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,
