The Count of Monte Cristo [基督山恩仇录] － by Alexandre Dumas

The Count of Monte Cristo
by Alexandre Dumas

Chapter 1 Marseilles -- The Arrival.
On the 24th of February, 1810, the look-out at Notre-Dame de la Garde signalled the three-master, the
Pharaon from Smyrna, Trieste, and Naples.
As usual, a pilot put off immediately, and rounding the Chateau d'If, got on board the vessel between
Cape Morgion and Rion island.
Immediately, and according to custom, the ramparts of Fort Saint-Jean were covered with spectators; it is
always an event at Marseilles for a ship to come into port, especially when this ship, like the Pharaon,
has been built, rigged, and laden at the old Phocee docks, and belongs to an owner of the city.
The ship drew on and had safely passed the strait, which some volcanic shock has made between the
Calasareigne and Jaros islands; had doubled Pomegue, and approached the harbor under topsails, jib,
and spanker, but so slowly and sedately that the idlers, with that instinct which is the forerunner of evil,
asked one another what misfortune could have happened on board. However, those experienced in
navigation saw plainly that if any accident had occurred, it was not to the vessel herself, for
she bore down with all the evidence of being skilfully handled, the anchor a-cockbill, the jib-boom guys
already eased off, and standing by the side of the pilot, who was steering the Pharaon towards the
narrow entrance of the inner port, was a young man, who, with activity and vigilant eye, watched every
motion of the ship, and repeated each direction of the pilot.

The vague disquietude which prevailed among the spectators had so much affected one of the crowd
that he did not await the arrival of the vessel in harbor, but jumping into a small skiff, desired to be pulled
alongside the Pharaon, which he reached as she rounded into La Reserve basin.
When the young man on board saw this person approach, he left his station by the pilot, and, hat in hand,
leaned over the ship's bulwarks.
He was a fine, tall, slim young fellow of eighteen or twenty, with black eyes, and hair as dark as a raven's
wing; and his whole appearance bespoke that calmness and resolution peculiar to men accustomed from
their cradle to contend with danger.
"Ah, is it you, Dantes?" cried the man in the skiff. "What's the matter? and why have you such an air of
sadness aboard?"
"A great misfortune, M. Morrel," replied the young man, "a great misfortune, for me especially! Off Civita
Vecchia we lost our brave Captain Leclere."
"And the cargo?" inquired the owner, eagerly.
"Is all safe, M. Morrel; and I think you will be satisfied on that head. But poor Captain Leclere -- "
"What happened to him?" asked the owner, with an air of considerable resignation. "What happened to
the worthy captain?"
"He died."

"Fell into the sea?"
"No, sir, he died of brain-fever in dreadful agony." Then turning to the crew, he said, "Bear a hand there,
to take in sail!"
All hands obeyed, and at once the eight or ten seamen who composed the crew, sprang to their
respective stations at the spanker brails and outhaul, topsail sheets and halyards, the jib downhaul, and
the topsail clewlines and buntlines. The young sailor gave a look to see that his orders were promptly and
accurately obeyed, and then turned again to the owner.
"And how did this misfortune occur?" inquired the latter,resuming the interrupted conversation.
"Alas, sir, in the most unexpected manner. After a long talk with the harbor-master, Captain Leclere left
Naples greatly disturbed in mind. In twenty-four hours he was attacked by a fever, and died three days
afterwards. We performed the usual burial service, and he is at his rest, sewn up in his hammock with a
thirty-six pound shot at his head and his heels, off El Giglio island. We bring to his widow his sword and
cross of honor. It was worth while, truly," added the young man with a melancholy smile, "to make war
against the English for ten years, and to die in his bed at last, like everybody else."
"Why, you see, Edmond," replied the owner, who appeared more comforted at every moment, "we are all
mortal, and the old must make way for the young. If not, why, there would be no promotion; and since you
assure me that the cargo -- "
"Is all safe and sound, M. Morrel, take my word for it; and I advise you not to take 25,000 francs for the
profits of the voyage."
Then, as they were just passing the Round Tower, the young man shouted: "Stand by there to lower the
topsails and jib; brail up the spanker!"

The order was executed as promptly as it would have been on board a man-of-war.
"Let go -- and clue up!" At this last command all the sails were lowered, and the vessel moved almost
imperceptibly onwards.
"Now, if you will come on board, M. Morrel," said Dantes, observing the owner's impatience, "here is your
supercargo, M. Danglars, coming out of his cabin, who will furnish you with every particular. As for me, I
must look after the anchoring, and dress the ship in mourning."
The owner did not wait for a second invitation. He seized a rope which Dantes flung to him, and with an
activity that would have done credit to a sailor, climbed up the side of the ship, while the young man,
going to his task, left the conversation to Danglars, who now came towards the owner. He was a man of
twenty-five or twenty-six years of age, of unprepossessing countenance, obsequious to his superiors,
insolent to his subordinates; and this, in addition to his position as responsible agent on board, which is
always obnoxious to the sailors, made him as much disliked by the crew as Edmond Dantes was beloved
by them.
"Well, M. Morrel," said Danglars, "you have heard of the misfortune that has befallen us?"
"Yes -- yes: poor Captain Leclere! He was a brave and an honest man."
"And a first-rate seaman, one who had seen long and honorable service, as became a man charged with
the interests of a house so important as that of Morrel & Son," replied Danglars.
"But," replied the owner, glancing after Dantes, who was watching the anchoring of his vessel, "it seems
to me that a sailor needs not be so old as you say, Danglars, to understand his business, for our friend
Edmond seems to understand it horoughly, and not to require instruction from any one."

"Yes," said Danglars, darting at Edmond a look gleaming with hate. "Yes, he is young, and youth is
invariably self-confident. Scarcely was the captain's breath out of his body when he assumed the
command without consulting any one, and he caused us to lose a day and a half at the Island of Elba,
instead of making for Marseilles direct."
"As to taking command of the vessel," replied Morrel, "that was his duty as captain's mate; as to losing a
day and a half off the Island of Elba, he was wrong, unless the vessel needed repairs."
"The vessel was in as good condition as I am, and as, I hope you are, M. Morrel, and this day and a half
was lost from pure whim, for the pleasure of going ashore, and nothing else."
"Dantes," said the shipowner, turning towards the young man,"come this way!"
"In a moment, sir," answered Dantes, "and I'm with you."Then calling to the crew, he said -- "Let go!"
The anchor was instantly dropped, and the chain ran rattling through the port-hole. Dantes continued at
his post in spite of the presence of the pilot, until this manoeuvre was completed, and then he added,
"Half-mast the colors, and square the yards!"
"You see," said Danglars, "he fancies himself captain already, upon my word."
"And so, in fact, he is," said the owner.
"Except your signature and your partner's, M. Morrel."

"And why should he not have this?" asked the owner; "he is young, it is true, but he seems to me a
thorough seaman, and of full experience."
A cloud passed over Danglars' brow. "Your pardon, M. Morrel," said Dantes, approaching, "the vessel
now rides at anchor, and I am at your service. You hailed me, I think?"
Danglars retreated a step or two. "I wished to inquire why you stopped at the Island of Elba?"
"I do not know, sir; it was to fulfil the last instructions of Captain Leclere, who, when dying, gave me a
packet for Marshal Bertrand."
"Then did you see him, Edmond?"
"Who?"
"The marshal."
"Yes."
Morrel looked around him, and then, drawing Dantes on one side, he said suddenly -- "And how is the
emperor?"
"Very well, as far as I could judge from the sight of him."

"You saw the emperor, then?"
"He entered the marshal's apartment while I was there."
"And you spoke to him?"
"Why, it was he who spoke to me, sir," said Dantes, with a smile.
"And what did he say to you?"
"Asked me questions about the vessel, the time she left Marseilles, the course she had taken, and what
was her cargo. I believe, if she had not been laden, and I had been her master, he would have bought her.
But I told him I was only mate, and that she belonged to the firm of Morrel & Son. `Ah, yes,' he said, `I
know them. The Morrels have been shipowners from father to son; and there was a Morrel who served in
the same regiment with me when I was in garrison at Valence.'"
"Pardieu, and that is true!" cried the owner, greatly delighted. "And that was Policar Morrel, my uncle,
who was afterwards a captain. Dantes, you must tell my uncle that the emperor remembered him, and
you will see it will bring tears into the old soldier's eyes. Come, come," continued he, patting Edmond's
shoulder kindly, "you did very right, Dantes, to follow Captain Leclere's instructions, and touch at Elba,
although if it were known that you had conveyed a packet to the marshal, and had conversed with the
emperor, it might bring you into trouble."
"How could that bring me into trouble, sir?" asked Dantes; "for I did not even know of what I was the
bearer; and the emperor merely made such inquiries as he would of the first comer. But, pardon me, here
are the health officers and the customs inspectors coming alongside." And the young man went to the
gangway. As he departed, Danglars approached, and said, "Well, it appears that he has given you
satisfactory reasons for his landing at Porto-Ferrajo?"

"Yes, most satisfactory, my dear Danglars."
"Well, so much the better," said the supercargo; "for it is not pleasant to think that a comrade has not
done his duty."
"Dantes has done his," replied the owner, "and that is not saying much. It was Captain Leclere who gave
orders for this delay."
"Talking of Captain Leclere, has not Dantes given you a letter from him?"
"To me? -- no -- was there one?"
"I believe that, besides the packet, Captain Leclere confided a letter to his care."
"Of what packet are you speaking, Danglars?"
"Why, that which Dantes left at Porto-Ferrajo."
"How do you know he had a packet to leave at Porto-Ferrajo?"
Danglars turned very red.

"I was passing close to the door of the captain's cabin, which was half open, and I saw him give the
packet and letter to Dantes."
"He did not speak to me of it," replied the shipowner; "but if there be any letter he will give it to me."
Danglars reflected for a moment. "Then, M. Morrel, I beg of you," said he, "not to say a word to Dantes on
the subject. I may have been mistaken."
At this moment the young man returned; Danglars withdrew.
"Well, my dear Dantes, are you now free?" inquired the owner.
"Yes, sir."
"You have not been long detained."
"No. I gave the custom-house officers a copy of our bill of lading; and as to the other papers, they sent a
man off with the pilot, to whom I gave them."
"Then you have nothing more to do here?"
"No -- everything is all right now."
"Then you can come and dine with me?"

"I really must ask you to excuse me, M. Morrel. My first visit is due to my father, though I am not the less
grateful for the honor you have done me."
"Right, Dantes, quite right. I always knew you were a good son."
"And," inquired Dantes, with some hesitation, "do you know how my father is?"
"Well, I believe, my dear Edmond, though I have not seen him lately."
"Yes, he likes to keep himself shut up in his little room."
"That proves, at least, that he has wanted for nothing during your absence."
Dantes smiled. "My father is proud, sir, and if he had not a meal left, I doubt if he would have asked
anything from anyone, except from Heaven."
"Well, then, after this first visit has been made we shall count on you."
"I must again excuse myself, M. Morrel, for after this first visit has been paid I have another which I am
most anxious to pay."
"True, Dantes, I forgot that there was at the Catalans some one who expects you no less impatiently than
your father -- the lovely Mercedes."

Dantes blushed.
"Ah, ha," said the shipowner, "I am not in the least surprised, for she has been to me three times,
inquiring if there were any news of the Pharaon. Peste, Edmond, you have a very handsome mistress!"
"She is not my mistress," replied the young sailor, gravely; "she is my betrothed."
"Sometimes one and the same thing," said Morrel, with a smile.
"Not with us, sir," replied Dantes.
"Well, well, my dear Edmond," continued the owner, "don't let me detain you. You have managed my
affairs so well that I ought to allow you all the time you require for your own. Do you want any money?"
"No, sir; I have all my pay to take -- nearly three months' wages."
"You are a careful fellow, Edmond."
"Say I have a poor father, sir."
"Yes, yes, I know how good a son you are, so now hasten away to see your father. I have a son too, and I
should be very wroth with those who detained him from me after a three months' voyage."

"Then I have your leave, sir?"
"Yes, if you have nothing more to say to me."
"Nothing."
"Captain Leclere did not, before he died, give you a letter for me?"
"He was unable to write, sir. But that reminds me that I must ask your leave of absence for some days."
"To get married?"
"Yes, first, and then to go to Paris."
"Very good; have what time you require, Dantes. It will take quite six weeks to unload the cargo, and we
cannot get you ready for sea until three months after that; only be back again in three months, for the
Pharaon," added the owner, patting the young sailor on the back, "cannot sail without her captain."
"Without her captain!" cried Dantes, his eyes sparkling with animation; "pray mind what you say, for you
are touching on the most secret wishes of my heart. Is it really your intention to make me captain of the
Pharaon?"
"If I were sole owner we'd shake hands on it now, my dear Dantes, and call it settled; but I have a partner,
and you know the Italian proverb -- Chi ha compagno ha padrone --`He who has a partner has a master.'

But the thing is at least half done, as you have one out of two votes. Rely on me to procure you the other;
I will do my best."
"Ah, M. Morrel," exclaimed the young seaman, with tears in his eyes, and grasping the owner's hand, "M.
Morrel, I thank you in the name of my father and of Mercedes."
"That's all right, Edmond. There's a providence that watches over the deserving. Go to your father: go
and see Mercedes, and afterwards come to me."
"Shall I row you ashore?"
"No, thank you; I shall remain and look over the accounts with Danglars. Have you been satisfied with
him this voyage?"
"That is according to the sense you attach to the question, sir. Do you mean is he a good comrade? No,
for I think he never liked me since the day when I was silly enough, after a little quarrel we had, to
propose to him to stop for ten minutes at the island of Monte Cristo to settle the dispute -- a proposition
which I was wrong to suggest, and he quite right to refuse. If you mean as responsible agent when you
ask me the question, I believe there is nothing to say against him, and that you will be content with the
way in which he has performed his duty."
"But tell me, Dantes, if you had command of the Pharaon should you be glad to see Danglars remain?"
"Captain or mate, M. Morrel, I shall always have the greatest respect for those who possess the owners'
confidence."
"That's right, that's right, Dantes! I see you are a thoroughly good fellow, and will detain you no longer. Go,
for I see how impatient you are."

