”

“And who told you this fine story?”

“The king himself.”

“Well, then, in return for your story,” continued Noirtier,
“I will tell you another.”

“My dear father, I think I already know what you are about
to tell me.”

“Ah, you have heard of the landing of the emperor?”

“Not so loud, father, I entreat of you — for your own sake
as well as mine. Yes, I heard this news, and knew it even
before you could; for three days ago I posted from
Marseilles to Paris with all possible speed, half-desperate
at the enforced delay.”

“Three days ago? You are crazy. Why, three days ago the
emperor had not landed.”

“No matter, I was aware of his intention.”

“How did you know about it?”

“By a letter addressed to you from the Island of Elba.”

“To me?”

“To you; and which I discovered in the pocket-book of the
messenger. Had that letter fallen into the hands of another,
you, my dear father, would probably ere this have been
shot.” Villefort’s father laughed.

“Come, come,” said he, “will the Restoration adopt imperial
methods so promptly? Shot, my dear boy? What an idea! Where
is the letter you speak of? I know you too well to suppose
you would allow such a thing to pass you.”

“I burnt it, for fear that even a fragment should remain;
for that letter must have led to your condemnation.”

“And the destruction of your future prospects,” replied
Noirtier; “yes, I can easily comprehend that. But I have
nothing to fear while I have you to protect me.”

“I do better than that, sir — I save you.”

“You do? Why, really, the thing becomes more and more
dramatic — explain yourself.”

“I must refer again to the club in the Rue Saint-Jacques.”

“It appears that this club is rather a bore to the police.
Why didn’t they search more vigilantly? they would have
found” —

“They have not found; but they are on the track.”

“Yes, that the usual phrase; I am quite familiar with it.
When the police is at fault, it declares that it is on the
track; and the government patiently awaits the day when it
comes to say, with a sneaking air, that the track is lost.”

“Yes, but they have found a corpse; the general has been
killed, and in all countries they call that a murder.”

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

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

“And who thus designated it?”

“The king himself.”

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

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

“I do not understand you.”

“You rely on the usurper’s return?”

“We do.”

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

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

“The people will rise.”

“Yes, to go and meet him.”

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

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

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

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

“Indeed!” replied Villefort, looking at his father with
astonishment, “you really do seem very well informed.”

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

“Devotion!” said Villefort, with a sneer.

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

And Villefort’s father extended his hand to the bell-rope,
to summon the servant whom his son had not called. Villefort
caught his arm.

“Wait, my dear father,” said the young man, “one word more.”

“Say on.”

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

“What is that?”

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

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

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

“Ah, ha, that’s it, is it?” said Noirtier; “and why, then,
have they not laid hands on him?”

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

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

“Yes; but they may catch him yet.”

“True,” said Noirtier, looking carelessly around him, “true,
if this person were not on his guard, as he is;” and he
added with a smile, “He will consequently make a few changes
in his personal appearance.” At these words he rose, and put
off his frock-coat and cravat, went towards a table on which
lay his son’s toilet articles, lathered his face, took a
razor, and, with a firm hand, cut off the compromising
whiskers. Villefort watched him with alarm not devoid of
admiration.

His whiskers cut off, Noirtier gave another turn to his
hair; took, instead of his black cravat, a colored
neckerchief which lay at the top of an open portmanteau; put
on, in lieu of his blue and high-buttoned frock-coat, a coat
of Villefort’s of dark brown, and cut away in front; tried
on before the glass a narrow-brimmed hat of his son’s, which
appeared to fit him perfectly, and, leaving his cane in the
corner where he had deposited it, he took up a small bamboo
switch, cut the air with it once or twice, and walked about
with that easy swagger which was one of his principal
characteristics.

“Well,” he said, turning towards his wondering son, when
this disguise was completed, “well, do you think your police
will recognize me now.”

“No, father,” stammered Villefort; “at least, I hope not.”

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

“Oh, rely on me,” said Villefort.

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

“You are not convinced yet?”

“I hope at least, that you may be mistaken.”

“Shall you see the king again?”

“Perhaps.”

“Would you pass in his eyes for a prophet?”

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

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

“Well, what should I say to the king?”

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

Villefort stood watching, breathless, until his father had
disappeared at the Rue Bussy. Then he turned to the various
articles he had left behind him, put the black cravat and
blue frock-coat at the bottom of the portmanteau, threw the
hat into a dark closet, broke the cane into small bits and
flung it in the fire, put on his travelling-cap, and calling
his valet, checked with a look the thousand questions he was
ready to ask, paid his bill, sprang into his carriage, which
was ready, learned at Lyons that Bonaparte had entered
Grenoble, and in the midst of the tumult which prevailed
along the road, at length reached Marseilles, a prey to all
the hopes and fears which enter into the heart of man with
ambition and its first successes.

M. Noirtier was a true prophet, and things progressed
rapidly, as he had predicted. Every one knows the history of
the famous return from Elba, a return which was
unprecedented in the past, and will probably remain without
a counterpart in the future.

Louis XVIII. made but a faint attempt to parry this
unexpected blow; the monarchy he had scarcely reconstructed
tottered on its precarious foundation, and at a sign from
the emperor the incongruous structure of ancient prejudices
and new ideas fell to the ground. Villefort, therefore,
gained nothing save the king’s gratitude (which was rather
likely to injure him at the present time) and the cross of
the Legion of Honor, which he had the prudence not to wear,
although M. de Blacas had duly forwarded the brevet.

Napoleon would, doubtless, have deprived Villefort of his
office had it not been for Noirtier, who was all powerful at
court, and thus the Girondin of ’93 and the Senator of 1806
protected him who so lately had been his protector. All
Villefort’s influence barely enabled him to stifle the
secret Dantes had so nearly divulged. The king’s procureur
alone was deprived of his office, being suspected of
royalism.

However, scarcely was the imperial power established — that
is, scarcely had the emperor re-entered the Tuileries and
begun to issue orders from the closet into which we have
introduced our readers, — he found on the table there Louis
XVIII.’s half-filled snuff-box, — scarcely had this
occurred when Marseilles began, in spite of the authorities,
to rekindle the flames of civil war, always smouldering in
the south, and it required but little to excite the populace
to acts of far greater violence than the shouts and insults
with which they assailed the royalists whenever they
ventured abroad.

Owing to this change, the worthy shipowner became at that
moment — we will not say all powerful, because Morrel was a
prudent and rather a timid man, so much so, that many of the
most zealous partisans of Bonaparte accused him of
“moderation” — but sufficiently influential to make a
demand in favor of Dantes.

Villefort retained his place, but his marriage was put off
until a more favorable opportunity. If the emperor remained
on the throne, Gerard required a different alliance to aid
his career; if Louis XVIII. returned, the influence of M. de
Saint-Meran, like his own, could be vastly increased, and
the marriage be still more suitable. The deputy-procureur
was, therefore, the first magistrate of Marseilles, when one
morning his door opened, and M. Morrel was announced.

Any one else would have hastened to receive him; but
Villefort was a man of ability, and he knew this would be a
sign of weakness. He made Morrel wait in the ante-chamber,
although he had no one with him, for the simple reason that
the king’s procureur always makes every one wait, and after
passing a quarter of an hour in reading the papers, he
ordered M. Morrel to be admitted.

Morrel expected Villefort would be dejected; he found him as
he had found him six weeks before, calm, firm, and full of
that glacial politeness, that most insurmountable barrier
which separates the well-bred from the vulgar man.

He had entered Villefort’s office expecting that the
magistrate would tremble at the sight of him; on the
contrary, he felt a cold shudder all over him when he saw
Villefort sitting there with his elbow on his desk, and his
head leaning on his hand. He stopped at the door; Villefort
gazed at him as if he had some difficulty in recognizing
him; then, after a brief interval, during which the honest
shipowner turned his hat in his hands, —

“M. Morrel, I believe?” said Villefort.

“Yes, sir.”

“Come nearer,” said the magistrate, with a patronizing wave
of the hand, “and tell me to what circumstance I owe the
honor of this visit.”

“Do you not guess, monsieur?” asked Morrel.

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

“Everything depends on you.”

“Explain yourself, pray.”

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

Villefort by a strong effort sought to control himself.
“What is his name?” said he. “Tell me his name.”

“Edmond Dantes.”

Villefort would probably have rather stood opposite the
muzzle of a pistol at five-and-twenty paces than have heard
this name spoken; but he did not blanch.

“Dantes,” repeated he, “Edmond Dantes.”

“Yes, monsieur.” Villefort opened a large register, then
went to a table, from the table turned to his registers, and
then, turning to Morrel, —

“Are you quite sure you are not mistaken, monsieur?” said
he, in the most natural tone in the world.

Had Morrel been a more quick-sighted man, or better versed
in these matters, he would have been surprised at the king’s
procureur answering him on such a subject, instead of
referring him to the governors of the prison or the prefect
of the department. But Morrel, disappointed in his
expectations of exciting fear, was conscious only of the
other’s condescension. Villefort had calculated rightly.

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

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

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

“Wait a moment,” said Villefort, turning over the leaves of
a register; “I have it — a sailor, who was about to marry a
young Catalan girl. I recollect now; it was a very serious
charge.”

“How so?”

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

“Well?”

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

“Carried off!” said Morrel. “What can they have done with
him?”

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

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

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

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

“There has been no arrest.”

“How?”

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

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

“It has always been so, my dear Morrel, since the reign of
Louis XIV. The emperor is more strict in prison discipline
than even Louis himself, and the number of prisoners whose
names are not on the register is incalculable.” Had Morrel
even any suspicions, so much kindness would have dispelled
them.

“Well, M. de Villefort, how would you advise me to act?”
asked he.

“Petition the minister.”

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

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

“And will you undertake to deliver it?”

“With the greatest pleasure. Dantes was then guilty, and now
he is innocent, and it is as much my duty to free him as it
was to condemn him.” Villefort thus forestalled any danger
of an inquiry, which, however improbable it might be, if it
did take place would leave him defenceless.

“But how shall I address the minister?”

“Sit down there,” said Villefort, giving up his place to
Morrel, “and write what I dictate.”

“Will you be so good?”

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

“That is true. Only think what the poor fellow may even now
be suffering.” Villefort shuddered at the suggestion; but he
had gone too far to draw back. Dantes must be crushed to
gratify Villefort’s ambition.

Villefort dictated a petition, in which, from an excellent
intention, no doubt, Dantes’ patriotic services were
exaggerated, and he was made out one of the most active
agents of Napoleon’s return. It was evident that at the
sight of this document the minister would instantly release
him. The petition finished, Villefort read it aloud.

“That will do,” said he; “leave the rest to me.”

“Will the petition go soon?”

“To-day.”

“Countersigned by you?”

“The best thing I can do will be to certify the truth of the
contents of your petition.” And, sitting down, Villefort
wrote the certificate at the bottom.

“What more is to be done?”

“I will do whatever is necessary.” This assurance delighted
Morrel, who took leave of Villefort, and hastened to
announce to old Dantes that he would soon see his son.

As for Villefort, instead of sending to Paris, he carefully
preserved the petition that so fearfully compromised Dantes,
in the hopes of an event that seemed not unlikely, — that
is, a second restoration. Dantes remained a prisoner, and
heard not the noise of the fall of Louis XVIII.’s throne, or
the still more tragic destruction of the empire.

Twice during the Hundred Days had Morrel renewed his demand,
and twice had Villefort soothed him with promises. At last
there was Waterloo, and Morrel came no more; he had done all
that was in his power, and any fresh attempt would only
compromise himself uselessly.

Louis XVIII. remounted the throne; Villefort, to whom
Marseilles had become filled with remorseful memories,
sought and obtained the situation of king’s procureur at
Toulouse, and a fortnight afterwards he married Mademoiselle
de Saint-Meran, whose father now stood higher at court than
ever.

