leaving the rest on the floor. The breaking of his jug was too natural
an accident to excite suspicion. Edmond had all the night to work in,
but in the darkness he could not do much, and he soon felt that he was
working against something very hard; he pushed back his bed, and waited
for day.
All night he heard the subterranean workman, who continued to mine his
way. Day came, the jailer entered. Dantes told him that the jug had
fallen from his hands while he was drinking, and the jailer went
grumblingly to fetch another, without giving himself the trouble to
remove the fragments of the broken one. He returned speedily, advised
the prisoner to be more careful, and departed.
Dantes heard joyfully the key grate in the lock; he listened until the
sound of steps died away, and then, hastily displacing his bed, saw
by the faint light that penetrated into his cell, that he had labored
uselessly the previous evening in attacking the stone instead of
removing the plaster that surrounded it.
The damp had rendered it friable, and Dantes was able to break it
off--in small morsels, it is true, but at the end of half an hour he had
scraped off a handful; a mathematician might have calculated that in
two years, supposing that the rock was not encountered, a passage twenty
feet long and two feet broad, might be formed.
The prisoner reproached himself with not having thus employed the hours
he had passed in vain hopes, prayer, and despondency. During the six
years that he had been imprisoned, what might he not have accomplished?
In three days he had succeeded, with the utmost precaution, in removing
the cement, and exposing the stone-work. The wall was built of rough
stones, among which, to give strength to the structure, blocks of hewn
stone were at intervals imbedded. It was one of these he had uncovered,
and which he must remove from its socket.
Dantes strove to do this with his nails, but they were too weak. The
fragments of the jug broke, and after an hour of useless toil, he
paused.
Was he to be thus stopped at the beginning, and was he to wait inactive
until his fellow workman had completed his task? Suddenly an idea
occurred to him--he smiled, and the perspiration dried on his forehead.
The jailer always brought Dantes' soup in an iron saucepan; this
saucepan contained soup for both prisoners, for Dantes had noticed that
it was either quite full, or half empty, according as the turnkey gave
it to him or to his companion first.
The handle of this saucepan was of iron; Dantes would have given ten
years of his life in exchange for it.
The jailer was accustomed to pour the contents of the saucepan into
Dantes' plate, and Dantes, after eating his soup with a wooden spoon,
washed the plate, which thus served for every day. Now when evening
came Dantes put his plate on the ground near the door; the jailer, as he
entered, stepped on it and broke it.
This time he could not blame Dantes. He was wrong to leave it there, but
the jailer was wrong not to have looked before him.
The jailer, therefore, only grumbled. Then he looked about for something
to pour the soup into; Dantes' entire dinner service consisted of one
plate--there was no alternative.
"Leave the saucepan," said Dantes; "you can take it away when you bring
me my breakfast." This advice was to the jailer's taste, as it spared
him the necessity of making another trip. He left the saucepan.
Dantes was beside himself with joy. He rapidly devoured his food,
and after waiting an hour, lest the jailer should change his mind and
return, he removed his bed, took the handle of the saucepan, inserted
the point between the hewn stone and rough stones of the wall, and
employed it as a lever. A slight oscillation showed Dantes that all
went well. At the end of an hour the stone was extricated from the wall,
leaving a cavity a foot and a half in diameter.
Dantes carefully collected the plaster, carried it into the corner of
his cell, and covered it with earth. Then, wishing to make the best
use of his time while he had the means of labor, he continued to work
without ceasing. At the dawn of day he replaced the stone, pushed his
bed against the wall, and lay down. The breakfast consisted of a piece
of bread; the jailer entered and placed the bread on the table.
"Well, don't you intend to bring me another plate?" said Dantes.
"No," replied the turnkey; "you destroy everything. First you break your
jug, then you make me break your plate; if all the prisoners followed
your example, the government would be ruined. I shall leave you the
saucepan, and pour your soup into that. So for the future I hope you
will not be so destructive."
Dantes raised his eyes to heaven and clasped his hands beneath the
coverlet. He felt more gratitude for the possession of this piece of
iron than he had ever felt for anything. He had noticed, however, that
the prisoner on the other side had ceased to labor; no matter, this was
a greater reason for proceeding--if his neighbor would not come to him,
he would go to his neighbor. All day he toiled on untiringly, and by
the evening he had succeeded in extracting ten handfuls of plaster and
fragments of stone. When the hour for his jailer's visit arrived, Dantes
straightened the handle of the saucepan as well as he could, and placed
it in its accustomed place. The turnkey poured his ration of soup
into it, together with the fish--for thrice a week the prisoners were
deprived of meat. This would have been a method of reckoning time, had
not Dantes long ceased to do so. Having poured out the soup, the turnkey
retired. Dantes wished to ascertain whether his neighbor had really
ceased to work. He listened--all was silent, as it had been for the last
three days. Dantes sighed; it was evident that his neighbor distrusted
him. However, he toiled on all the night without being discouraged; but
after two or three hours he encountered an obstacle. The iron made no
impression, but met with a smooth surface; Dantes touched it, and found
that it was a beam. This beam crossed, or rather blocked up, the hole
Dantes had made; it was necessary, therefore, to dig above or under
it. The unhappy young man had not thought of this. "O my God, my God!"
murmured he, "I have so earnestly prayed to you, that I hoped my prayers
had been heard. After having deprived me of my liberty, after having
deprived me of death, after having recalled me to existence, my God,
have pity on me, and do not let me die in despair!"
"Who talks of God and despair at the same time?" said a voice that
seemed to come from beneath the earth, and, deadened by the distance,
sounded hollow and sepulchral in the young man's ears. Edmond's hair
stood on end, and he rose to his knees.