"Then I have leave?"
"Go, I tell you."
"May I have the use of your skiff?"
"Certainly."
"Then, for the present, M. Morrel, farewell, and a thousand thanks!"
"I hope soon to see you again, my dear Edmond. Good luck to you."
The young sailor jumped into the skiff, and sat down in the stern sheets, with the order that he be put
ashore at La Canebiere. The two oarsmen bent to their work, and the little boat glided away as rapidly as
possible in the midst of the thousand vessels which choke up the narrow way which leads between the
two rows of ships from the mouth of the harbor to the Quai d'Orleans.
The shipowner, smiling, followed him with his eyes until he saw him spring out on the quay and disappear
in the midst of the throng, which from five o'clock in the morning until nine o'clock at night, swarms in the
famous street of La Canebiere, -- a street of which the modern Phocaeans are so proud that they say
with all the gravity in the world, and with that accent which gives so much character to what is said, "If
Paris had La Canebiere, Paris would be a second Marseilles." On turning round the owner saw Danglars
behind him, apparently awaiting orders, but in reality also watching the young sailor, -- but there was a
great difference in the expression of the two men who thus followed the movements of Edmond Dantes. [ 2004-07-22 14:38:27 slw4qd 修改 ]

Chapter 2 Father and Son.
We will leave Danglars struggling with the demon of hatred, and endeavoring to insinuate in the ear of the
shipowner some evil suspicions against his comrade, and follow Dantes, who, after having traversed La
Canebiere, took the Rue de Noailles, and entering a small house, on the left of the Allees de Meillan,
rapidly ascended four flights of a dark staircase, holding the baluster with one hand, while with the other
he repressed the beatings of his heart, and paused before a half-open door, from which he could see the
whole of a small room.
This room was occupied by Dantes' father. The news of the arrival of the Pharaon had not yet reached
the old man, who, mounted on a chair, was amusing himself by training with trembling hand the
nasturtiums and sprays of clematis that clambered over the trellis at his window. Suddenly, he felt an arm
thrown around his body, and a well-known voice behind him exclaimed, "Father -- dear father!"
The old man uttered a cry, and turned round; then, seeing his son, he fell into his arms, pale and
trembling.
"What ails you, my dearest father? Are you ill?" inquired the young man, much alarmed.
"No, no, my dear Edmond -- my boy -- my son! -- no; but I did not expect you; and joy, the surprise of
seeing you so suddenly -- Ah, I feel as if I were going to die."
"Come, come, cheer up, my dear father! 'Tis I -- really I! They say joy never hurts, and so I came to you
without any warning. Come now, do smile, instead of looking at me so solemnly. Here I am back again,
and we are going to be happy."
"Yes, yes, my boy, so we will -- so we will," replied the old man; "but how shall we be happy? Shall you

never leave me again? Come, tell me all the good fortune that has befallen you."
"God forgive me," said the young man, "for rejoicing at happiness derived from the misery of others, but,
Heaven knows, I did not seek this good fortune; it has happened, and I really cannot pretend to lament it.
The good Captain Leclere is dead, father, and it is probable that, with the aid of M. Morrel, I shall have his
place. Do you understand, father? Only imagine me a captain at twenty, with a hundred louis pay, and a
share in the profits! Is this not more than a poor sailor like me could have hoped for?"
"Yes, my dear boy," replied the old man, "it is very fortunate."
"Well, then, with the first money I touch, I mean you to have a small house, with a garden in which to plant
clematis, nasturtiums, and honeysuckle. But what ails you,father? Are you not well?"
"'Tis nothing, nothing; it will soon pass away" -- and as he said so the old man's strength failed him, and
he fell backwards.
"Come, come," said the young man, "a glass of wine, father, will revive you. Where do you keep your
wine?"
"No, no; thanks. You need not look for it; I do not want it," said the old man.
"Yes, yes, father, tell me where it is," and he opened two or three cupboards.
"It is no use," said the old man, "there is no wine."
"What, no wine?" said Dantes, turning pale, and looking alternately at the hollow cheeks of the old man

and the empty cupboards. "What, no wine? Have you wanted money, father?"
"I want nothing now that I have you," said the old man.
"Yet," stammered Dantes, wiping the perspiration from his brow, -- "yet I gave you two hundred francs
when I left, three months ago."
"Yes, yes, Edmond, that is true, but you forgot at that time a little debt to our neighbor, Caderousse. He
reminded me of it, telling me if I did not pay for you, he would be paid by M. Morrel; and so, you see, lest
he might do you an injury"
"Well?"
"Why, I paid him."
"But," cried Dantes, "it was a hundred and forty francs I owed Caderousse."
"Yes," stammered the old man.
"And you paid him out of the two hundred francs I left you?"
The old man nodded.
"So that you have lived for three months on sixty francs," muttered Edmond.

"You know how little I require," said the old man.
"Heaven pardon me," cried Edmond, falling on his knees before his father.
"What are you doing?"
"You have wounded me to the heart."
"Never mind it, for I see you once more," said the old man; "and now it's all over -- everything is all right
again."
"Yes, here I am," said the young man, "with a promising future and a little money. Here, father, here!" he
said, "take this -- take it, and send for something immediately." And he emptied his pockets on the table,
the contents consisting of a dozen gold pieces, five or six five-franc pieces, and some smaller coin. The
countenance of old Dantes brightened.
"Whom does this belong to?" he inquired.
"To me, to you, to us! Take it; buy some provisions; be happy, and to-morrow we shall have more."
"Gently, gently," said the old man, with a smile; "and by your leave I will use your purse moderately, for
they would say, if they saw me buy too many things at a time, that I had been obliged to await your return,
in order to be able to purchase them."

"Do as you please; but, first of all, pray have a servant, father. I will not have you left alone so long. I have
some smuggled coffee and most capital tobacco, in a small chest in the hold, which you shall have
to-morrow. But, hush, here comes somebody."
"'Tis Caderousse, who has heard of your arrival, and no doubt comes to congratulate you on your
fortunate return."
"Ah, lips that say one thing, while the heart thinks another," murmured Edmond. "But, never mind, he is a
neighbor who has done us a service on a time, so he's welcome."
As Edmond paused, the black and bearded head of Caderousse appeared at the door. He was a man of
twenty-five or six, and held a piece of cloth, which, being a tailor, he was about to make into a coat-lining.
"What, is it you, Edmond, back again?" said he, with a broad Marseillaise accent, and a grin that
displayed his ivory-white teeth.
"Yes, as you see, neighbor Caderousse; and ready to be agreeable to you in any and every way," replied
Dantes, but ill-concealing his coldness under this cloak of civility.
"Thanks -- thanks; but, fortunately, I do not want for anything; and it chances that at times there are
others who have need of me." Dantes made a gesture. "I do not allude to you, my boy. No! -- no! I lent
you money, and you returned it; that's like good neighbors, and we are quits."
"We are never quits with those who oblige us," was Dantes' reply; "for when we do not owe them money,
we owe them gratitude."
"What's the use of mentioning that? What is done is done. Let us talk of your happy return, my boy. I had

gone on the quay to match a piece of mulberry cloth, when I met friend Danglars. `You at Marseilles?' --
`Yes,' says he.
"`I thought you were at Smyrna.' -- `I was; but am now back again.'
"`And where is the dear boy, our little Edmond?'
"`Why, with his father, no doubt,' replied Danglars. And so I came," added Caderousse, "as fast as I could
to have the pleasure of shaking hands with a friend."
"Worthy Caderousse!" said the old man, "he is so much attached to us."
"Yes, to be sure I am. I love and esteem you, because honest folks are so rare. But it seems you have
come back rich, my boy," continued the tailor, looking askance at the handful of gold and silver which
Dantes had thrown on the table.
The young man remarked the greedy glance which shone in the dark eyes of his neighbor. "Eh," he said,
negligently. "this money is not mine. I was expressing to my father my fears that he had wanted many
things in my absence, and to convince me he emptied his purse on the table. Come, father" added
Dantes, "put this money back in your box -- unless neighbor Caderousse wants anything, and in that
case it is at his service."
"No, my boy, no," said Caderousse. "I am not in any want, thank God, my living is suited to my means.
Keep your money -- keep it, I say; -- one never has too much; -- but, at the same time, my boy, I am as
much obliged by your offer as if I took advantage of it."
"It was offered with good will," said Dantes.

"No doubt, my boy; no doubt. Well, you stand well with M. Morrel I hear, -- you insinuating dog, you!"
"M. Morrel has always been exceedingly kind to me," replied Dantes.
"Then you were wrong to refuse to dine with him."
"What, did you refuse to dine with him?" said old Dantes; "and did he invite you to dine?"
"Yes, my dear father," replied Edmond, smiling at his father's astonishment at the excessive honor paid to
his son.
"And why did you refuse, my son?" inquired the old man.
"That I might the sooner see you again, my dear father," replied the young man. "I was most anxious to
see you."
"But it must have vexed M. Morrel, good, worthy man," said Caderousse. "And when you are looking
forward to be captain, it was wrong to annoy the owner."
"But I explained to him the cause of my refusal," replied Dantes, "and I hope he fully understood it."
"Yes, but to be captain one must do a little flattery to one's patrons."

"I hope to be captain without that," said Dantes.
"So much the better -- so much the better! Nothing will give greater pleasure to all your old friends; and I
know one down there behind the Saint Nicolas citadel who will not be sorry to hear it."
"Mercedes?" said the old man.
"Yes, my dear father, and with your permission, now I have seen you, and know you are well and have all
you require, I will ask your consent to go and pay a visit to the Catalans."
"Go, my dear boy," said old Dantes: "and heaven bless you in your wife, as it has blessed me in my son!"
"His wife!" said Caderousse; "why, how fast you go on, father Dantes; she is not his wife yet, as it seems
to me."
"So, but according to all probability she soon will be," replied Edmond.
"Yes -- yes," said Caderousse; "but you were right to return as soon as possible, my boy."
"And why?"
"Because Mercedes is a very fine girl, and fine girls never lack followers; she particularly has them by
dozens."

"Really?" answered Edmond, with a smile which had in it traces of slight uneasiness.
"Ah, yes," continued Caderousse, "and capital offers, too; but you know, you will be captain, and who
could refuse you then?"
"Meaning to say," replied Dantes, with a smile which but ill-concealed his trouble, "that if I were not a
captain" --
"Eh -- eh!" said Caderousse, shaking his head.
"Come, come," said the sailor, "I have a better opinion than you of women in general, and of Mercedes in
particular; and I am certain that, captain or not, she will remain ever faithful to me."
"So much the better -- so much the better," said Caderousse. "When one is going to be married, there is
nothing like implicit confidence; but never mind that, my boy, -- go and announce your arrival, and let her
know all your hopes and prospects."
"I will go directly," was Edmond's reply; and, embracing his father, and nodding to Caderousse, he left the
apartment.
Caderousse lingered for a moment, then taking leave of old Dantes, he went downstairs to rejoin
Danglars, who awaited him at the corner of the Rue Senac.
"Well," said Danglars, "did you see him?"

"I have just left him," answered Caderousse.
"Did he allude to his hope of being captain?"
"He spoke of it as a thing already decided."
"Indeed!" said Danglars, "he is in too much hurry, it appears to me."
"Why, it seems M. Morrel has promised him the thing."
"So that he is quite elated about it?"
"Why, yes, he is actually insolent over the matter -- has already offered me his patronage, as if he were a
grand personage, and proffered me a loan of money, as though he were a banker."
"Which you refused?"
"Most assuredly; although I might easily have accepted it, for it was I who put into his hands the first silver
he ever earned; but now M. Dantes has no longer any occasion for assistance -- he is about to become a
captain."
"Pooh!" said Danglars, "he is not one yet."
"Ma foi, it will be as well if he is not," answered Caderousse; "for if he should be, there will be really no

speaking to him."
"If we choose," replied Danglars, "he will remain what he is; and perhaps become even less than he is."
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing -- I was speaking to myself. And is he still in love with the Catalane?"
"Over head and ears; but, unless I am much mistaken, there will be a storm in that quarter."
"Explain yourself."
"Why should I?"
"It is more important than you think, perhaps. You do not like Dantes?"
"I never like upstarts."
"Then tell me all you know about the Catalane."
"I know nothing for certain; only I have seen things which induce me to believe, as I told you, that the
future captain will find some annoyance in the vicinity of the Vieilles Infirmeries."

"What have you seen? -- come, tell me!"
"Well, every time I have seen Mercedes come into the city she has been accompanied by a tall, strapping,
black-eyed Catalan, with a red complexion, brown skin, and fierce air, whom she calls cousin."
"Really; and you think this cousin pays her attentions?"
"I only suppose so. What else can a strapping chap of twenty-one mean with a fine wench of seventeen?"
"And you say that Dantes has gone to the Catalans?"
"He went before I came down."
"Let us go the same way; we will stop at La Reserve, and we can drink a glass of La Malgue, whilst we
wait for news."
"Come along," said Caderousse; "but you pay the score."
"Of course," replied Danglars; and going quickly to the designated place, they called for a bottle of wine,
and two glasses.
Pere Pamphile had seen Dantes pass not ten minutes before; and assured that he was at the Catalans,
they sat down under the budding foliage of the planes and sycamores, in the branches of which the birds
were singing their welcome to one of the -------------------- [email protected]

Chapter 3 The Catalans.
Beyond a bare, weather-worn wall, about a hundred paces from the spot where the two friends sat
looking and listening as they drank their wine, was the village of the Catalans. Long ago this mysterious
colony quitted Spain, and settled on the tongue of land on which it is to this day. Whence it came no one
knew, and it spoke an unknown tongue. One of its chiefs, who understood Provencal, begged the
commune of Marseilles to give them this bare and barren promontory, where, like the sailors of old, they
had run their boats ashore. The request was granted; and three months afterwards, around the twelve or
fifteen small vessels which had brought these gypsies of the sea, a small village sprang up. This village,
constructed in a singular and picturesque manner, half Moorish, half Spanish, still remains, and is
inhabited by descendants of the first comers, who speak the language of their fathers. For three or four
centuries they have remained upon this small promontory, on which they had settled like a flight of
seabirds, without mixing with the Marseillaise population, intermarrying, and preserving their original
customs and the costume of their mother-country as they have preserved its language.
Our readers will follow us along the only street of this little village, and enter with us one of the houses,
which is sunburned to the beautiful dead-leaf color peculiar to the buildings of the country, and within
coated with whitewash, like a Spanish posada. A young and beautiful girl, with hair as black as jet, her
eyes as velvety as the gazelle's, was leaning with her back against the wainscot, rubbing in her slender
delicately moulded fingers a bunch of heath blossoms, the flowers of which she was picking off and
strewing on the floor; her arms, bare to the elbow, brown, and modelled after those of the Arlesian Venus,
moved with a kind of restless impatience, and she tapped the earth with her arched and supple foot, so
as to display the pure and full shape of her well-turned leg, in its red cotton, gray and blue clocked,
stocking. At three paces from her, seated in a chair which he balanced on two legs, leaning his elbow on
an old worm-eaten table, was a tall young man of twenty, or two-and-twenty, who was looking at her with
an air in which vexation and uneasiness were mingled. He questioned her with his eyes, but the firm and
steady gaze of the young girl controlled his look.
"You see, Mercedes," said the young man, "here is Easter come round again; tell me, is this the moment
for a wedding?"
"I have answered you a hundred times, Fernand, and really you must be very stupid to ask me again."

"Well, repeat it, -- repeat it, I beg of you, that I may at last believe it! Tell me for the hundredth time that
you refuse my love, which had your mother's sanction. Make me understand once for all that you are
trifling with my happiness, that my life or death are nothing to you. Ah, to have dreamed for ten years of
being your husband, Mercedes, and to lose that hope, which was the only stay of my existence!"
"At least it was not I who ever encouraged you in that hope, Fernand," replied Mercedes; "you cannot
reproach me with the slightest coquetry. I have always said to you, `I love you as a brother; but do not ask
from me more than sisterly affection, for my heart is another's.' Is not this true, Fernand?"
"Yes, that is very true, Mercedes," replied the young man, "Yes, you have been cruelly frank with me; but
do you forget that it is among the Catalans a sacred law to intermarry?"
"You mistake, Fernand; it is not a law, but merely a custom, and, I pray of you, do not cite this custom in
your favor. You are included in the conscription, Fernand, and are only at liberty on sufferance, liable at
any moment to be called upon to take up arms. Once a soldier, what would you do with me, a poor
orphan, forlorn, without fortune, with nothing but a half-ruined hut and a few ragged nets, the miserable
inheritance left by my father to my mother, and by my mother to me? She has been dead a year, and you
know, Fernand, I have subsisted almost entirely on public charity. Sometimes you pretend I am useful to
you, and that is an excuse to share with me the produce of your fishing, and I accept it, Fernand, because
you are the son of my father's brother, because we were brought up together, and still more because it
would give you so much pain if I refuse. But I feel very deeply that this fish which I go and sell, and with
the produce of which I buy the flax I spin, -- I feel very keenly, Fernand, that this is charity."
"And if it were, Mercedes, poor and lone as you are, you suit me as well as the daughter of the first
shipowner or the richest banker of Marseilles! What do such as we desire but a good wife and careful
housekeeper, and where can I look for these better than in you?"
"Fernand," answered Mercedes, shaking her head, "a woman becomes a bad manager, and who shall
say she will remain an honest woman, when she loves another man better than her husband? Rest
content with my friendship, for I say once more that is all I can promise, and I will promise no more than I
can bestow."

