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.
Chapter 14. The Two Prisoners.
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.