"Ah," said he, "I hear a human voice." Edmond had not heard any one
speak save his jailer for four or five years; and a jailer is no man
to a prisoner--he is a living door, a barrier of flesh and blood adding
strength to restraints of oak and iron.
"In the name of heaven," cried Dantes, "speak again, though the sound of
your voice terrifies me. Who are you?"
"Who are you?" said the voice.
"An unhappy prisoner," replied Dantes, who made no hesitation in
answering.
"Of what country?"
"A Frenchman."
"Your name?"
"Edmond Dantes."
"Your profession?"
"A sailor."
"How long have you been here?"
"Since the 28th of February, 1815."
"Your crime?"
"I am innocent."
"But of what are you accused?"
"Of having conspired to aid the emperor's return."
"What! For the emperor's return?--the emperor is no longer on the
throne, then?"
"He abdicated at Fontainebleau in 1814, and was sent to the Island
of Elba. But how long have you been here that you are ignorant of all
this?"
"Since 1811."
Dantes shuddered; this man had been four years longer than himself in
prison.
"Do not dig any more," said the voice; "only tell me how high up is your
excavation?"
"On a level with the floor."
"How is it concealed?"
"Behind my bed."
"Has your bed been moved since you have been a prisoner?"
"No."
"What does your chamber open on?"
"A corridor."
"And the corridor?"
"On a court."
"Alas!" murmured the voice.
"Oh, what is the matter?" cried Dantes.
"I have made a mistake owing to an error in my plans. I took the wrong
angle, and have come out fifteen feet from where I intended. I took the
wall you are mining for the outer wall of the fortress."
"But then you would be close to the sea?"
"That is what I hoped."
"And supposing you had succeeded?"
"I should have thrown myself into the sea, gained one of the islands
near here--the Isle de Daume or the Isle de Tiboulen--and then I should
have been safe."
"Could you have swum so far?"
"Heaven would have given me strength; but now all is lost."
"All?"
"Yes; stop up your excavation carefully, do not work any more, and wait
until you hear from me."
"Tell me, at least, who you are?"
"I am--I am No. 27."
"You mistrust me, then," said Dantes. Edmond fancied he heard a bitter
laugh resounding from the depths.
"Oh, I am a Christian," cried Dantes, guessing instinctively that this
man meant to abandon him. "I swear to you by him who died for us that
naught shall induce me to breathe one syllable to my jailers; but I
conjure you do not abandon me. If you do, I swear to you, for I have got
to the end of my strength, that I will dash my brains out against the
wall, and you will have my death to reproach yourself with."
"How old are you? Your voice is that of a young man."
"I do not know my age, for I have not counted the years I have been
here. All I do know is, that I was just nineteen when I was arrested,
the 28th of February, 1815."
"Not quite twenty-six!" murmured the voice; "at that age he cannot be a
traitor."
"Oh, no, no," cried Dantes. "I swear to you again, rather than betray
you, I would allow myself to be hacked in pieces!"
"You have done well to speak to me, and ask for my assistance, for I was
about to form another plan, and leave you; but your age reassures me. I
will not forget you. Wait."
"How long?"
"I must calculate our chances; I will give you the signal."
"But you will not leave me; you will come to me, or you will let me come
to you. We will escape, and if we cannot escape we will talk; you
of those whom you love, and I of those whom I love. You must love
somebody?"
"No, I am alone in the world."
"Then you will love me. If you are young, I will be your comrade; if you
are old, I will be your son. I have a father who is seventy if he yet
lives; I only love him and a young girl called Mercedes. My father has
not yet forgotten me, I am sure, but God alone knows if she loves me
still; I shall love you as I loved my father."
"It is well," returned the voice; "to-morrow."
These few words were uttered with an accent that left no doubt of his
sincerity; Dantes rose, dispersed the fragments with the same precaution
as before, and pushed his bed back against the wall. He then gave
himself up to his happiness. He would no longer be alone. He was,
perhaps, about to regain his liberty; at the worst, he would have a
companion, and captivity that is shared is but half captivity. Plaints
made in common are almost prayers, and prayers where two or three are
gathered together invoke the mercy of heaven.
All day Dantes walked up and down his cell. He sat down occasionally
on his bed, pressing his hand on his heart. At the slightest noise he
bounded towards the door. Once or twice the thought crossed his mind
that he might be separated from this unknown, whom he loved already; and
then his mind was made up--when the jailer moved his bed and stooped to
examine the opening, he would kill him with his water jug. He would be
condemned to die, but he was about to die of grief and despair when this
miraculous noise recalled him to life.
The jailer came in the evening. Dantes was on his bed. It seemed to him
that thus he better guarded the unfinished opening. Doubtless there was
a strange expression in his eyes, for the jailer said, "Come, are you
going mad again?"
Dantes did not answer; he feared that the emotion of his voice would
betray him. The jailer went away shaking his head. Night came; Dantes
hoped that his neighbor would profit by the silence to address him, but
he was mistaken. The next morning, however, just as he removed his bed
from the wall, he heard three knocks; he threw himself on his knees.
"Is it you?" said he; "I am here."
"Is your jailer gone?"
"Yes," said Dantes; "he will not return until the evening; so that we
have twelve hours before us."
"I can work, then?" said the voice.
"Oh, yes, yes; this instant, I entreat you."
In a moment that part of the floor on which Dantes was resting his two
hands, as he knelt with his head in the opening, suddenly gave way; he
drew back smartly, while a mass of stones and earth disappeared in a
hole that opened beneath the aperture he himself had formed. Then from
the bottom of this passage, the depth of which it was impossible to
measure, he saw appear, first the head, then the shoulders, and lastly
the body of a man, who sprang lightly into his cell.
Chapter 16. A Learned Italian.
Seizing in his arms the friend so long and ardently desired, Dantes
almost carried him towards the window, in order to obtain a better view
