The Count of Monte Cristo

Chapter 14. The Two Prisoners

Chapter 14. The Two Prisoners

A year after Louis XVIII.’s restoration, a visit was made by the

inspector-general of prisons. Dantès in his cell heard the noise of

preparation,—sounds that at the depth where he lay would have been

inaudible to any but the ear of a prisoner, who could hear the splash of

the drop of water that every hour fell from the roof of his dungeon. He

guessed something uncommon was passing among the living; but he had so

long ceased to have any intercourse with the world, that he looked upon

himself as dead.

The inspector visited, one after another, the cells and dungeons of

several of the prisoners, whose good behavior or stupidity recommended

them to the clemency of the government. He inquired how they were fed,

and if they had any request to make. The universal response was, that

the fare was detestable, and that they wanted to be set free.

The inspector asked if they had anything else to ask for. They shook

their heads. What could they desire beyond their liberty? The inspector

turned smilingly to the governor.

“I do not know what reason government can assign for these useless

visits; when you see one prisoner, you see all,—always the same

thing,—ill fed and innocent. Are there any others?”

“Yes; the dangerous and mad prisoners are in the dungeons.”

“Let us visit them,” said the inspector with an air of fatigue. “We must

play the farce to the end. Let us see the dungeons.”

“Let us first send for two soldiers,” said the governor. “The prisoners

sometimes, through mere uneasiness of life, and in order to be sentenced

to death, commit acts of useless violence, and you might fall a victim.”

“Take all needful precautions,” replied the inspector.

Two soldiers were accordingly sent for, and the inspector descended a

stairway, so foul, so humid, so dark, as to be loathsome to sight,

smell, and respiration.

“Oh,” cried the inspector, “who can live here?”

“A most dangerous conspirator, a man we are ordered to keep the most

strict watch over, as he is daring and resolute.”

“He is alone?”

“Certainly.”

“How long has he been there?”

“Nearly a year.”

“Was he placed here when he first arrived?”

“No; not until he attempted to kill the turnkey, who took his food to

him.”

“To kill the turnkey?”

“Yes, the very one who is lighting us. Is it not true, Antoine?” asked

the governor.

“True enough; he wanted to kill me!” returned the turnkey.

“He must be mad,” said the inspector.

“He is worse than that,—he is a devil!” returned the turnkey.

“Shall I complain of him?” demanded the inspector.

“Oh, no; it is useless. Besides, he is almost mad now, and in another

year he will be quite so.”

“So much the better for him,—he will suffer less,” said the inspector.

He was, as this remark shows, a man full of philanthropy, and in every

way fit for his office.

“You are right, sir,” replied the governor; “and this remark proves that

you have deeply considered the subject. Now we have in a dungeon about

twenty feet distant, and to which you descend by another stair, an old

abbé, formerly leader of a party in Italy, who has been here since 1811,

and in 1813 he went mad, and the change is astonishing. He used to weep,

he now laughs; he grew thin, he now grows fat. You had better see him,

for his madness is amusing.”

“I will see them both,” returned the inspector; “I must conscientiously

perform my duty.”

This was the inspector’s first visit; he wished to display his

authority.

“Let us visit this one first,” added he.

“By all means,” replied the governor, and he signed to the turnkey to

open the door. At the sound of the key turning in the lock, and the

creaking of the hinges, Dantès, who was crouched in a corner of the

dungeon, whence he could see the ray of light that came through a narrow

iron grating above, raised his head. Seeing a stranger, escorted by two

turnkeys holding torches and accompanied by two soldiers, and to whom

the governor spoke bareheaded, Dantès, who guessed the truth, and that

the moment to address himself to the superior authorities was come,

sprang forward with clasped hands.

The soldiers interposed their bayonets, for they thought that he was

about to attack the inspector, and the latter recoiled two or three

steps. Dantès saw that he was looked upon as dangerous. Then, infusing

all the humility he possessed into his eyes and voice, he addressed the

inspector, and sought to inspire him with pity.