"I understand," replied Fernand, "you can endure your own wretchedness patiently, but you are afraid to
share mine. Well, Mercedes, beloved by you, I would tempt fortune; you would bring me good luck, and I
should become rich. I could extend my occupation as a fisherman, might get a place as clerk in a
warehouse, and become in time a dealer myself."
"You could do no such thing, Fernand; you are a soldier, and if you remain at the Catalans it is because
there is no war; so remain a fisherman, and contented with my friendship, as I cannot give you more."
"Well, I will do better, Mercedes. I will be a sailor; instead of the costume of our fathers, which you
despise, I will wear a varnished hat, a striped shirt, and a blue jacket, with an anchor on the buttons.
Would not that dress please you?"
"What do you mean?" asked Mercedes, with an angry glance, --"what do you mean? I do not understand
you?"
"I mean, Mercedes, that you are thus harsh and cruel with me, because you are expecting some one who
is thus attired; but perhaps he whom you await is inconstant, or if he is not, the sea is so to him."
"Fernand," cried Mercedes, "I believed you were good-hearted, and I was mistaken! Fernand, you are
wicked to call to your aid jealousy and the anger of God! Yes, I will not deny it, I do await, and I do love
him of whom you speak; and, if he does not return, instead of accusing him of the inconstancy which you
insinuate, I will tell you that he died loving me and me only." The young girl made a gesture of rage. "I
understand you, Fernand; you would be revenged on him because I do not love you; you would cross
your Catalan knife with his dirk. What end would that answer? To lose you my friendship if he were
conquered, and see that friendship changed into hate if you were victor. Believe me, to seek a quarrel
with a man is a bad method of pleasing the woman who loves that man. No, Fernand, you will not thus
give way to evil thoughts. Unable to have me for your wife, you will content yourself with having me for
your friend and sister; and besides," she added, her eyes troubled and moistened with tears, "wait, wait,
Fernand; you said just now that the sea was treacherous, and he has been gone four months, and during
these four months there have been some terrible storms."

Fernand made no reply, nor did he attempt to check the tears which flowed down the cheeks of Mercedes,
although for each of these tears he would have shed his heart's blood; but these tears flowed for another.
He arose, paced a while up and down the hut, and then, suddenly stopping before Mercedes, with his
eyes glowing and his hands clinched, -- "Say, Mercedes," he said, "once for all, is this your final
determination?"
"I love Edmond Dantes," the young girl calmly replied, "and none but Edmond shall ever be my husband."
"And you will always love him?"
"As long as I live."
Fernand let fall his head like a defeated man, heaved a sigh that was like a groan, and then suddenly
looking her full in the face, with clinched teeth and expanded nostrils, said,-- "But if he is dead" --
"If he is dead, I shall die too."
"If he has forgotten you" --
"Mercedes!" called a joyous voice from without, --"Mercedes!"
"Ah," exclaimed the young girl, blushing with delight, and fairly leaping in excess of love, "you see he has
not forgotten me, for here he is!" And rushing towards the door, she opened it, saying, "Here, Edmond,
here I am!"

Fernand, pale and trembling, drew back, like a traveller at the sight of a serpent, and fell into a chair
beside him. Edmond and Mercedes were clasped in each other's arms. The burning Marseilles sun,
which shot into the room through the open door, covered them with a flood of light. At first they saw
nothing around them. Their intense happiness isolated them from all the rest of the world, and they only
spoke in broken words, which are the tokens of a joy so extreme that they seem rather the expression of
sorrow. Suddenly Edmond saw the gloomy, pale, and threatening countenance of Fernand, as it was
defined in the shadow. By a movement for which he could scarcely account to himself, the young Catalan
placed his hand on the knife at his belt.
"Ah, your pardon," said Dantes, frowning in his turn; "I did not perceive that there were three of us." Then,
turning to Mercedes, he inquired, "Who is this gentleman?"
"One who will be your best friend, Dantes, for he is my friend, my cousin, my brother; it is Fernand -- the
man whom, after you, Edmond, I love the best in the world. Do you not remember him?"
"Yes!" said Dantes, and without relinquishing Mercedes hand clasped in one of his own, he extended the
other to the Catalan with a cordial air. But Fernand, instead of responding to this amiable gesture,
remained mute and trembling. Edmond then cast his eyes scrutinizingly at the agitated and embarrassed
Mercedes, and then again on the gloomy and menacing Fernand. This look told him all, and his anger
waxed hot.
"I did not know, when I came with such haste to you, that I was to meet an enemy here."
"An enemy!" cried Mercedes, with an angry look at her cousin. "An enemy in my house, do you say,
Edmond! If I believed that, I would place my arm under yours and go with you to Marseilles, leaving the
house to return to it no more."
Fernand's eye darted lightning. "And should any misfortune occur to you, dear Edmond," she continued
with the same calmness which proved to Fernand that the young girl had read the very innermost depths
of his sinister thought, "if misfortune should occur to you, I would ascend the highest point of the Cape de
Morgion and cast myself headlong from it."

Fernand became deadly pale. "But you are deceived, Edmond," she continued. "You have no enemy
here -- there is no one but Fernand, my brother, who will grasp your hand as a devoted friend."
And at these words the young girl fixed her imperious look on the Catalan, who, as if fascinated by it,
came slowly towards Edmond, and offered him his hand. His hatred, like a powerless though furious
wave, was broken against the strong ascendancy which Mercedes exercised over him. Scarcely,
however, had he touched Edmond's hand than he felt he had done all he could do, and rushed hastily out
of the house.
"Oh," he exclaimed, running furiously and tearing his hair -- "Oh, who will deliver me from this man?
Wretched -- wretched that I am!"
"Hallo, Catalan! Hallo, Fernand! where are you running to?" exclaimed a voice.
The young man stopped suddenly, looked around him, and perceived Caderousse sitting at table with
Danglars, under an arbor.
"Well", said Caderousse, "why don't you come? Are you really in such a hurry that you have no time to
pass the time of day with your friends?"
"Particularly when they have still a full bottle before them," added Danglars. Fernand looked at them both
with a stupefied air, but did not say a word.
"He seems besotted," said Danglars, pushing Caderousse with his knee. "Are we mistaken, and is
Dantes triumphant in spite of all we have believed?"

"Why, we must inquire into that," was Caderousse's reply; and turning towards the young man, said,
"Well, Catalan, can't you make up your mind?"
Fernand wiped away the perspiration steaming from his brow, and slowly entered the arbor, whose shade
seemed to restore somewhat of calmness to his senses, and whose coolness somewhat of refreshment
to his exhausted body.
"Good-day," said he. "You called me, didn't you?" And he fell, rather than sat down, on one of the seats
which surrounded the table.
"I called you because you were running like a madman, and I was afraid you would throw yourself into the
sea," said Caderousse, laughing. "Why, when a man has friends, they are not only to offer him a glass of
wine, but, moreover, to prevent his swallowing three or four pints of water unnecessarily!"
Fernand gave a groan, which resembled a sob, and dropped his head into his hands, his elbows leaning
on the table.
"Well, Fernand, I must say," said Caderousse, beginning the conversation, with that brutality of the
common people in which curiosity destroys all diplomacy, "you look uncommonly like a rejected lover;"
and he burst into a hoarse laugh.
"Bah!" said Danglars, "a lad of his make was not born to be unhappy in love. You are laughing at him,
Caderousse."
"No," he replied, "only hark how he sighs! Come, come, Fernand," said Caderousse, "hold up your head,
and answer us. It's not polite not to reply to friends who ask news of your health."

"My health is well enough," said Fernand, clinching his hands without raising his head.
"Ah, you see, Danglars," said Caderousse, winking at his friend, "this is how it is; Fernand, whom you see
here, is a good and brave Catalan, one of the best fishermen in Marseilles, and he is in love with a very
fine girl, named Mercedes; but it appears, unfortunately, that the fine girl is in love with the mate of the
Pharaon; and as the Pharaon arrived to-day -- why, you understand!"
"No; I do not understand," said Danglars.
"Poor Fernand has been dismissed," continued Caderousse.
"Well, and what then?" said Fernand, lifting up his head, and looking at Caderousse like a man who looks
for some one on whom to vent his anger; "Mercedes is not accountable to any person, is she? Is she not
free to love whomsoever she will?"
"Oh, if you take it in that sense," said Caderousse, "it is another thing. But I thought you were a Catalan,
and they told me the Catalans were not men to allow themselves to be supplanted by a rival. It was even
told me that Fernand, especially, was terrible in his vengeance."
Fernand smiled piteously. "A lover is never terrible," he said.
"Poor fellow!" remarked Danglars, affecting to pity the young man from the bottom of his heart. "Why, you
see, he did not expect to see Dantes return so suddenly -- he thought he was dead, perhaps; or
perchance faithless! These things always come on us more severely when they come suddenly."
"Ah, ma foi, under any circumstances," said Caderousse, who drank as he spoke, and on whom the
fumes of the wine began to take effect, -- "under any circumstances Fernand is not the only person put
out by the fortunate arrival of Dantes; is he, Danglars?"

"No, you are right -- and I should say that would bring him ill-luck."
"Well, never mind," answered Caderousse, pouring out a glass of wine for Fernand, and filling his own for
the eighth or ninth time, while Danglars had merely sipped his. "Never mind -- in the meantime he
marries Mercedes -- the lovely Mercedes -- at least he returns to do that."
During this time Danglars fixed his piercing glance on the young man, on whose heart Caderousse's
words fell like molten lead.
"And when is the wedding to be?" he asked.
"Oh, it is not yet fixed!" murmured Fernand.
"No, but it will be," said Caderousse, "as surely as Dantes will be captain of the Pharaon -- eh,
Danglars?"
Danglars shuddered at this unexpected attack, and turned to Caderousse, whose countenance he
scrutinized, to try and detect whether the blow was premeditated; but he read nothing but envy in a
countenance already rendered brutal and stupid by drunkenness.
"Well," said he, filling the glasses, "let us drink to Captain Edmond Dantes, husband of the beautiful
Catalane!"
Caderousse raised his glass to his mouth with unsteady hand, and swallowed the contents at a gulp.
Fernand dashed his on the ground.

"Eh, eh, eh!" stammered Caderousse. "What do I see down there by the wall, in the direction of the
Catalans? Look, Fernand, your eyes are better than mine. I believe I see double. You know wine is a
deceiver; but I should say it was two lovers walking side by side, and hand in hand. Heaven forgive me,
they do not know that we can see them, and they are actually embracing!"
Danglars did not lose one pang that Fernand endured.
"Do you know them, Fernand?" he said.
"Yes," was the reply, in a low voice. "It is Edmond and Mercedes!"
"Ah, see there, now!" said Caderousse; "and I did not recognize them! Hallo, Dantes! hello, lovely damsel!
Come this way, and let us know when the wedding is to be, for Fernand here is so obstinate he will not
tell us."
"Hold your tongue, will you?" said Danglars, pretending to restrain Caderousse, who, with the tenacity of
drunkards, leaned out of the arbor. "Try to stand upright, and let the lovers make love without interruption.
See, look at Fernand, and follow his example; he is well-behaved!"
Fernand, probably excited beyond bearing, pricked by Danglars, as the bull is by the bandilleros, was
about to rush out; for he had risen from his seat, and seemed to be collecting himself to dash headlong
upon his rival, when Mercedes, smiling and graceful, lifted up her lovely head, and looked at them with
her clear and bright eyes. At this Fernand recollected her threat of dying if Edmond died, and dropped
again heavily on his seat. Danglars looked at the two men, one after the other, the one brutalized by
liquor, the other overwhelmed with love.
"I shall get nothing from these fools," he muttered; "and I am very much afraid of being here between a
drunkard and a coward. Here's an envious fellow making himself boozy on wine when he ought to be
nursing his wrath, and here is a fool who sees the woman he loves stolen from under his nose and takes
on like a big baby. Yet this Catalan has eyes that glisten like those of the vengeful Spaniards, Sicilians,
and Calabrians, and the other has fists big enough to crush an ox at one blow. Unquestionably, Edmond's
star is in the ascendant, and he will marry the splendid girl -- he will be captain, too, and laugh at us all,
unless" -- a sinister smile passed over Danglars' lips -- "unless I take a hand in the affair," he added.
"Hallo!" continued Caderousse, half-rising, and with his fist on the table, "hallo, Edmond! do you not see
your friends, or are you too proud to speak to them?"
"No, my dear fellow!" replied Dantes, "I am not proud, but I am happy, and happiness blinds, I think, more
than pride."
"Ah, very well, that's an explanation!" said Caderousse. "How do you do, Madame Dantes?"
Mercedes courtesied gravely, and said -- "That is not my name, and in my country it bodes ill fortune,
they say, to call a young girl by the name of her betrothed before he becomes her husband. So call me
Mercedes, if you please."
"We must excuse our worthy neighbor, Caderousse," said Dantes, "he is so easily mistaken."
"So, then, the wedding is to take place immediately, M. Dantes," said Danglars, bowing to the young
couple.
"As soon as possible, M. Danglars; to-day all preliminaries will be arranged at my father's, and to-morrow,
or next day at latest, the wedding festival here at La Reserve. My friends will be there, I hope; that is to
say, you are invited, M. Danglars, and you, Caderousse."

"And Fernand," said Caderousse with a chuckle; "Fernand, too, is invited!"
"My wife's brother is my brother," said Edmond; "and we, Mercedes and I, should be very sorry if he were
absent at such a time."
Fernand opened his mouth to reply, but his voice died on his lips, and he could not utter a word.
"To-day the preliminaries, to-morrow or next day the ceremony! You are in a hurry, captain!"
"Danglars," said Edmond, smiling, "I will say to you as Mercedes said just now to Caderousse, `Do not
give me a title which does not belong to me'; that may bring me bad luck."
"Your pardon," replied Danglars, "I merely said you seemed in a hurry, and we have lots of time; the
Pharaon cannot be under weigh again in less than three months."
"We are always in a hurry to be happy, M. Danglars; for when we have suffered a long time, we have
great difficulty in believing in good fortune. But it is not selfishness alone that makes me thus in haste; I
must go to Paris."
"Ah, really? -- to Paris! and will it be the first time you have ever been there, Dantes?"
"Yes."
"Have you business there?"

"Not of my own; the last commission of poor Captain Leclere; you know to what I allude, Danglars -- it is
sacred. Besides, I shall only take the time to go and return."
"Yes, yes, I understand," said Danglars, and then in a low tone, he added, "To Paris, no doubt to deliver
the letter which the grand marshal gave him. Ah, this letter gives me an idea -- a capital idea! Ah; Dantes,
my friend, you are not yet registered number one on board the good ship Pharaon;" then turning towards
Edmond, who was walking away, "A pleasant journey," he cried.
"Thank you," said Edmond with a friendly nod, and the two lovers continued on their way, as calm and
joyous as if they were the very elect of heaven.
first days of spring.
-------------------- [email protected]

Chapter 4 Conspiracy.
Danglars followed Edmond and Mercedes with his eyes until the two lovers disappeared behind one of
the angles of Fort Saint Nicolas, then turning round, he perceived Fernand, who had fallen, pale and
trembling, into his chair, while Caderousse stammered out the words of a drinking-song.
"Well, my dear sir," said Danglars to Fernand, "here is a marriage which does not appear to make
everybody happy."
"It drives me to despair," said Fernand.
"Do you, then, love Mercedes?"

"I adore her!"
"For long?"
"As long as I have known her -- always."
"And you sit there, tearing your hair, instead of seeking to remedy your condition; I did not think that was
the way of your people."
"What would you have me do?" said Fernand.
"How do I know? Is it my affair? I am not in love with Mademoiselle Mercedes; but for you -- in the words
of the gospel, seek, and you shall find."
"I have found already."
"What?"
"I would stab the man, but the woman told me that if any misfortune happened to her betrothed, she
would kill herself."
"Pooh! Women say those things, but never do them."

"You do not know Mercedes; what she threatens she will do."
"Idiot!" muttered Danglars; "whether she kill herself or not, what matter, provided Dantes is not captain?"
"Before Mercedes should die," replied Fernand, with the accents of unshaken resolution, "I would die
myself!"
"That's what I call love!" said Caderousse with a voice more tipsy than ever. "That's love, or I don't know
what love is."
"Come," said Danglars, "you appear to me a good sort of fellow, and hang me, I should like to help you,
but" --
"Yes," said Caderousse, "but how?"
"My dear fellow," replied Danglars, "you are three parts drunk; finish the bottle, and you will be completely
so. Drink then, and do not meddle with what we are discussing, for that requires all one's wit and cool
judgment."
"I -- drunk!" said Caderousse; "well that's a good one! I could drink four more such bottles; they are no
bigger than cologne flasks. Pere Pamphile, more wine!" and Caderousse rattled his glass upon the table.
"You were saving, sir" -- said Fernand, awaiting with great anxiety the end of this interrupted remark.
"What was I saying? I forget. This drunken Caderousse has made me lose the thread of my sentence."