And so Dantes, after the Hundred Days and after Waterloo,
remained in his dungeon, forgotten of earth and heaven.
Danglars comprehended the full extent of the wretched fate
that overwhelmed Dantes; and, when Napoleon returned to
France, he, after the manner of mediocre minds, termed the
coincidence, “a decree of Providence.” But when Napoleon
returned to Paris, Danglars’ heart failed him, and he lived
in constant fear of Dantes’ return on a mission of
vengeance. He therefore informed M. Morrel of his wish to
quit the sea, and obtained a recommendation from him to a
Spanish merchant, into whose service he entered at the end
of March, that is, ten or twelve days after Napoleon’s
return. He then left for Madrid, and was no more heard of.

Fernand understood nothing except that Dantes was absent.
What had become of him he cared not to inquire. Only, during
the respite the absence of his rival afforded him, he
reflected, partly on the means of deceiving Mercedes as to
the cause of his absence, partly on plans of emigration and
abduction, as from time to time he sat sad and motionless on
the summit of Cape Pharo, at the spot from whence Marseilles
and the Catalans are visible, watching for the apparition of
a young and handsome man, who was for him also the messenger
of vengeance. Fernand’s mind was made up; he would shoot
Dantes, and then kill himself. But Fernand was mistaken; a
man of his disposition never kills himself, for he
constantly hopes.

During this time the empire made its last conscription, and
every man in France capable of bearing arms rushed to obey
the summons of the emperor. Fernand departed with the rest,
bearing with him the terrible thought that while he was
away, his rival would perhaps return and marry Mercedes. Had
Fernand really meant to kill himself, he would have done so
when he parted from Mercedes. His devotion, and the
compassion he showed for her misfortunes, produced the
effect they always produce on noble minds — Mercedes had
always had a sincere regard for Fernand, and this was now
strengthened by gratitude.

“My brother,” said she as she placed his knapsack on his
shoulders, “be careful of yourself, for if you are killed, I
shall be alone in the world.” These words carried a ray of
hope into Fernand’s heart. Should Dantes not return,
Mercedes might one day be his.

Mercedes was left alone face to face with the vast plain
that had never seemed so barren, and the sea that had never
seemed so vast. Bathed in tears she wandered about the
Catalan village. Sometimes she stood mute and motionless as
a statue, looking towards Marseilles, at other times gazing
on the sea, and debating as to whether it were not better to
cast herself into the abyss of the ocean, and thus end her
woes. It was not want of courage that prevented her putting
this resolution into execution; but her religious feelings
came to her aid and saved her. Caderousse was, like Fernand,
enrolled in the army, but, being married and eight years
older, he was merely sent to the frontier. Old Dantes, who
was only sustained by hope, lost all hope at Napoleon’s
downfall. Five months after he had been separated from his
son, and almost at the hour of his arrest, he breathed his
last in Mercedes’ arms. M. Morrel paid the expenses of his
funeral, and a few small debts the poor old man had
contracted.

There was more than benevolence in this action; there was
courage; the south was aflame, and to assist, even on his
death-bed, the father of so dangerous a Bonapartist as
Dantes, was stigmatized as a crime.

A year after Louis XVIII.’s restoration, a visit was made by
the inspector-general of prisons. Dantes in his cell heard
the noise of preparation, — sounds that at the depth where
he lay would have been inaudible to any but the ear of a
prisoner, who could hear the splash of the drop of water that
every hour fell from the roof of his dungeon. He guessed
something uncommon was passing among the living; but he had
so long ceased to have any intercourse with the world, that
he looked upon himself as dead.

The inspector visited, one after another, the cells and
dungeons of several of the prisoners, whose good behavior or
stupidity recommended them to the clemency of the
government. He inquired how they were fed, and if they had
any request to make. The universal response was, that the
fare was detestable, and that they wanted to be set free.

The inspector asked if they had anything else to ask for.
They shook their heads. What could they desire beyond their
liberty? The inspector turned smilingly to the governor.

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

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

“Let us visit them,” said the inspector with an air of
fatigue. “We must play the farce to the end. Let us see the
dungeons.”

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

“Take all needful precautions,” replied the inspector.

Two soldiers were accordingly sent for, and the inspector
descended a stairway, so foul, so humid, so dark, as to be
loathsome to sight, smell, and respiration.

“Oh,” cried the inspector, “who can live here?”

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

“He is alone?”

“Certainly.”

“How long his he been there?”

“Nearly a year.”

“Was he placed here when he first arrived?”

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

“To kill the turnkey?”

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

“True enough; he wanted to kill me!” returned 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 abbe, formerly leader of a
party in Italy, who has been here since 1811, and in 1813 he
went mad, and the change is astonishing. He used to weep, he
now laughs; he grew thin, he now grows fat. You had better
see him, for his madness is amusing.”

“I will see them both,” 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.

“By all means,” 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, Dantes, who was
crouched in a corner of the dungeon, whence he could see the
ray of light that came through a narrow iron grating above,
raised his head. Seeing a stranger, escorted by two turnkeys
holding torches and accompanied by two soldiers, and to whom
the governor spoke bareheaded, Dantes, who guessed the
truth, and that the moment to address himself to the
superior authorities was come, sprang forward with clasped
hands.

The soldiers interposed their bayonets, for they thought
that he was about to attack the inspector, and the latter
recoiled two or three steps. Dantes saw that he was looked
upon as dangerous. 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 is it you want?” said he.

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

“Are you well fed?” said the inspector.

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

“You are very humble to-day,” 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 his 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.”

“To-day is the 30th of July, 1816, — why it is but
seventeen months.”

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

“We shall see,” 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 charges.”

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

“Go on with the lights,” said the inspector.

“Monsieur,” cried Dantes, “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 Dantes,
“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.” Dantes fell on his
knees, and prayed earnestly. The door closed; but this time
a fresh inmate was left with Dantes — 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 went
up those stairs. I should never have the courage to come
down again.”

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

“What is his folly?”

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

“How curious! — what is his name?”

“The Abbe 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 abbe.”

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 was when the soldier of
Marcellus slew him.

He did not move at the sound of the door, and continued his
calculations 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 present. He hastily seized the coverlet of his
bed, and wrapped it round him.

“What is it you want?” said the inspector.

“I, monsieur,” replied the abbe with an air of surprise —
“I want nothing.”

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

“Oh, that is different,” cried the abbe; “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 Abbe Faria,
born at Rome. I was for twenty years Cardinal Spada’s
secretary; I was arrested, why, I know not, toward the
beginning of the year 1811; since then I have demanded my
liberty from the Italian and French government.”

“Why from the French government?”

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

“Ah,” said the inspector, “you have not the latest news from
Italy?”

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

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

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

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

“The food is the same as in other prisons, — that is, very
bad; the lodging is very unhealthful, but, on the whole,
passable for a dungeon; but it is not that which I wish to
speak of, but a secret I have to reveal of the greatest
importance.”

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

“It is for that reason I am delighted to see you,” continued
the abbe, “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 with a smile.

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

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

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

“However,” continued Faria, seeing that the inspector was
about to depart, “it is not absolutely necessary for us to
be alone; 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.

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

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

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

“My dear sir, the government is rich and does not want your
treasures,” replied the inspector; “keep them until you are
liberated.” The abbe’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? this treasure will be lost. Had not
government better profit by it? I will offer six millions,
and I will content myself with the rest, if they will only
give me my liberty.”

“On my word,” said the inspector in a low tone, “had I not
been told beforehand that 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 an agreement with you, in
which I promise to lead you to the spot where you shall dig;
and if I deceive you, bring me here again, — I ask no
more.”

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

“A hundred leagues.”

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

“The scheme is well known,” said the inspector; “and the
abbe’s plan has not even the merit of originality.”

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 while 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 abbe. “You will not accept my
gold; I will keep it for myself. You refuse me my liberty;
God will give it me.” And the abbe, casting away his
coverlet, 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 with a glance of profound
contempt. They went out. The turnkey closed the door behind
them.

“He was 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.” So the matter ended for the Abbe
Faria. He remained in his cell, and this visit only
increased the belief in 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 he so earnestly prayed
for. But the kings of modern times, restrained by the limits
of mere probability, have neither courage nor desire. They
fear the ear that hears their orders, and the eye that
scrutinizes 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 persecutions to
reappear. As the Inquisition rarely allowed its 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 has no thought for man or mind in
the mutilated being the jailer delivers to him. The very
madness of the Abbe Faria, gone mad in prison, condemned him
to perpetual captivity.

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

Edmond Dantes:

Violent Bonapartist; took an active part in the return from
Elba.

The greatest watchfulness and care to be exercised.

This note was in a different hand from the rest, which
showed that 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 vigor into Dantes; 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 — Dantes still waited;
he at first expected to be freed in a fortnight. This
fortnight expired, he decided that 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.
Finally ten months and a half had gone by and no favorable
change had taken place, and Dantes began to fancy the
inspector’s visit but a dream, an illusion of the brain.

At the expiration of a year the governor was transferred; he
had obtained charge of the fortress at Ham. He took with him
several of his subordinates, and amongst them Dantes’
jailer. A new governor arrived; it would have been too
tedious to acquire the names of the prisoners; he learned
their numbers instead. This horrible place contained fifty
cells; their inhabitants were designated by the numbers of
their cell, and the unhappy young man was no longer called
Edmond Dantes — he was now number 34.

Dantes passed through all the stages of torture natural to
prisoners in suspense. He was sustained at first by that
pride of conscious innocence which is the sequence to hope;
then he began to doubt his own innocence, which justified in
some measure the governor’s belief in his mental alienation;
and then, relaxing his sentiment of pride, he addressed his
supplications, not to God, but to man. God is always the
last resource. Unfortunates, who ought to begin with God, do
not have any hope in him till they have exhausted all other
means of deliverance.

Dantes asked to be removed from his present dungeon into
another; for a change, however disadvantageous, was still a
change, and would afford him some amusement. He entreated to
be allowed to walk about, to have fresh air, books, and
writing materials. His requests were not granted, but he
went on asking all the same. He accustomed himself to
speaking to the new jailer, although the latter was, if
possible, more taciturn than the old one; but still, to
speak to a man, even though mute, was something. Dantes
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, Dantes’ mind had revolted at
the idea of assemblages of prisoners, made up of thieves,
vagabonds, and murderers. He now wished to be amongst them,
in order to see some other face besides that of his jailer;
he sighed for the galleys, with the infamous costume, the
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 jailer one day to let him
have a companion, were it even the mad abbe.

The jailer, though rough and hardened by the constant sight
of so much suffering, was yet a man. At the bottom of his
heart he had often had a feeling of pity for this unhappy
young man who suffered so; and he laid the request of number
34 before the governor; but the latter sapiently imagined
that Dantes wished to conspire or attempt an escape, and
refused his request. Dantes 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 medley of words, until
misfortune comes and the unhappy sufferer first understands
the meaning of the sublime language in which he invokes the
pity of heaven! He prayed, and prayed aloud, no longer
terrified at the sound of his own voice, for he fell into a
sort 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, Dantes remained a prisoner.

Then gloom settled heavily upon him. Dantes was a man of
great simplicity of thought, and without education; he could
not, therefore, in the solitude of his dungeon, traverse in
mental vision the history of the ages, bring to life the
nations that had perished, and rebuild the ancient cities so
vast and stupendous in the light of the imagination, and
that pass before the eye glowing with celestial colors in
Martin’s Babylonian 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 exalted 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 the implacable Ugolino devours the skull of
Archbishop Roger in the Inferno of Dante.

Rage supplanted religious fervor. Dantes uttered blasphemies
that made his jailer recoil with horror, dashed himself
furiously against the walls of his prison, wreaked his anger
upon everything, and chiefly upon himself, so that the least
thing, — a grain of sand, a straw, or a breath of air that
annoyed him, led to paroxysms of fury. Then the letter that
Villefort had showed to him recurred to his mind, and every
line gleamed forth in fiery letters on the wall like the
mene tekel upharsin of Belshazzar. He told himself that it
was the enmity of man, and not the vengeance of heaven, that
had thus plunged him into the deepest misery. He consigned
his 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 the boon of unconsciousness.

By dint of constantly dwelling on the idea that tranquillity
was death, and if punishment were the end in view other
tortures than death must be invented, he began to reflect on
suicide. Unhappy he, who, on the brink of misfortune, broods
over ideas like these!

