Chapter 17 The Abbиж's Chamber
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AFTER HAVING PASSED
with tolerable ease through the subterranean passage, which, however, did
not admit of their holding themselves erect, the two friends reached the
further end of the corridorChapter 17 The Abbиж's Chamber AFTER HAVING PASSED
with tolerable ease through the subterranean passage, which, however, did
not admit of their holding themselves erect, the two friends reached the
further end of the corridor, into which the abbиж's cell opened;
from that point the passage became much narrower, and barely permitted one
to creep through on hands and knees. The floor of the abbиж's cell was paved, and it had been by raising one of the stones in the
most obscure corner that Faria had to been able to commence the laborious
task of which Dantииs had witnessed the completion. As he entered the
chamber of his friend, Dantииs cast around one eager and searching
glance in quest of the expected marvels, but nothing more than common met
his view. "It is
well," said the abbиж; "we have some hours before us--it is
now just a quarter past twelve o'clock." Instinctively Dantииs turned round to observe by what watch or clock the abbиж had been able so accurately to specify the hour. "Look at this
ray of light which enters by my window," said the abbиж, "and then observe the lines traced on the wall. Well, by means of
these lines, which are in accordance with the double motion of the earth,
and the ellipse it describes round the sun, I am enabled to ascertain the
precise hour with more minuteness than if I possessed a watch; for that
might be broken or deranged in its movements, while the sun and earth
never vary in their appointed paths." This last
explanation was wholly lost upon Dantииs, who had always
imagined, from seeing the sun rise from behind the mountains and set in
the Mediterranean, that it moved, and not the earth. A double movement of
the globe he inhabited, and of which he could feel nothing, appeared to
him perfectly impossible. Each word that fell from his companion's lips
seemed fraught with the mysteries of science, as worthy of digging out as
the gold and diamonds in the mines of Guzerat and Golconda, which he could
just recollect having visited during a voyage made in his earliest youth. "Come,"
said he to the abbиж, "I am anxious to see your treasures." The abbиж smiled, and, proceeding to the disused fireplace, raised, by the help
of his chisel, a long stone, which had doubtless been the hearth, beneath
which was a cavity of considerable depth, serving as a safe depository of
the articles mentioned to Dantииs. "What do you
wish to see first?" asked the abbиж. "Oh, your
great work on the monarchy of Italy!" Faria then drew
forth from his hiding-place three or four rolls of linen, laid one over
the other, like folds of papyrus. These rolls consisted of slips of cloth
about four inches wide and eighteen long; they were all carefully numbered
and closely covered with writing, so legible that Dantииs could easily read it, as well as make out the sense--it being in
Italian, a language he, as a Proven?al, perfectly understood. "There,"
said he, "there is the work complete. I wrote the word finis at the
end of the sixty-eighth strip about a week ago. I have torn up two of my
shirts, and as many handkerchiefs as I was master of, to complete the
precious pages. Should I ever get out of prison and find in all Italy a
printer courageous enough to publish what I have composed, my literary
reputation is forever secured." "I see,"
answered Dantииs. "Now let me behold the curious pens with
which you have written your work." "Look!"
said Faria, showing to the young man a slender stick about six inches
long, and much resembling the size of the handle of a fine painting-brush,
to the end of which was tied, by a piece of thread, one of those
cartilages of which the abbиж had before spoken to Dantииs; it was pointed,
and divided at the nib like an ordinary pen. Dantииs 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. Dantииs 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 Dantииs, "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." "l separated
the fat from the meat served to me, melted it, and so made oil--here is my
lamp." So saying, the abbиж 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." Dantииs 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 abbиж 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. Dantииs 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 abbиж, as, opening his ragged vestments, he
showed Dantииs 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
Dantииs was, in fact,
busily occupied by the idea that a person so intelligent, ingenious, and
clear-sighted as the abbиж 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 abbиж 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 Dantииs, "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 Dantииs. "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 abbиж 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 Mercижdииs." "Come,"
said the abbиж, closing his hiding-place, and pushing the bed
back to its original situation, "let me hear your story." Dantииs 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 Mercижdииs, 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 Dantииs--he knew nothing more, not even the length of
time he had been imprisoned. His recital finished, the abbиж 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 abbиж; "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." Dantииs 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 Dantииs, 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 abbиж 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 abbиж smiled. "Disguised." "It was very
boldly written, if disguised." "Stop a
bit," said the abbиж, 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. Dantииs drew back, and gazed on the abbиж 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"-- "What?" "That while
the writing of different persons done with the right hand varies, that
performed with the left hand is invariably uniform." "You have
evidently seen and observed everything." "Let us
proceed." "Oh, yes,
yes!" "Now as
regards the second question." "I am
listening." "Was there any
person whose interest it was to prevent your marriage with Mercижdииs?" "Yes; a young
man who loved her." "And his name
was"-- "Fernand."
"That is a
Spanish name, I think?" "He was a
Catalan." "You imagine
him capable of writing the letter?" "Oh, no; he
would more likely have got rid of me by sticking a knife into me." "That is in
strict accordance with the Spanish character; an assassination they will
unhesitatingly commit, but an act of cowardice, never." "Besides,"
said Dantииs, "the various circumstances mentioned in the
letter were wholly unknown to him." "You had never
spoken of them yourself to any one?" "To no
one." "Not even to
your mistress?" "No, not even
to my betrothed." "Then it is
Danglars." "I feel quite
sure of it now." "Wait a
little. Pray, was Danglars acquainted with Fernand?" "No--yes, he
was. Now I recollect"-- "What?" "To have seen
them both sitting at table together under an arbor at Pииre Pamphile's the evening before the day fixed for my wedding. They were
in earnest conversation. Danglars was joking in a friendly way, but
Fernand looked pale and agitated." "Were they
alone?" "There was a
third person with them whom I knew perfectly well, and who had, in all
probability made their acquaintance; he was a tailor named Caderousse, but
he was very drunk. Stay!--stay!--How strange that it should not have
occurred to me before! Now I remember quite well, that on the table round
which they were sitting were pens, ink, and paper. Oh, the heartless,
treacherous scoundrels!" exclaimed Dantииs, pressing his hand to his throbbing brows. "Is there
anything else I can assist you in discovering, besides the villany of your
friends?" inquired the abbиж with a laugh. "Yes,
yes," replied Dantииs eagerly; "I would beg of you, who
see so completely to the depths of things, and to whom the greatest
mystery seems but an easy riddle, to explain to me how it was that I
underwent no second examination, was never brought to trial, and, above
all, was condemned without ever having had sentence passed on me?" "That is
altogether a different and more serious matter," responded the abbиж. "The ways of justice are frequently too dark and mysterious to be
easily penetrated. All we have hitherto done in the matter has been
child's play. If you wish me to enter upon the more difficult part of the
business, you must assist me by the most minute information on every
point." "Pray ask me
whatever questions you please; for, in good truth, you see more clearly
into my life than I do myself." "In the first
place, then, who examined you,--the king's attorney, his deputy, or a
magistrate?" "The
deputy." "Was he young
or old?" "About six or
seven and twenty years of age, I should say." "So,"
answered the abbиж. "Old enough to be ambitions, but too young
to be corrupt. And how did he treat you?" "With more of
mildness than severity." "Did you tell
him your whole story?" "I did." "And did his
conduct change at all in the course of your examination?" "He did appear
much disturbed when he read the letter that had brought me into this
scrape. He seemed quite overcome by my misfortune." "By your
misfortune?" "Yes." "Then you feel
quite sure that it was your misfortune he deplored?" "He gave me
one great proof of his sympathy, at any rate." "And
that?" "He burnt the
sole evidence that could at all have criminated me." "What? the
accusation?" "No; the
letter." "Are you
sure?" "I saw it
done." "That alters
the case. This man might, after all, be a greater scoundrel than you have
thought possible." "Upon my
word," said Dantииs, "you make me shudder. Is the world
filled with tigers and crocodiles?" "Yes; and
remember that two-legged tigers and crocodiles are more dangerous than the
others." "Never mind;
let us go on." "With all my
heart! You tell me he burned the letter?" "He did;
saying at the same time, 'You see I thus destroy the only proof existing
against you.'" "This action
is somewhat too sublime to be natural." "You think
so?" "I am sure of
it. To whom was this letter addressed?" "To M.
