of those cartilages of which the abbe had before spoken to Dantes;
it was pointed, and divided at the nib like an ordinary pen. Dantes
examined it with intense admiration, then looked around to see the
instrument with which it had been shaped so correctly into form.
"Ah, yes," said Faria; "the penknife. That's my masterpiece. I made
it, as well as this larger knife, out of an old iron candlestick." The
penknife was sharp and keen as a razor; as for the other knife, it would
serve a double purpose, and with it one could cut and thrust.
Dantes examined the various articles shown to him with the same
attention that he had bestowed on the curiosities and strange tools
exhibited in the shops at Marseilles as the works of the savages in the
South Seas from whence they had been brought by the different trading
vessels.
"As for the ink," said Faria, "I told you how I managed to obtain
that--and I only just make it from time to time, as I require it."
"One thing still puzzles me," observed Dantes, "and that is how you
managed to do all this by daylight?"
"I worked at night also," replied Faria.
"Night!--why, for heaven's sake, are your eyes like cats', that you can
see to work in the dark?"
"Indeed they are not; but God his supplied man with the intelligence
that enables him to overcome the limitations of natural conditions. I
furnished myself with a light."
"You did? Pray tell me how."
"I separated the fat from the meat served to me, melted it, and so made
oil--here is my lamp." So saying, the abbe exhibited a sort of torch
very similar to those used in public illuminations.
"But light?"
"Here are two flints and a piece of burnt linen."
"And matches?"
"I pretended that I had a disorder of the skin, and asked for a little
sulphur, which was readily supplied." Dantes laid the different things
he had been looking at on the table, and stood with his head drooping
on his breast, as though overwhelmed by the perseverance and strength of
Faria's mind.
"You have not seen all yet," continued Faria, "for I did not think it
wise to trust all my treasures in the same hiding-place. Let us shut
this one up." They put the stone back in its place; the abbe sprinkled
a little dust over it to conceal the traces of its having been removed,
rubbed his foot well on it to make it assume the same appearance as the
other, and then, going towards his bed, he removed it from the spot it
stood in. Behind the head of the bed, and concealed by a stone fitting
in so closely as to defy all suspicion, was a hollow space, and in this
space a ladder of cords between twenty-five and thirty feet in length.
Dantes closely and eagerly examined it; he found it firm, solid, and
compact enough to bear any weight.
"Who supplied you with the materials for making this wonderful work?"
"I tore up several of my shirts, and ripped out the seams in the sheets
of my bed, during my three years' imprisonment at Fenestrelle; and when
I was removed to the Chateau d'If, I managed to bring the ravellings
with me, so that I have been able to finish my work here."
"And was it not discovered that your sheets were unhemmed?"
"Oh, no, for when I had taken out the thread I required, I hemmed the
edges over again."
"With what?"
"With this needle," said the abbe, as, opening his ragged vestments, he
showed Dantes a long, sharp fish-bone, with a small perforated eye
for the thread, a small portion of which still remained in it. "I once
thought," continued Faria, "of removing these iron bars, and letting
myself down from the window, which, as you see, is somewhat wider than
yours, although I should have enlarged it still more preparatory to my
flight; however, I discovered that I should merely have dropped into a
sort of inner court, and I therefore renounced the project altogether
as too full of risk and danger. Nevertheless, I carefully preserved my
ladder against one of those unforeseen opportunities of which I spoke
just now, and which sudden chance frequently brings about." While
affecting to be deeply engaged in examining the ladder, the mind of
Dantes was, in fact, busily occupied by the idea that a person so
intelligent, ingenious, and clear-sighted as the abbe might probably be
able to solve the dark mystery of his own misfortunes, where he himself
could see nothing.
"What are you thinking of?" asked the abbe smilingly, imputing the deep
abstraction in which his visitor was plunged to the excess of his awe
and wonder.
"I was reflecting, in the first place," replied Dantes, "upon the
enormous degree of intelligence and ability you must have employed to
reach the high perfection to which you have attained. What would you not
have accomplished if you had been free?"
"Possibly nothing at all; the overflow of my brain would probably, in a
state of freedom, have evaporated in a thousand follies; misfortune
is needed to bring to light the treasures of the human intellect.
Compression is needed to explode gunpowder. Captivity has brought
my mental faculties to a focus; and you are well aware that from
the collision of clouds electricity is produced--from electricity,
lightning, from lightning, illumination."
"No," replied Dantes. "I know nothing. Some of your words are to me
quite empty of meaning. You must be blessed indeed to possess the
knowledge you have."
The abbe smiled. "Well," said he, "but you had another subject for your
thoughts; did you not say so just now?"
"I did!"
"You have told me as yet but one of them--let me hear the other."
"It was this,--that while you had related to me all the particulars of
your past life, you were perfectly unacquainted with mine."
"Your life, my young friend, has not been of sufficient length to admit
of your having passed through any very important events."
"It has been long enough to inflict on me a great and undeserved
misfortune. I would fain fix the source of it on man that I may no
longer vent reproaches upon heaven."
"Then you profess ignorance of the crime with which you are charged?"
"I do, indeed; and this I swear by the two beings most dear to me upon
earth,--my father and Mercedes."
"Come," said the abbe, closing his hiding-place, and pushing the bed
back to its original situation, "let me hear your story."