"Drunk, if you like; so much the worse for those who fear wine, for it is because they have bad thoughts
which they are afraid the liquor will extract from their hearts;" and Caderousse began to sing the two last
lines of a song very popular at the time, --
`Tous les mechants sont beuveurs d'eau;
C'est bien prouve par le deluge.'*
* "The wicked are great drinkers of water
As the flood proved once for all."
"You said, sir, you would like to help me, but" --
"Yes; but I added, to help you it would be sufficient that Dantes did not marry her you love; and the
marriage may easily be thwarted, methinks, and yet Dantes need not die."
"Death alone can separate them," remarked Fernand.
"You talk like a noodle, my friend," said Caderousse; "and here is Danglars, who is a wide-awake, clever,
deep fellow, who will prove to you that you are wrong. Prove it, Danglars. I have answered for you. Say
there is no need why Dantes should die; it would, indeed, be a pity he should. Dantes is a good fellow; I
like Dantes. Dantes, your health."
Fernand rose impatiently. "Let him run on," said Danglars, restraining the young man; "drunk as he is, he
is not much out in what he says. Absence severs as well as death, and if the walls of a prison were
between Edmond and Mercedes they would be as effectually separated as if he lay under a tombstone."

"Yes; but one gets out of prison," said Caderousse, who, with what sense was left him, listened eagerly to
the conversation, "and when one gets out and one's name is Edmond Dantes, one seeks revenge" --
"What matters that?" muttered Fernand.
"And why, I should like to know," persisted Caderousse, "should they put Dantes in prison? he has not
robbed or killed or murdered."
"Hold your tongue!" said Danglars.
"I won't hold my tongue!" replied Caderousse; "I say I want to know why they should put Dantes in prison;
I like Dantes; Dantes, your health!" and he swallowed another glass of wine.
Danglars saw in the muddled look of the tailor the progress of his intoxication, and turning towards
Fernand, said, "Well, you understand there is no need to kill him."
"Certainly not, if, as you said just now, you have the means of having Dantes arrested. Have you that
means?"
"It is to be found for the searching. But why should I meddle in the matter? it is no affair of mine.";
"I know not why you meddle," said Fernand, seizing his arm; "but this I know, you have some motive of
personal hatred against Dantes, for he who himself hates is never mistaken in the sentiments of others."
"I! -- motives of hatred against Dantes? None, on my word! I saw you were unhappy, and your
unhappiness interested me; that's all; but since you believe I act for my own account, adieu, my dear

friend, get out of the affair as best you may;" and Danglars rose as if he meant to depart.
"No, no," said Fernand, restraining him, "stay! It is of very little consequence to me at the end of the
matter whether you have any angry feeling or not against Dantes. I hate him! I confess it openly. Do you
find the means, I will execute it, provided it is not to kill the man, for Mercedes has declared she will kill
herself if Dantes is killed."
Caderousse, who had let his head drop on the table, now raised it, and looking at Fernand with his dull
and fishy eyes, he said, -- "Kill Dantes! who talks of killing Dantes? I won't have him killed -- I won't! He's
my friend, and this morning offered to share his money with me, as I shared mine with him. I won't have
Dantes killed -- I won't!"
"And who has said a word about killing him, muddlehead?" replied Danglars. "We were merely joking;
drink to his health," he added, filling Caderousse's glass, "and do not interfere with us."
"Yes, yes, Dantes' good health!" said Caderousse, emptying his glass, "here's to his health! his health --
hurrah!"
"But the means -- the means?" said Fernand.
"Have you not hit upon any?" asked Danglars.
"No! -- you undertook to do so."
"True," replied Danglars; "the French have the superiority over the Spaniards, that the Spaniards
ruminate, while the French invent."

"Do you invent, then," said Fernand impatiently.
"Waiter," said Danglars, "pen, ink, and paper."
"Pen, ink, and paper," muttered Fernand.
"Yes; I am a supercargo; pen, ink, and paper are my tools, and without my tools I am fit for nothing."
"Pen, ink, and paper, then," called Fernand loudly.
"There's what you want on that table," said the waiter.
"Bring them here." The waiter did as he was desired.
"When one thinks," said Caderousse, letting his hand drop on the paper, "there is here wherewithal to kill
a man more sure than if we waited at the corner of a wood to assassinate him! I have always had more
dread of a pen, a bottle of ink, and a sheet of paper, than of a sword or pistol."
"The fellow is not so drunk as he appears to be," said Danglars. "Give him some more wine, Fernand."
Fernand filled Caderousse's glass, who, like the confirmed toper he was, lifted his hand from the paper
and seized the glass.
The Catalan watched him until Caderousse, almost overcome by this fresh assault on his senses, rested,
or rather dropped, his glass upon the table.

"Well!" resumed the Catalan, as he saw the final glimmer of Caderousse's reason vanishing before the
last glass of wine.
"Well, then, I should say, for instance," resumed Danglars, "that if after a voyage such as Dantes has just
made, in which he touched at the Island of Elba, some one were to denounce him to the king's procureur
as a Bonapartist agent"--
"I will denounce him!" exclaimed the young man hastily.
"Yes, but they will make you then sign your declaration, and confront you with him you have denounced; I
will supply you with the means of supporting your accusation, for I know the fact well. But Dantes cannot
remain forever in prison, and one day or other he will leave it, and the day when he comes out, woe
betide him who was the cause of his incarceration!"
"Oh, I should wish nothing better than that he would come and seek a quarrel with me."
"Yes, and Mercedes! Mercedes, who will detest you if you have only the misfortune to scratch the skin of
her dearly beloved Edmond!"
"True!" said Fernand.
"No, no," continued Danglars; "if we resolve on such a step, it would be much better to take, as I now do,
this pen, dip it into this ink, and write with the left hand (that the writing may not be recognized) the
denunciation we propose." And Danglars, uniting practice with theory, wrote with his left hand, and in a
writing reversed from his usual style, and totally unlike it, the following lines, which he handed to Fernand,
and which Fernand read in an undertone: --

"The honorable, the king's attorney, is informed by a friend of the throne and religion, that one Edmond
Dantes, mate of the ship Pharaon, arrived this morning from Smyrna, after having touched at Naples and
Porto-Ferrajo, has been intrusted by Murat with a letter for the usurper, and by the usurper with a letter
for the Bonapartist committee in Paris. Proof of this crime will be found on arresting him, for the letter will
be found upon him, or at his father's, or in his cabin on board the Pharaon."
"Very good," resumed Danglars; "now your revenge looks like common-sense, for in no way can it revert
to yourself, and the matter will thus work its own way; there is nothing to do now but fold the letter as I am
doing, and write upon it, `To the king's attorney,' and that's all settled." And Danglars wrote the address as
he spoke.
"Yes, and that's all settled!" exclaimed Caderousse, who, by a last effort of intellect, had followed the
reading of the letter, and instinctively comprehended all the misery which such a denunciation must entail.
"Yes, and that's all settled; only it will be an infamous shame;" and he stretched out his hand to reach the
letter.
"Yes," said Danglars, taking it from beyond his reach; "and as what I say and do is merely in jest, and I,
amongst the first and foremost, should be sorry if anything happened to Dantes -- the worthy Dantes --
look here!" And taking the letter, he squeezed it up in his hands and threw it into a corner of the arbor.
"All right!" said Caderousse. "Dantes is my friend, and I won't have him ill-used."
"And who thinks of using him ill? Certainly neither I nor Fernand," said Danglars, rising and looking at the
young man, who still remained seated, but whose eye was fixed on the denunciatory sheet of paper flung
into the corner.
"In this case," replied Caderousse, "let's have some more wine. I wish to drink to the health of Edmond
and the lovely Mercedes."

"You have had too much already, drunkard," said Danglars; "and if you continue, you will be compelled to
sleep here, because unable to stand on your legs."
"I?" said Caderousse, rising with all the offended dignity of a drunken man, "I can't keep on my legs? Why,
I'll wager I can go up into the belfry of the Accoules, and without staggering, too!"
"Done!" said Danglars, "I'll take your bet; but to-morrow -- to-day it is time to return. Give me your arm,
and let us go."
"Very well, let us go," said Caderousse; "but I don't want your arm at all. Come, Fernand, won't you return
to Marseilles with us?"
"No," said Fernand; "I shall return to the Catalans."
"You're wrong. Come with us to Marseilles -- come along."
"I will not."
"What do you mean? you will not? Well, just as you like, my prince; there's liberty for all the world. Come
along, Danglars, and let the young gentleman return to the Catalans if he chooses."
Danglars took advantage of Caderousse's temper at the moment, to take him off towards Marseilles by
the Porte Saint-Victor, staggering as he went.
When they had advanced about twenty yards, Danglars looked back and saw Fernand stoop, pick up the
crumpled paper, and putting it into his pocket then rush out of the arbor towards Pillon.

"Well," said Caderousse, "why, what a lie he told! He said he was going to the Catalans, and he is going
to the city. Hallo, Fernand!"
"Oh, you don't see straight," said Danglars; "he's gone right enough."
"Well," said Caderousse, "I should have said not -- how treacherous wine is!"
"Come, come," said Danglars to himself, "now the thing is at work and it will effect its purpose
unassisted." -------------------- [email protected]

Chapter 5 The Marriage-Feast.
The morning's sun rose clear and resplendent, touching the foamy waves into a network of ruby-tinted
light.
The feast had been made ready on the second floor at La Reserve, with whose arbor the reader is
already familiar. The apartment destined for the purpose was spacious and lighted by a number of
windows, over each of which was written in golden letters for some inexplicable reason the name of one
of the principal cities of France; beneath these windows a wooden balcony extended the entire length of
the house. And although the entertainment was fixed for twelve o'clock, an hour previous to that time the
balcony was filled with impatient and expectant guests, consisting of the favored part of the crew of the
Pharaon, and other personal friends of the bride-groom, the whole of whom had arrayed themselves in
their choicest costumes, in order to do greater honor to the occasion.
Various rumors were afloat to the effect that the owners of the Pharaon had promised to attend the

nuptial feast; but all seemed unanimous in doubting that an act of such rare and exceeding
condescension could possibly be intended.
Danglars, however, who now made his appearance, accompanied by Caderousse, effectually confirmed
the report, stating that he had recently conversed with M. Morrel, who had himself assured him of his
intention to dine at La Reserve.
In fact, a moment later M. Morrel appeared and was saluted with an enthusiastic burst of applause from
the crew of the Pharaon, who hailed the visit of the shipowner as a sure indication that the man whose
wedding feast he thus delighted to honor would ere long be first in command of the ship; and as Dantes
was universally beloved on board his vessel, the sailors put no restraint on their tumultuous joy at finding
that the opinion and choice of their superiors so exactly coincided with their own.
With the entrance of M. Morrel, Danglars and Caderousse were despatched in search of the bride-groom
to convey to him the intelligence of the arrival of the important personage whose coming had created
such a lively sensation, and to beseech him to make haste.
Danglars and Caderousse set off upon their errand at full speed; but ere they had gone many steps they
perceived a group advancing towards them, composed of the betrothed pair, a party of young girls in
attendance on the bride, by whose side walked Dantes' father; the whole brought up by Fernand, whose
lips wore their usual sinister smile.
Neither Mercedes nor Edmond observed the strange expression of his countenance; they were so happy
that they were conscious only of the sunshine and the presence of each other.
Having acquitted themselves of their errand, and exchanged a hearty shake of the hand with Edmond,
Danglars and Caderousse took their places beside Fernand and old Dantes, -- the latter of whom
attracted universal notice. The old man was attired in a suit of glistening watered silk, trimmed with steel
buttons, beautifully cut and polished. His thin but wiry legs were arrayed in a pair of richly embroidered
clocked stockings, evidently of English manufacture, while from his three-cornered hat depended a long
streaming knot of white and blue ribbons. Thus he came along, supporting himself on a curiously carved
stick, his aged countenance lit up with happiness, looking for all the world like one of the aged dandies of

1796, parading the newly opened gardens of the Tuileries and Luxembourg. Beside him glided
Caderousse, whose desire to partake of the good things provided for the wedding-party had induced him
to become reconciled to the Dantes, father and son, although there still lingered in his mind a faint and
unperfect recollection of the events of the preceding night; just as the brain retains on waking in the
morning the dim and misty outline of a dream.
As Danglars approached the disappointed lover, he cast on him a look of deep meaning, while Fernand,
as he slowly paced behind the happy pair, who seemed, in their own unmixed content, to have entirely
forgotten that such a being as himself existed, was pale and abstracted; occasionally, however, a deep
flush would overspread his countenance, and a nervous contraction distort his features, while, with an
agitated and restless gaze, he would glance in the direction of Marseilles, like one who either anticipated
or foresaw some great and important event.
Dantes himself was simply, but becomingly, clad in the dress peculiar to the merchant service -- a
costume somewhat between a military and a civil garb; and with his fine countenance, radiant with joy
and happiness, a more perfect specimen of manly beauty could scarcely be imagined.
Lovely as the Greek girls of Cyprus or Chios, Mercedes boasted the same bright flashing eyes of jet, and
ripe, round, coral lips. She moved with the light, free step of an Arlesienne or an Andalusian. One more
practiced in the arts of great cities would have hid her blushes beneath a veil, or, at least, have cast down
her thickly fringed lashes, so as to have concealed the liquid lustre of her animated eyes; but, on the
contrary, the delighted girl looked around her with a smile that seemed to say: "If you are my friends,
rejoice with me, for I am very happy."
As soon as the bridal party came in sight of La Reserve, M. Morrel descended and came forth to meet it,
followed by the soldiers and sailors there assembled, to whom he had repeated the promise already
given, that Dantes should be the successor to the late Captain Leclere. Edmond, at the approach of his
patron, respectfully placed the arm of his affianced bride within that of M. Morrel, who, forthwith
conducting her up the flight of wooden steps leading to the chamber in which the feast was prepared,
was gayly followed by the guests, beneath whose heavy tread the slight structure creaked and groaned
for the space of several minutes.
"Father," said Mercedes, stopping when she had reached the centre of the table, "sit, I pray you, on my
right hand; on my left I will place him who has ever been as a brother to me," pointing with a soft and

gentle smile to Fernand; but her words and look seemed to inflict the direst torture on him, for his lips
became ghastly pale, and even beneath the dark hue of his complexion the blood might be seen
retreating as though some sudden pang drove it back to the heart.
During this time, Dantes, at the opposite side of the table, had been occupied in similarly placing his most
honored guests. M. Morrel was seated at his right hand, Danglars at his left; while, at a sign from Edmond,
the rest of the company ranged themselves as they found it most agreeable.
Then they began to pass around the dusky, piquant, Arlesian sausages, and lobsters in their dazzling red
cuirasses, prawns of large size and brilliant color, the echinus with its prickly outside and dainty morsel
within, the clovis, esteemed by the epicures of the South as more than rivalling the exquisite flavor of the
oyster, -- all the delicacies, in fact, that are cast up by the wash of waters on the sandy beach, and styled
by the grateful fishermen "fruits of the sea."
"A pretty silence truly!" said the old father of the bride-groom, as he carried to his lips a glass of wine of
the hue and brightness of the topaz, and which had just been placed before Mercedes herself. "Now,
would anybody think that this room contained a happy, merry party, who desire nothing better than to
laugh and dance the hours away?"
"Ah," sighed Caderousse, "a man cannot always feel happy because he is about to be married."
"The truth is," replied Dantes, "that I am too happy for noisy mirth; if that is what you meant by your
observation, my worthy friend, you are right; joy takes a strange effect at times, it seems to oppress us
almost the same as sorrow."
Danglars looked towards Fernand, whose excitable nature received and betrayed each fresh impression.
"Why, what ails you?" asked he of Edmond. "Do you fear any approaching evil? I should say that you
were the happiest man alive at this instant."

