The Count of Monte Cristo

Chapter 15. Number 34 and Number 27-2

to talk about everything; about the bad quality of the food, about the

coldness of his dungeon, grumbling and complaining, in order to have an

excuse for speaking louder, and wearying the patience of his jailer, who

out of kindness of heart had brought broth and white bread for his

prisoner.

Fortunately, he fancied that Dantès was delirious; and placing the food

on the rickety table, he withdrew. Edmond listened, and the sound became

more and more distinct.

“There can be no doubt about it,” thought he; “it is some prisoner who

is striving to obtain his freedom. Oh, if I were only there to help

him!”

Suddenly another idea took possession of his mind, so used to

misfortune, that it was scarcely capable of hope—the idea that the noise

was made by workmen the governor had ordered to repair the neighboring

dungeon.

It was easy to ascertain this; but how could he risk the question? It

was easy to call his jailer’s attention to the noise, and watch his

countenance as he listened; but might he not by this means destroy hopes

far more important than the short-lived satisfaction of his own

curiosity? Unfortunately, Edmond’s brain was still so feeble that he

could not bend his thoughts to anything in particular. He saw but one

means of restoring lucidity and clearness to his judgment. He turned his

eyes towards the soup which the jailer had brought, rose, staggered

towards it, raised the vessel to his lips, and drank off the contents

with a feeling of indescribable pleasure.

He had the resolution to stop with this. He had often heard that

shipwrecked persons had died through having eagerly devoured too much

food. Edmond replaced on the table the bread he was about to devour, and

returned to his couch—he did not wish to die. He soon felt that his

ideas became again collected—he could think, and strengthen his thoughts

by reasoning. Then he said to himself:

“I must put this to the test, but without compromising anybody. If it is

a workman, I need but knock against the wall, and he will cease to work,

in order to find out who is knocking, and why he does so; but as his

occupation is sanctioned by the governor, he will soon resume it. If, on

the contrary, it is a prisoner, the noise I make will alarm him, he will

cease, and not begin again until he thinks everyone is asleep.”

Edmond rose again, but this time his legs did not tremble, and his sight

was clear; he went to a corner of his dungeon, detached a stone, and

with it knocked against the wall where the sound came. He struck thrice.

At the first blow the sound ceased, as if by magic.

Edmond listened intently; an hour passed, two hours passed, and no sound

was heard from the wall—all was silent there.

Full of hope, Edmond swallowed a few mouthfuls of bread and water, and,

thanks to the vigor of his constitution, found himself well-nigh

recovered.

The day passed away in utter silence—night came without recurrence of

the noise.

“It is a prisoner,” said Edmond joyfully. His brain was on fire, and

life and energy returned.

The night passed in perfect silence. Edmond did not close his eyes.

In the morning the jailer brought him fresh provisions—he had already

devoured those of the previous day; he ate these listening anxiously for

the sound, walking round and round his cell, shaking the iron bars of

the loophole, restoring vigor and agility to his limbs by exercise, and

so preparing himself for his future destiny. At intervals he listened to

learn if the noise had not begun again, and grew impatient at the

prudence of the prisoner, who did not guess he had been disturbed by a

captive as anxious for liberty as himself.

Three days passed—seventy-two long tedious hours which he counted off by

minutes!

At length one evening, as the jailer was visiting him for the last time

that night, Dantès, with his ear for the hundredth time at the wall,

fancied he heard an almost imperceptible movement among the stones. He

moved away, walked up and down his cell to collect his thoughts, and

then went back and listened.

The matter was no longer doubtful. Something was at work on the other

side of the wall; the prisoner had discovered the danger, and had

substituted a lever for a chisel.

Encouraged by this discovery, Edmond determined to assist the

indefatigable laborer. He began by moving his bed, and looked around for

anything with which he could pierce the wall, penetrate the moist

cement, and displace a stone.

He saw nothing, he had no knife or sharp instrument, the window grating

was of iron, but he had too often assured himself of its solidity. All

his furniture consisted of a bed, a chair, a table, a pail, and a jug.

The bed had iron clamps, but they were screwed to the wood, and it would

have required a screw-driver to take them off. The table and chair had

nothing, the pail had once possessed a handle, but that had been

removed.

Dantès had but one resource, which was to break the jug, and with one of

the sharp fragments attack the wall. He let the jug fall on the floor,

and it broke in pieces.

Dantès concealed two or three of the sharpest fragments in his bed,

leaving the rest on the floor. The breaking of his jug was too natural

an accident to excite suspicion. Edmond had all the night to work in,

but in the darkness he could not do much, and he soon felt that he was

working against something very hard; he pushed back his bed, and waited

for day.

All night he heard the subterranean workman, who continued to mine his

way. Day came, the jailer entered. Dantès told him that the jug had

fallen from his hands while he was drinking, and the jailer went

grumblingly to fetch another, without giving himself the trouble to

remove the fragments of the broken one. He returned speedily, advised

the prisoner to be more careful, and departed.