Before him is a dead sea that stretches in azure calm before
the eye; but he who unwarily ventures within its embrace
finds himself struggling with a monster that would drag him
down to perdition. 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 or the punishment that possibly will
follow. There is a sort of consolation at the contemplation
of the yawning abyss, at the bottom of which lie 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 when the angel of death seemed about to
enter. Dantes reviewed his past life with composure, 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 overcast, the
sea rage and foam, the storm arise, and, like a monstrous
bird, beating the two horizons with its wings. Then I felt
that my vessel was a vain refuge, that trembled and shook
before the tempest. Soon the fury of the waves and the sight
of the sharp rocks announced the approach of death, and
death then terrified me, and I used all my skill and
intelligence as a man and a sailor to struggle against the
wrath of God. But I did so because I was happy, because I
had not courted death, because to be cast upon a bed of
rocks and seaweed seemed terrible, because I was unwilling
that I, a creature made for the service of God, should serve
for food to the gulls and ravens. But now it is different; I
have lost all that bound me to life, death smiles and
invites me to repose; I die after my own manner, I die
exhausted and broken-spirited, as I fall asleep when I have
paced three thousand times round my cell.”

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 existence almost
supportable, because he felt that he could throw it off at
pleasure, like a worn-out garment. Two methods of
self-destruction were at his disposal. He could hang himself
with his handkerchief to the window bars, or refuse food and
die of starvation. But the first was repugnant to him.
Dantes 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 carry out his resolve. Nearly
four years had passed away; at the end of the second he had
ceased to mark the lapse of time.

Dantes 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 they will think that I have eaten them.”

He kept his word; twice a day he cast out, through the
barred aperture, the provisions his jailer brought him — at
first gayly, then with deliberation, and at last with
regret. Nothing but the recollection of his oath gave him
strength to proceed. Hunger made viands once repugnant, now
acceptable; he held the plate in his hand for an hour at a
time, and gazed thoughtfully at the morsel of bad meat, of
tainted fish, of black and mouldy bread. It was the last
yearning for life contending with the resolution of despair;
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
unforseen 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 strength to rise and
cast his supper out of the loophole. The next morning he
could not see or hear; the jailer feared he was dangerously
ill. Edmond hoped he was dying.

Thus the day passed away. Edmond felt a sort of stupor
creeping over him which brought with it a feeling almost of
content; the gnawing pain at his stomach had ceased; his
thirst had abated; when he closed his eyes he saw myriads of
lights dancing before them like the will-o’-the-wisps that
play about the marshes. It was the twilight of that
mysterious country called Death!

Suddenly, about nine o’clock in the evening, Edmond heard a
hollow sound in the wall against which he was lying.

So many loathsome animals inhabited the prison, that their
noise did not, in general, awake him; but whether abstinence
had quickened his faculties, or whether the noise was really
louder than usual, Edmond raised his head and listened. It
was a continual scratching, as if made by a huge claw, a
powerful tooth, or some iron instrument attacking the
stones.

Although weakened, the young man’s brain instantly responded
to the idea that haunts all prisoners — liberty! It seemed
to him that heaven had at length taken pity on him, and had
sent this noise to warn him on the very brink of the abyss.
Perhaps one of those beloved ones he had so often thought of
was thinking of him, and striving to diminish the distance
that separated them.

No, no, doubtless he was deceived, and it was but one of
those dreams that forerun death!

Edmond still heard the sound. It lasted nearly three hours;
he then heard a noise of something falling, and all was
silent.

Some hours afterwards it began again, nearer and more
distinct. Edmond was intensely interested. Suddenly the
jailer entered.

For a week since he had resolved to die, and during the four
days that he had been carrying out his purpose, Edmond had
not spoken to the attendant, had not answered him when he
inquired what was the matter with him, and turned his face
to the wall when he looked too curiously at him; but now the
jailer might hear the noise and put an end to it, and so
destroy a ray of something like hope that soothed his last
moments.

The jailer brought him his breakfast. Dantes raised himself
up and began to talk about everything; about the bad quality
of the food, about the coldness of his dungeon, grumbling
and complaining, in order to have an excuse for speaking
louder, and wearying the patience of his jailer, who out of
kindness of heart had brought broth and white bread for his
prisoner.

Fortunately, he fancied that Dantes was delirious; and
placing the food on the rickety table, he withdrew. Edmond
listened, and the sound became more and more distinct.

“There can be no doubt about it,” thought he; “it is some
prisoner who is striving to obtain his freedom. Oh, if I
were only there to help him!” Suddenly another idea took
possession of his mind, so used to misfortune, that it was
scarcely capable of hope — the idea that the noise was made
by workmen the governor had ordered to repair the
neighboring dungeon.

It was easy to ascertain this; but how could he risk the
question? It was easy to call his jailer’s attention to the
noise, and watch his countenance as he listened; but might
he not by this means destroy hopes far more important than
the short-lived satisfaction of his own curiosity?
Unfortunately, Edmond’s brain was still so feeble that he
could not bend his thoughts to anything in particular.

He saw but one means of restoring lucidity and clearness to
his judgment. He turned his eyes towards the soup which the
jailer had brought, rose, staggered towards it, raised the
vessel to his lips, and drank off the contents with a
feeling of indescribable pleasure. He had often heard that
shipwrecked persons had died through having eagerly devoured
too much food. Edmond replaced on the table the bread he was
about to devour, and returned to his couch — he did not
wish to die. He soon felt that his ideas became again
collected — he could think, and strengthen his thoughts by
reasoning. Then he said to himself, “I must put this to the
test, but without compromising anybody. If it is a workman,
I need but knock against the wall, and he will cease to
work, in order to find out who is knocking, and why he does
so; but as his occupation is sanctioned by the governor, he
will soon resume it. If, on the contrary, it is a prisoner,
the noise I make will alarm him, he will cease, and not
begin again until he thinks every one is asleep.”

Edmond rose again, but this time his legs did not tremble,
and his sight was clear; he went to a corner of his dungeon,
detached a stone, and with it knocked against the wall where
the sound came. He struck thrice. At the first blow the
sound ceased, as if by magic.

Edmond listened intently; an hour passed, two hours passed,
and no sound was heard from the wall — all was silent
there.

Full of hope, Edmond swallowed a few mouthfuls of bread and
water, and, thanks to the vigor of his constitution, found
himself well-nigh recovered.

The day passed away in utter silence — night came without
recurrence of the noise.

“It is a prisoner,” said Edmond joyfully. The night passed
in perfect silence. Edmond did not close his eyes.

In the morning the jailer brought him fresh provisions — he
had already devoured those of the previous day; he ate these
listening anxiously for the sound, walking round and round
his cell, shaking the iron bars of the loophole, restoring
vigor and agility to his limbs by exercise, and so preparing
himself for his future destiny. At intervals he listened to
learn if the noise had not begun again, and grew impatient
at the prudence of the prisoner, who did not guess he had
been disturbed by a captive as anxious for liberty as
himself.

Three days passed — seventy-two long tedious hours which he
counted off by minutes!

At length one evening, as the jailer was visiting him for
the last time that night, Dantes, with his ear for the
hundredth time at the wall, fancied he heard an almost
imperceptible movement among the stones. He moved away,
walked up and down his cell to collect his thoughts, and
then went back and listened.

The matter was no longer doubtful. Something was at work on
the other side of the wall; the prisoner had discovered the
danger, and had substituted a lever for a chisel.

Encouraged by this discovery, Edmond determined to assist
the indefatigable laborer. He began by moving his bed, and
looked around for anything with which he could pierce the
wall, penetrate the moist cement, and displace a stone.

He saw nothing, he had no knife or sharp instrument, the
window grating was of iron, but he had too often assured
himself of its solidity. All his furniture consisted of a
bed, a chair, a table, a pail, and a jug. The bed had iron
clamps, but they were screwed to the wood, and it would have
required a screw-driver to take them off. The table and
chair had nothing, the pail had once possessed a handle, but
that had been removed.

Dantes had but one resource, which was to break the jug, and
with one of the sharp fragments attack the wall. He let the
jug fall on the floor, and it broke in pieces.

Dantes concealed two or three of the sharpest fragments in
his bed, leaving the rest on the floor. The breaking of his
jug was too natural an accident to excite suspicion. Edmond
had all the night to work in, but in the darkness he could
not do much, and he soon felt that he was working against
something very hard; he pushed back his bed, and waited for
day.

All night he heard the subterranean workman, who continued
to mine his way. Day came, the jailer entered. Dantes told
him that the jug had fallen from his hands while he was
drinking, and the jailer went grumblingly to fetch another,
without giving himself the trouble to remove the fragments
of the broken one. He returned speedily, advised the
prisoner to be more careful, and departed.

Dantes heard joyfully the key grate in the lock; he listened
until the sound of steps died away, and then, hastily
displacing his bed, saw by the faint light that penetrated
into his cell, that he had labored uselessly the previous
evening in attacking the stone instead of removing the
plaster that surrounded it.

The damp had rendered it friable, and Dantes was able to
break it off — in small morsels, it is true, but at the end
of half an hour he had scraped off a handful; a
mathematician might have calculated that in two years,
supposing that the rock was not encountered, a passage
twenty feet long and two feet broad, might be formed.

The prisoner reproached himself with not having thus
employed the hours he had passed in vain hopes, prayer, and
despondency. During the six years that he had been
imprisoned, what might he not have accomplished?

In three days he had succeeded, with the utmost precaution,
in removing the cement, and exposing the stone-work. The
wall was built of rough stones, among which, to give
strength to the structure, blocks of hewn stone were at
intervals imbedded. It was one of these he had uncovered,
and which he must remove from its socket.

Dantes strove to do this with his nails, but they were too
weak. The fragments of the jug broke, and after an hour of
useless toil, he paused.

Was he to be thus stopped at the beginning, and was he to
wait inactive until his fellow workman had completed his
task? Suddenly an idea occurred to him — he smiled, and the
perspiration dried on his forehead.

The jailer always brought Dantes’ soup in an iron saucepan;
this saucepan contained soup for both prisoners, for Dantes
had noticed that it was either quite full, or half empty,
according as the turnkey gave it to him or to his companion
first.

The handle of this saucepan was of iron; Dantes would have
given ten years of his life in exchange for it.

The jailer was accustomed to pour the contents of the
saucepan into Dantes’ plate, and Dantes, after eating his
soup with a wooden spoon, washed the plate, which thus
served for every day. Now when evening came Dantes put his
plate on the ground near the door; the jailer, as he
entered, stepped on it and broke it.

This time he could not blame Dantes. He was wrong to leave
it there, but the jailer was wrong not to have looked before
him.

The jailer, therefore, only grumbled. Then he looked about
for something to pour the soup into; Dantes’ entire dinner
service consisted of one plate — there was no alternative.

“Leave the saucepan,” said Dantes; “you can take it away
when you bring me my breakfast.” This advice was to the
jailer’s taste, as it spared him the necessity of making
another trip. He left the saucepan.

Dantes was beside himself with joy. He rapidly devoured his
food, and after waiting an hour, lest the jailer should
change his mind and return, he removed his bed, took the
handle of the saucepan, inserted the point between the hewn
stone and rough stones of the wall, and employed it as a
lever. A slight oscillation showed Dantes that all went
well. At the end of an hour the stone was extricated from
the wall, leaving a cavity a foot and a half in diameter.

Dantes carefully collected the plaster, carried it into the
corner of his cell, and covered it with earth. Then, wishing
to make the best use of his time while he had the means of
labor, he continued to work without ceasing. At the dawn of
day he replaced the stone, pushed his bed against the wall,
and lay down. The breakfast consisted of a piece of bread;
the jailer entered and placed the bread on the table.

“Well, don’t you intend to bring me another plate?” said
Dantes.