"And that is the very thing that alarms me," returned Dantes. "Man does not appear to me to be intended
to enjoy felicity so unmixed; happiness is like the enchanted palaces we read of in our childhood, where
fierce, fiery dragons defend the entrance and approach; and monsters of all shapes and kinds, requiring
to be overcome ere victory is ours. I own that I am lost in wonder to find myself promoted to an honor of
which I feel myself unworthy -- that of being the husband of Mercedes."
"Nay, nay!" cried Caderousse, smiling, "you have not attained that honor yet. Mercedes is not yet your
wife. Just assume the tone and manner of a husband, and see how she will remind you that your hour is
not yet come!"
The bride blushed, while Fernand, restless and uneasy, seemed to start at every fresh sound, and from
time to time wiped away the large drops of perspiration that gathered on his brow.
"Well, never mind that, neighbor Caderousse; it is not worth while to contradict me for such a trifle as that.
'Tis true that Mercedes is not actually my wife; but," added he, drawing out his watch, "in an hour and a
half she will be."
A general exclamation of surprise ran round the table, with the exception of the elder Dantes, whose
laugh displayed the still perfect beauty of his large white teeth. Mercedes looked pleased and gratified,
while Fernand grasped the handle of his knife with a convulsive clutch.
"In an hour?" inquired Danglars, turning pale. "How is that, my friend?"
"Why, thus it is," replied Dantes. "Thanks to the influence of M. Morrel, to whom, next to my father, I owe
every blessing I enjoy, every difficulty his been removed. We have purchased permission to waive the
usual delay; and at half-past two o'clock the mayor of Marseilles will be waiting for us at the city hall. Now,
as a quarter-past one has already struck, I do not consider I have asserted too much in saying, that, in
another hour and thirty minutes Mercedes will have become Madame Dantes."

Fernand closed his eyes, a burning sensation passed across his brow, and he was compelled to support
himself by the table to prevent his falling from his chair; but in spite of all his efforts, he could not refrain
from uttering a deep groan, which, however, was lost amid the noisy felicitations of the company.
"Upon my word," cried the old man, "you make short work of this kind of affair. Arrived here only
yesterday morning, and married to-day at three o'clock! Commend me to a sailor for going the quick way
to work!"
"But," asked Danglars, in a timid tone, "how did you manage about the other formalities -- the contract --
the settlement?"
"The contract," answered Dantes, laughingly, "it didn't take long to fix that. Mercedes has no fortune; I
have none to settle on her. So, you see, our papers were quickly written out, and certainly do not come
very expensive." This joke elicited a fresh burst of applause.
"So that what we presumed to be merely the betrothal feast turns out to be the actual wedding dinner!"
said Danglars.
"No, no," answered Dantes; "don't imagine I am going to put you off in that shabby manner. To-morrow
morning I start for Paris; four days to go, and the same to return, with one day to discharge the
commission intrusted to me, is all the time I shall be absent. I shall be back here by the first of March, and
on the second I give my real marriage feast."
This prospect of fresh festivity redoubled the hilarity of the guests to such a degree, that the elder Dantes,
who, at the commencement of the repast, had commented upon the silence that prevailed, now found it
difficult, amid the general din of voices, to obtain a moment's tranquillity in which to drink to the health
and prosperity of the bride and bride-groom.
Dantes, perceiving the affectionate eagerness of his father, responded by a look of grateful pleasure;

while Mercedes glanced at the clock and made an expressive gesture to Edmond.
Around the table reigned that noisy hilarity which usually prevails at such a time among people
sufficiently free from the demands of social position not to feel the trammels of etiquette. Such as at the
commencement of the repast had not been able to seat themselves according to their inclination rose
unceremoniously, and sought out more agreeable companions. Everybody talked at once, without
waiting for a reply and each one seemed to be contented with expressing his or her own thoughts.
Fernand's paleness appeared to have communicated itself to Danglars. As for Fernand himself, he
seemed to be enduring the tortures of the d…mned; unable to rest, he was among the first to quit the
table, and, as though seeking to avoid the hilarious mirth that rose in such deafening sounds, he
continued, in utter silence, to pace the farther end of the salon.
Caderousse approached him just as Danglars, whom Fernand seemed most anxious to avoid, had joined
him in a corner of the room.
"Upon my word," said Caderousse, from whose mind the friendly treatment of Dantes, united with the
effect of the excellent wine he had partaken of, had effaced every feeling of envy or jealousy at Dantes'
good fortune, -- "upon my word, Dantes is a downright good fellow, and when I see him sitting there
beside his pretty wife that is so soon to be. I cannot help thinking it would have been a great pity to have
served him that trick you were planning yesterday."
"Oh, there was no harm meant," answered Danglars; "at first I certainly did feel somewhat uneasy as to
what Fernand might be tempted to do; but when I saw how completely he had mastered his feelings,
even so far as to become one of his rival's attendants, I knew there was no further cause for
apprehension." Caderousse looked full at Fernand -- he was ghastly pale.
"Certainly," continued Danglars, "the sacrifice was no trifling one, when the beauty of the bride is
concerned. Upon my soul, that future captain of mine is a lucky dog! Gad, I only wish he would let me
take his place."

"Shall we not set forth?" asked the sweet, silvery voice of Mercedes; "two o'clock has just struck, and you
know we are expected in a quarter of an hour."
"To be sure! -- to be sure!" cried Dantes, eagerly quitting the table; "let us go directly!"
His words were re-echoed by the whole party, with vociferous cheers.
At this moment Danglars, who had been incessantly observing every change in Fernand's look and
manner, saw him stagger and fall back, with an almost convulsive spasm, against a seat placed near one
of the open windows. At the same instant his ear caught a sort of indistinct sound on the stairs, followed
by the measured tread of soldiery, with the clanking of swords and military accoutrements; then came a
hum and buzz as of many voices, so as to deaden even the noisy mirth of the bridal party, among whom
a vague feeling of curiosity and apprehension quelled every disposition to talk, and almost
instantaneously the most deathlike stillness prevailed.
The sounds drew nearer. Three blows were struck upon the panel of the door. The company looked at
each other in consternation.
"I demand admittance," said a loud voice outside the room, "in the name of the law!" As no attempt was
made to prevent it, the door was opened, and a magistrate, wearing his official scarf, presented himself,
followed by four soldiers and a corporal. Uneasiness now yielded to the most extreme dread on the part
of those present.
"May I venture to inquire the reason of this unexpected visit?" said M. Morrel, addressing the magistrate,
whom he evidently knew; "there is doubtless some mistake easily explained."
"If it be so," replied the magistrate, "rely upon every reparation being made; meanwhile, I am the bearer
of an order of arrest, and although I most reluctantly perform the task assigned me, it must, nevertheless,
be fulfilled. Who among the persons here assembled answers to the name of Edmond Dantes?" Every

eye was turned towards the young man who, spite of the agitation he could not but feel, advanced with
dignity, and said, in a firm voice, "I am he; what is your pleasure with me?"
"Edmond Dantes," replied the magistrate, "I arrest you in the name of the law!"
"Me!" repeated Edmond, slightly changing color, "and wherefore, I pray?"
"I cannot inform you, but you will be duly acquainted with the reasons that have rendered such a step
necessary at the preliminary examination."
M. Morrel felt that further resistance or remonstrance was useless. He saw before him an officer
delegated to enforce the law, and perfectly well knew that it would be as unavailing to seek pity from a
magistrate decked with his official scarf, as to address a petition to some cold marble effigy. Old Dantes,
however, sprang forward. There are situations which the heart of a father or a mother cannot be made to
understand. He prayed and supplicated in terms so moving, that even the officer was touched, and,
although firm in his duty, he kindly said, "My worthy friend, let me beg of you to calm your apprehensions.
Your son has probably neglected some prescribed form or attention in registering his cargo, and it is
more than probable he will be set at liberty directly he has given the information required, whether
touching the health of his crew, or the value of his freight."
"What is the meaning of all this?" inquired Caderousse, frowningly, of Danglars, who had assumed an air
of utter surprise.
"How can I tell you?" replied he; "I am, like yourself, utterly bewildered at all that is going on, and cannot
in the least make out what it is about." Caderousse then looked around for Fernand, but he had
disappeared.
The scene of the previous night now came back to his mind with startling clearness. The painful
catastrophe he had just witnessed appeared effectually to have rent away the veil which the intoxication
of the evening before had raised between himself and his memory.

"So, so," said he, in a hoarse and choking voice, to Danglars, "this, then, I suppose, is a part of the trick
you were concerting yesterday? All I can say is, that if it be so, 'tis an ill turn, and well deserves to bring
double evil on those who have projected it."
"Nonsense," returned Danglars, "I tell you again I have nothing whatever to do with it; besides, you know
very well that I tore the paper to pieces."
"No, you did not!" answered Caderousse, "you merely threw it by -- I saw it lying in a corner."
"Hold your tongue, you fool! -- what should you know about it? -- why, you were drunk!"
"Where is Fernand?" inquired Caderousse.
"How do I know?" replied Danglars; "gone, as every prudent man ought to be, to look after his own affairs,
most likely. Never mind where he is, let you and I go and see what is to be done for our poor friends."
During this conversation, Dantes, after having exchanged a cheerful shake of the hand with all his
sympathizing friends, had surrendered himself to the officer sent to arrest him, merely saying, "Make
yourselves quite easy, my good fellows, there is some little mistake to clear up, that's all, depend upon it;
and very likely I may not have to go so far as the prison to effect that."
"Oh, to be sure!" responded Danglars, who had now approached the group, "nothing more than a
mistake, I feel quite certain."
Dantes descended the staircase, preceded by the magistrate, and followed by the soldiers. A carriage

awaited him at the door; he got in, followed by two soldiers and the magistrate, and the vehicle drove off
towards Marseilles.
"Adieu, adieu, dearest Edmond!" cried Mercedes, stretching out her arms to him from the balcony.
The prisoner heard the cry, which sounded like the sob of a broken heart, and leaning from the coach he
called out, "Good-by, Mercedes -- we shall soon meet again!" Then the vehicle disappeared round one of
the turnings of Fort Saint Nicholas.
"Wait for me here, all of you!" cried M. Morrel; "I will take the first conveyance I find, and hurry to
Marseilles, whence I will bring you word how all is going on."
"That's right!" exclaimed a multitude of voices, "go, and return as quickly as you can!"
This second departure was followed by a long and fearful state of terrified silence on the part of those
who were left behind. The old father and Mercedes remained for some time apart, each absorbed in grief;
but at length the two poor victims of the same blow raised their eyes, and with a simultaneous burst of
feeling rushed into each other's arms.
Meanwhile Fernand made his appearance, poured out for himself a glass of water with a trembling hand;
then hastily swallowing it, went to sit down at the first vacant place, and this was, by mere chance, placed
next to the seat on which poor Mercedes had fallen half fainting, when released from the warm and
affectionate embrace of old Dantes. Instinctively Fernand drew back his chair.
"He is the cause of all this misery -- I am quite sure of it," whispered Caderousse, who had never taken
his eyes off Fernand, to Danglars.
"I don't think so," answered the other; he's too stupid to imagine such a scheme. I only hope the mischief

will fall upon the head of whoever wrought it."
"You don't mention those who aided and abetted the deed," said Caderousse.
"Surely," answered Danglars, "one cannot be held responsible for every chance arrow shot into the air."
"You can, indeed, when the arrow lights point downward on somebody's head."
Meantime the subject of the arrest was being canvassed in every different form.
"What think you, Danglars," said one of the party, turning towards him, "of this event?"
"Why," replied he, "I think it just possible Dantes may have been detected with some trifling article on
board ship considered here as contraband."
"But how could he have done so without your knowledge, Danglars, since you are the ship's
supercargo?"
"Why, as for that, I could only know what I was told respecting the merchandise with which the vessel
was laden. I know she was loaded with cotton, and that she took in her freight at Alexandria from
Pastret's warehouse, and at Smyrna from Pascal's; that is all I was obliged to know, and I beg I may not
be asked for any further particulars."
"Now I recollect," said the afflicted old father; "my poor boy told me yesterday he had got a small case of
coffee, and another of tobacco for me!"

"There, you see," exclaimed Danglars. "Now the mischief is out; depend upon it the custom-house
people went rummaging about the ship in our absence, and discovered poor Dantes' hidden treasures."
Mercedes, however, paid no heed to this explanation of her lover's arrest. Her grief, which she had
hitherto tried to restrain, now burst out in a violent fit of hysterical sobbing.
"Come, come," said the old man, "be comforted, my poor child; there is still hope!"
"Hope!" repeated Danglars.
"Hope!" faintly murmured Fernand, but the word seemed to die away on his pale agitated lips, and a
convulsive spasm passed over his countenance.
"Good news! good news!" shouted forth one of the party stationed in the balcony on the lookout. "Here
comes M. Morrel back. No doubt, now, we shall hear that our friend is released!"
Mercedes and the old man rushed to meet the shipowner and greeted him at the door. He was very pale.
"What news?" exclaimed a general burst of voices.
"Alas, my friends," replied M. Morrel, with a mournful shake of his head, "the thing has assumed a more
serious aspect than I expected."
"Oh, indeed -- indeed, sir, he is innocent!" sobbed forth Mercedes.

"That I believe!" answered M. Morrel; "but still he is charged" --
"With what?" inquired the elder Dantes.
"With being an agent of the Bonapartist faction!" Many of our readers may be able to recollect how
formidable such an accusation became in the period at which our story is dated.
A despairing cry escaped the pale lips of Mercedes; the old man sank into a chair.
"Ah, Danglars!" whispered Caderousse, "you have deceived me -- the trick you spoke of last night has
been played; but I cannot suffer a poor old man or an innocent girl to die of grief through your fault. I am
determined to tell them all about it."
"Be silent, you simpleton!" cried Danglars, grasping him by the arm, "or I will not answer even for your
own safety. Who can tell whether Dantes be innocent or guilty? The vessel did touch at Elba, where he
quitted it, and passed a whole day in the island. Now, should any letters or other documents of a
compromising character be found upon him, will it not be taken for granted that all who uphold him are his
accomplices?"
With the rapid instinct of selfishness, Caderousse readily perceived the solidity of this mode of reasoning;
he gazed, doubtfully, wistfully, on Danglars, and then caution supplanted generosity.
"Suppose we wait a while, and see what comes of it," said he, casting a bewildered look on his
companion.

"To be sure!" answered Danglars. "Let us wait, by all means. If he be innocent, of course he will be set at
liberty; if guilty, why, it is no use involving ourselves in a conspiracy."
"Let us go, then. I cannot stay here any longer."
"With all my heart!" replied Danglars, pleased to find the other so tractable. "Let us take ourselves out of
the way, and leave things for the present to take their course."
After their departure, Fernand, who had now again become the friend and protector of Mercedes, led the
girl to her home, while the friends of Dantes conducted the now half-fainting man back to his abode.
The rumor of Edmond arrest as a Bonapartist agent was not slow in circulating throughout the city.
"Could you ever have credited such a thing, my dear Danglars?" asked M. Morrel, as, on his return to the
port for the purpose of gleaning fresh tidings of Dantes, from M. de Villefort, the assistant procureur, he
overtook his supercargo and Caderousse. "Could you have believed such a thing possible?"
"Why, you know I told you," replied Danglars, "that I considered the circumstance of his having anchored
at the Island of Elba as a very suspicious circumstance."
"And did you mention these suspicions to any person beside myself?"
"Certainly not!" returned Danglars. Then added in a low whisper, "You understand that, on account of
your uncle, M. Policar Morrel, who served under the other government, and who does not altogether
conceal what he thinks on the subject, you are strongly suspected of regretting the abdication of
Napoleon. I should have feared to injure both Edmond and yourself, had I divulged my own
apprehensions to a soul. I am too well aware that though a subordinate, like myself, is bound to acquaint
the shipowner with everything that occurs, there are many things he ought most carefully to conceal from

all else."
"'Tis well, Danglars -- 'tis well!" replied M. Morrel. "You are a worthy fellow; and I had already thought of
your interests in the event of poor Edmond having become captain of the Pharaon."
"Is it possible you were so kind?"
"Yes, indeed; I had previously inquired of Dantes what was his opinion of you, and if he should have any
reluctance to continue you in your post, for somehow I have perceived a sort of coolness between you."
"And what was his reply?"
"That he certainly did think he had given you offence in an affair which he merely referred to without
entering into particulars, but that whoever possessed the good opinion and confidence of the ship's
owner would have his preference also."
"The hypocrite!" murmured Danglars.
"Poor Dantes!" said Caderousse. "No one can deny his being a noble-hearted young fellow."
"But meanwhile," continued M. Morrel, "here is the Pharaon without a captain."
"Oh," replied Danglars, "since we cannot leave this port for the next three months, let us hope that ere the
expiration of that period Dantes will be set at liberty."

