The Count of Monte Cristo. Alexandre Dumas
will see them both,” returned the inspector; “I must conscientiously perform my duty.”
This was the inspector’s first visit: he wished to display his authority.
“Let us visit this one first,” added he.
“Willingly,” replied the governor, and he signed to the turnkey to open the door. At the sound of the key turning in the lock, and the creaking of the hinges, Dantès, who was crouched in a corner of the dungeon, raised his head.
At the sight of a stranger, lighted by two turnkeys, accompanied by two soldiers, and to whom the governor spoke bareheaded, Dantès, who guessed the truth, and that the moment to address himself to the superior authorities was come, sprang forward with clasped hands.
The soldiers presented their bayonets, for they thought he was about to attack the inspector, and the latter recoiled two or three steps. Dantès saw he was represented as a dangerous prisoner. Then infusing all the humility he possessed into his eyes and voice, he addressed the inspector, and sought to inspire him with pity.
The inspector listened attentively; then turning to the governor, observed, “He will become religious—he is already more gentle; he is afraid, and retreated before the bayonets—madmen are not afraid of anything; I made some curious observations on this at Charenton.” Then turning to the prisoner, “What do you demand?” said he.
“What crime I have committed—to be tried; and if I am guilty, may be shot; if innocent, I may be set at liberty.”
“Are you well fed?” said the inspector.
“I believe so—I know not, but that matters little; what matters really, not only to me, but to every one, is that an innocent man should languish in prison, the victim of an infamous denunciation.”
“You are very humble today,” remarked the governor; “you are not so always; the other day, for instance, when you tried to kill the turnkey.”
“It is true, sir, and I beg his pardon, for he has always been very good to me: but I was mad.”
“And you are not so any longer?”
“No! captivity has subdued me—I have been here so long.”
“So long?—when were you arrested, then?” asked the inspector.
“The 28th of February, 1815, at half-past two in the afternoon.”
“Today is the 30th of June, 1816; why, it is but seventeen months.”
“Only seventeen months!” replied Dantès; “oh, you do not know what is seventeen months in prison!—seventeen ages rather, especially to a man who, like me, had arrived at the summit of his ambition—to a man who, like me, was on the point of marrying a woman he adored, who saw an honourable career open before him, and who loses all in an instant, who sees his prospects destroyed, and is ignorant of the fate of his affianced wife, and whether his aged father be still living! Seventeen months’ captivity to a sailor accustomed to the boundless ocean is a worse punishment than human crime ever merited. Have pity on me, then, and ask for me, not indulgence, but a trial—let me know my crime and my sentence, for incertitude is worse than all.”
“We shall see,” said the inspector; then turning to the governor, “On my word, the poor devil touches me; you must show me the proofs against him.”
“Certainly, but you will find terrible notes against him.”
“Monsieur,” continued Dantès, “I know it is not in your power to release me, but you can plead for me, you can have me tried, and that is all I ask.”
“Light me,” said the inspector.
“Monsieur,” cried Dantès, “I can tell by your voice you are touched with pity; tell me at least to hope.”
“I cannot tell you that,” replied the inspector; “I can only promise to examine into your case.”
“Oh, I am free!—then I am saved!”
“Who arrested you?”
“M. Villefort; see him, and hear what he says.”
“M. Villefort is no longer at Marseilles, he is now at Toulouse.”
“I am no longer surprised at my detention,” murmured Dantès, “since my only protector is removed.”
“Had M. de Villefort any cause of personal dislike to you?”
“None; on the contrary, he was very kind to me.”
“I can then rely on the notes he has left concerning you?”
“Entirely.”
“That is well; wait patiently, then.”
Dantès fell on his knees, and prayed earnestly. The door closed, but this time a fresh inmate was left with Dantès. Hope.
“Will you see the register at once,” asked the governor, “or proceed to the other cell?”
“Let us visit them all,” said the inspector; “if I once mounted the stairs, I should never have the courage to descend.”
“Ah, this one is not like the other, and his madness is less affecting than the reason of his neighbour.”
“What is his folly?”
“He fancies he possesses an immense treasure: the first year he offered government a million of francs (£40,000) for his release, the second two, the third three, and so on progressively, he is now in his fifth year of captivity, he will ask to speak to you in private, and offer you five millions.”
“How curious! what is his name?”
“L’Abbé Faria.”
“No. 27,” said the inspector.
“It is here; unlock the door, Antoine.”
The turnkey obeyed, and the inspector gazed curiously into the chamber of the mad abbé.
In the centre of the cell, in a circle traced with a fragment of plaster detached from the wall, sat a man whose tattered garments scarcely covered him. He was drawing in this circle geometrical lines, and seemed as much absorbed in his problem as Archimedes when the soldier of Marcellus slew him.
He did not move at the sound of the door, and continued his problem until the flash of the torches lighted up with an unwonted glare the sombre walls of his cell, then raising his head he perceived with astonishment the number of persons in his cell.
He hastily seized the coverlid of his bed, and wrapt it round him.
“What do you demand?” said the inspector.
“I, monsieur!” replied the abbé, with an air of surprise, “I demand nothing.”
“You do not understand,” continued the inspector; “I am sent here by government to visit the prisoners, and hear the requests of the prisoners.”
“Oh, that is different,” cried the abbé; “and we shall understand each other, I hope.”
“There now,” whispered the governor, “it is just as I told you.”
“Monsieur,” continued the prisoner, “I am the Abbé Faria, born at Rome. I was for twenty years Cardinal Spada’s secretary; I was arrested, why I know not, in 1811, since then I have demanded my liberty from the Italian and French government.”
“Why from the French government?”
“Because I was arrested at Piombino, and I presume that, like Milan and Florence, Piombino has become the capital of some French department.”
“Ah!” said the inspector, “you have not the latest intelligence from Italy.”
“They date from the day on which I was arrested,” returned the Abbé Faria; “and as the emperor had created the kingdom