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

Dantes raised his eyes to heaven and clasped his hands
beneath the coverlet. He felt more gratitude for the
possession of this piece of iron than he had ever felt for
anything. He had noticed, however, that the prisoner on the
other side had ceased to labor; no matter, this was a
greater reason for proceeding — if his neighbor would not
come to him, he would go to his neighbor. All day he toiled
on untiringly, and by the evening he had succeeded in
extracting ten handfuls of plaster and fragments of stone.
When the hour for his jailer’s visit arrived, Dantes
straightened the handle of the saucepan as well as he could,
and placed it in its accustomed place. The turnkey poured
his ration of soup into it, together with the fish — for
thrice a week the prisoners were deprived of meat. This
would have been a method of reckoning time, had not Dantes
long ceased to do so. Having poured out the soup, the
turnkey retired. Dantes wished to ascertain whether his
neighbor had really ceased to work. He listened — all was
silent, as it had been for the last three days. Dantes
sighed; it was evident that his neighbor distrusted him.
However, he toiled on all the night without being
discouraged; but after two or three hours he encountered an
obstacle. The iron made no impression, but met with a smooth
surface; Dantes touched it, and found that it was a beam.
This beam crossed, or rather blocked up, the hole Dantes had
made; it was necessary, therefore, to dig above or under it.
The unhappy young man had not thought of this. “O my God, my
God!” murmured he, “I have so earnestly prayed to you, that
I hoped my prayers had been heard. After having deprived me
of my liberty, after having deprived me of death, after
having recalled me to existence, my God, have pity on me,
and do not let me die in despair!”

“Who talks of God and despair at the same time?” said a
voice that seemed to come from beneath the earth, and,
deadened by the distance, sounded hollow and sepulchral in
the young man’s ears. Edmond’s hair stood on end, and he
rose to his knees.

“Ah,” said he, “I hear a human voice.” Edmond had not heard
any one speak save his jailer for four or five years; and a
jailer is no man to a prisoner — he is a living door, a
barrier of flesh and blood adding strength to restraints of
oak and iron.

“In the name of heaven,” cried Dantes, “speak again, though
the sound of your voice terrifies me. Who are you?”

“Who are you?” said the voice.

“An unhappy prisoner,” replied Dantes, who made no
hesitation in answering.

“Of what country?”

“A Frenchman.”

“Your name?”

“Edmond Dantes.”

“Your profession?”

“A sailor.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Since the 28th of February, 1815.”

“Your crime?”

“I am innocent.”

“But of what are you accused?”

“Of having conspired to aid the emperor’s return.”

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

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

“Since 1811.”

Dantes shuddered; this man had been four years longer than
himself in prison.

“Do not dig any more,” said the voice; “only tell me how
high up is your excavation?”

“On a level with the floor.”

“How is it concealed?”

“Behind my bed.”

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

“No.”

“What does your chamber open on?”

“A corridor.”

“And the corridor?”

“On a court.”

“Alas!” murmured the voice.

“Oh, what is the matter?” cried Dantes.

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

“But then you would be close to the sea?”

“That is what I hoped.”

“And supposing you had succeeded?”

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

“Could you have swum so far?”

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

“All?”

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

“Tell me, at least, who you are?”

“I am — I am No. 27.”

“You mistrust me, then,” said Dantes. Edmond fancied he
heard a bitter laugh resounding from the depths.

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

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

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

“Not quite twenty-six!” murmured the voice; “at that age he
cannot be a traitor.”

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

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

“How long?”

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

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

“No, I am alone in the world.”

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

“It is well,” returned the voice; “to-morrow.”

These few words were uttered with an accent that left no
doubt of his sincerity; Dantes rose, dispersed the fragments
with the same precaution as before, and pushed his bed back
against the wall. He then gave himself up to his happiness.
He would no longer be alone. He was, perhaps, about to
regain his liberty; at the worst, he would have a companion,
and captivity that is shared is but half captivity. Plaints
made in common are almost prayers, and prayers where two or
three are gathered together invoke the mercy of heaven.

All day Dantes walked up and down his cell. He sat down
occasionally on his bed, pressing his hand on his heart. At
the slightest noise he bounded towards the door. Once or
twice the thought crossed his mind that he might be
separated from this unknown, whom he loved already; and then
his mind was made up — when the jailer moved his bed and
stooped to examine the opening, he would kill him with his
water jug. He would be condemned to die, but he was about to
die of grief and despair when this miraculous noise recalled
him to life.

The jailer came in the evening. Dantes was on his bed. It
seemed to him that thus he better guarded the unfinished
opening. Doubtless there was a strange expression in his
eyes, for the jailer said, “Come, are you going mad again?”

Dantes did not answer; he feared that the emotion of his
voice would betray him. The jailer went away shaking his
head. Night came; Dantes hoped that his neighbor would
profit by the silence to address him, but he was mistaken.
The next morning, however, just as he removed his bed from
the wall, he heard three knocks; he threw himself on his
knees.

“Is it you?” said he; “I am here.”

“Is your jailer gone?”

“Yes,” said Dantes; “he will not return until the evening;
so that we have twelve hours before us.”

“I can work, then?” said the voice.

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

In a moment that part of the floor on which Dantes was
resting his two hands, as he knelt with his head in the
opening, suddenly gave way; he drew back smartly, while a
mass of stones and earth disappeared in a hole that opened
beneath the aperture he himself had formed. Then from the
bottom of this passage, the depth of which it was impossible
to measure, he saw appear, first the head, then the
shoulders, and lastly the body of a man, who sprang lightly
into his cell.

Seizing in his arms the friend so long and ardently desired,
Dantes almost carried him towards the window, in order to
obtain a better view of his features by the aid of the
imperfect light that struggled through the grating.

He was a man of small stature, with hair blanched rather by
suffering and sorrow than by age. He had a deep-set,
penetrating eye, almost buried beneath the thick gray
eyebrow, and a long (and still black) beard reaching down to
his breast. His thin face, deeply furrowed by care, and the
bold outline of his strongly marked features, betokened a
man more accustomed to exercise his mental faculties than
his physical strength. Large drops of perspiration were now
standing on his brow, while the garments that hung about him
were so ragged that one could only guess at the pattern upon
which they had originally been fashioned.

The stranger might have numbered sixty or sixty-five years;
but a certain briskness and appearance of vigor in his
movements made it probable that he was aged more from
captivity than the course of time. He received the
enthusiastic greeting of his young acquaintance with evident
pleasure, as though his chilled affections were rekindled
and invigorated by his contact with one so warm and ardent.
He thanked him with grateful cordiality for his kindly
welcome, although he must at that moment have been suffering
bitterly to find another dungeon where he had fondly
reckoned on discovering a means of regaining his liberty.

“Let us first see,” said he, “whether it is possible to
remove the traces of my entrance here — our future
tranquillity depends upon our jailers being entirely
ignorant of it.” Advancing to the opening, he stooped and
raised the stone easily in spite of its weight; then,
fitting it into its place, he said, —

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

“Why,” exclaimed Dantes, with astonishment, “do you possess
any?”

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

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

“Well, in the first place, here is my chisel.” So saying, he
displayed a sharp strong blade, with a handle made of
beechwood.

“And with what did you contrive to make that?” inquired
Dantes.

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

“Fifty feet!” responded Dantes, almost terrified.

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

“But they believe I am shut up alone here.”

“That makes no difference.”

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

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

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

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

The wall of which he spoke was the one in which was fixed
the loophole by which light was admitted to the chamber.
This loophole, which gradually diminished in size as it
approached the outside, to an opening through which a child
could not have passed, was, for better security, furnished
with three iron bars, so as to quiet all apprehensions even
in the mind of the most suspicious jailer as to the
possibility of a prisoner’s escape. As the stranger asked
the question, he dragged the table beneath the window.

“Climb up,” said he to Dantes. The young man obeyed, mounted
on the table, and, divining the wishes of his companion,
placed his back securely against the wall and held out both
hands. The stranger, whom as yet Dantes knew only by the
number of his cell, sprang up with an agility by no means to
be expected in a person of his years, and, light and steady
on his feet as a cat or a lizard, climbed from the table to
the outstretched hands of Dantes, and from them to his
shoulders; then, bending double, for the ceiling of the
dungeon prevented him from holding himself erect, he managed
to slip his head between the upper bars of the window, so as
to be able to command a perfect view from top to bottom.

An instant afterwards he hastily drew back his head, saying,
“I thought so!” and sliding from the shoulders of Dantes as
dextrously as he had ascended, he nimbly leaped from the
table to the ground.

“What was it that you thought?” asked the young man
anxiously, in his turn descending from the table.

The elder prisoner pondered the matter. “Yes,” said he at
length, “it is so. This side of your chamber looks out upon
a kind of open gallery, where patrols are continually
passing, and sentries keep watch day and night.”

“Are you quite sure of that?”

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

“Well?” inquired Dantes.

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

“Then,” pursued the young man eagerly —

“Then,” answered the elder prisoner, “the will of God be
done!” and as the old man slowly pronounced those words, an
air of profound resignation spread itself over his careworn
countenance. Dantes gazed on the man who could thus
philosophically resign hopes so long and ardently nourished
with an astonishment mingled with admiration.

“Tell me, I entreat of you, who and what you are?” said he
at length; “never have I met with so remarkable a person as
yourself.”

“Willingly,” answered the stranger; “if, indeed, you feel
any curiosity respecting one, now, alas, powerless to aid
you in any way.”

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

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

“No, Louis XVIII.”

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

Dantes’ whole attention was riveted on a man who could thus
forget his own misfortunes while occupying himself with the
destinies of others.

“Yes, yes,” continued he, “‘Twill be the same as it was in
England. After Charles I., Cromwell; after Cromwell, Charles
II., and then James II., and then some son-in-law or
relation, some Prince of Orange, a stadtholder who becomes a
king. Then new concessions to the people, then a
constitution, then liberty. Ah, my friend!” said the abbe,
turning towards Dantes, and surveying him with the kindling
gaze of a prophet, “you are young, you will see all this
come to pass.”

“Probably, if ever I get out of prison!”

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

“But wherefore are you here?”

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

Dantes could not understand a man risking his life for such
matters. Napoleon certainly he knew something of, inasmuch
as he had seen and spoken with him; but of Clement VII. and
Alexander VI. he knew nothing.

“Are you not,” he asked, “the priest who here in the Chateau
d’If is generally thought to be — ill?”

“Mad, you mean, don’t you?”

“I did not like to say so,” answered Dantes, smiling.

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

Dantes remained for a short time mute and motionless; at
length he said, — “Then you abandon all hope of escape?”

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

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

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

Dantes held down his head, that the other might not see how
joy at the thought of having a companion outweighed the
sympathy he felt for the failure of the abbe’s plans.

The abbe sank upon Edmond’s bed, while Edmond himself
remained standing. Escape had never once occurred to him.
There are, indeed, some things which appear so impossible
that the mind does not dwell on them for an instant. To
undermine the ground for fifty feet — to devote three years
to a labor which, if successful, would conduct you to a
precipice overhanging the sea — to plunge into the waves
from the height of fifty, sixty, perhaps a hundred feet, at
the risk of being dashed to pieces against the rocks, should
you have been fortunate enough to have escaped the fire of
the sentinels; and even, supposing all these perils past,
then to have to swim for your life a distance of at least
three miles ere you could reach the shore — were
difficulties so startling and formidable that Dantes had
never even dreamed of such a scheme, resigning himself
rather to death. But the sight of an old man clinging to
life with so desperate a courage, gave a fresh turn to his
ideas, and inspired him with new courage. Another, older and
less strong than he, had attempted what he had not had
sufficient resolution to undertake, and had failed only
because of an error in calculation. This same person, with
almost incredible patience and perseverance, had contrived
to provide himself with tools requisite for so unparalleled
an attempt. Another had done all this; why, then, was it
impossible to Dantes? Faria had dug his way through fifty
feet, Dantes would dig a hundred; Faria, at the age of
fifty, had devoted three years to the task; he, who was but
half as old, would sacrifice six; Faria, a priest and
savant, had not shrunk from the idea of risking his life by
trying to swim a distance of three miles to one of the
islands — Daume, Rattonneau, or Lemaire; should a hardy
sailer, an experienced diver, like himself, shrink from a
similar task; should he, who had so often for mere
amusement’s sake plunged to the bottom of the sea to fetch
up the bright coral branch, hesitate to entertain the same
project? He could do it in an hour, and how many times had
he, for pure pastime, continued in the water for more than
twice as long! At once Dantes resolved to follow the brave
example of his energetic companion, and to remember that
what has once been done may be done again.