Dantès heard joyfully the key grate in the lock; he listened until the

sound of steps died away, and then, hastily displacing his bed, saw by

the faint light that penetrated into his cell, that he had labored

uselessly the previous evening in attacking the stone instead of

removing the plaster that surrounded it.

The damp had rendered it friable, and Dantès was able to break it off—in

small morsels, it is true, but at the end of half an hour he had scraped

off a handful; a mathematician might have calculated that in two years,

supposing that the rock was not encountered, a passage twenty feet long

and two feet broad, might be formed.

The prisoner reproached himself with not having thus employed the hours

he had passed in vain hopes, prayer, and despondency. During the six

years that he had been imprisoned, what might he not have accomplished?

This idea imparted new energy, and in three days he had succeeded, with

the utmost precaution, in removing the cement, and exposing the stone-

work. The wall was built of rough stones, among which, to give strength

to the structure, blocks of hewn stone were at intervals imbedded. It

was one of these he had uncovered, and which he must remove from its

socket.

Dantès strove to do this with his nails, but they were too weak. The

fragments of the jug broke, and after an hour of useless toil, Dantès

paused with anguish on his brow.

Was he to be thus stopped at the beginning, and was he to wait inactive

until his fellow workman had completed his task? Suddenly an idea

occurred to him—he smiled, and the perspiration dried on his forehead.

The jailer always brought Dantès’ soup in an iron saucepan; this

saucepan contained soup for both prisoners, for Dantès had noticed that

it was either quite full, or half empty, according as the turnkey gave

it to him or to his companion first.

The handle of this saucepan was of iron; Dantès would have given ten

years of his life in exchange for it.

The jailer was accustomed to pour the contents of the saucepan into

Dantès’ plate, and Dantès, after eating his soup with a wooden spoon,

washed the plate, which thus served for every day. Now when evening came

Dantès put his plate on the ground near the door; the jailer, as he

entered, stepped on it and broke it.

This time he could not blame Dantès. He was wrong to leave it there, but

the jailer was wrong not to have looked before him. The jailer,

therefore, only grumbled. Then he looked about for something to pour the

soup into; Dantès’ entire dinner service consisted of one plate—there

was no alternative.

“Leave the saucepan,” said Dantès; “you can take it away when you bring

me my breakfast.”

This advice was to the jailer’s taste, as it spared him the necessity of

making another trip. He left the saucepan.

Dantès was beside himself with joy. He rapidly devoured his food, and

after waiting an hour, lest the jailer should change his mind and

return, he removed his bed, took the handle of the saucepan, inserted

the point between the hewn stone and rough stones of the wall, and

employed it as a lever. A slight oscillation showed Dantès that all went

well. At the end of an hour the stone was extricated from the wall,

leaving a cavity a foot and a half in diameter.

Dantès carefully collected the plaster, carried it into the corner of

his cell, and covered it with earth. Then, wishing to make the best use

of his time while he had the means of labor, he continued to work

without ceasing. At the dawn of day he replaced the stone, pushed his

bed against the wall, and lay down. The breakfast consisted of a piece

of bread; the jailer entered and placed the bread on the table.

“Well, don’t you intend to bring me another plate?” said Dantès.

“No,” replied the turnkey; “you destroy everything. First you break your

jug, then you make me break your plate; if all the prisoners followed

your example, the government would be ruined. I shall leave you the

saucepan, and pour your soup into that. So for the future I hope you

will not be so destructive.”

Dantès raised his eyes to heaven and clasped his hands beneath the

coverlet. He felt more gratitude for the possession of this piece of

iron than he had ever felt for anything. He had noticed, however, that

the prisoner on the other side had ceased to labor; no matter, this was

a greater reason for proceeding—if his neighbor would not come to him,

he would go to his neighbor. All day he toiled on untiringly, and by the

evening he had succeeded in extracting ten handfuls of plaster and

fragments of stone. When the hour for his jailer’s visit arrived, Dantès

straightened the handle of the saucepan as well as he could, and placed

it in its accustomed place. The turnkey poured his ration of soup into

it, together with the fish—for thrice a week the prisoners were deprived

of meat. This would have been a method of reckoning time, had not Dantès

long ceased to do so. Having poured out the soup, the turnkey retired.

Dantès wished to ascertain whether his neighbor had really ceased to

work. He listened—all was silent, as it had been for the last three

days. Dantès sighed; it was evident that his neighbor distrusted him.

However, he toiled on all the night without being discouraged; but after

two or three hours he encountered an obstacle. The iron made no

impression, but met with a smooth surface; Dantès touched it, and found

that it was a beam. This beam crossed, or rather blocked up, the hole

Dantès had made; it was necessary, therefore, to dig above or under it.

The unhappy young man had not thought of this.

“Oh, my God, my God!” murmured he, “I have so earnestly prayed to you,

that I hoped my prayers had been heard. After having deprived me of my