"No doubt; but in the meantime?"
"I am entirely at your service, M. Morrel," answered Danglars. "You know that I am as capable of
managing a ship as the most experienced captain in the service; and it will be so far advantageous to you
to accept my services, that upon Edmond's release from prison no further change will be requisite on
board the Pharaon than for Dantes and myself each to resume our respective posts."
"Thanks, Danglars -- that will smooth over all difficulties. I fully authorize you at once to assume the
command of the Pharaon, and look carefully to the unloading of her freight. Private misfortunes must
never be allowed to interfere with business."
"Be easy on that score, M. Morrel; but do you think we shall be permitted to see our poor Edmond?"
"I will let you know that directly I have seen M. de Villefort, whom I shall endeavor to interest in Edmond's
favor. I am aware he is a furious royalist; but, in spite of that, and of his being king's attorney, he is a man
like ourselves, and I fancy not a bad sort of one."
"Perhaps not," replied Danglars; "but I hear that he is ambitions, and that's rather against him."
"Well, well," returned M. Morrel, "we shall see. But now hasten on board, I will join you there ere long." So
saying, the worthy shipowner quitted the two allies, and proceeded in the direction of the Palais de
Justice.
"You see," said Danglars, addressing Caderousse, "the turn things have taken. Do you still feel any
desire to stand up in his defence?"
"Not the slightest, but yet it seems to me a shocking thing that a mere joke should lead to such

consequences."
"But who perpetrated that joke, let me ask? neither you nor myself, but Fernand; you knew very well that I
threw the paper into a corner of the room -- indeed, I fancied I had destroyed it."
"Oh, no," replied Caderousse, "that I can answer for, you did not. I only wish I could see it now as plainly
as I saw it lying all crushed and crumpled in a corner of the arbor."
"Well, then, if you did, depend upon it, Fernand picked it up, and either copied it or caused it to be copied;
perhaps, even, he did not take the trouble of recopying it. And now I think of it, by Heavens, he may have
sent the letter itself! Fortunately, for me, the handwriting was disguised."
"Then you were aware of Dantes being engaged in a conspiracy?"
"Not I. As I before said, I thought the whole thing was a joke, nothing more. It seems, however, that I have
unconsciously stumbled upon the truth."
"Still," argued Caderousse, "I would give a great deal if nothing of the kind had happened; or, at least, that
I had had no hand in it. You will see, Danglars, that it will turn out an unlucky job for both of us."
"Nonsense! If any harm come of it, it should fall on the guilty person; and that, you know, is Fernand. How
can we be implicated in any way? All we have got to do is, to keep our own counsel, and remain perfectly
quiet, not breathing a word to any living soul; and you will see that the storm will pass away without in the
least affecting us."
"Amen!" responded Caderousse, waving his hand in token of adieu to Danglars, and bending his steps
towards the Allees de Meillan, moving his head to and fro, and muttering as he went, after the manner of
one whose mind was overcharged with one absorbing idea.

"So far, then," said Danglars, mentally, "all has gone as I would have it. I am, temporarily, commander of
the Pharaon, with the certainty of being permanently so, if that fool of a Caderousse can be persuaded to
hold his tongue. My only fear is the chance of Dantes being released. But, there, he is in the hands of
Justice; and," added he with a smile, "she will take her own." So saying, he leaped into a boat, desiring to
be rowed on board the Pharaon, where M. Morrel had agreed to meet him. -------------------- [email protected]

Chapter 5 The Marriage-Feast.
The morning's sun rose clear and resplendent, touching the foamy waves into a network of ruby-tinted
light.
The feast had been made ready on the second floor at La Reserve, with whose arbor the reader is
already familiar. The apartment destined for the purpose was spacious and lighted by a number of
windows, over each of which was written in golden letters for some inexplicable reason the name of one
of the principal cities of France; beneath these windows a wooden balcony extended the entire length of
the house. And although the entertainment was fixed for twelve o'clock, an hour previous to that time the
balcony was filled with impatient and expectant guests, consisting of the favored part of the crew of the
Pharaon, and other personal friends of the bride-groom, the whole of whom had arrayed themselves in
their choicest costumes, in order to do greater honor to the occasion.
Various rumors were afloat to the effect that the owners of the Pharaon had promised to attend the

nuptial feast; but all seemed unanimous in doubting that an act of such rare and exceeding
condescension could possibly be intended.
Danglars, however, who now made his appearance, accompanied by Caderousse, effectually confirmed
the report, stating that he had recently conversed with M. Morrel, who had himself assured him of his
intention to dine at La Reserve.
In fact, a moment later M. Morrel appeared and was saluted with an enthusiastic burst of applause from
the crew of the Pharaon, who hailed the visit of the shipowner as a sure indication that the man whose
wedding feast he thus delighted to honor would ere long be first in command of the ship; and as Dantes
was universally beloved on board his vessel, the sailors put no restraint on their tumultuous joy at finding
that the opinion and choice of their superiors so exactly coincided with their own.
With the entrance of M. Morrel, Danglars and Caderousse were despatched in search of the bride-groom
to convey to him the intelligence of the arrival of the important personage whose coming had created
such a lively sensation, and to beseech him to make haste.
Danglars and Caderousse set off upon their errand at full speed; but ere they had gone many steps they
perceived a group advancing towards them, composed of the betrothed pair, a party of young girls in
attendance on the bride, by whose side walked Dantes' father; the whole brought up by Fernand, whose
lips wore their usual sinister smile.
Neither Mercedes nor Edmond observed the strange expression of his countenance; they were so happy
that they were conscious only of the sunshine and the presence of each other.
Having acquitted themselves of their errand, and exchanged a hearty shake of the hand with Edmond,
Danglars and Caderousse took their places beside Fernand and old Dantes, -- the latter of whom
attracted universal notice. The old man was attired in a suit of glistening watered silk, trimmed with steel
buttons, beautifully cut and polished. His thin but wiry legs were arrayed in a pair of richly embroidered
clocked stockings, evidently of English manufacture, while from his three-cornered hat depended a long
streaming knot of white and blue ribbons. Thus he came along, supporting himself on a curiously carved
stick, his aged countenance lit up with happiness, looking for all the world like one of the aged dandies of

1796, parading the newly opened gardens of the Tuileries and Luxembourg. Beside him glided
Caderousse, whose desire to partake of the good things provided for the wedding-party had induced him
to become reconciled to the Dantes, father and son, although there still lingered in his mind a faint and
unperfect recollection of the events of the preceding night; just as the brain retains on waking in the
morning the dim and misty outline of a dream.
As Danglars approached the disappointed lover, he cast on him a look of deep meaning, while Fernand,
as he slowly paced behind the happy pair, who seemed, in their own unmixed content, to have entirely
forgotten that such a being as himself existed, was pale and abstracted; occasionally, however, a deep
flush would overspread his countenance, and a nervous contraction distort his features, while, with an
agitated and restless gaze, he would glance in the direction of Marseilles, like one who either anticipated
or foresaw some great and important event.
Dantes himself was simply, but becomingly, clad in the dress peculiar to the merchant service -- a
costume somewhat between a military and a civil garb; and with his fine countenance, radiant with joy
and happiness, a more perfect specimen of manly beauty could scarcely be imagined.
Lovely as the Greek girls of Cyprus or Chios, Mercedes boasted the same bright flashing eyes of jet, and
ripe, round, coral lips. She moved with the light, free step of an Arlesienne or an Andalusian. One more
practiced in the arts of great cities would have hid her blushes beneath a veil, or, at least, have cast down
her thickly fringed lashes, so as to have concealed the liquid lustre of her animated eyes; but, on the
contrary, the delighted girl looked around her with a smile that seemed to say: "If you are my friends,
rejoice with me, for I am very happy."
As soon as the bridal party came in sight of La Reserve, M. Morrel descended and came forth to meet it,
followed by the soldiers and sailors there assembled, to whom he had repeated the promise already
given, that Dantes should be the successor to the late Captain Leclere. Edmond, at the approach of his
patron, respectfully placed the arm of his affianced bride within that of M. Morrel, who, forthwith
conducting her up the flight of wooden steps leading to the chamber in which the feast was prepared,
was gayly followed by the guests, beneath whose heavy tread the slight structure creaked and groaned
for the space of several minutes.
"Father," said Mercedes, stopping when she had reached the centre of the table, "sit, I pray you, on my
right hand; on my left I will place him who has ever been as a brother to me," pointing with a soft and

gentle smile to Fernand; but her words and look seemed to inflict the direst torture on him, for his lips
became ghastly pale, and even beneath the dark hue of his complexion the blood might be seen
retreating as though some sudden pang drove it back to the heart.
During this time, Dantes, at the opposite side of the table, had been occupied in similarly placing his most
honored guests. M. Morrel was seated at his right hand, Danglars at his left; while, at a sign from Edmond,
the rest of the company ranged themselves as they found it most agreeable.
Then they began to pass around the dusky, piquant, Arlesian sausages, and lobsters in their dazzling red
cuirasses, prawns of large size and brilliant color, the echinus with its prickly outside and dainty morsel
within, the clovis, esteemed by the epicures of the South as more than rivalling the exquisite flavor of the
oyster, -- all the delicacies, in fact, that are cast up by the wash of waters on the sandy beach, and styled
by the grateful fishermen "fruits of the sea."
"A pretty silence truly!" said the old father of the bride-groom, as he carried to his lips a glass of wine of
the hue and brightness of the topaz, and which had just been placed before Mercedes herself. "Now,
would anybody think that this room contained a happy, merry party, who desire nothing better than to
laugh and dance the hours away?"
"Ah," sighed Caderousse, "a man cannot always feel happy because he is about to be married."
"The truth is," replied Dantes, "that I am too happy for noisy mirth; if that is what you meant by your
observation, my worthy friend, you are right; joy takes a strange effect at times, it seems to oppress us
almost the same as sorrow."
Danglars looked towards Fernand, whose excitable nature received and betrayed each fresh impression.
"Why, what ails you?" asked he of Edmond. "Do you fear any approaching evil? I should say that you
were the happiest man alive at this instant."

"And that is the very thing that alarms me," returned Dantes. "Man does not appear to me to be intended
to enjoy felicity so unmixed; happiness is like the enchanted palaces we read of in our childhood, where
fierce, fiery dragons defend the entrance and approach; and monsters of all shapes and kinds, requiring
to be overcome ere victory is ours. I own that I am lost in wonder to find myself promoted to an honor of
which I feel myself unworthy -- that of being the husband of Mercedes."
"Nay, nay!" cried Caderousse, smiling, "you have not attained that honor yet. Mercedes is not yet your
wife. Just assume the tone and manner of a husband, and see how she will remind you that your hour is
not yet come!"
The bride blushed, while Fernand, restless and uneasy, seemed to start at every fresh sound, and from
time to time wiped away the large drops of perspiration that gathered on his brow.
"Well, never mind that, neighbor Caderousse; it is not worth while to contradict me for such a trifle as that.
'Tis true that Mercedes is not actually my wife; but," added he, drawing out his watch, "in an hour and a
half she will be."
A general exclamation of surprise ran round the table, with the exception of the elder Dantes, whose
laugh displayed the still perfect beauty of his large white teeth. Mercedes looked pleased and gratified,
while Fernand grasped the handle of his knife with a convulsive clutch.
"In an hour?" inquired Danglars, turning pale. "How is that, my friend?"
"Why, thus it is," replied Dantes. "Thanks to the influence of M. Morrel, to whom, next to my father, I owe
every blessing I enjoy, every difficulty his been removed. We have purchased permission to waive the
usual delay; and at half-past two o'clock the mayor of Marseilles will be waiting for us at the city hall. Now,
as a quarter-past one has already struck, I do not consider I have asserted too much in saying, that, in
another hour and thirty minutes Mercedes will have become Madame Dantes."

Fernand closed his eyes, a burning sensation passed across his brow, and he was compelled to support
himself by the table to prevent his falling from his chair; but in spite of all his efforts, he could not refrain
from uttering a deep groan, which, however, was lost amid the noisy felicitations of the company.
"Upon my word," cried the old man, "you make short work of this kind of affair. Arrived here only
yesterday morning, and married to-day at three o'clock! Commend me to a sailor for going the quick way
to work!"
"But," asked Danglars, in a timid tone, "how did you manage about the other formalities -- the contract --
the settlement?"
"The contract," answered Dantes, laughingly, "it didn't take long to fix that. Mercedes has no fortune; I
have none to settle on her. So, you see, our papers were quickly written out, and certainly do not come
very expensive." This joke elicited a fresh burst of applause.
"So that what we presumed to be merely the betrothal feast turns out to be the actual wedding dinner!"
said Danglars.
"No, no," answered Dantes; "don't imagine I am going to put you off in that shabby manner. To-morrow
morning I start for Paris; four days to go, and the same to return, with one day to discharge the
commission intrusted to me, is all the time I shall be absent. I shall be back here by the first of March, and
on the second I give my real marriage feast."
This prospect of fresh festivity redoubled the hilarity of the guests to such a degree, that the elder Dantes,
who, at the commencement of the repast, had commented upon the silence that prevailed, now found it
difficult, amid the general din of voices, to obtain a moment's tranquillity in which to drink to the health
and prosperity of the bride and bride-groom.
Dantes, perceiving the affectionate eagerness of his father, responded by a look of grateful pleasure;

while Mercedes glanced at the clock and made an expressive gesture to Edmond.
Around the table reigned that noisy hilarity which usually prevails at such a time among people
sufficiently free from the demands of social position not to feel the trammels of etiquette. Such as at the
commencement of the repast had not been able to seat themselves according to their inclination rose
unceremoniously, and sought out more agreeable companions. Everybody talked at once, without
waiting for a reply and each one seemed to be contented with expressing his or her own thoughts.
Fernand's paleness appeared to have communicated itself to Danglars. As for Fernand himself, he
seemed to be enduring the tortures of the d…mned; unable to rest, he was among the first to quit the
table, and, as though seeking to avoid the hilarious mirth that rose in such deafening sounds, he
continued, in utter silence, to pace the farther end of the salon.
Caderousse approached him just as Danglars, whom Fernand seemed most anxious to avoid, had joined
him in a corner of the room.
"Upon my word," said Caderousse, from whose mind the friendly treatment of Dantes, united with the
effect of the excellent wine he had partaken of, had effaced every feeling of envy or jealousy at Dantes'
good fortune, -- "upon my word, Dantes is a downright good fellow, and when I see him sitting there
beside his pretty wife that is so soon to be. I cannot help thinking it would have been a great pity to have
served him that trick you were planning yesterday."
"Oh, there was no harm meant," answered Danglars; "at first I certainly did feel somewhat uneasy as to
what Fernand might be tempted to do; but when I saw how completely he had mastered his feelings,
even so far as to become one of his rival's attendants, I knew there was no further cause for
apprehension." Caderousse looked full at Fernand -- he was ghastly pale.
"Certainly," continued Danglars, "the sacrifice was no trifling one, when the beauty of the bride is
concerned. Upon my soul, that future captain of mine is a lucky dog! Gad, I only wish he would let me
take his place."