After continuing some time in profound meditation, the young
man suddenly exclaimed, “I have found what you were in
search of!”

Faria started: “Have you, indeed?” cried he, raising his
head with quick anxiety; “pray, let me know what it is you
have discovered?”

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

“It does.”

“And is not above fifteen feet from it?”

“About that.”

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

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

“And have your notions changed?” asked Dantes with much
surprise; “do you think yourself more guilty in making the
attempt since you have encountered me?”

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

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

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

“Simply the fact that the idea never occurred to me,”
answered Dantes.

“Because,” said the old man, “the natural repugnance to the
commission of such a crime prevented you from thinking of
it; and so it ever is because in simple and allowable things
our natural instincts keep us from deviating from the strict
line of duty. The tiger, whose nature teaches him to delight
in shedding blood, needs but the sense of smell to show him
when his prey is within his reach, and by following this
instinct he is enabled to measure the leap necessary to
permit him to spring on his victim; but man, on the
contrary, loathes the idea of blood — it is not alone that
the laws of social life inspire him with a shrinking dread
of taking life; his natural construction and physiological
formation” —

Dantes was confused and silent at this explanation of the
thoughts which had unconsciously been working in his mind,
or rather soul; for there are two distinct sorts of ideas,
those that proceed from the head and those that emanate from
the heart.

“Since my imprisonment,” said Faria, “I have thought over
all the most celebrated cases of escape on record. They have
rarely been successful. Those that have been crowned with
full success have been long meditated upon, and carefully
arranged; such, for instance, as the escape of the Duc de
Beaufort from the Chateau de Vincennes, that of the Abbe
Dubuquoi from For l’Eveque; of Latude from the Bastille.
Then there are those for which chance sometimes affords
opportunity, and those are the best of all. Let us,
therefore, wait patiently for some favorable moment, and
when it presents itself, profit by it.”

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

“I assure you,” replied the old man, “I did not turn to that
source for recreation or support.”

“What did you do then?”

“I wrote or studied.”

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

“Oh, no,” answered the abbe; “I had none but what I made for
myself.”

“You made paper, pens and ink?”

“Yes.”

Dantes gazed with admiration, but he had some difficulty in
believing. Faria saw this.

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

“And on what have you written all this?”

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

“You are, then, a chemist?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Improve yourself!” repeated Dantes; “why, how can you
manage to do so?”

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

Stronger grew the wonder of Dantes, who almost fancied he
had to do with one gifted with supernatural powers; still
hoping to find some imperfection which might bring him down
to a level with human beings, he added, “Then if you were
not furnished with pens, how did you manage to write the
work you speak of?”

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

“But the ink,” said Dantes; “of what did you make your ink?”

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

“And when,” asked Dantes, “may I see all this?”

“Whenever you please,” replied the abbe.

“Oh, then let it be directly!” exclaimed the young man.

“Follow me, then,” said the abbe, as he re-entered the
subterranean passage, in which he soon disappeared, followed
by Dantes.

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 abbe’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 abbe’s cell was paved, and it had
been by raising one of the stones in the most obscure corner
that Faria had to been able to commence the laborious task
of which Dantes had witnessed the completion.

As he entered the chamber of his friend, Dantes 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 abbe; “we have some hours before us
— it is now just a quarter past twelve o’clock.”
Instinctively Dantes turned round to observe by what watch
or clock the abbe had been able so accurately to specify the
hour.

“Look at this ray of light which enters by my window,” said
the abbe, “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 Dantes, 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 abbe, “I am anxious to see your
treasures.”

The abbe 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 Dantes.

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

“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
Dantes could easily read it, as well as make out the sense
— it being in Italian, a language he, as a Provencal,
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 Dantes. “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 abbe had before spoken to Dantes; it was pointed, and
divided at the nib like an ordinary pen. Dantes 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.

Dantes 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 Dantes, “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 his 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 abbe
exhibited a sort of torch very similar to those used in
public illuminations.

“But light?”

“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.” Dantes
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.

“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 abbe 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. Dantes
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 Chateau 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 abbe, as, opening his ragged
vestments, he showed Dantes 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 Dantes was, in fact,
busily occupied by the idea that a person so intelligent,
ingenious, and clear-sighted as the abbe 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 abbe 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 Dantes,
“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 Dantes. “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 abbe 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 Mercedes.”

“Come,” said the abbe, closing his hiding-place, and pushing
the bed back to its original situation, “let me hear your
story.”

Dantes 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 Mercedes, and their nuptual feast — his
arrest and subsequent examination, his temporary detention
at the Palais de Justice, and his final imprisonment in the
Chateau d’If. From this point everything was a blank to
Dantes — he knew nothing more, not even the length of time
he had been imprisoned. His recital finished, the abbe
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.
Every one, 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 any one 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 any one 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 any one?”

“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 abbe; “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.”

Dantes 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 Dantes, 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 abbe 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 abbe smiled. “Disguised.”

“It was very boldly written, if disguised.”

“Stop a bit,” said the abbe, 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. Dantes drew back, and gazed
on the abbe 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 Mercedes?”

“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 Dantes, “the various circumstances mentioned
in the letter were wholly unknown to him.”

“You had never spoken of them yourself to any one?”

“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 Pere 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 Dantes, 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 abbe with
a laugh.

“Yes, yes,” replied Dantes 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 abbe. “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 abbe. “Old enough to be ambitions, 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 Dantes, “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, No. 13 Coq-Heron, 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 any one, 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 abbe; “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 abbe burst into a fit of laughter, while
Dantes 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? Noirtier was his father.”

Had a thunderbolt fallen at the feet of Dantes, 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 abbe; “his right name was
Noirtier de Villefort.” At this instant a bright light shot
through the mind of Dantes, 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 abbe’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.

Dantes was at length roused from his revery 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 abbe 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 abbe had come to ask his young companion to share
the luxuries with him. Dantes followed; 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 Dantes.

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

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

Again the abbe looked at him, then mournfully shook his
head; but in accordance with Dantes’ 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. Dantes 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
abbe’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
Dantes, “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 abbe 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 Dantes; “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 Dantes, “What shall you teach me first? I
am in a hurry to begin. I want to learn.”

“Everything,” said the abbe. And that very evening the
prisoners sketched a plan of education, to be entered upon
the following day. Dantes 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 abbe, Dantes 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 Dantes was a new man. Dantes
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 Dantes, 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 abbe, “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 abbe.

“And you have discovered a means of regaining our freedom,
have you not?” asked Dantes 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 abbe; “impossible!” Dantes endeavored to
renew the subject; the abbe shook his head in token of
disapproval, and refused to make any further response. Three
months passed away.

“Are you strong?” the abbe asked one day of Dantes. 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 abbe, “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 Dantes.

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

“Forgive me!” cried Edmond, blushing deeply.

“Tut, tut!” answered the abbe, “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 abbe then showed
Dantes the sketch he had made for their escape. It consisted
of a plan of his own cell and that of Dantes, 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 Dantes 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 abbe’s ladder of cords. Dantes’ 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 Dantes’
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 Dantes 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 abbe 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 Dantes, 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. Dantes 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. Dantes
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 clinched tightly together.

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

“Quick! quick!” returned the abbe, “listen to what I have to
say.” Dantes 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 Dantes,
letting his chisel fall to the floor.

“Alas,” faltered out the abbe, “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, Dantes 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 abbe’s chamber,
when he immediately laid the sufferer on his bed.

“Thanks,” said the poor abbe, 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 Dantes in grief-stricken tones.

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

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, Dantes
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. Dantes 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 Dantes in a paroxysm of
delight.

The sick man was not yet able to speak, but he pointed with
evident anxiety towards the door. Dantes 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, Dantes, whose restless anxiety
concerning his friend left him no desire to touch the food
brought him, hurried back to the abbe’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.

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

“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 Dantes.

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

“At least,” said the abbe, “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 Dantes; “your strength will
return.” And as he spoke he seated himself near the bed
beside Faria, and took his hands. The abbe 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 Dantes; “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 abbe, “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
abbe. “Depend upon it, I know what I say. Since the first
attack I experienced of this malady, I have continually
reflected on it. Indeed, I expected it, for it is a family
inheritance; both my father and grandfather died of it in a
third attack. The physician who prepared for me the remedy I
have twice successfully taken, was no other than the
celebrated Cabanis, and he predicted a similar end for me.”

“The physician may be mistaken!” exclaimed Dantes. “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 abbe, “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 Dantes. “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 to-morrow
till after the jailer his visited me. I shall have something
of the greatest importance to communicate to you.”

Dantes took the hand of the abbe 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.

When Dantes returned next morning to the chamber of his
companion in captivity, he found Faria seated and looking
composed. In the ray of light which entered by the narrow
window of his cell, he held open in his left hand, of which
alone, it will be recollected, he retained the use, a sheet
of paper, which, from being constantly rolled into a small
compass, had the form of a cylinder, and was not easily kept
open. He did not speak, but showed the paper to Dantes.

“What is that?” he inquired.

“Look at it,” said the abbe with a smile.

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

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

The sweat started forth on Dantes brow. Until this day and
for how long a time! — he had refrained from talking of the
treasure, which had brought upon the abbe the accusation of
madness. With his instinctive delicacy Edmond had preferred
avoiding any touch on this painful chord, and Faria had been
equally silent. He had taken the silence of the old man for
a return to reason; and now these few words uttered by
Faria, after so painful a crisis, seemed to indicate a
serious relapse into mental alienation.

“Your treasure?” stammered Dantes. Faria smiled.

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

“Alas,” murmured Edmond to himself, “this is a terrible
relapse! There was only this blow wanting.” Then he said
aloud, “My dear friend, your attack has, perhaps, fatigued
you; had you not better repose awhile? To-morrow, if you
will, I will hear your narrative; but to-day I wish to nurse
you carefully. Besides,” he said, “a treasure is not a thing
we need hurry about.”

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

“You persist in your incredulity, Edmond,” continued Faria.
“My words have not convinced you. I see you require proofs.
Well, then, read this paper, which I have never shown to any
one.”

“To-morrow, my dear friend,” said Edmond, desirous of not
yielding to the old man’s madness. “I thought it was
understood that we should not talk of that until to-morrow.”

“Then we will not talk of it until to-morrow; but read this
paper to-day.”

“I will not irritate him,” thought Edmond, and taking the
paper, of which half was wanting, — having been burnt, no
doubt, by some accident, — he read: —

“This treasure, which may amount to two…
of Roman crowns in the most distant a…
of the second opening wh…
declare to belong to him alo…
heir.
“25th April, 149-“

“Well!” said Faria, when the young man had finished reading
it.

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

“Yes, to you, my friend, who read them for the first time;
but not for me, who have grown pale over them by many
nights’ study, and have reconstructed every phrase,
completed every thought.”

“And do you believe you have discovered the hidden meaning?”

“I am sure I have, and you shall judge for yourself; but
first listen to the history of this paper.”

“Silence!” exclaimed Dantes. “Steps approach — I go —
adieu.”

And Dantes, happy to escape the history and explanation
which would be sure to confirm his belief in his friend’s
mental instability, glided like a snake along the narrow
passage; while Faria, restored by his alarm to a certain
amount of activity, pushed the stone into place with his
foot, and covered it with a mat in order the more
effectually to avoid discovery.

It was the governor, who, hearing of Faria’s illness from
the jailer, had come in person to see him.

Faria sat up to receive him, avoiding all gestures in order
that he might conceal from the governor the paralysis that
had already half stricken him with death. His fear was lest
the governor, touched with pity, might order him to be
removed to better quarters, and thus separate him from his
young companion. But fortunately this was not the case, and
the governor left him, convinced that the poor madman, for
whom in his heart he felt a kind of affection, was only
troubled with a slight indisposition.

During this time, Edmond, seated on his bed with his head in
his hands, tried to collect his scattered thoughts. Faria,
since their first acquaintance, had been on all points so
rational and logical, so wonderfully sagacious, in fact,
that he could not understand how so much wisdom on all
points could be allied with madness. Was Faria deceived as
to his treasure, or was all the world deceived as to Faria?

Dantes remained in his cell all day, not daring to return to
his friend, thinking thus to defer the moment when he should
be convinced, once for all, that the abbe was mad — such a
conviction would be so terrible!