Noirtier, No. 13 Coq-Hижron, Paris." "Now can you
conceive of any interest that your heroic deputy could possibly have had
in the destruction of that letter?" "Why, it is
not altogether impossible he might have had, for he made me promise
several times never to speak of that letter to any one, assuring me he so
advised me for my own interest; and, more than this, he insisted on my
taking a solemn oath never to utter the name mentioned in the
address." "Noirtier!"
repeated the abbиж; "Noirtier!--I knew a person of that name at
the court of the Queen of Etruria,--a Noirtier, who had been a Girondin
during the Revolution! What was your deputy called?" "De
Villefort!" The abbиж burst into a fit of laughter, while Dantииs gazed on him in utter astonishment. "What ails
you?" said he at length. "Do you see
that ray of sunlight?" "I do." "Well, the
whole thing is more clear to me than that sunbeam is to you. Poor fellow!
poor young man! And you tell me this magistrate expressed great sympathy
and commiseration for you?" "He did."
"And the
worthy man destroyed your compromising letter?" "Yes." "And then made
you swear never to utter the name of Noirtier?" "Yes." "Why, you poor
short-sighted simpleton, can you not guess who this Noirtier was, whose
very name he was so careful to keep concealed? Noirtier was his
father." Had a thunderbolt
fallen at the feet of Dantииs, or hell opened its yawning gulf before
him, he could not have been more completely transfixed with horror than he
was at the sound of these unexpected words. Starting up, he clasped his
hands around his head as though to prevent his very brain from bursting,
and exclaimed, "His father! his father!" "Yes, his
father," replied the abbиж; "his right name was Noirtier de
Villefort." At this instant a bright light shot through the mind of
Dantииs, and cleared up all that had been dark and obscure before. The change
that had come over Villefort during the examination, the destruction of
the letter, the exacted promise, the almost supplicating tones of the
magistrate, who seemed rather to implore mercy than to pronounce
punishment,--all returned with a stunning force to his memory. He cried
out, and staggered against the wall like a drunken man, then he hurried to
the opening that led from the abbиж's cell to his own, and said, "I must be alone, to think over all
this." When he regained
his dungeon, he threw himself on his bed, where the turnkey found him in
the evening visit, sitting with fixed gaze and contracted features, dumb
and motionless as a statue. During these hours of profound meditation,
which to him had seemed only minutes, he had formed a fearful resolution,
and bound himself to its fulfilment by a solemn oath. Dantииs was at length roused from his revery by the voice of Faria, who,
having also been visited by his jailer, had come to invite his
fellow-sufferer to share his supper. The reputation of being out of his
mind, though harmlessly and even amusingly so, had procured for the abbиж unusual
privileges. He was supplied with bread of a finer, whiter quality than the
usual prison fare, and even regaled each Sunday with a small quantity of
wine. Now this was a Sunday, and the abbиж had come to ask his young companion to
share the luxuries with him. Dantииs followed; his
features were no longer contracted, and now wore their usual expression,
but there was that in his whole appearance that bespoke one who had come
to a fixed and desperate resolve. Faria bent on him his penetrating eye:
"I regret now," said he, "having helped you in your late
inquiries, or having given you the information I did." "Why so?"
inquired Dantииs. "Because it
has instilled a new passion in your heart--that of vengeance." Dantииs smiled. "Let us talk of something else," said he. Again the abbиж looked at him, then mournfully shook his head; but in accordance with
Dantииs' request, he began to speak of other matters. The elder prisoner was
one of those persons whose conversation, like that of all who have
experienced many trials, contained many useful and important hints as well
as sound information; but it was never egotistical, for the unfortunate
man never alluded to his own sorrows. Dantииs listened with
admiring attention to all he said; some of his remarks corresponded with
what he already knew, or applied to the sort of knowledge his nautical
life had enabled him to acquire. A part of the good abbиж's words, however,
were wholly incomprehensible to him; but, like the aurora which guides the
navigator in northern latitudes, opened new vistas to the inquiring mind
of the listener, and gave fantastic glimpses of new horizons, enabling him
justly to estimate the delight an intellectual mind would have in
following one so richly gifted as Faria along the heights of truth, where
he was so much at home. "You must
teach me a small part of what you know," said Dantииs, "if only to prevent your growing weary of me. I can well believe
that so learned a person as yourself would prefer absolute solitude to
being tormented with the company of one as ignorant and uninformed as
myself. If you will only agree to my request, I promise you never to
mention another word about escaping." The abbиж smiled.
"Alas, my boy," said he, "human knowledge is confined
within very narrow limits; and when I have taught you mathematics,
physics, history, and the three or four modern languages with which I am
acquainted, you will know as much as I do myself. Now, it will scarcely
require two years for me to communicate to you the stock of learning I
possess." "Two
years!" exclaimed Dantииs; "do you really believe I can
acquire all these things in so short a time?" "Not their
application, certainly, but their principles you may; to learn is not to
know; there are the learners and the learned. Memory makes the one,
philosophy the other." "But cannot
one learn philosophy?" "Philosophy
cannot be taught; it is the application of the sciences to truth; it is
like the golden cloud in which the Messiah went up into heaven." "Well,
then," said Dantииs, "What shall you teach me first? I
am in a hurry to begin. I want to learn." "Everything,"
said the abbиж. And that very evening the prisoners sketched a
plan of education, to be entered upon the following day. Dantииs possessed a prodigious memory, combined with an astonishing quickness
and readiness of conception; the mathematical turn of his mind rendered
him apt at all kinds of calculation, while his naturally poetical feelings
threw a light and pleasing veil over the dry reality of arithmetical
computation, or the rigid severity of geometry. He already knew Italian,
and had also picked up a little of the Romaic dialect during voyages to
the East; and by the aid of these two languages he easily comprehended the
construction of all the others, so that at the end of six mouths he began
to speak Spanish, English, and German. In strict accordance with the
promise made to the abbиж, Dantииs spoke no more of escape. Perhaps the delight his
studies afforded him left no room for such thoughts; perhaps the
recollection that he had pledged his word (on which his sense of honor was
keen) kept him from referring in any way to the possibilities of flight.