"Shall we not set forth?" asked the sweet, silvery voice of Mercedes; "two o'clock has just struck, and you
know we are expected in a quarter of an hour."
"To be sure! -- to be sure!" cried Dantes, eagerly quitting the table; "let us go directly!"
His words were re-echoed by the whole party, with vociferous cheers.
At this moment Danglars, who had been incessantly observing every change in Fernand's look and
manner, saw him stagger and fall back, with an almost convulsive spasm, against a seat placed near one
of the open windows. At the same instant his ear caught a sort of indistinct sound on the stairs, followed
by the measured tread of soldiery, with the clanking of swords and military accoutrements; then came a
hum and buzz as of many voices, so as to deaden even the noisy mirth of the bridal party, among whom
a vague feeling of curiosity and apprehension quelled every disposition to talk, and almost
instantaneously the most deathlike stillness prevailed.
The sounds drew nearer. Three blows were struck upon the panel of the door. The company looked at
each other in consternation.
"I demand admittance," said a loud voice outside the room, "in the name of the law!" As no attempt was
made to prevent it, the door was opened, and a magistrate, wearing his official scarf, presented himself,
followed by four soldiers and a corporal. Uneasiness now yielded to the most extreme dread on the part
of those present.
"May I venture to inquire the reason of this unexpected visit?" said M. Morrel, addressing the magistrate,
whom he evidently knew; "there is doubtless some mistake easily explained."
"If it be so," replied the magistrate, "rely upon every reparation being made; meanwhile, I am the bearer
of an order of arrest, and although I most reluctantly perform the task assigned me, it must, nevertheless,
be fulfilled. Who among the persons here assembled answers to the name of Edmond Dantes?" Every

eye was turned towards the young man who, spite of the agitation he could not but feel, advanced with
dignity, and said, in a firm voice, "I am he; what is your pleasure with me?"
"Edmond Dantes," replied the magistrate, "I arrest you in the name of the law!"
"Me!" repeated Edmond, slightly changing color, "and wherefore, I pray?"
"I cannot inform you, but you will be duly acquainted with the reasons that have rendered such a step
necessary at the preliminary examination."
M. Morrel felt that further resistance or remonstrance was useless. He saw before him an officer
delegated to enforce the law, and perfectly well knew that it would be as unavailing to seek pity from a
magistrate decked with his official scarf, as to address a petition to some cold marble effigy. Old Dantes,
however, sprang forward. There are situations which the heart of a father or a mother cannot be made to
understand. He prayed and supplicated in terms so moving, that even the officer was touched, and,
although firm in his duty, he kindly said, "My worthy friend, let me beg of you to calm your apprehensions.
Your son has probably neglected some prescribed form or attention in registering his cargo, and it is
more than probable he will be set at liberty directly he has given the information required, whether
touching the health of his crew, or the value of his freight."
"What is the meaning of all this?" inquired Caderousse, frowningly, of Danglars, who had assumed an air
of utter surprise.
"How can I tell you?" replied he; "I am, like yourself, utterly bewildered at all that is going on, and cannot
in the least make out what it is about." Caderousse then looked around for Fernand, but he had
disappeared.
The scene of the previous night now came back to his mind with startling clearness. The painful
catastrophe he had just witnessed appeared effectually to have rent away the veil which the intoxication
of the evening before had raised between himself and his memory.

"So, so," said he, in a hoarse and choking voice, to Danglars, "this, then, I suppose, is a part of the trick
you were concerting yesterday? All I can say is, that if it be so, 'tis an ill turn, and well deserves to bring
double evil on those who have projected it."
"Nonsense," returned Danglars, "I tell you again I have nothing whatever to do with it; besides, you know
very well that I tore the paper to pieces."
"No, you did not!" answered Caderousse, "you merely threw it by -- I saw it lying in a corner."
"Hold your tongue, you fool! -- what should you know about it? -- why, you were drunk!"
"Where is Fernand?" inquired Caderousse.
"How do I know?" replied Danglars; "gone, as every prudent man ought to be, to look after his own affairs,
most likely. Never mind where he is, let you and I go and see what is to be done for our poor friends."
During this conversation, Dantes, after having exchanged a cheerful shake of the hand with all his
sympathizing friends, had surrendered himself to the officer sent to arrest him, merely saying, "Make
yourselves quite easy, my good fellows, there is some little mistake to clear up, that's all, depend upon it;
and very likely I may not have to go so far as the prison to effect that."
"Oh, to be sure!" responded Danglars, who had now approached the group, "nothing more than a
mistake, I feel quite certain."
Dantes descended the staircase, preceded by the magistrate, and followed by the soldiers. A carriage

awaited him at the door; he got in, followed by two soldiers and the magistrate, and the vehicle drove off
towards Marseilles.
"Adieu, adieu, dearest Edmond!" cried Mercedes, stretching out her arms to him from the balcony.
The prisoner heard the cry, which sounded like the sob of a broken heart, and leaning from the coach he
called out, "Good-by, Mercedes -- we shall soon meet again!" Then the vehicle disappeared round one of
the turnings of Fort Saint Nicholas.
"Wait for me here, all of you!" cried M. Morrel; "I will take the first conveyance I find, and hurry to
Marseilles, whence I will bring you word how all is going on."
"That's right!" exclaimed a multitude of voices, "go, and return as quickly as you can!"
This second departure was followed by a long and fearful state of terrified silence on the part of those
who were left behind. The old father and Mercedes remained for some time apart, each absorbed in grief;
but at length the two poor victims of the same blow raised their eyes, and with a simultaneous burst of
feeling rushed into each other's arms.
Meanwhile Fernand made his appearance, poured out for himself a glass of water with a trembling hand;
then hastily swallowing it, went to sit down at the first vacant place, and this was, by mere chance, placed
next to the seat on which poor Mercedes had fallen half fainting, when released from the warm and
affectionate embrace of old Dantes. Instinctively Fernand drew back his chair.
"He is the cause of all this misery -- I am quite sure of it," whispered Caderousse, who had never taken
his eyes off Fernand, to Danglars.
"I don't think so," answered the other; he's too stupid to imagine such a scheme. I only hope the mischief

will fall upon the head of whoever wrought it."
"You don't mention those who aided and abetted the deed," said Caderousse.
"Surely," answered Danglars, "one cannot be held responsible for every chance arrow shot into the air."
"You can, indeed, when the arrow lights point downward on somebody's head."
Meantime the subject of the arrest was being canvassed in every different form.
"What think you, Danglars," said one of the party, turning towards him, "of this event?"
"Why," replied he, "I think it just possible Dantes may have been detected with some trifling article on
board ship considered here as contraband."
"But how could he have done so without your knowledge, Danglars, since you are the ship's
supercargo?"
"Why, as for that, I could only know what I was told respecting the merchandise with which the vessel
was laden. I know she was loaded with cotton, and that she took in her freight at Alexandria from
Pastret's warehouse, and at Smyrna from Pascal's; that is all I was obliged to know, and I beg I may not
be asked for any further particulars."
"Now I recollect," said the afflicted old father; "my poor boy told me yesterday he had got a small case of
coffee, and another of tobacco for me!"

"There, you see," exclaimed Danglars. "Now the mischief is out; depend upon it the custom-house
people went rummaging about the ship in our absence, and discovered poor Dantes' hidden treasures."
Mercedes, however, paid no heed to this explanation of her lover's arrest. Her grief, which she had
hitherto tried to restrain, now burst out in a violent fit of hysterical sobbing.
"Come, come," said the old man, "be comforted, my poor child; there is still hope!"
"Hope!" repeated Danglars.
"Hope!" faintly murmured Fernand, but the word seemed to die away on his pale agitated lips, and a
convulsive spasm passed over his countenance.
"Good news! good news!" shouted forth one of the party stationed in the balcony on the lookout. "Here
comes M. Morrel back. No doubt, now, we shall hear that our friend is released!"
Mercedes and the old man rushed to meet the shipowner and greeted him at the door. He was very pale.
"What news?" exclaimed a general burst of voices.
"Alas, my friends," replied M. Morrel, with a mournful shake of his head, "the thing has assumed a more
serious aspect than I expected."
"Oh, indeed -- indeed, sir, he is innocent!" sobbed forth Mercedes.

"That I believe!" answered M. Morrel; "but still he is charged" --
"With what?" inquired the elder Dantes.
"With being an agent of the Bonapartist faction!" Many of our readers may be able to recollect how
formidable such an accusation became in the period at which our story is dated.
A despairing cry escaped the pale lips of Mercedes; the old man sank into a chair.
"Ah, Danglars!" whispered Caderousse, "you have deceived me -- the trick you spoke of last night has
been played; but I cannot suffer a poor old man or an innocent girl to die of grief through your fault. I am
determined to tell them all about it."
"Be silent, you simpleton!" cried Danglars, grasping him by the arm, "or I will not answer even for your
own safety. Who can tell whether Dantes be innocent or guilty? The vessel did touch at Elba, where he
quitted it, and passed a whole day in the island. Now, should any letters or other documents of a
compromising character be found upon him, will it not be taken for granted that all who uphold him are his
accomplices?"
With the rapid instinct of selfishness, Caderousse readily perceived the solidity of this mode of reasoning;
he gazed, doubtfully, wistfully, on Danglars, and then caution supplanted generosity.
"Suppose we wait a while, and see what comes of it," said he, casting a bewildered look on his
companion.

"To be sure!" answered Danglars. "Let us wait, by all means. If he be innocent, of course he will be set at
liberty; if guilty, why, it is no use involving ourselves in a conspiracy."
"Let us go, then. I cannot stay here any longer."
"With all my heart!" replied Danglars, pleased to find the other so tractable. "Let us take ourselves out of
the way, and leave things for the present to take their course."
After their departure, Fernand, who had now again become the friend and protector of Mercedes, led the
girl to her home, while the friends of Dantes conducted the now half-fainting man back to his abode.
The rumor of Edmond arrest as a Bonapartist agent was not slow in circulating throughout the city.
"Could you ever have credited such a thing, my dear Danglars?" asked M. Morrel, as, on his return to the
port for the purpose of gleaning fresh tidings of Dantes, from M. de Villefort, the assistant procureur, he
overtook his supercargo and Caderousse. "Could you have believed such a thing possible?"
"Why, you know I told you," replied Danglars, "that I considered the circumstance of his having anchored
at the Island of Elba as a very suspicious circumstance."
"And did you mention these suspicions to any person beside myself?"
"Certainly not!" returned Danglars. Then added in a low whisper, "You understand that, on account of
your uncle, M. Policar Morrel, who served under the other government, and who does not altogether
conceal what he thinks on the subject, you are strongly suspected of regretting the abdication of
Napoleon. I should have feared to injure both Edmond and yourself, had I divulged my own
apprehensions to a soul. I am too well aware that though a subordinate, like myself, is bound to acquaint
the shipowner with everything that occurs, there are many things he ought most carefully to conceal from

all else."
"'Tis well, Danglars -- 'tis well!" replied M. Morrel. "You are a worthy fellow; and I had already thought of
your interests in the event of poor Edmond having become captain of the Pharaon."
"Is it possible you were so kind?"
"Yes, indeed; I had previously inquired of Dantes what was his opinion of you, and if he should have any
reluctance to continue you in your post, for somehow I have perceived a sort of coolness between you."
"And what was his reply?"
"That he certainly did think he had given you offence in an affair which he merely referred to without
entering into particulars, but that whoever possessed the good opinion and confidence of the ship's
owner would have his preference also."
"The hypocrite!" murmured Danglars.
"Poor Dantes!" said Caderousse. "No one can deny his being a noble-hearted young fellow."
"But meanwhile," continued M. Morrel, "here is the Pharaon without a captain."
"Oh," replied Danglars, "since we cannot leave this port for the next three months, let us hope that ere the
expiration of that period Dantes will be set at liberty."

"No doubt; but in the meantime?"
"I am entirely at your service, M. Morrel," answered Danglars. "You know that I am as capable of
managing a ship as the most experienced captain in the service; and it will be so far advantageous to you
to accept my services, that upon Edmond's release from prison no further change will be requisite on
board the Pharaon than for Dantes and myself each to resume our respective posts."
"Thanks, Danglars -- that will smooth over all difficulties. I fully authorize you at once to assume the
command of the Pharaon, and look carefully to the unloading of her freight. Private misfortunes must
never be allowed to interfere with business."
"Be easy on that score, M. Morrel; but do you think we shall be permitted to see our poor Edmond?"
"I will let you know that directly I have seen M. de Villefort, whom I shall endeavor to interest in Edmond's
favor. I am aware he is a furious royalist; but, in spite of that, and of his being king's attorney, he is a man
like ourselves, and I fancy not a bad sort of one."
"Perhaps not," replied Danglars; "but I hear that he is ambitions, and that's rather against him."
"Well, well," returned M. Morrel, "we shall see. But now hasten on board, I will join you there ere long." So
saying, the worthy shipowner quitted the two allies, and proceeded in the direction of the Palais de
Justice.
"You see," said Danglars, addressing Caderousse, "the turn things have taken. Do you still feel any
desire to stand up in his defence?"
"Not the slightest, but yet it seems to me a shocking thing that a mere joke should lead to such

consequences."
"But who perpetrated that joke, let me ask? neither you nor myself, but Fernand; you knew very well that I
threw the paper into a corner of the room -- indeed, I fancied I had destroyed it."
"Oh, no," replied Caderousse, "that I can answer for, you did not. I only wish I could see it now as plainly
as I saw it lying all crushed and crumpled in a corner of the arbor."
"Well, then, if you did, depend upon it, Fernand picked it up, and either copied it or caused it to be copied;
perhaps, even, he did not take the trouble of recopying it. And now I think of it, by Heavens, he may have
sent the letter itself! Fortunately, for me, the handwriting was disguised."
"Then you were aware of Dantes being engaged in a conspiracy?"
"Not I. As I before said, I thought the whole thing was a joke, nothing more. It seems, however, that I have
unconsciously stumbled upon the truth."
"Still," argued Caderousse, "I would give a great deal if nothing of the kind had happened; or, at least, that
I had had no hand in it. You will see, Danglars, that it will turn out an unlucky job for both of us."
"Nonsense! If any harm come of it, it should fall on the guilty person; and that, you know, is Fernand. How
can we be implicated in any way? All we have got to do is, to keep our own counsel, and remain perfectly
quiet, not breathing a word to any living soul; and you will see that the storm will pass away without in the
least affecting us."
"Amen!" responded Caderousse, waving his hand in token of adieu to Danglars, and bending his steps
towards the Allees de Meillan, moving his head to and fro, and muttering as he went, after the manner of
one whose mind was overcharged with one absorbing idea.

"So far, then," said Danglars, mentally, "all has gone as I would have it. I am, temporarily, commander of
the Pharaon, with the certainty of being permanently so, if that fool of a Caderousse can be persuaded to
hold his tongue. My only fear is the chance of Dantes being released. But, there, he is in the hands of
Justice; and," added he with a smile, "she will take her own." So saying, he leaped into a boat, desiring to
be rowed on board the Pharaon, where M. Morrel had agreed to meet him. -------------------- [email protected]

[ 2004-07-22 14:21:31 slw4qd 修改 ]

[ 2004-07-22 14:21:58 slw4qd 修改 ]