The inspector listened attentively; then, turning to the governor,

observed, “He will become religious—he is already more gentle; he is

afraid, and retreated before the bayonets—madmen are not afraid of

anything; I made some curious observations on this at Charenton.” Then,

turning to the prisoner, “What is it you want?” said he.

“I want to know what crime I have committed—to be tried; and if I am

guilty, to be shot; if innocent, to be set at liberty.”

“Are you well fed?” said the inspector.

“I believe so; I don’t know; it’s of no consequence. What matters

really, not only to me, but to officers of justice and the king, is that

an innocent man should languish in prison, the victim of an infamous

denunciation, to die here cursing his executioners.”

“You are very humble today,” remarked the governor; “you are not so

always; the other day, for instance, when you tried to kill the

turnkey.”

“It is true, sir, and I beg his pardon, for he has always been very good

to me, but I was mad.”

“And you are not so any longer?”

“No; captivity has subdued me—I have been here so long.”

“So long?—when were you arrested, then?” asked the inspector.

“The 28th of February, 1815, at half-past two in the afternoon.”

“Today is the 30th of July, 1816,—why, it is but seventeen months.”

“Only seventeen months,” replied Dantès. “Oh, you do not know what is

seventeen months in prison!—seventeen ages rather, especially to a man

who, like me, had arrived at the summit of his ambition—to a man, who,

like me, was on the point of marrying a woman he adored, who saw an

honorable career opened before him, and who loses all in an instant—who

sees his prospects destroyed, and is ignorant of the fate of his

affianced wife, and whether his aged father be still living! Seventeen

months’ captivity to a sailor accustomed to the boundless ocean, is a

worse punishment than human crime ever merited. Have pity on me, then,

and ask for me, not intelligence, but a trial; not pardon, but a

verdict—a trial, sir, I ask only for a trial; that, surely, cannot be

denied to one who is accused!”

“We shall see,” said the inspector; then, turning to the governor, “On

my word, the poor devil touches me. You must show me the proofs against

him.”

“Certainly; but you will find terrible charges.”

“Monsieur,” continued Dantès, “I know it is not in your power to release

me; but you can plead for me—you can have me tried—and that is all I

ask. Let me know my crime, and the reason why I was condemned.

Uncertainty is worse than all.”

“Go on with the lights,” said the inspector.

“Monsieur,” cried Dantès, “I can tell by your voice you are touched with

pity; tell me at least to hope.”

“I cannot tell you that,” replied the inspector; “I can only promise to

examine into your case.”

“Oh, I am free—then I am saved!”

“Who arrested you?”

“M. Villefort. See him, and hear what he says.”

“M. Villefort is no longer at Marseilles; he is now at Toulouse.”

“I am no longer surprised at my detention,” murmured Dantès, “since my

only protector is removed.”

“Had M. de Villefort any cause of personal dislike to you?”

“None; on the contrary, he was very kind to me.”

“I can, then, rely on the notes he has left concerning you?”

“Entirely.”

“That is well; wait patiently, then.”

Dantès fell on his knees, and prayed earnestly. The door closed; but

this time a fresh inmate was left with Dantès—Hope.

“Will you see the register at once,” asked the governor, “or proceed to

the other cell?”

“Let us visit them all,” said the inspector. “If I once went up those

stairs. I should never have the courage to come down again.”

“Ah, this one is not like the other, and his madness is less affecting

than this one’s display of reason.”

“What is his folly?”

“He fancies he possesses an immense treasure. The first year he offered

government a million of francs for his release; the second, two; the

third, three; and so on progressively. He is now in his fifth year of

captivity; he will ask to speak to you in private, and offer you five

millions.”

“How curious!—what is his name?”

“The Abbé Faria.”

“No. 27,” said the inspector.

“It is here; unlock the door, Antoine.”

The turnkey obeyed, and the inspector gazed curiously into the chamber

of the mad abbé, as the prisoner was usually called.