Days, even months, passed by unheeded in one rapid and instructive course.
At the end of a year Dantииs was a new man. Dantииs observed, however, that Faria, in spite
of the relief his society afforded, daily grew sadder; one thought seemed
incessantly to harass and distract his mind. Sometimes he would fall into
long reveries, sigh heavily and involuntarily, then suddenly rise, and,
with folded arms, begin pacing the confined space of his dungeon. One day
he stopped all at once, and exclaimed, "Ah, if there were no
sentinel!" "There shall
not be one a minute longer than you please," said Dantииs, who had followed the working of his thoughts as accurately as though
his brain were enclosed in crystal so clear as to display its minutest
operations. "I have
already told you," answered the abbиж, "that I
loathe the idea of shedding blood." "And yet the
murder, if you choose to call it so, would be simply a measure of
self-preservation." "No matter! I
could never agree to it." "Still, you
have thought of it?" "Incessantly,
alas!" cried the abbиж. "And you have
discovered a means of regaining our freedom, have you not?" asked
Dantииs eagerly. "I have; if it
were only possible to place a deaf and blind sentinel in the gallery
beyond us." "He shall be
both blind and deaf," replied the young man, with an air of
determination that made his companion shudder. "No, no,"
cried the abbиж; "impossible!" Dantииs endeavored to renew the subject; the abbиж shook his head in token of disapproval, and refused to make any further
response. Three months passed away. "Are you
strong?" the abbиж asked one day of Dantииs. The young man, in reply, took up the chisel, bent it into the form of
a horseshoe, and then as readily straightened it. "And will you
engage not to do any harm to the sentry, except as a last resort?" "I promise on
my honor." "Then,"
said the abbиж, "we may hope to put our design into
execution." "And how long
shall we be in accomplishing the necessary work?" "At least a
year." "And shall we
begin at once?" "At
once." "We have lost
a year to no purpose!" cried Dantииs. "Do you
consider the last twelve months to have been wasted?" asked the abbиж. "Forgive
me!" cried Edmond, blushing deeply. "Tut,
tut!" answered the abbиж, "man is but man after all, and you
are about the best specimen of the genus I have ever known. Come, let me
show you my plan." The abbиж then showed Dantииs the sketch he had made for their escape. It consisted of a plan of his
own cell and that of Dantииs, with the passage which united them. In
this passage he proposed to drive a level as they do in mines; this level
would bring the two prisoners immediately beneath the gallery where the
sentry kept watch; once there, a large excavation would be made, and one
of the flag-stones with which the gallery was paved be so completely
loosened that at the desired moment it would give way beneath the feet of
the soldier, who, stunned by his fall, would be immediately bound and
gagged by Dantииs before he had power to offer any resistance. The prisoners were then
to make their way through one of the gallery windows, and to let
themselves down from the outer walls by means of the abbиж's ladder of cords.
Dantииs' eyes sparkled with joy, and he rubbed his hands
with delight at the idea of a plan so simple, yet apparently so certain to
succeed. That very day the
miners began their labors, with a vigor and alacrity proportionate to
their long rest from fatigue and their hopes of ultimate success. Nothing
interrupted the progress of the work except the necessity that each was
under of returning to his cell in anticipation of the turnkey's visits.
They had learned to distinguish the almost imperceptible sound of his
footsteps as he descended towards their dungeons, and happily, never
failed of being prepared for his coming. The fresh earth excavated during
their present work, and which would have entirely blocked up the old
passage, was thrown, by degrees and with the utmost precaution, out of the
window in either Faria's or Dantииs' cell, the rubbish being first pulverized so finely that the night
wind carried it far away without permitting the smallest trace to remain.
More than a year had been consumed in this undertaking, the only tools for
which had been a chisel, a knife, and a wooden lever; Faria still
continuing to instruct Dantииs by conversing with him, sometimes in one language, sometimes in
another; at others, relating to him the history of nations and great men
who from time to time have risen to fame and trodden the path of glory. The abbиж was a man of the world, and had, moreover, mixed in the first society
of the day; he wore an air of melancholy dignity which Dantииs, thanks to the imitative powers bestowed on him by nature, easily
acquired, as well as that outward polish and politeness he had before been
wanting in, and which is seldom possessed except by those who have been
placed in constant intercourse with persons of high birth and breeding. At
the end of fifteen months the level was finished, and the excavation
completed beneath the gallery, and the two workmen could distinctly hear
the measured tread of the sentinel as he paced to and fro over their
heads. Compelled, as they
were, to await a night sufficiently dark to favor their flight, they were
obliged to defer their final attempt till that auspicious moment should
arrive; their greatest dread now was lest the stone through which the
sentry was doomed to fall should give way before its right time, and this
they had in some measure provided against by propping it up with a small
beam which they had discovered in the walls through which they had worked
their way. Dantииs was occupied in arranging this piece of wood when he heard Faria, who
had remained in Edmond's cell for the purpose of cutting a peg to secure
their rope-ladder, call to him in a tone indicative of great suffering.
Dantииs hastened to his dungeon, where he found him standing in the middle of
the room, pale as death, his forehead streaming with perspiration, and his
hands clinched tightly together. "Gracious
heavens!" exclaimed Dantииs, "what is the matter? what has
happened?" "Quick!
quick!" returned the abbиж, "listen to what I have to say."