But, towards the evening after the hour for the customary
visit had gone by, Faria, not seeing the young man appear,
tried to move and get over the distance which separated
them. Edmond shuddered when he heard the painful efforts
which the old man made to drag himself along; his leg was
inert, and he could no longer make use of one arm. Edmond
was obliged to assist him, for otherwise he would not have
been able to enter by the small aperture which led to
Dantes’ chamber.

“Here I am, pursuing you remorselessly,” he said with a
benignant smile. “You thought to escape my munificence, but
it is in vain. Listen to me.”

Edmond saw there was no escape, and placing the old man on
his bed, he seated himself on the stool beside him.

“You know,” said the abbe, “that I was the secretary and
intimate friend of Cardinal Spada, the last of the princes
of that name. I owe to this worthy lord all the happiness I
ever knew. He was not rich, although the wealth of his
family had passed into a proverb, and I heard the phrase
very often, `As rich as a Spada.’ But he, like public rumor,
lived on this reputation for wealth; his palace was my
paradise. I was tutor to his nephews, who are dead; and when
he was alone in the world, I tried by absolute devotion to
his will, to make up to him all he had done for me during
ten years of unremitting kindness. The cardinal’s house had
no secrets for me. I had often seen my noble patron
annotating ancient volumes, and eagerly searching amongst
dusty family manuscripts. One day when I was reproaching him
for his unavailing searches, and deploring the prostration
of mind that followed them, he looked at me, and, smiling
bitterly, opened a volume relating to the History of the
City of Rome. There, in the twentieth chapter of the Life of
Pope Alexander VI., were the following lines, which I can
never forget: —

“`The great wars of Romagna had ended; Caesar Borgia, who
had completed his conquest, had need of money to purchase
all Italy. The pope had also need of money to bring matters
to an end with Louis XII. King of France, who was formidable
still in spite of his recent reverses; and it was necessary,
therefore, to have recourse to some profitable scheme, which
was a matter of great difficulty in the impoverished
condition of exhausted Italy. His holiness had an idea. He
determined to make two cardinals.’

“By choosing two of the greatest personages of Rome,
especially rich men — this was the return the holy father
looked for. In the first place, he could sell the great
appointments and splendid offices which the cardinals
already held; and then he had the two hats to sell besides.
There was a third point in view, which will appear
hereafter. The pope and Caesar Borgia first found the two
future cardinals; they were Giovanni Rospigliosi, who held
four of the highest dignities of the Holy See, and Caesar
Spada, one of the noblest and richest of the Roman nobility;
both felt the high honor of such a favor from the pope. They
were ambitious, and Caesar Borgia soon found purchasers for
their appointments. The result was, that Rospigliosi and
Spada paid for being cardinals, and eight other persons paid
for the offices the cardinals held before their elevation,
and thus eight hundred thousand crowns entered into the
coffers of the speculators.

“It is time now to proceed to the last part of the
speculation. The pope heaped attentions upon Rospigliosi and
Spada, conferred upon them the insignia of the cardinalate,
and induced them to arrange their affairs and take up their
residence at Rome. Then the pope and Caesar Borgia invited
the two cardinals to dinner. This was a matter of dispute
between the holy father and his son. Caesar thought they
could make use of one of the means which he always had ready
for his friends, that is to say, in the first place, the
famous key which was given to certain persons with the
request that they go and open a designated cupboard. This
key was furnished with a small iron point, — a negligence
on the part of the locksmith. When this was pressed to
effect the opening of the cupboard, of which the lock was
difficult, the person was pricked by this small point, and
died next day. Then there was the ring with the lion’s head,
which Caesar wore when he wanted to greet his friends with a
clasp of the hand. The lion bit the hand thus favored, and
at the end of twenty-four hours, the bite was mortal. Caesar
proposed to his father, that they should either ask the
cardinals to open the cupboard, or shake hands with them;
but Alexander VI., replied: `Now as to the worthy cardinals,
Spada and Rospigliosi, let us ask both of them to dinner,
something tells me that we shall get that money back.
Besides, you forget, Caesar, an indigestion declares itself
immediately, while a prick or a bite occasions a delay of a
day or two.’ Caesar gave way before such cogent reasoning,
and the cardinals were consequently invited to dinner.

“The table was laid in a vineyard belonging to the pope,
near San Pierdarena, a charming retreat which the cardinals
knew very well by report. Rospigliosi, quite set up with his
new dignities, went with a good appetite and his most
ingratiating manner. Spada, a prudent man, and greatly
attached to his only nephew, a young captain of the highest
promise, took paper and pen, and made his will. He then sent
word to his nephew to wait for him near the vineyard; but it
appeared the servant did not find him.

“Spada knew what these invitations meant; since
Christianity, so eminently civilizing, had made progress in
Rome, it was no longer a centurion who came from the tyrant
with a message, `Caesar wills that you die.’ but it was a
legate a latere, who came with a smile on his lips to say
from the pope, `His holiness requests you to dine with him.’

“Spada set out about two o’clock to San Pierdarena. The pope
awaited him. The first sight that attracted the eyes of
Spada was that of his nephew, in full costume, and Caesar
Borgia paying him most marked attentions. Spada turned pale,
as Caesar looked at him with an ironical air, which proved
that he had anticipated all, and that the snare was well
spread. They began dinner and Spada was only able to inquire
of his nephew if he had received his message. The nephew
replied no; perfectly comprehending the meaning of the
question. It was too late, for he had already drunk a glass
of excellent wine, placed for him expressly by the pope’s
butler. Spada at the same moment saw another bottle approach
him, which he was pressed to taste. An hour afterwards a
physician declared they were both poisoned through eating
mushrooms. Spada died on the threshold of the vineyard; the
nephew expired at his own door, making signs which his wife
could not comprehend.

“Then Caesar and the pope hastened to lay hands on the
heritage, under presence of seeking for the papers of the
dead man. But the inheritance consisted in this only, a
scrap of paper on which Spada had written: — `I bequeath to
my beloved nephew my coffers, my books, and, amongst others,
my breviary with the gold corners, which I beg he will
preserve in remembrance of his affectionate uncle.’

“The heirs sought everywhere, admired the breviary, laid
hands on the furniture, and were greatly astonished that
Spada, the rich man, was really the most miserable of uncles
— no treasures — unless they were those of science,
contained in the library and laboratories. That was all.
Caesar and his father searched, examined, scrutinized, but
found nothing, or at least very little; not exceeding a few
thousand crowns in plate, and about the same in ready money;
but the nephew had time to say to his wife before he
expired: `Look well among my uncle’s papers; there is a
will.’

“They sought even more thoroughly than the august heirs had
done, but it was fruitless. There were two palaces and a
vineyard behind the Palatine Hill; but in these days landed
property had not much value, and the two palaces and the
vineyard remained to the family since they were beneath the
rapacity of the pope and his son. Months and years rolled
on. Alexander VI. died, poisoned, — you know by what
mistake. Caesar, poisoned at the same time, escaped by
shedding his skin like a snake; but the new skin was spotted
by the poison till it looked like a tiger’s. Then, compelled
to quit Rome, he went and got himself obscurely killed in a
night skirmish, scarcely noticed in history. After the
pope’s death and his son’s exile, it was supposed that the
Spada family would resume the splendid position they had
held before the cardinal’s time; but this was not the case.
The Spadas remained in doubtful ease, a mystery hung over
this dark affair, and the public rumor was, that Caesar, a
better politician than his father, had carried off from the
pope the fortune of the two cardinals. I say the two,
because Cardinal Rospigliosi, who had not taken any
precaution, was completely despoiled.

“Up to this point,” said Faria, interrupting the thread of
his narrative, “this seems to you very meaningless, no
doubt, eh?”

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

“I will.”

“The family began to get accustomed to their obscurity.
Years rolled on, and amongst the descendants some were
soldiers, others diplomatists; some churchmen, some bankers;
some grew rich, and some were ruined. I come now to the last
of the family, whose secretary I was — the Count of Spada.
I had often heard him complain of the disproportion of his
rank with his fortune; and I advised him to invest all he
had in an annuity. He did so, and thus doubled his income.
The celebrated breviary remained in the family, and was in
the count’s possession. It had been handed down from father
to son; for the singular clause of the only will that had
been found, had caused it to be regarded as a genuine relic,
preserved in the family with superstitious veneration. It
was an illuminated book, with beautiful Gothic characters,
and so weighty with gold, that a servant always carried it
before the cardinal on days of great solemnity.

“At the sight of papers of all sorts, — titles, contracts,
parchments, which were kept in the archives of the family,
all descending from the poisoned cardinal, I in my turn
examined the immense bundles of documents, like twenty
servitors, stewards, secretaries before me; but in spite of
the most exhaustive researches, I found — nothing. Yet I
had read, I had even written a precise history of the Borgia
family, for the sole purpose of assuring myself whether any
increase of fortune had occurred to them on the death of the
Cardinal Caesar Spada; but could only trace the acquisition
of the property of the Cardinal Rospigliosi, his companion
in misfortune.

“I was then almost assured that the inheritance had neither
profited the Borgias nor the family, but had remained
unpossessed like the treasures of the Arabian Nights, which
slept in the bosom of the earth under the eyes of the genie.
I searched, ransacked, counted, calculated a thousand and a
thousand times the income and expenditure of the family for
three hundred years. It was useless. I remained in my
ignorance, and the Count of Spada in his poverty. My patron
died. He had reserved from his annuity his family papers,
his library, composed of five thousand volumes, and his
famous breviary. All these he bequeathed to me, with a
thousand Roman crowns, which he had in ready money, on
condition that I would have anniversary masses said for the
repose of his soul, and that I would draw up a genealogical
tree and history of his house. All this I did scrupulously.
Be easy, my dear Edmond, we are near the conclusion.

“In 1807, a month before I was arrested, and a fortnight
after the death of the Count of Spada, on the 25th of
December (you will see presently how the date became fixed
in my memory), I was reading, for the thousandth time, the
papers I was arranging, for the palace was sold to a
stranger, and I was going to leave Rome and settle at
Florence, intending to take with me twelve thousand francs I
possessed, my library, and the famous breviary, when, tired
with my constant labor at the same thing, and overcome by a
heavy dinner I had eaten, my head dropped on my hands, and I
fell asleep about three o’clock in the afternoon. I awoke as
the clock was striking six. I raised my head; I was in utter
darkness. I rang for a light, but as no one came, I
determined to find one for myself. It was indeed but
anticipating the simple manners which I should soon be under
the necessity of adopting. I took a wax-candle in one hand,
and with the other groped about for a piece of paper (my
match-box being empty), with which I proposed to get a light
from the small flame still playing on the embers. Fearing,
however, to make use of any valuable piece of paper, I
hesitated for a moment, then recollected that I had seen in
the famous breviary, which was on the table beside me, an
old paper quite yellow with age, and which had served as a
marker for centuries, kept there by the request of the
heirs. I felt for it, found it, twisted it up together, and
putting it into the expiring flame, set light to it.

“But beneath my fingers, as if by magic, in proportion as
the fire ascended, I saw yellowish characters appear on the
paper. I grasped it in my hand, put out the flame as quickly
as I could, lighted my taper in the fire itself, and opened
the crumpled paper with inexpressible emotion, recognizing,
when I had done so, that these characters had been traced in
mysterious and sympathetic ink, only appearing when exposed
to the fire; nearly one-third of the paper had been consumed
by the flame. It was that paper you read this morning; read
it again, Dantes, and then I will complete for you the
incomplete words and unconnected sense.”

Faria, with an air of triumph, offered the paper to Dantes,
who this time read the following words, traced with an ink
of a reddish color resembling rust: —

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

“And now,” said the abbe, “read this other paper;” and he
presented to Dantes a second leaf with fragments of lines
written on it, which Edmond read as follows: —

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

Faria followed him with an excited look. “and now,” he said,
when he saw that Dantes had read the last line, “put the two
fragments together, and judge for yourself.” Dantes obeyed,
and the conjointed pieces gave the following: —

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

“Well, do you comprehend now?” inquired Faria.