In the centre of the cell, in a circle traced with a fragment of plaster

detached from the wall, sat a man whose tattered garments scarcely

covered him. He was drawing in this circle geometrical lines, and seemed

as much absorbed in his problem as Archimedes was when the soldier of

Marcellus slew him. He did not move at the sound of the door, and

continued his calculations until the flash of the torches lighted up

with an unwonted glare the sombre walls of his cell; then, raising his

head, he perceived with astonishment the number of persons present. He

hastily seized the coverlet of his bed, and wrapped it round him.

“What is it you want?” said the inspector.

“I, monsieur,” replied the abbé with an air of surprise,—“I want

nothing.”

“You do not understand,” continued the inspector; “I am sent here by

government to visit the prison, and hear the requests of the prisoners.”

“Oh, that is different,” cried the abbé; “and we shall understand each

other, I hope.”

“There, now,” whispered the governor, “it is just as I told you.”

“Monsieur,” continued the prisoner, “I am the Abbé Faria, born at Rome.

I was for twenty years Cardinal Spada’s secretary; I was arrested, why,

I know not, toward the beginning of the year 1811; since then I have

demanded my liberty from the Italian and French government.”

“Why from the French government?”

“Because I was arrested at Piombino, and I presume that, like Milan and

Florence, Piombino has become the capital of some French department.”

“Ah,” said the inspector, “you have not the latest news from Italy?”

“My information dates from the day on which I was arrested,” returned

the Abbé Faria; “and as the emperor had created the kingdom of Rome for

his infant son, I presume that he has realized the dream of Machiavelli

and Cæsar Borgia, which was to make Italy a united kingdom.”

“Monsieur,” returned the inspector, “Providence has changed this

gigantic plan you advocate so warmly.”

“It is the only means of rendering Italy strong, happy, and

independent.”

“Very possibly; only I am not come to discuss politics, but to inquire

if you have anything to ask or to complain of.”

“The food is the same as in other prisons,—that is, very bad; the

lodging is very unhealthful, but, on the whole, passable for a dungeon;

but it is not that which I wish to speak of, but a secret I have to

reveal of the greatest importance.”

“We are coming to the point,” whispered the governor.

“It is for that reason I am delighted to see you,” continued the abbé,

“although you have disturbed me in a most important calculation, which,

if it succeeded, would possibly change Newton’s system. Could you allow

me a few words in private.”

“What did I tell you?” said the governor.

“You knew him,” returned the inspector with a smile.

“What you ask is impossible, monsieur,” continued he, addressing Faria.

“But,” said the abbé, “I would speak to you of a large sum, amounting to

five millions.”

“The very sum you named,” whispered the inspector in his turn.

“However,” continued Faria, seeing that the inspector was about to

depart, “it is not absolutely necessary for us to be alone; the governor

can be present.”

“Unfortunately,” said the governor, “I know beforehand what you are

about to say; it concerns your treasures, does it not?” Faria fixed his

eyes on him with an expression that would have convinced anyone else of

his sanity.

“Of course,” said he; “of what else should I speak?”

“Mr. Inspector,” continued the governor, “I can tell you the story as

well as he, for it has been dinned in my ears for the last four or five

years.”

“That proves,” returned the abbé, “that you are like those of Holy Writ,

who having eyes see not, and having ears hear not.”

“My dear sir, the government is rich and does not want your treasures,”

replied the inspector; “keep them until you are liberated.” The abbé’s

eyes glistened; he seized the inspector’s hand.

“But what if I am not liberated,” cried he, “and am detained here until

my death? this treasure will be lost. Had not government better profit

by it? I will offer six millions, and I will content myself with the

rest, if they will only give me my liberty.”

“On my word,” said the inspector in a low tone, “had I not been told

beforehand that this man was mad, I should believe what he says.”