Dantииs looked in fear and wonder at the livid
countenance of Faria, whose eyes, already dull and sunken, were surrounded
by purple circles, while his lips were white as those of a corpse, and his
very hair seemed to stand on end. "Tell me, I
beseech you, what ails you?" cried Dantииs, letting his
chisel fall to the floor. "Alas,"
faltered out the abbиж, "all is over with me. I am seized
with a terrible, perhaps mortal illness; I can feel that the paroxysm is
fast approaching. I had a similar attack the year previous to my
imprisonment. This malady admits but of one remedy; I will tell you what
that is. Go into my cell as quickly as you can; draw out one of the feet
that support the bed; you will find it has been hollowed out for the
purpose of containing a small phial you will see there half-filled with a
red-looking fluid. Bring it to me--or rather--no, no!--I may be found
here, therefore help me back to my room while I have the strength to drag
myself along. Who knows what may happen, or how long the attack may
last?" In spite of the
magnitude of the misfortune which thus suddenly frustrated his hopes, Dantииs did not lose his presence of mind, but descended into the passage,
dragging his unfortunate companion with him; then, half-carrying,
half-supporting him, he managed to reach the abbиж's chamber, when he
immediately laid the sufferer on his bed. "Thanks,"
said the poor abbиж, shivering as though his veins were filled with
ice. "I am about to be seized with a fit of catalepsy; when it comes
to its height I shall probably lie still and motionless as though dead,
uttering neither sigh nor groan. On the other hand, the symptoms may be
much more violent, and cause me to fall into fearful convulsions, foam at
the mouth, and cry out loudly. Take care my cries are not heard, for if
they are it is more than probable I should be removed to another part of
the prison, and we be separated forever. When I become quite motionless,
cold, and rigid as a corpse, then, and not before,--be careful about
this,--force open my teeth with the knife, pour from eight to ten drops of
the liquor containted in the phial down my throat, and I may perhaps
revive." "Perhaps!"
exclaimed Dantииs in grief-stricken tones. "Help!
help!" cried the abbиж, "I--I--die--I"-- So sudden and
violent was the fit that the unfortunate prisoner was unable to complete
the sentence; a violent convulsion shook his whole frame, his eyes started
from their sockets, his mouth was drawn on one side, his cheeks became
purple, he struggled, foamed, dashed himself about, and uttered the most
dreadful cries, which, however, Dantииs prevented from being heard by covering his head
with the blanket. The fit lasted two hours; then, more helpless than an
infant, and colder and paler than marble, more crushed and broken than a
reed trampled under foot, he fell back, doubled up in one last convulsion,
and became as rigid as a corpse. Edmond waited till
life seemed extinct in the body of his friend, then, taking up the knife,
he with difficulty forced open the closely fixed jaws, carefully
administered the appointed number of drops, and anxiously awaited the
result. An hour passed away and the old man gave no sign of returning
animation. Dantииs began to fear he had delayed too long ere he administered the remedy,
and, thrusting his hands into his hair, continued gazing on the lifeless
features of his friend. At length a slight color tinged the livid cheeks,
consciousness returned to the dull, open eyeballs, a faint sigh issued
from the lips, and the sufferer made a feeble effort to move. "He is saved!
he is saved!" cried Dantииs in a paroxysm of delight. The sick man was
not yet able to speak, but he pointed with evident anxiety towards the
door. Dantииs listened, and plainly distinguished the approaching steps of the
jailer. It was therefore near seven o'clock; but Edmond's anxiety had put
all thoughts of time out of his head. The young man sprang to the
entrance, darted through it, carefully drawing the stone over the opening,
and hurried to his cell. He had scarcely done so before the door opened,
and the jailer saw the prisoner seated as usual on the side of his bed.
Almost before the key had turned in the lock, and before the departing
steps of the jailer had died away in the long corridor he had to traverse,
Dantииs, whose restless
anxiety concerning his friend left him no desire to touch the food brought
him, hurried back to the abbиж's chamber, and raising the stone by
pressing his head against it, was soon beside the sick man's couch. Faria
had now fully regained his consciousness, but he still lay helpless and
exhausted. "I did not
expect to see you again," said he feebly, to Dantииs. "And why
not?" asked the young man. "Did you fancy yourself dying?" "No, I had no
such idea; but, knowing that all was ready for flight, I thought you might
have made your escape." The deep glow of indignation suffused the
cheeks of Dantииs. "Without you?
Did you really think me capable of that?" "At
least," said the abbиж, "I now see how wrong such an opinion
would have been. Alas, alas! I am fearfully exhausted and debilitated by
this attack." "Be of good
cheer," replied Dantииs; "your strength will return."
And as he spoke he seated himself near the bed beside Faria, and took his
hands. The abbиж shook his head. "The last
attack I had," said he, "lasted but half an hour, and after it I
was hungry, and got up without help; now I can move neither my right arm
nor leg, and my head seems uncomfortable, which shows that there has been
a suffusion of blood on the brain. The third attack will either carry me
off, or leave me paralyzed for life." "No, no,"
cried Dantииs; "you are mistaken--you will not
die! And your third attack (if, indeed, you should have another) will find
you at liberty. We shall save you another time, as we have done this, only
with a better chance of success, because we shall be able to command every
requisite assistance." "My good
Edmond," answered the abbиж, "be not deceived. The attack which
has just passed away, condemns me forever to the walls of a prison. None
can fly from a dungeon who cannot walk." "Well, we will
wait,--a week, a month, two months, if need be,--and meanwhile your
strength will return. Everything is in readiness for our flight, and we
can select any time we choose. As soon as you feel able to swim we will
go." "I shall never
swim again," replied Faria. "This arm is paralyzed; not for a
time, but forever. Lift it, and judge if I am mistaken." The young
man raised the arm, which fell back by its own weight, perfectly inanimate
and helpless. A sigh escaped him. "You are
convinced now, Edmond, are you not?" asked the abbиж. "Depend upon it, I know what I say. Since the first attack I
experienced of this malady, I have continually reflected on it. Indeed, I
expected it, for it is a family inheritance; both my father and
grandfather died of it in a third attack. The physician who prepared for
me the remedy I have twice successfully taken, was no other than the
celebrated Cabanis, and he predicted a similar end for me." "The physician
may be mistaken!" exclaimed Dantииs. "And as for
your poor arm, what difference will that make? I can take you on my
shoulders, and swim for both of us." "My son,"
said the abbиж, "you, who are a sailor and a
swimmer, must know as well as I do that a man so loaded would sink before
he had done fifty strokes. Cease, then, to allow yourself to be duped by
vain hopes, that even your own excellent heart refuses to believe in. Here
I shall remain till the hour of my deliverance arrives, and that, in all
human probability, will be the hour of my death. As for you, who are young
and active, delay not on my account, but fly--go-I give you back your
promise." "It is
well," said Dantииs. "Then I shall also remain."
