The Count of Monte Cristo. Alexandre Dumas
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 penetrated a length of fifty feet to arrive 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 have made 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 labour is all in vain, for I find that the corridor looks into a courtyard filled with soldiers.”
“That’s true,” said Dantès; “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 looks out—looks out—stop a minute, now where does it open to?”
The side which thus excited curiosity was the one in which was fixed the loophole by which the light was admitted into the chamber. This loophole, which gradually diminished as it approached the outside, until only 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 gaoler as to the possibility of a prisoner’s escape.
As the stranger finished his self-put question, he dragged the table beneath the window.
“Climb up,” said he to Dantès.—The young man obeyed, mounted on the table, and, divining the intentions of his companion, placed his back securely against the wall, and held out both hands. The stranger, whom as yet Dantès knew only by his assumed title of 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 as the bound of a cat or a lizard, climbed from the table to the outstretched hands of Dantès, and from them to his shoulders; then, almost doubling himself in two, for the ceiling of the dungeon prevented his holding himself erect, he managed to slip his head through the top bar 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 Dantès, as dexterously as he had ascended, he nimbly leapt from the table to the ground.
“What made you say those words?” asked the young man, in an anxious tone, in his turn descending from the table.
The elder prisoner appeared to meditate. “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 shako 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 Dantès.
“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 care-worn countenance.
Dantès gazed on the individual 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 Abbé Faria, and have been imprisoned in this Château 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 XVI !—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 the individual so beaten down and depressed?”
Dantès’ whole attention was riveted on a man who could thus forget his own misfortunes while occupying himself with the destinies of others.
“But so it was,” continued he, “in England. After Charles I came Cromwell; to Cromwell succeeded Charles II, and then James II, who was succeeded by some son-in-law or relation. Ah! my friend!” said the abbé, turning towards Dantès, and surveying him with the kindling gaze of a prophet; “these are the changes and vicissitudes that give liberty to a nation. Mark what I say!—you are young, and may see my words come to pass that such will be the case with France—you will see it, I say!”
“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 meditated the very scheme Napoleon wished to realise in 1811; because, like Machiavel, 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 Cæsar Borgia in a crowned simpleton, who feigned to enter into my views only to betray me. It was projected equally by 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 be unlucky.” The old man uttered these last words in a tone of deep dejection, and his head fell listlessly on his breast.
To Dantès all this was perfectly incomprehensible. In the first place, he could not understand a man risking his life and liberty for such unimportant matters as the division of a kingdom; then, again, the persons referred to were wholly unknown to him. Napoleon certainly he knew something of, inasmuch as he had seen and spoken with him; but the other individuals alluded to were strangers to him even by name.
“Pray excuse my question,” said Dantès, beginning to partake of the gaoler’s opinion touching the state of the abbé’s brain; “but are you not the priest who is considered throughout the Château d’If—to—be—ill?”
“Mad, you mean, don’t you?”
“I did not like to say so,” answered Dantès, 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 Château d’If; for many years permitted to amuse