“It is the declaration of Cardinal Spada, and the will so
long sought for,” replied Edmond, still incredulous.

“Yes; a thousand times, yes!”

“And who completed it as it now is?”

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

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

“I resolved to set out, and did set out at that very
instant, carrying with me the beginning of my great work,
the unity of the Italian kingdom; but for some time the
imperial police (who at this period, quite contrary to what
Napoleon desired so soon as he had a son born to him, wished
for a partition of provinces) had their eyes on me; and my
hasty departure, the cause of which they were unable to
guess, having aroused their suspicions, I was arrested at
the very moment I was leaving Piombino.

“Now,” continued Faria, addressing Dantes with an almost
paternal expression, “now, my dear fellow, you know as much
as I do myself. If we ever escape together, half this
treasure is yours; if I die here, and you escape alone, the
whole belongs to you.”

“But,” inquired Dantes hesitating, “has this treasure no
more legitimate possessor in the world than ourselves?”

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

“And you say this treasure amounts to” —

“Two millions of Roman crowns; nearly thirteen millions of
our money.”*

* $2,600,000 in 1894.

“Impossible!” said Dantes, staggered at the enormous amount.

“Impossible? and why?” asked the old man. “The Spada family
was one of the oldest and most powerful families of the
fifteenth century; and in those times, when other
opportunities for investment were wanting, such
accumulations of gold and jewels were by no means rare;
there are at this day Roman families perishing of hunger,
though possessed of nearly a million in diamonds and jewels,
handed down by entail, and which they cannot touch.” Edmond
thought he was in a dream — he wavered between incredulity
and joy.

“I have only kept this secret so long from you,” continued
Faria, “that I might test your character, and then surprise
you. Had we escaped before my attack of catalepsy, I should
have conducted you to Monte Cristo; now,” he added, with a
sigh, “it is you who will conduct me thither. Well, Dantes,
you do not thank me?”

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

“You are my son, Dantes,” exclaimed the old man. “You are
the child of my captivity. My profession condemns me to
celibacy. God has sent you to me to console, at one and the
same time, the man who could not be a father, and the
prisoner who could not get free.” And Faria extended the arm
of which alone the use remained to him to the young man who
threw himself upon his neck and wept.

Now that this treasure, which had so long been the object of
the abbe’s meditations, could insure the future happiness of
him whom Faria really loved as a son, it had doubled its
value in his eyes, and every day he expatiated on the
amount, explaining to Dantes all the good which, with
thirteen or fourteen millions of francs, a man could do in
these days to his friends; and then Dantes’ countenance
became gloomy, for the oath of vengeance he had taken
recurred to his memory, and he reflected how much ill, in
these times, a man with thirteen or fourteen millions could
do to his enemies.

The abbe did not know the Island of Monte Cristo; but Dantes
knew it, and had often passed it, situated twenty-five miles
from Pianosa, between Corsica and the Island of Elba, and
had once touched there. This island was, always had been,
and still is, completely deserted. It is a rock of almost
conical form, which looks as though it had been thrust up by
volcanic force from the depth to the surface of the ocean.
Dantes drew a plan of the island for Faria, and Faria gave
Dantes advice as to the means he should employ to recover
the treasure. But Dantes was far from being as enthusiastic
and confident as the old man. It was past a question now
that Faria was not a lunatic, and the way in which he had
achieved the discovery, which had given rise to the
suspicion of his madness, increased Edmond’s admiration of
him; but at the same time Dantes could not believe that the
deposit, supposing it had ever existed, still existed; and
though he considered the treasure as by no means chimerical,
he yet believed it was no longer there.

However, as if fate resolved on depriving the prisoners of
their last chance, and making them understand that they were
condemned to perpetual imprisonment, a new misfortune befell
them; the gallery on the sea side, which had long been in
ruins, was rebuilt. They had repaired it completely, and
stopped up with vast masses of stone the hole Dantes had
partly filled in. But for this precaution, which, it will be
remembered, the abbe had made to Edmond, the misfortune
would have been still greater, for their attempt to escape
would have been detected, and they would undoubtedly have
been separated. Thus a new, a stronger, and more inexorable
barrier was interposed to cut off the realization of their
hopes.

“You see,” said the young man, with an air of sorrowful
resignation, to Faria, “that God deems it right to take from
me any claim to merit for what you call my devotion to you.
I have promised to remain forever with you, and now I could
not break my promise if I would. The treasure will be no
more mine than yours, and neither of us will quit this
prison. But my real treasure is not that, my dear friend,
which awaits me beneath the sombre rocks of Monte Cristo, it
is your presence, our living together five or six hours a
day, in spite of our jailers; it is the rays of intelligence
you have elicited from my brain, the languages you have
implanted in my memory, and which have taken root there with
all their philological ramifications. These different
sciences that you have made so easy to me by the depth of
the knowledge you possess of them, and the clearness of the
principles to which you have reduced them — this is my
treasure, my beloved friend, and with this you have made me
rich and happy. Believe me, and take comfort, this is better
for me than tons of gold and cases of diamonds, even were
they not as problematical as the clouds we see in the
morning floating over the sea, which we take for terra
firma, and which evaporate and vanish as we draw near to
them. To have you as long as possible near me, to hear your
eloquent speech, — which embellishes my mind, strengthens
my soul, and makes my whole frame capable of great and
terrible things, if I should ever be free, — so fills my
whole existence, that the despair to which I was just on the
point of yielding when I knew you, has no longer any hold
over me; and this — this is my fortune — not chimerical,
but actual. I owe you my real good, my present happiness;
and all the sovereigns of the earth, even Caesar Borgia
himself, could not deprive me of this.”

Thus, if not actually happy, yet the days these two
unfortunates passed together went quickly. Faria, who for so
long a time had kept silence as to the treasure, now
perpetually talked of it. As he had prophesied would be the
case, he remained paralyzed in the right arm and the left
leg, and had given up all hope of ever enjoying it himself.
But he was continually thinking over some means of escape
for his young companion, and anticipating the pleasure he
would enjoy. For fear the letter might be some day lost or
stolen, he compelled Dantes to learn it by heart; and Dantes
knew it from the first to the last word. Then he destroyed
the second portion, assured that if the first were seized,
no one would be able to discover its real meaning. Whole
hours sometimes passed while Faria was giving instructions
to Dantes, — instructions which were to serve him when he
was at liberty. Then, once free, from the day and hour and
moment when he was so, he could have but one only thought,
which was, to gain Monte Cristo by some means, and remain
there alone under some pretext which would arouse no
suspicions; and once there, to endeavor to find the
wonderful caverns, and search in the appointed spot, — the
appointed spot, be it remembered, being the farthest angle
in the second opening.

In the meanwhile the hours passed, if not rapidly, at least
tolerably. Faria, as we have said, without having recovered
the use of his hand and foot, had regained all the clearness
of his understanding, and had gradually, besides the moral
instructions we have detailed, taught his youthful companion
the patient and sublime duty of a prisoner, who learns to
make something from nothing. They were thus perpetually
employed, — Faria, that he might not see himself grow old;
Dantes, for fear of recalling the almost extinct past which
now only floated in his memory like a distant light
wandering in the night. So life went on for them as it does
for those who are not victims of misfortune and whose
activities glide along mechanically and tranquilly beneath
the eye of providence.

But beneath this superficial calm there were in the heart of
the young man, and perhaps in that of the old man, many
repressed desires, many stifled sighs, which found vent when
Faria was left alone, and when Edmond returned to his cell.
One night Edmond awoke suddenly, believing that he heard
some one calling him. He opened his eyes upon utter
darkness. His name, or rather a plaintive voice which
essayed to pronounce his name, reached him. He sat up in bed
and a cold sweat broke out upon his brow. Undoubtedly the
call came from Faria’s dungeon. “Alas,” murmured Edmond;
“can it be?”

He moved his bed, drew up the stone, rushed into the
passage, and reached the opposite extremity; the secret
entrance was open. By the light of the wretched and wavering
lamp, of which we have spoken, Dantes saw the old man, pale,
but yet erect, clinging to the bedstead. His features were
writhing with those horrible symptoms which he already knew,
and which had so seriously alarmed him when he saw them for
the first time.

“Alas, my dear friend,” said Faria in a resigned tone, “you
understand, do you not, and I need not attempt to explain to
you?”

Edmond uttered a cry of agony, and, quite out of his senses,
rushed towards the door, exclaiming, “Help, help!” Faria had
just sufficient strength to restrain him.

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

Edmond could only clasp his hands and exclaim, “Oh, my
friend, my friend, speak not thus!” and then resuming all
his presence of mind, which had for a moment staggered under
this blow, and his strength, which had failed at the words
of the old man, he said, “Oh, I have saved you once, and I
will save you a second time!” And raising the foot of the
bed, he drew out the phial, still a third filled with the
red liquor.

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

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

“Oh, yes, yes!” exclaimed Dantes; “and I tell you that I
will save you yet.”

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

“Oh!” exclaimed Dantes, his heart wrung with anguish.

“Do as you did before, only do not wait so long, all the
springs of life are now exhausted in me, and death,” he
continued, looking at his paralyzed arm and leg, “has but
half its work to do. If, after having made me swallow twelve
drops instead of ten, you see that I do not recover, then
pour the rest down my throat. Now lift me on my bed, for I
can no longer support myself.”

Edmond took the old man in his arms, and laid him on the
bed.

“And now, my dear friend,” said Faria, “sole consolation of
my wretched existence, — you whom heaven gave me somewhat
late, but still gave me, a priceless gift, and for which I
am most grateful, — at the moment of separating from you
forever, I wish you all the happiness and all the prosperity
you so well deserve. My son, I bless thee!” The young man
cast himself on his knees, leaning his head against the old
man’s bed.

“Listen, now, to what I say in this my dying moment. The
treasure of the Spadas exists. God grants me the boon of
vision unrestricted by time or space. I see it in the depths
of the inner cavern. My eyes pierce the inmost recesses of
the earth, and are dazzled at the sight of so much riches.
If you do escape, remember that the poor abbe, whom all the
world called mad, was not so. Hasten to Monte Cristo —
avail yourself of the fortune — for you have indeed
suffered long enough.” A violent convulsion attacked the old
man. Dantes raised his head and saw Faria’s eyes injected
with blood. It seemed as if a flow of blood had ascended
from the chest to the head.

“Adieu, adieu!” murmured the old man, clasping Edmond’s hand
convulsively — “adieu!”

“Oh, no, — no, not yet,” he cried; “do not forsake me! Oh,
succor him! Help — help — help!”

“Hush — hush!” murmured the dying man, “that they may not
separate us if you save me!”

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

“Do not mistake. I suffer less because there is in me less
strength to endure. At your age we have faith in life; it is
the privilege of youth to believe and hope, but old men see
death more clearly. Oh, ’tis here — ’tis here — ’tis over
— my sight is gone — my senses fail! Your hand, Dantes!
Adieu — adieu!” And raising himself by a final effort, in
which he summoned all his faculties, he said, — “Monte
Cristo, forget not Monte Cristo!” And he fell back on the
bed. The crisis was terrible, and a rigid form with twisted
limbs, swollen eyelids, and lips flecked with bloody foam,
lay on the bed of torture, in place of the intellectual
being who so lately rested there.

Dantes took the lamp, placed it on a projecting stone above
the bed, whence its tremulous light fell with strange and
fantastic ray on the distorted countenance and motionless,
stiffened body. With steady gaze he awaited confidently the
moment for administering the restorative.

When he believed that the right moment had arrived, he took
the knife, pried open the teeth, which offered less
resistance than before, counted one after the other twelve
drops, and watched; the phial contained, perhaps, twice as
much more. He waited ten minutes, a quarter of an hour, half
an hour, — no change took place. Trembling, his hair erect,
his brow bathed with perspiration, he counted the seconds by
the beating of his heart. Then he thought it was time to
make the last trial, and he put the phial to the purple lips
of Faria, and without having occasion to force open his
jaws, which had remained extended, he poured the whole of
the liquid down his throat.

The draught produced a galvanic effect, a violent trembling
pervaded the old man’s limbs, his eyes opened until it was
fearful to gaze upon them, he heaved a sigh which resembled
a shriek, and then his convulsed body returned gradually to
its former immobility, the eyes remaining open.