Then, rising and extending his hand with an air of solemnity over the old
man's head, he slowly added, "By the blood of Christ I swear never to
leave you while you live." Faria gazed fondly
on his noble-minded, single-hearted, high-principled young friend, and
read in his countenance ample confirmation of the sincerity of his
devotion and the loyalty of his purpose. "Thanks,"
murmured the invalid, extending one hand. "I accept. You may one of
these days reap the reward of your disinterested devotion. But as I
cannot, and you will not, quit this place, it becomes necessary to fill up
the excavation beneath the soldier's gallery; he might, by chance, hear
the hollow sound of his footsteps, and call the attention of his officer
to the circumstance. That would bring about a discovery which would
inevitably lead to our being separated. Go, then, and set about this work,
in which, unhappily, I can offer you no assistance; keep at it all night,
if necessary, and do not return here to-morrow till after the jailer his
visited me. I shall have something of the greatest importance to
communicate to you." Dantииs took the hand of the abbиж in his, and
affectionately pressed it. Faria smiled encouragingly on him, and the
young man retired to his task, in the spirit of obedience and respect
which he had sworn to show towards his aged friend. , into which the
abbиж's cell opened; from that point the passage became much narrower, and
barely permitted one to creep through on hands and knees. The floor of the
abbиж's cell was paved, and it had been by raising one of the stones in the
most obscure corner that Faria had to been able to commence the laborious
task of which Dantииs had witnessed the completion. As he entered the
chamber of his friend, Dantииs cast around one eager and searching
glance in quest of the expected marvels, but nothing more than common met
his view. "It is
well," said the abbиж; "we have some hours before us--it is
now just a quarter past twelve o'clock." Instinctively Dantииs turned round to observe by what watch or clock the abbиж had been able so accurately to specify the hour. "Look at this
ray of light which enters by my window," said the abbиж, "and then observe the lines traced on the wall. Well, by means of
these lines, which are in accordance with the double motion of the earth,
and the ellipse it describes round the sun, I am enabled to ascertain the
precise hour with more minuteness than if I possessed a watch; for that
might be broken or deranged in its movements, while the sun and earth
never vary in their appointed paths." This last
explanation was wholly lost upon Dantииs, who had always
imagined, from seeing the sun rise from behind the mountains and set in
the Mediterranean, that it moved, and not the earth. A double movement of
the globe he inhabited, and of which he could feel nothing, appeared to
him perfectly impossible. Each word that fell from his companion's lips
seemed fraught with the mysteries of science, as worthy of digging out as
the gold and diamonds in the mines of Guzerat and Golconda, which he could
just recollect having visited during a voyage made in his earliest youth. "Come,"
said he to the abbиж, "I am anxious to see your treasures." The abbиж smiled, and, proceeding to the disused fireplace, raised, by the help
of his chisel, a long stone, which had doubtless been the hearth, beneath
which was a cavity of considerable depth, serving as a safe depository of
the articles mentioned to Dantииs. "What do you
wish to see first?" asked the abbиж. "Oh, your
great work on the monarchy of Italy!" Faria then drew
forth from his hiding-place three or four rolls of linen, laid one over
the other, like folds of papyrus. These rolls consisted of slips of cloth
about four inches wide and eighteen long; they were all carefully numbered
and closely covered with writing, so legible that Dantииs could easily read it, as well as make out the sense--it being in
Italian, a language he, as a Proven?al, perfectly understood. "There,"
said he, "there is the work complete. I wrote the word finis at the
end of the sixty-eighth strip about a week ago. I have torn up two of my
shirts, and as many handkerchiefs as I was master of, to complete the
precious pages. Should I ever get out of prison and find in all Italy a
printer courageous enough to publish what I have composed, my literary
reputation is forever secured." "I see,"
answered Dantииs. "Now let me behold the curious pens with
which you have written your work." "Look!"
said Faria, showing to the young man a slender stick about six inches
long, and much resembling the size of the handle of a fine painting-brush,
to the end of which was tied, by a piece of thread, one of those
cartilages of which the abbиж had before spoken to Dantииs; it was pointed,
and divided at the nib like an ordinary pen. Dantииs 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. Dantииs 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 Dantииs, "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." "l separated
the fat from the meat served to me, melted it, and so made oil--here is my
lamp." So saying, the abbиж 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." Dantииs 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 abbиж 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. Dantииs 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 abbиж, as, opening his ragged vestments, he
showed Dantииs 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
Dantииs was, in fact,
busily occupied by the idea that a person so intelligent, ingenious, and
clear-sighted as the abbиж 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 abbиж 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 Dantииs, "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 Dantииs. "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 abbиж 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 Mercижdииs." "Come,"
said the abbиж, closing his hiding-place, and pushing the bed
back to its original situation, "let me hear your story." Dantииs 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 Mercижdииs, 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 Dantииs--he knew nothing more, not even the length of
time he had been imprisoned. His recital finished, the abbиж 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 abbиж; "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." Dantииs 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 Dantииs, 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 abbиж 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 abbиж smiled. "Disguised." "It was very
boldly written, if disguised." "Stop a
bit," said the abbиж, 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. Dantииs drew back, and gazed on the abbиж 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"-- "What?" "That while
the writing of different persons done with the right hand varies, that
performed with the left hand is invariably uniform." "You have
evidently seen and observed everything." "Let us
proceed." "Oh, yes,
yes!" "Now as
regards the second question." "I am
listening." "Was there any
person whose interest it was to prevent your marriage with Mercижdииs?" "Yes; a young
man who loved her." "And his name
was"-- "Fernand."
"That is a
Spanish name, I think?" "He was a
Catalan." "You imagine
him capable of writing the letter?" "Oh, no; he
would more likely have got rid of me by sticking a knife into me." "That is in
strict accordance with the Spanish character; an assassination they will
unhesitatingly commit, but an act of cowardice, never." "Besides,"
said Dantииs, "the various circumstances mentioned in the
letter were wholly unknown to him." "You had never
spoken of them yourself to any one?" "To no
one." "Not even to
your mistress?" "No, not even
to my betrothed." "Then it is
Danglars." "I feel quite
sure of it now." "Wait a
little. Pray, was Danglars acquainted with Fernand?" "No--yes, he
was. Now I recollect"-- "What?" "To have seen
them both sitting at table together under an arbor at Pииre Pamphile's the evening before the day fixed for my wedding. They were
in earnest conversation. Danglars was joking in a friendly way, but
Fernand looked pale and agitated." "Were they
alone?" "There was a
third person with them whom I knew perfectly well, and who had, in all
probability made their acquaintance; he was a tailor named Caderousse, but
he was very drunk. Stay!--stay!--How strange that it should not have
occurred to me before! Now I remember quite well, that on the table round
which they were sitting were pens, ink, and paper. Oh, the heartless,
treacherous scoundrels!" exclaimed Dantииs, pressing his
hand to his throbbing brows. "Is there
anything else I can assist you in discovering, besides the villany of your
friends?" inquired the abbиж with a laugh. "Yes,
yes," replied Dantииs eagerly; "I would beg of you, who see so
completely to the depths of things, and to whom the greatest mystery seems
but an easy riddle, to explain to me how it was that I underwent no second
examination, was never brought to trial, and, above all, was condemned
without ever having had sentence passed on me?" "That is
altogether a different and more serious matter," responded the abbиж. "The ways of justice are frequently too dark and mysterious to be
easily penetrated. All we have hitherto done in the matter has been
child's play. If you wish me to enter upon the more difficult part of the
business, you must assist me by the most minute information on every
point." "Pray ask me
whatever questions you please; for, in good truth, you see more clearly
into my life than I do myself." "In the first
place, then, who examined you,--the king's attorney, his deputy, or a
magistrate?" "The
deputy." "Was he young
or old?" "About six or
seven and twenty years of age, I should say." "So,"
answered the abbиж. "Old enough to be ambitions, but too young
to be corrupt. And how did he treat you?" "With more of
mildness than severity." "Did you tell
him your whole story?" "I did." "And did his
conduct change at all in the course of your examination?" "He did appear
much disturbed when he read the letter that had brought me into this
scrape. He seemed quite overcome by my misfortune." "By your
misfortune?" "Yes." "Then you feel
quite sure that it was your misfortune he deplored?" "He gave me
one great proof of his sympathy, at any rate." "And
that?" "He burnt the
sole evidence that could at all have criminated me." "What? the
accusation?" "No; the
letter." "Are you
sure?" "I saw it
done." "That alters
the case. This man might, after all, be a greater scoundrel than you have
thought possible." "Upon my
word," said Dantииs, "you make me shudder. Is the world
filled with tigers and crocodiles?" "Yes; and
remember that two-legged tigers and crocodiles are more dangerous than the
others." "Never mind;
let us go on." "With all my
heart! You tell me he burned the letter?" "He did;
saying at the same time, 'You see I thus destroy the only proof existing
against you.'" "This action
is somewhat too sublime to be natural." "You think
so?" "I am sure of
it. To whom was this letter addressed?" "To M.