“I am not mad,” replied Faria, with that acuteness of hearing peculiar

to prisoners. “The treasure I speak of really exists, and I offer to

sign an agreement with you, in which I promise to lead you to the spot

where you shall dig; and if I deceive you, bring me here again,—I ask no

more.”

The governor laughed. “Is the spot far from here?”

“A hundred leagues.”

“It is not ill-planned,” said the governor. “If all the prisoners took

it into their heads to travel a hundred leagues, and their guardians

consented to accompany them, they would have a capital chance of

escaping.”

“The scheme is well known,” said the inspector; “and the abbé’s plan has

not even the merit of originality.”

Then turning to Faria, “I inquired if you are well fed?” said he.

“Swear to me,” replied Faria, “to free me if what I tell you prove true,

and I will stay here while you go to the spot.”

“Are you well fed?” repeated the inspector.

“Monsieur, you run no risk, for, as I told you, I will stay here; so

there is no chance of my escaping.”

“You do not reply to my question,” replied the inspector impatiently.

“Nor you to mine,” cried the abbé. “You will not accept my gold; I will

keep it for myself. You refuse me my liberty; God will give it me.” And

the abbé, casting away his coverlet, resumed his place, and continued

his calculations.

“What is he doing there?” said the inspector.

“Counting his treasures,” replied the governor.

Faria replied to this sarcasm with a glance of profound contempt. They

went out. The turnkey closed the door behind them.

“He was wealthy once, perhaps?” said the inspector.

“Or dreamed he was, and awoke mad.”

“After all,” said the inspector, “if he had been rich, he would not have

been here.”

So the matter ended for the Abbé Faria. He remained in his cell, and

this visit only increased the belief in his insanity.

Caligula or Nero, those treasure-seekers, those desirers of the

impossible, would have accorded to the poor wretch, in exchange for his

wealth, the liberty he so earnestly prayed for. But the kings of modern

times, restrained by the limits of mere probability, have neither

courage nor desire. They fear the ear that hears their orders, and the

eye that scrutinizes their actions. Formerly they believed themselves

sprung from Jupiter, and shielded by their birth; but nowadays they are

not inviolable.

It has always been against the policy of despotic governments to suffer

the victims of their persecutions to reappear. As the Inquisition rarely

allowed its victims to be seen with their limbs distorted and their

flesh lacerated by torture, so madness is always concealed in its cell,

from whence, should it depart, it is conveyed to some gloomy hospital,

where the doctor has no thought for man or mind in the mutilated being

the jailer delivers to him. The very madness of the Abbé Faria, gone mad

in prison, condemned him to perpetual captivity.

The inspector kept his word with Dantès; he examined the register, and

found the following note concerning him:

Edmond Dantès:

Violent Bonapartist; took an active part in the return from Elba.

The greatest watchfulness and care to be exercised.

This note was in a different hand from the rest, which showed that it

had been added since his confinement. The inspector could not contend

against this accusation; he simply wrote, Nothing to be done.

This visit had infused new vigor into Dantès; he had, till then,

forgotten the date; but now, with a fragment of plaster, he wrote the

date, 30th July, 1816, and made a mark every day, in order not to lose

his reckoning again. Days and weeks passed away, then months—Dantès

still waited; he at first expected to be freed in a fortnight. This

fortnight expired, he decided that the inspector would do nothing until

his return to Paris, and that he would not reach there until his circuit

was finished, he therefore fixed three months; three months passed away,

then six more. Finally ten months and a half had gone by and no

favorable change had taken place, and Dantès began to fancy the

inspector’s visit but a dream, an illusion of the brain.

At the expiration of a year the governor was transferred; he had

obtained charge of the fortress at Ham. He took with him several of his

subordinates, and amongst them Dantès’ jailer. A new governor arrived;

it would have been too tedious to acquire the names of the prisoners; he

learned their numbers instead. This horrible place contained fifty

cells; their inhabitants were designated by the numbers of their cell,

and the unhappy young man was no longer called Edmond Dantès—he was now

number 34.