Dantes obeyed, and commenced what he called his history, but which
consisted only of the account of a voyage to India, and two or three
voyages to the Levant until he arrived at the recital of his last
cruise, with the death of Captain Leclere, and the receipt of a packet
to be delivered by himself to the grand marshal; his interview with that
personage, and his receiving, in place of the packet brought, a letter
addressed to a Monsieur Noirtier--his arrival at Marseilles, and
interview with his father--his affection for Mercedes, and their nuptual
feast--his arrest and subsequent examination, his temporary detention at
the Palais de Justice, and his final imprisonment in the Chateau d'If.
From this point everything was a blank to Dantes--he knew nothing
more, not even the length of time he had been imprisoned. His recital
finished, the abbe reflected long and earnestly.
"There is," said he, at the end of his meditations, "a clever maxim,
which bears upon what I was saying to you some little while ago, and
that is, that unless wicked ideas take root in a naturally depraved
mind, human nature, in a right and wholesome state, revolts at crime.
Still, from an artificial civilization have originated wants, vices, and
false tastes, which occasionally become so powerful as to stifle
within us all good feelings, and ultimately to lead us into guilt and
wickedness. From this view of things, then, comes the axiom that if you
visit to discover the author of any bad action, seek first to discover
the person to whom the perpetration of that bad action could be in any
way advantageous. Now, to apply it in your case,--to whom could your
disappearance have been serviceable?"
"To no one, by heaven! I was a very insignificant person."
"Do not speak thus, for your reply evinces neither logic nor philosophy;
everything is relative, my dear young friend, from the king who stands
in the way of his successor, to the employee who keeps his rival out of
a place. Now, in the event of the king's death, his successor inherits a
crown,--when the employee dies, the supernumerary steps into his shoes,
and receives his salary of twelve thousand livres. Well, these twelve
thousand livres are his civil list, and are as essential to him as the
twelve millions of a king. Every one, from the highest to the lowest
degree, has his place on the social ladder, and is beset by stormy
passions and conflicting interests, as in Descartes' theory of pressure
and impulsion. But these forces increase as we go higher, so that we
have a spiral which in defiance of reason rests upon the apex and not on
the base. Now let us return to your particular world. You say you were
on the point of being made captain of the Pharaon?"
"Yes."
"And about to become the husband of a young and lovely girl?"
"Yes."
"Now, could any one have had any interest in preventing the
accomplishment of these two things? But let us first settle the question
as to its being the interest of any one to hinder you from being captain
of the Pharaon. What say you?"
"I cannot believe such was the case. I was generally liked on board, and
had the sailors possessed the right of selecting a captain themselves, I
feel convinced their choice would have fallen on me. There was only one
person among the crew who had any feeling of ill-will towards me. I had
quarelled with him some time previously, and had even challenged him to
fight me; but he refused."
"Now we are getting on. And what was this man's name?"
"Danglars."
"What rank did he hold on board?"
"He was supercargo."
"And had you been captain, should you have retained him in his
employment?"
"Not if the choice had remained with me, for I had frequently observed
inaccuracies in his accounts."
"Good again! Now then, tell me, was any person present during your last
conversation with Captain Leclere?"
"No; we were quite alone."
"Could your conversation have been overheard by any one?"
"It might, for the cabin door was open--and--stay; now I
recollect,--Danglars himself passed by just as Captain Leclere was
giving me the packet for the grand marshal."
"That's better," cried the abbe; "now we are on the right scent. Did you
take anybody with you when you put into the port of Elba?"
"Nobody."
"Somebody there received your packet, and gave you a letter in place of
it, I think?"
"Yes; the grand marshal did."
"And what did you do with that letter?"
"Put it into my portfolio."
"You had your portfolio with you, then? Now, how could a sailor find
room in his pocket for a portfolio large enough to contain an official
letter?"
"You are right; it was left on board."
"Then it was not till your return to the ship that you put the letter in
the portfolio?"
"No."
"And what did you do with this same letter while returning from
Porto-Ferrajo to the vessel?"
"I carried it in my hand."
"So that when you went on board the Pharaon, everybody could see that
you held a letter in your hand?"
"Yes."
"Danglars, as well as the rest?"
"Danglars, as well as others."
"Now, listen to me, and try to recall every circumstance attending your
arrest. Do you recollect the words in which the information against you
was formulated?"
"Oh yes, I read it over three times, and the words sank deeply into my
memory."
"Repeat it to me."
Dantes paused a moment, then said, "This is it, word for word: 'The
king's attorney is informed by a friend to the throne and religion,
that one Edmond Dantes, mate on board the Pharaon, this day arrived
from Smyrna, after having touched at Naples and Porto-Ferrajo, has been
intrusted by Murat with a packet for the usurper; again, by the usurper,
with a letter for the Bonapartist Club in Paris. This proof of his guilt
may be procured by his immediate arrest, as the letter will be found
either about his person, at his father's residence, or in his cabin
on board the Pharaon.'" The abbe shrugged his shoulders. "The thing is
clear as day," said he; "and you must have had a very confiding nature,
as well as a good heart, not to have suspected the origin of the whole
affair."
"Do you really think so? Ah, that would indeed be infamous."
"How did Danglars usually write?"
"In a handsome, running hand."
"And how was the anonymous letter written?"
"Backhanded." Again the abbe smiled. "Disguised."
"It was very boldly written, if disguised."
"Stop a bit," said the abbe, taking up what he called his pen, and,
after dipping it into the ink, he wrote on a piece of prepared linen,
with his left hand, the first two or three words of the accusation.
Dantes drew back, and gazed on the abbe with a sensation almost
amounting to terror.
"How very astonishing!" cried he at length. "Why your writing exactly
resembles that of the accusation."
"Simply because that accusation had been written with the left hand; and
I have noticed that"--