Noirtier, No. 13 Coq-Hижron, Paris." "Now can you
conceive of any interest that your heroic deputy could possibly have had
in the destruction of that letter?" "Why, it is
not altogether impossible he might have had, for he made me promise
several times never to speak of that letter to any one, assuring me he so
advised me for my own interest; and, more than this, he insisted on my
taking a solemn oath never to utter the name mentioned in the
address." "Noirtier!"
repeated the abbиж; "Noirtier!--I knew a person of that name at
the court of the Queen of Etruria,--a Noirtier, who had been a Girondin
during the Revolution! What was your deputy called?" "De
Villefort!" The abbиж burst into a fit of laughter, while Dantииs gazed on him in utter astonishment. "What ails
you?" said he at length. "Do you see
that ray of sunlight?" "I do." "Well, the
whole thing is more clear to me than that sunbeam is to you. Poor fellow!
poor young man! And you tell me this magistrate expressed great sympathy
and commiseration for you?" "He did."
"And the
worthy man destroyed your compromising letter?" "Yes." "And then made
you swear never to utter the name of Noirtier?" "Yes." "Why, you poor
short-sighted simpleton, can you not guess who this Noirtier was, whose
very name he was so careful to keep concealed? Noirtier was his
father." Had a thunderbolt
fallen at the feet of Dantииs, or hell opened its yawning gulf before
him, he could not have been more completely transfixed with horror than he
was at the sound of these unexpected words. Starting up, he clasped his
hands around his head as though to prevent his very brain from bursting,
and exclaimed, "His father! his father!" "Yes, his
father," replied the abbиж; "his right name was Noirtier de
Villefort." At this instant a bright light shot through the mind of
Dantииs, and cleared up all that had been dark and obscure before. The change
that had come over Villefort during the examination, the destruction of
the letter, the exacted promise, the almost supplicating tones of the
magistrate, who seemed rather to implore mercy than to pronounce
punishment,--all returned with a stunning force to his memory. He cried
out, and staggered against the wall like a drunken man, then he hurried to
the opening that led from the abbиж's cell to his own, and said, "I must be alone, to think over all
this." When he regained
his dungeon, he threw himself on his bed, where the turnkey found him in
the evening visit, sitting with fixed gaze and contracted features, dumb
and motionless as a statue. During these hours of profound meditation,
which to him had seemed only minutes, he had formed a fearful resolution,
and bound himself to its fulfilment by a solemn oath. Dantииs was at length roused from his revery by the voice of Faria, who,
having also been visited by his jailer, had come to invite his
fellow-sufferer to share his supper. The reputation of being out of his
mind, though harmlessly and even amusingly so, had procured for the abbиж unusual
privileges. He was supplied with bread of a finer, whiter quality than the
usual prison fare, and even regaled each Sunday with a small quantity of
wine. Now this was a Sunday, and the abbиж had come to ask
his young companion to share the luxuries with him. Dantииs followed; his features were no longer contracted, and now wore their
usual expression, but there was that in his whole appearance that bespoke
one who had come to a fixed and desperate resolve. Faria bent on him his
penetrating eye: "I regret now," said he, "having helped
you in your late inquiries, or having given you the information I
did." "Why so?"
inquired Dantииs. "Because it
has instilled a new passion in your heart--that of vengeance." Dantииs smiled. "Let us talk of something else," said he. Again the abbиж looked at him, then mournfully shook his head; but in accordance with
Dantииs' request, he began to speak of other matters. The elder prisoner was
one of those persons whose conversation, like that of all who have
experienced many trials, contained many useful and important hints as well
as sound information; but it was never egotistical, for the unfortunate
man never alluded to his own sorrows. Dantииs listened with
admiring attention to all he said; some of his remarks corresponded with
what he already knew, or applied to the sort of knowledge his nautical
life had enabled him to acquire. A part of the good abbиж's words, however,
were wholly incomprehensible to him; but, like the aurora which guides the
navigator in northern latitudes, opened new vistas to the inquiring mind
of the listener, and gave fantastic glimpses of new horizons, enabling him
justly to estimate the delight an intellectual mind would have in
following one so richly gifted as Faria along the heights of truth, where
he was so much at home. "You must
teach me a small part of what you know," said Dantииs, "if only to prevent your growing weary of me. I can well believe
that so learned a person as yourself would prefer absolute solitude to
being tormented with the company of one as ignorant and uninformed as
myself. If you will only agree to my request, I promise you never to
mention another word about escaping." The abbиж smiled.
"Alas, my boy," said he, "human knowledge is confined
within very narrow limits; and when I have taught you mathematics,
physics, history, and the three or four modern languages with which I am
acquainted, you will know as much as I do myself. Now, it will scarcely
require two years for me to communicate to you the stock of learning I
possess." "Two
years!" exclaimed Dantииs; "do you really believe I can
acquire all these things in so short a time?" "Not their
application, certainly, but their principles you may; to learn is not to
know; there are the learners and the learned. Memory makes the one,
philosophy the other." "But cannot
one learn philosophy?" "Philosophy
cannot be taught; it is the application of the sciences to truth; it is
like the golden cloud in which the Messiah went up into heaven." "Well,
then," said Dantииs, "What shall you teach me first? I
am in a hurry to begin. I want to learn." "Everything,"
said the abbиж. And that very evening the prisoners sketched a
plan of education, to be entered upon the following day. Dantииs possessed a prodigious memory, combined with an astonishing quickness
and readiness of conception; the mathematical turn of his mind rendered
him apt at all kinds of calculation, while his naturally poetical feelings
threw a light and pleasing veil over the dry reality of arithmetical
computation, or the rigid severity of geometry. He already knew Italian,
and had also picked up a little of the Romaic dialect during voyages to
the East; and by the aid of these two languages he easily comprehended the
construction of all the others, so that at the end of six mouths he began
to speak Spanish, English, and German. In strict accordance with the
promise made to the abbиж, Dantииs spoke no more of escape. Perhaps the delight his
studies afforded him left no room for such thoughts; perhaps the
recollection that he had pledged his word (on which his sense of honor was
keen) kept him from referring in any way to the possibilities of flight.
