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.
Chapter 15. Number 34 and Number 27.
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