Half an hour, an hour, an hour and a half elapsed, and
during this period of anguish, Edmond leaned over his
friend, his hand applied to his heart, and felt the body
gradually grow cold, and the heart’s pulsation become more
and more deep and dull, until at length it stopped; the last
movement of the heart ceased, the face became livid, the
eyes remained open, but the eyeballs were glazed. It was six
o’clock in the morning, the dawn was just breaking, and its
feeble ray came into the dungeon, and paled the ineffectual
light of the lamp. Strange shadows passed over the
countenance of the dead man, and at times gave it the
appearance of life. While the struggle between day and night
lasted, Dantes still doubted; but as soon as the daylight
gained the pre-eminence, he saw that he was alone with a
corpse. Then an invincible and extreme terror seized upon
him, and he dared not again press the hand that hung out of
bed, he dared no longer to gaze on those fixed and vacant
eyes, which he tried many times to close, but in vain —
they opened again as soon as shut. He extinguished the lamp,
carefully concealed it, and then went away, closing as well
as he could the entrance to the secret passage by the large
stone as he descended.

It was time, for the jailer was coming. On this occasion he
began his rounds at Dantes’ cell, and on leaving him he went
on to Faria’s dungeon, taking thither breakfast and some
linen. Nothing betokened that the man know anything of what
had occurred. He went on his way.

Dantes was then seized with an indescribable desire to know
what was going on in the dungeon of his unfortunate friend.
He therefore returned by the subterraneous gallery, and
arrived in time to hear the exclamations of the turnkey, who
called out for help. Other turnkeys came, and then was heard
the regular tramp of soldiers. Last of all came the
governor.

Edmond heard the creaking of the bed as they moved the
corpse, heard the voice of the governor, who asked them to
throw water on the dead man’s face; and seeing that, in
spite of this application, the prisoner did not recover,
they sent for the doctor. The governor then went out, and
words of pity fell on Dantes’ listening ears, mingled with
brutal laughter.

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

“With all his millions, he will not have enough to pay for
his shroud!” said another.

“Oh,” added a third voice, “the shrouds of the Chateau d’If
are not dear!”

“Perhaps,” said one of the previous speakers, “as he was a
churchman, they may go to some expense in his behalf.”

“They may give him the honors of the sack.”

Edmond did not lose a word, but comprehended very little of
what was said. The voices soon ceased, and it seemed to him
as if every one had left the cell. Still he dared not to
enter, as they might have left some turnkey to watch the
dead. He remained, therefore, mute and motionless, hardly
venturing to breathe. At the end of an hour, he heard a
faint noise, which increased. It was the governor who
returned, followed by the doctor and other attendants. There
was a moment’s silence, — it was evident that the doctor
was examining the dead body. The inquiries soon commenced.

The doctor analyzed the symptoms of the malady to which the
prisoner had succumbed, and declared that he was dead.
Questions and answers followed in a nonchalant manner that
made Dantes indignant, for he felt that all the world should
have for the poor abbe a love and respect equal to his own.

“I am very sorry for what you tell me,” said the governor,
replying to the assurance of the doctor, “that the old man
is really dead; for he was a quiet, inoffensive prisoner,
happy in his folly, and required no watching.”

“Ah,” added the turnkey, “there was no occasion for watching
him: he would have stayed here fifty years, I’ll answer for
it, without any attempt to escape.”

“Still,” said the governor, “I believe it will be requisite,
notwithstanding your certainty, and not that I doubt your
science, but in discharge of my official duty, that we
should be perfectly assured that the prisoner is dead.”
There was a moment of complete silence, during which Dantes,
still listening, knew that the doctor was examining the
corpse a second time.

“You may make your mind easy,” said the doctor; “he is dead.
I will answer for that.”

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

“Let the irons be heated,” said the doctor; “but really it
is a useless precaution.” This order to heat the irons made
Dantes shudder. He heard hasty steps, the creaking of a
door, people going and coming, and some minutes afterwards a
turnkey entered, saying, —

“Here is the brazier, lighted.” There was a moment’s
silence, and then was heard the crackling of burning flesh,
of which the peculiar and nauseous smell penetrated even
behind the wall where Dantes was listening in horror. The
perspiration poured forth upon the young man’s brow, and he
felt as if he should faint.

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

“Wasn’t his name Faria?” inquired one of the officers who
accompanied the governor.

“Yes, sir; and, as he said, it was an ancient name. He was,
too, very learned, and rational enough on all points which
did not relate to his treasure; but on that, indeed, he was
intractable.”

“It is the sort of malady which we call monomania,” said the
doctor.

“You had never anything to complain of?” said the governor
to the jailer who had charge of the abbe.

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

“Ah, ah!” said the doctor, “I did not know that I had a
rival; but I hope, governor, that you will show him all
proper respect.”

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

“Must this last formality take place in your presence, sir?”
inquired a turnkey.

“Certainly. But make haste — I cannot stay here all day.”
Other footsteps, going and coming, were now heard, and a
moment afterwards the noise of rustling canvas reached
Dantes’ ears, the bed creaked, and the heavy footfall of a
man who lifts a weight sounded on the floor; then the bed
again creaked under the weight deposited upon it.

“This evening,” said the governor.

“Will there be any mass?” asked one of the attendants.

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

“Pooh, pooh;” said the doctor, with the impiety usual in
persons of his profession; “he is a churchman. God will
respect his profession, and not give the devil the wicked
delight of sending him a priest.” A shout of laughter
followed this brutal jest. Meanwhile the operation of
putting the body in the sack was going on.

“This evening,” said the governor, when the task was ended.

“At what hour?” inquired a turnkey.

“Why, about ten or eleven o’clock.”

“Shall we watch by the corpse?”

“Of what use would it be? Shut the dungeon as if he were
alive — that is all.” Then the steps retreated, and the
voices died away in the distance; the noise of the door,
with its creaking hinges and bolts ceased, and a silence
more sombre than that of solitude ensued, — the silence of
death, which was all-pervasive, and struck its icy chill to
the very soul of Dantes. Then he raised the flag-stone
cautiously with his head, and looked carefully around the
chamber. It was empty, and Dantes emerged from the tunnel.

On the bed, at full length, and faintly illuminated by the
pale light that came from the window, lay a sack of canvas,
and under its rude folds was stretched a long and stiffened
form; it was Faria’s last winding-sheet, — a winding-sheet
which, as the turnkey said, cost so little. Everything was
in readiness. A barrier had been placed between Dantes and
his old friend. No longer could Edmond look into those
wide-open eyes which had seemed to be penetrating the
mysteries of death; no longer could he clasp the hand which
had done so much to make his existence blessed. Faria, the
beneficent and cheerful companion, with whom he was
accustomed to live so intimately, no longer breathed. He
seated himself on the edge of that terrible bed, and fell
into melancholy and gloomy revery.

Alone — he was alone again — again condemned to silence —
again face to face with nothingness! Alone! — never again
to see the face, never again to hear the voice of the only
human being who united him to earth! Was not Faria’s fate
the better, after all — to solve the problem of life at its
source, even at the risk of horrible suffering? The idea of
suicide, which his friend had driven away and kept away by
his cheerful presence, now hovered like a phantom over the
abbe’s dead body.

“If I could die,” he said, “I should go where he goes, and
should assuredly find him again. But how to die? It is very
easy,” he went on with a smile; “I will remain here, rush on
the first person that opens the door, strangle him, and then
they will guillotine me.” But excessive grief is like a
storm at sea, where the frail bark is tossed from the depths
to the top of the wave. Dantes recoiled from the idea of so
infamous a death, and passed suddenly from despair to an
ardent desire for life and liberty.

“Die? oh, no,” he exclaimed — “not die now, after having
lived and suffered so long and so much! Die? yes, had I died
years ago; but now to die would be, indeed, to give way to
the sarcasm of destiny. No, I want to live; I shall struggle
to the very last; I will yet win back the happiness of which
I have been deprived. Before I die I must not forget that I
have my executioners to punish, and perhaps, too, who knows,
some friends to reward. Yet they will forget me here, and I
shall die in my dungeon like Faria.” As he said this, he
became silent and gazed straight before him like one
overwhelmed with a strange and amazing thought. Suddenly he
arose, lifted his hand to his brow as if his brain wore
giddy, paced twice or thrice round the dungeon, and then
paused abruptly by the bed.

“Just God!” he muttered, “whence comes this thought? Is it
from thee? Since none but the dead pass freely from this
dungeon, let me take the place of the dead!” Without giving
himself time to reconsider his decision, and, indeed, that
he might not allow his thoughts to be distracted from his
desperate resolution, he bent over the appalling shroud,
opened it with the knife which Faria had made, drew the
corpse from the sack, and bore it along the tunnel to his
own chamber, laid it on his couch, tied around its head the
rag he wore at night around his own, covered it with his
counterpane, once again kissed the ice-cold brow, and tried
vainly to close the resisting eyes, which glared horribly,
turned the head towards the wall, so that the jailer might,
when he brought the evening meal, believe that he was
asleep, as was his frequent custom; entered the tunnel
again, drew the bed against the wall, returned to the other
cell, took from the hiding-place the needle and thread,
flung off his rags, that they might feel only naked flesh
beneath the coarse canvas, and getting inside the sack,
placed himself in the posture in which the dead body had
been laid, and sewed up the mouth of the sack from the
inside.

He would have been discovered by the beating of his heart,
if by any mischance the jailers had entered at that moment.
Dantes might have waited until the evening visit was over,
but he was afraid that the governor would change his mind,
and order the dead body to be removed earlier. In that case
his last hope would have been destroyed. Now his plans were
fully made, and this is what he intended to do. If while he
was being carried out the grave-diggers should discover that
they were bearing a live instead of a dead body, Dantes did
not intend to give them time to recognize him, but with a
sudden cut of the knife, he meant to open the sack from top
to bottom, and, profiting by their alarm, escape; if they
tried to catch him, he would use his knife to better
purpose.

If they took him to the cemetery and laid him in a grave, he
would allow himself to be covered with earth, and then, as
it was night, the grave-diggers could scarcely have turned
their backs before he would have worked his way through the
yielding soil and escaped. He hoped that the weight of earth
would not be so great that he could not overcome it. If he
was detected in this and the earth proved too heavy, he
would be stifled, and then — so much the better, all would
be over. Dantes had not eaten since the preceding evening,
but he had not thought of hunger, nor did he think of it
now. His situation was too precarious to allow him even time
to reflect on any thought but one.

The first risk that Dantes ran was, that the jailer, when he
brought him his supper at seven o’clock, might perceive the
change that had been made; fortunately, twenty times at
least, from misanthropy or fatigue, Dantes had received his
jailer in bed, and then the man placed his bread and soup on
the table, and went away without saying a word. This time
the jailer might not be as silent as usual, but speak to
Dantes, and seeing that he received no reply, go to the bed,
and thus discover all.

When seven o’clock came, Dantes’ agony really began. His
hand placed upon his heart was unable to redress its
throbbings, while, with the other he wiped the perspiration
from his temples. From time to time chills ran through his
whole body, and clutched his heart in a grasp of ice. Then
he thought he was going to die. Yet the hours passed on
without any unusual disturbance, and Dantes knew that he had
escaped the first peril. It was a good augury. At length,
about the hour the governor had appointed, footsteps were
heard on the stairs. Edmond felt that the moment had
arrived, summoned up all his courage, held his breath, and
would have been happy if at the same time he could have
repressed the throbbing of his veins. The footsteps — they
were double — paused at the door — and Dantes guessed that
the two grave-diggers had come to seek him — this idea was
soon converted into certainty, when he heard the noise they
made in putting down the hand-bier. The door opened, and a
dim light reached Dantes’ eyes through the coarse sack that
covered him; he saw two shadows approach his bed, a third
remaining at the door with a torch in its hand. The two men,
approaching the ends of the bed, took the sack by its
extremities.

“He’s heavy though for an old and thin man,” said one, as he
raised the head.

“They say every year adds half a pound to the weight of the
bones,” said another, lifting the feet.

“Have you tied the knot?” inquired the first speaker.