Days, even months, passed by unheeded in one rapid and instructive course.
At the end of a year Dantииs was a new man. Dantииs observed, however, that Faria, in spite
of the relief his society afforded, daily grew sadder; one thought seemed
incessantly to harass and distract his mind. Sometimes he would fall into
long reveries, sigh heavily and involuntarily, then suddenly rise, and,
with folded arms, begin pacing the confined space of his dungeon. One day
he stopped all at once, and exclaimed, "Ah, if there were no
sentinel!" "There shall
not be one a minute longer than you please," said Dantииs, who had followed the working of his thoughts as accurately as though
his brain were enclosed in crystal so clear as to display its minutest
operations. "I have
already told you," answered the abbиж, "that I
loathe the idea of shedding blood." "And yet the
murder, if you choose to call it so, would be simply a measure of
self-preservation." "No matter! I
could never agree to it." "Still, you
have thought of it?" "Incessantly,
alas!" cried the abbиж. "And you have
discovered a means of regaining our freedom, have you not?" asked
Dantииs eagerly. "I have; if it
were only possible to place a deaf and blind sentinel in the gallery
beyond us." "He shall be
both blind and deaf," replied the young man, with an air of
determination that made his companion shudder. "No, no,"
cried the abbиж; "impossible!" Dantииs endeavored to renew the subject; the abbиж shook his head in token of disapproval, and refused to make any further
response. Three months passed away. "Are you
strong?" the abbиж asked one day of Dantииs. The young man, in reply, took up the chisel, bent it into the form of
a horseshoe, and then as readily straightened it. "And will you
engage not to do any harm to the sentry, except as a last resort?" "I promise on
my honor." "Then,"
said the abbиж, "we may hope to put our design into
execution." "And how long
shall we be in accomplishing the necessary work?" "At least a
year." "And shall we
begin at once?" "At
once." "We have lost
a year to no purpose!" cried Dantииs. "Do you
consider the last twelve months to have been wasted?" asked the abbиж. "Forgive
me!" cried Edmond, blushing deeply. "Tut,
tut!" answered the abbиж, "man is but man after all, and you
are about the best specimen of the genus I have ever known. Come, let me
show you my plan." The abbиж then showed Dantииs the sketch he had made for their escape. It consisted of a plan of his
own cell and that of Dantииs, with the passage which united them. In
this passage he proposed to drive a level as they do in mines; this level
would bring the two prisoners immediately beneath the gallery where the
sentry kept watch; once there, a large excavation would be made, and one
of the flag-stones with which the gallery was paved be so completely
loosened that at the desired moment it would give way beneath the feet of
the soldier, who, stunned by his fall, would be immediately bound and
gagged by Dantииs before he had
power to offer any resistance. The prisoners were then to make their way
through one of the gallery windows, and to let themselves down from the
outer walls by means of the abbиж's ladder of cords. Dantииs' eyes sparkled with joy, and he rubbed his hands with delight at the
idea of a plan so simple, yet apparently so certain to succeed. That very day the
miners began their labors, with a vigor and alacrity proportionate to
their long rest from fatigue and their hopes of ultimate success. Nothing
interrupted the progress of the work except the necessity that each was
under of returning to his cell in anticipation of the turnkey's visits.
They had learned to distinguish the almost imperceptible sound of his
footsteps as he descended towards their dungeons, and happily, never
failed of being prepared for his coming. The fresh earth excavated during
their present work, and which would have entirely blocked up the old
passage, was thrown, by degrees and with the utmost precaution, out of the
window in either Faria's or Dantииs' cell, the rubbish being first pulverized so finely that the night
wind carried it far away without permitting the smallest trace to remain.
More than a year had been consumed in this undertaking, the only tools for
which had been a chisel, a knife, and a wooden lever; Faria still
continuing to instruct Dantииs by conversing with him, sometimes in one language, sometimes in
another; at others, relating to him the history of nations and great men
who from time to time have risen to fame and trodden the path of glory. The abbиж was a man of the world, and had, moreover, mixed in the first society
of the day; he wore an air of melancholy dignity which Dantииs, thanks to the imitative powers bestowed on him by nature, easily
acquired, as well as that outward polish and politeness he had before been
wanting in, and which is seldom possessed except by those who have been
placed in constant intercourse with persons of high birth and breeding. At
the end of fifteen months the level was finished, and the excavation
completed beneath the gallery, and the two workmen could distinctly hear
the measured tread of the sentinel as he paced to and fro over their
heads. Compelled, as they
were, to await a night sufficiently dark to favor their flight, they were
obliged to defer their final attempt till that auspicious moment should
arrive; their greatest dread now was lest the stone through which the
sentry was doomed to fall should give way before its right time, and this
they had in some measure provided against by propping it up with a small
beam which they had discovered in the walls through which they had worked
their way. Dantииs was occupied in arranging this piece of wood when he heard Faria, who
had remained in Edmond's cell for the purpose of cutting a peg to secure
their rope-ladder, call to him in a tone indicative of great suffering.
Dantииs hastened to his dungeon, where he found him standing in the middle of
the room, pale as death, his forehead streaming with perspiration, and his
hands clinched tightly together. "Gracious
heavens!" exclaimed Dantииs, "what is the matter? what has
happened?" "Quick!
quick!" returned the abbиж, "listen to what I have to say."
Dantииs looked in fear and wonder at the livid
countenance of Faria, whose eyes, already dull and sunken, were surrounded
by purple circles, while his lips were white as those of a corpse, and his
very hair seemed to stand on end. "Tell me, I
beseech you, what ails you?" cried Dantииs, letting his
chisel fall to the floor. "Alas,"
faltered out the abbиж, "all is over with me. I am seized
with a terrible, perhaps mortal illness; I can feel that the paroxysm is
fast approaching. I had a similar attack the year previous to my
imprisonment. This malady admits but of one remedy; I will tell you what
that is. Go into my cell as quickly as you can; draw out one of the feet
that support the bed; you will find it has been hollowed out for the
purpose of containing a small phial you will see there half-filled with a
red-looking fluid. Bring it to me--or rather--no, no!--I may be found
here, therefore help me back to my room while I have the strength to drag
myself along. Who knows what may happen, or how long the attack may
last?" In spite of the
magnitude of the misfortune which thus suddenly frustrated his hopes, Dantииs did not lose his presence of mind, but descended into the passage,
dragging his unfortunate companion with him; then, half-carrying,
half-supporting him, he managed to reach the abbиж's chamber, when he
immediately laid the sufferer on his bed. "Thanks,"
said the poor abbиж, shivering as though his veins were filled with
ice. "I am about to be seized with a fit of catalepsy; when it comes
to its height I shall probably lie still and motionless as though dead,
uttering neither sigh nor groan. On the other hand, the symptoms may be
much more violent, and cause me to fall into fearful convulsions, foam at
the mouth, and cry out loudly. Take care my cries are not heard, for if
they are it is more than probable I should be removed to another part of
the prison, and we be separated forever. When I become quite motionless,
cold, and rigid as a corpse, then, and not before,--be careful about
this,--force open my teeth with the knife, pour from eight to ten drops of
the liquor containted in the phial down my throat, and I may perhaps
revive." "Perhaps!"
exclaimed Dantииs in grief-stricken tones. "Help!
help!" cried the abbиж, "I--I--die--I"-- So sudden and
violent was the fit that the unfortunate prisoner was unable to complete
the sentence; a violent convulsion shook his whole frame, his eyes started
from their sockets, his mouth was drawn on one side, his cheeks became
purple, he struggled, foamed, dashed himself about, and uttered the most
dreadful cries, which, however, Dantииs prevented from being heard by covering
his head with the blanket. The fit lasted two hours; then, more helpless
than an infant, and colder and paler than marble, more crushed and broken
than a reed trampled under foot, he fell back, doubled up in one last
convulsion, and became as rigid as a corpse. Edmond waited till
life seemed extinct in the body of his friend, then, taking up the knife,
he with difficulty forced open the closely fixed jaws, carefully
administered the appointed number of drops, and anxiously awaited the
result. An hour passed away and the old man gave no sign of returning
animation. Dantииs began to fear he had delayed too long ere he administered the remedy,
and, thrusting his hands into his hair, continued gazing on the lifeless
features of his friend. At length a slight color tinged the livid cheeks,
consciousness returned to the dull, open eyeballs, a faint sigh issued
from the lips, and the sufferer made a feeble effort to move. "He is saved!
he is saved!" cried Dantииs in a paroxysm of delight. The sick man was
not yet able to speak, but he pointed with evident anxiety towards the
door. Dantииs listened, and plainly distinguished the approaching steps of the
jailer. It was therefore near seven o'clock; but Edmond's anxiety had put
all thoughts of time out of his head. The young man sprang to the
entrance, darted through it, carefully drawing the stone over the opening,
and hurried to his cell. He had scarcely done so before the door opened,
and the jailer saw the prisoner seated as usual on the side of his bed.
Almost before the key had turned in the lock, and before the departing
steps of the jailer had died away in the long corridor he had to traverse,
Dantииs, whose restless
anxiety concerning his friend left him no desire to touch the food brought
him, hurried back to the abbиж's chamber, and raising the stone by
pressing his head against it, was soon beside the sick man's couch. Faria
had now fully regained his consciousness, but he still lay helpless and
exhausted. "I did not
expect to see you again," said he feebly, to Dantииs. "And why
not?" asked the young man. "Did you fancy yourself dying?" "No, I had no
such idea; but, knowing that all was ready for flight, I thought you might
have made your escape." The deep glow of indignation suffused the
cheeks of Dantииs. "Without you?
Did you really think me capable of that?" "At
least," said the abbиж, "I now see how wrong such an opinion
would have been. Alas, alas! I am fearfully exhausted and debilitated by
this attack." "Be of good
cheer," replied Dantииs; "your strength will return."
And as he spoke he seated himself near the bed beside Faria, and took his
hands. The abbиж shook his head. "The last
attack I had," said he, "lasted but half an hour, and after it I
was hungry, and got up without help; now I can move neither my right arm
nor leg, and my head seems uncomfortable, which shows that there has been
a suffusion of blood on the brain. The third attack will either carry me
off, or leave me paralyzed for life." "No, no,"
cried Dantииs; "you are mistaken--you will not
die! And your third attack (if, indeed, you should have another) will find
you at liberty. We shall save you another time, as we have done this, only
with a better chance of success, because we shall be able to command every
requisite assistance." "My good
Edmond," answered the abbиж, "be not deceived. The attack which
has just passed away, condemns me forever to the walls of a prison. None
can fly from a dungeon who cannot walk." "Well, we will
wait,--a week, a month, two months, if need be,--and meanwhile your
strength will return. Everything is in readiness for our flight, and we
can select any time we choose. As soon as you feel able to swim we will
go." "I shall never
swim again," replied Faria. "This arm is paralyzed; not for a
time, but forever. Lift it, and judge if I am mistaken." The young
man raised the arm, which fell back by its own weight, perfectly inanimate
and helpless. A sigh escaped him. "You are
convinced now, Edmond, are you not?" asked the abbиж. "Depend upon it, I know what I say. Since the first attack I
experienced of this malady, I have continually reflected on it. Indeed, I
expected it, for it is a family inheritance; both my father and
grandfather died of it in a third attack. The physician who prepared for
me the remedy I have twice successfully taken, was no other than the
celebrated Cabanis, and he predicted a similar end for me." "The physician
may be mistaken!" exclaimed Dantииs. "And as for
your poor arm, what difference will that make? I can take you on my
shoulders, and swim for both of us." "My son,"
said the abbиж, "you, who are a sailor and a
swimmer, must know as well as I do that a man so loaded would sink before
he had done fifty strokes. Cease, then, to allow yourself to be duped by
vain hopes, that even your own excellent heart refuses to believe in. Here
I shall remain till the hour of my deliverance arrives, and that, in all
human probability, will be the hour of my death. As for you, who are young
and active, delay not on my account, but fly--go-I give you back your
promise." "It is
well," said Dantииs. "Then I shall also remain."
Then, rising and extending his hand with an air of solemnity over the old
man's head, he slowly added, "By the blood of Christ I swear never to
leave you while you live." Faria gazed fondly
on his noble-minded, single-hearted, high-principled young friend, and
read in his countenance ample confirmation of the sincerity of his
devotion and the loyalty of his purpose. "Thanks,"
murmured the invalid, extending one hand. "I accept. You may one of
these days reap the reward of your disinterested devotion. But as I
cannot, and you will not, quit this place, it becomes necessary to fill up
the excavation beneath the soldier's gallery; he might, by chance, hear
the hollow sound of his footsteps, and call the attention of his officer
to the circumstance. That would bring about a discovery which would
inevitably lead to our being separated. Go, then, and set about this work,
in which, unhappily, I can offer you no assistance; keep at it all night,
if necessary, and do not return here to-morrow till after the jailer his
visited me. I shall have something of the greatest importance to
communicate to you." Dantииs took the hand of the abbиж in his, and
affectionately pressed it. Faria smiled encouragingly on him, and the
young man retired to his task, in the spirit of obedience and respect
which he had sworn to show towards his aged friend. |
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