Chapter 6 The Deputy Procureur du Roi.
In one of the aristocratic mansions built by Puget in the Rue du Grand Cours opposite the Medusa
fountain, a second marriage feast was being celebrated, almost at the same hour with the nuptial repast
given by Dantes. In this case, however, although the occasion of the entertainment was similar, the
company was strikingly dissimilar. Instead of a rude mixture of sailors, soldiers, and those belonging to
the humblest grade of life, the present assembly was composed of the very flower of Marseilles society, --
magistrates who had resigned their office during the usurper's reign; officers who had deserted from the
imperial army and joined forces with Conde; and younger members of families, brought up to hate and
execrate the man whom five years of exile would convert into a martyr, and fifteen of restoration elevate
to the rank of a god.
The guests were still at table, and the heated and energetic conversation that prevailed betrayed the
violent and vindictive passions that then agitated each dweller of the South, where unhappily, for five
centuries religious strife had long given increased bitterness to the violence of party feeling.
The emperor, now king of the petty Island of Elba, after having held sovereign sway over one-half of the
world, counting as his subjects a small population of five or six thousand souls, -- after having been
accustomed to hear the "Vive Napoleons" of a hundred and twenty millions of human beings, uttered in
ten different languages, -- was looked upon here as a ruined man, separated forever from any fresh
connection with France or claim to her throne.
The magistrates freely discussed their political views; the military part of the company talked

unreservedly of Moscow and Leipsic, while the women commented on the divorce of Josephine. It was
not over the downfall of the man, but over the defeat of the Napoleonic idea, that they rejoiced, and in this
they foresaw for themselves the bright and cheering prospect of a revivified political existence.
An old man, decorated with the cross of Saint Louis, now rose and proposed the health of King Louis
XVIII. It was the Marquis de Saint-Meran. This toast, recalling at once the patient exile of Hartwell and the
peace-loving King of France, excited universal enthusiasm; glasses were elevated in the air a l'Anglais,
and the ladies, snatching their bouquets from their fair bosoms, strewed the table with their floral
treasures. In a word, an almost poetical fervor prevailed.
"Ah," said the Marquise de Saint-Meran, a woman with a stern, forbidding eye, though still noble and
distinguished in appearance, despite her fifty years -- "ah, these revolutionists, who have driven us from
those very possessions they afterwards purchased for a mere trifle during the Reign of Terror, would be
compelled to own, were they here, that all true devotion was on our side, since we were content to follow
the fortunes of a falling monarch, while they, on the contrary, made their fortune by worshipping the rising
sun; yes, yes, they could not help admitting that the king, for whom we sacrificed rank, wealth, and
station was truly our `Louis the well-beloved,' while their wretched usurper his been, and ever will be, to
them their evil genius, their `Napoleon the accursed.' Am I not right, Villefort?"
"I beg your pardon, madame. I really must pray you to excuse me, but -- in truth -- I was not attending to
the conversation."
"Marquise, marquise!" interposed the old nobleman who had proposed the toast, "let the young people
alone; let me tell you, on one's wedding day there are more agreeable subjects of conversation than dry
politics."
"Never mind, dearest mother," said a young and lovely girl, with a profusion of light brown hair, and eyes
that seemed to float in liquid crystal, "'tis all my fault for seizing upon M. de Villefort, so as to prevent his
listening to what you said. But there -- now take him -- he is your own for as long as you like. M. Villefort, I
beg to remind you my mother speaks to you."
"If the marquise will deign to repeat the words I but imperfectly caught, I shall be delighted to answer,"

said M. de Villefort.
"Never mind, Renee," replied the marquise, with a look of tenderness that seemed out of keeping with
her harsh dry features; but, however all other feelings may be withered in a woman's nature, there is
always one bright smiling spot in the desert of her heart, and that is the shrine of maternal love. "I forgive
you. What I was saying, Villefort, was, that the Bonapartists had not our sincerity, enthusiasm, or
devotion."
"They had, however, what supplied the place of those fine qualities," replied the young man, "and that
was fanaticism. Napoleon is the Mahomet of the West, and is worshipped by his commonplace but
ambitions followers, not only as a leader and lawgiver, but also as the personification of equality."
"He!" cried the marquise: "Napoleon the type of equality! For mercy's sake, then, what would you call
Robespierre? Come, come, do not strip the latter of his just rights to bestow them on the Corsican, who,
to my mind, has usurped quite enough."
"Nay, madame; I would place each of these heroes on his right pedestal -- that of Robespierre on his
scaffold in the Place Louis Quinze; that of Napoleon on the column of the Place Vendome. The only
difference consists in the opposite character of the equality advocated by these two men; one is the
equality that elevates, the other is the equality that degrades; one brings a king within reach of the
guillotine, the other elevates the people to a level with the throne. Observe," said Villefort, smiling, "I do
not mean to deny that both these men were revolutionary scoundrels, and that the 9th Thermidor and the
4th of April, in the year 1814, were lucky days for France, worthy of being gratefully remembered by
every friend to monarchy and civil order; and that explains how it comes to pass that, fallen, as I trust he
is forever, Napoleon has still retained a train of parasitical satellites. Still, marquise, it has been so with
other usurpers -- Cromwell, for instance, who was not half so bad as Napoleon, had his partisans and
advocates."
"Do you know, Villefort, that you are talking in a most dreadfully revolutionary strain? But I excuse it, it is
impossible to expect the son of a Girondin to be free from a small spice of the old leaven." A deep
crimson suffused the countenance of Villefort.

"'Tis true, madame," answered he, "that my father was a Girondin, but he was not among the number of
those who voted for the king's death; he was an equal sufferer with yourself during the Reign of Terror,
and had well-nigh lost his head on the same scaffold on which your father perished."
"True," replied the marquise, without wincing in the slightest degree at the tragic remembrance thus
called up; "but bear in mind, if you please, that our respective parents underwent persecution and
proscription from diametrically opposite principles; in proof of which I may remark, that while my family
remained among the stanchest adherents of the exiled princes, your father lost no time in joining the new
government; and that while the Citizen Noirtier was a Girondin, the Count Noirtier became a senator."
"Dear mother," interposed Renee, "you know very well it was agreed that all these disagreeable
reminiscences should forever be laid aside."
"Suffer me, also, madame," replied Villefort, "to add my earnest request to Mademoiselle de
Saint-Meran's, that you will kindly allow the veil of oblivion to cover and conceal the past. What avails
recrimination over matters wholly past recall? For my own part, I have laid aside even the name of my
father, and altogether disown his political principles. He was -- nay, probably may still be -- a Bonapartist,
and is called Noirtier; I, on the contrary, am a stanch royalist, and style myself de Villefort. Let what may
remain of revolutionary sap exhaust itself and die away with the old trunk, and condescend only to regard
the young shoot which has started up at a distance from the parent tree, without having the power, any
more than the wish, to separate entirely from the stock from which it sprung."
"Bravo, Villefort!" cried the marquis; "excellently well said! Come, now, I have hopes of obtaining what I
have been for years endeavoring to persuade the marquise to promise; namely, a perfect amnesty and
forgetfulness of the past."
"With all my heart," replied the marquise; "let the past be forever forgotten. I promise you it affords me as
little pleasure to revive it as it does you. All I ask is, that Villefort will be firm and inflexible for the future in
his political principles. Remember, also, Villefort, that we have pledged ourselves to his majesty for your
fealty and strict loyalty, and that at our recommendation the king consented to forget the past, as I do"
(and here she extended to him her hand) -- "as I now do at your entreaty. But bear in mind, that should
there fall in your way any one guilty of conspiring against the government, you will be so much the more
bound to visit the offence with rigorous punishment, as it is known you belong to a suspected family."

"Alas, madame," returned Villefort, "my profession, as well as the times in which we live, compels me to
be severe. I have already successfully conducted several public prosecutions, and brought the offenders
to merited punishment. But we have not done with the thing yet."
"Do you, indeed, think so?" inquired the marquise.
"I am, at least, fearful of it. Napoleon, in the Island of Elba, is too near France, and his proximity keeps up
the hopes of his partisans. Marseilles is filled with half-pay officers, who are daily, under one frivolous
pretext or other, getting up quarrels with the royalists; from hence arise continual and fatal duels among
the higher classes of persons, and assassinations in the lower."
"You have heard, perhaps," said the Comte de Salvieux, one of M. de Saint-Meran's oldest friends, and
chamberlain to the Comte d'Artois, "that the Holy Alliance purpose removing him from thence?"
"Yes; they were talking about it when we left Paris," said M. de Saint-Meran; "and where is it decided to
transfer him?"
"To Saint Helena."
"For heaven's sake, where is that?" asked the marquise.
"An island situated on the other side of the equator, at least two thousand leagues from here," replied the
count.
"So much the better. As Villefort observes, it is a great act of folly to have left such a man between
Corsica, where he was born, and Naples, of which his brother-in-law is king, and face to face with Italy,

the sovereignty of which he coveted for his son."
"Unfortunately," said Villefort, "there are the treaties of 1814, and we cannot molest Napoleon without
breaking those compacts."
"Oh, well, we shall find some way out of it," responded M. de Salvieux. "There wasn't any trouble over
treaties when it was a question of shooting the poor Duc d'Enghien."
"Well," said the marquise, "it seems probable that, by the aid of the Holy Alliance, we shall be rid of
Napoleon; and we must trust to the vigilance of M. de Villefort to purify Marseilles of his partisans. Tbe
king is either a king or no king; if he be acknowledged as sovereign of France, he should be upheld in
peace and tranquillity; and this can best be effected by employing the most inflexible agents to put down
every attempt at conspiracy -- 'tis the best and surest means of preventing mischief."
"Unfortunately, madame," answered Villefort, "the strong arm of the law is not called upon to interfere
until the evil has taken place."
"Then all he has got to do is to endeavor to repair it."
"Nay, madame, the law is frequently powerless to effect this; all it can do is to avenge the wrong done."
"Oh, M. de Villefort," cried a beautiful young creature, daughter to the Comte de Salvieux, and the
cherished friend of Mademoiselle de Saint-Meran, "do try and get up some famous trial while we are at
Marseilles. I never was in a law-court; I am told it is so very amusing!"
"Amusing, certainly," replied the young man, "inasmuch as, instead of shedding tears as at the fictitious
tale of woe produced at a theatre, you behold in a law-court a case of real and genuine distress -- a
drama of life. The prisoner whom you there see pale, agitated, and alarmed, instead of -- as is the case

when a curtain falls on a tragedy -- going home to sup peacefully with his family, and then retiring to rest,
that he may recommence his mimic woes on the morrow, -- is removed from your sight merely to be
reconducted to his prison and delivered up to the executioner. I leave you to judge how far your nerves
are calculated to bear you through such a scene. Of this, however, be assured, that should any favorable
opportunity present itself, I will not fail to offer you the choice of being present."
"For shame, M. de Villefort!" said Renee, becoming quite pale; "don't you see how you are frightening us?
-- and yet you laugh."
"What would you have? 'Tis like a duel. I have already recorded sentence of death, five or six times,
against the movers of political conspiracies, and who can say how many daggers may be ready
sharpened, and only waiting a favorable opportunity to be buried in my heart?"
"Gracious heavens, M. de Villefort," said Renee, becoming more and more terrified; "you surely are not in
earnest."
"Indeed I am," replied the young magistrate with a smile; "and in the interesting trial that young lady is
anxious to witness, the case would only be still more aggravated. Suppose, for instance, the prisoner, as
is more than probable, to have served under Napoleon -- well, can you expect for an instant, that one
accustomed, at the word of his commander, to rush fearlessly on the very bayonets of his foe, will scruple
more to drive a stiletto into the heart of one he knows to be his personal enemy, than to slaughter his
fellow-creatures, merely because bidden to do so by one he is bound to obey? Besides, one requires the
excitement of being hateful in the eyes of the accused, in order to lash one's self into a state of sufficient
vehemence and power. I would not choose to see the man against whom I pleaded smile, as though in
mockery of my words. No; my pride is to see the accused pale, agitated, and as though beaten out of all
composure by the fire of my eloquence." Renee uttered a smothered exclamation.
"Bravo!" cried one of the guests; "that is what I call talking to some purpose."
"Just the person we require at a time like the present," said a second.

"What a splendid business that last case of yours was, my dear Villefort!" remarked a third; "I mean the
trial of the man for murdering his father. Upon my word, you killed him ere the executioner had laid his
hand upon him."
"Oh, as for parricides, and such dreadful people as that," interposed Renee, "it matters very little what is
done to them; but as regards poor unfortunate creatures whose only crime consists in having mixed
themselves up in political intrigues" --
"Why, that is the very worst offence they could possibly commit; for, don't you see, Renee, the king is the
father of his people, and he who shall plot or contrive aught against the life and safety of the parent of
thirty-two millions of souls, is a parricide upon a fearfully great scale?"
"I don't know anything about that," replied Renee; "but, M. de Villefort, you have promised me -- have you
not? -- always to show mercy to those I plead for."
"Make yourself quite easy on that point," answered Villefort, with one of his sweetest smiles; "you and I
will always consult upon our verdicts."
"My love," said the marquise, "attend to your doves, your lap-dogs, and embroidery, but do not meddle
with what you do not understand. Nowadays the military profession is in abeyance and the magisterial
robe is the badge of honor. There is a wise Latin proverb that is very much in point."
"Cedant arma togae," said Villefort with a bow.
"I cannot speak Latin," responded the marquise.
"Well," said Renee, "I cannot help regretting you had not chosen some other profession than your own --

a physician, for instance. Do you know I always felt a shudder at the idea of even a destroying angel?"
"Dear, good Renee," whispered Villefort, as he gazed with unutterable tenderness on the lovely speaker.
"Let us hope, my child," cried the marquis, "that M. de Villefort may prove the moral and political
physician of this province; if so, he will have achieved a noble work."
"And one which will go far to efface the recollection of his father's conduct," added the incorrigible
marquise.
"Madame," replied Villefort, with a mournful smile, "I have already had the honor to observe that my
father has -- at least, I hope so -- abjured his past errors, and that he is, at the present moment, a firm
and zealous friend to religion and order -- a better royalist, possibly, than his son; for he has to atone for
past dereliction, while I have no other impulse than warm, decided preference and conviction." Having
made this well-turned speech, Villefort looked carefully around to mark the effect of his oratory, much as
he would have done had he been addressing the bench in open court.
"Do you know, my dear Villefort," cried the Comte de Salvieux, "that is exactly what I myself said the
other day at the Tuileries, when questioned by his majesty's principal chamberlain touching the
singularity of an alliance between the son of a Girondin and the daughter of an officer of the Duc de
Conde; and I assure you he seemed fully to comprehend that this mode of reconciling political
differences was based upon sound and excellent principles. Then the king, who, without our suspecting it,
had overheard our conversation, interrupted us by saying, `Villefort' -- observe that the king did not
pronounce the word Noirtier, but, on the contrary, placed considerable emphasis on that of Villefort --
`Villefort,' said his majesty, `is a young man of great judgment and discretion, who will be sure to make a
figure in his profession; I like him much, and it gave me great pleasure to hear that he was about to
become the son-in-law of the Marquis and Marquise de Saint-Meran. I should myself have recommended
the match, had not the noble marquis anticipated my wishes by requesting my consent to it.'"
"Is it possible the king could have condescended so far as to express himself so favorably of me?" asked
the enraptured Villefort.

"I give you his very words; and if the marquis chooses to be candid, he will confess that they perfectly
agree with what his majesty said to him, when he went six months ago to consult him upon the subject of
your espousing his daughter."
"That is true," answered the marquis.
"How much do I owe this gracious prince! What is there I would not do to evince my earnest gratitude!"
"That is right," cried the marquise. "I love to see you thus. Now, then, were a conspirator to fall into your
hands, he would be most welcome."
"For my part, dear mother." interposed Renee, "I trust your wishes will not prosper, and that Providence
will only permit petty offenders, poor debtors, and miserable cheats to fall into M. de Villefort's hands, --
then I shall be contented."
"Just the same as though you prayed that a physician might only be called upon to prescribe for
headaches, measles, and the stings of wasps, or any other slight affection of the epidermis. If you wish to
see me the king's attorney, you must desire for me some of those violent and dangerous diseases from
the cure of which so much honor redounds to the physician."
At this moment, and as though the utterance of Villefort's wish had sufficed to effect its accomplishment,
a servant entered the room, and whispered a few words in his ear. Villefort immediately rose from table
and quitted the room upon the plea of urgent business; he soon, however, returned, his whole face
beaming with delight. Renee regarded him with fond affection; and certainly his handsome features, lit up
as they then were with more than usual fire and animation, seemed formed to excite the innocent
admiration with which she gazed on her graceful and intelligent lover.
"You were wishing just now," said Villefort, addressing her, "that I were a doctor instead of a lawyer. Well,

I at least resemble the disciples of Esculapius in one thing -- that of not being able to call a day my own,
not even that of my betrothal."
"And wherefore were you called away just now?" asked Mademoiselle de Saint-Meran, with an air of
deep interest.
"For a very serious matter, which bids fair to make work for the executioner."
"How dreadful!" exclaimed Renee, turning pale.
"Is it possible?" burst simultaneously from all who were near enough to the magistrate to hear his words.
"Why, if my information prove correct, a sort of Bonaparte conspiracy has just been discovered."
"Can I believe my ears?" cried the marquise.
"I will read you the letter containing the accusation, at least," said Villefort: --
"`The king's attorney is informed by a friend to the throne and the religions institutions of his country, that
one named Edmond Dantes, mate of the ship Pharaon, this day arrived from Smyrna, after having
touched at Naples and Porto-Ferrajo, has been the bearer of a letter from Murat to the usurper, and again
taken charge of another letter from the usurper to the Bonapartist club in Paris. Ample corroboration of
this statement may be obtained by arresting the above-mentioned Edmond Dantes, who either carries
the letter for Paris about with him, or has it at his father's abode. Should it not be found in the possession
of father or son, then it will assuredly be discovered in the cabin belonging to the said Dantes on board
the Pharaon.'"

"But," said Renee, "this letter, which, after all, is but an anonymous scrawl, is not even addressed to you,
but to the king's attorney."
"True; but that gentleman being absent, his secretary, by his orders, opened his letters; thinking this one
of importance, he sent for me, but not finding me, took upon himself to give the necessary orders for
arresting the accused party."
"Then the guilty person is absolutely in custody?" said the marquise.
"Nay, dear mother, say the accused person. You know we cannot yet pronounce him guilty."
"He is in safe custody," answered Villefort; "and rely upon it, if the letter is found, he will not be likely to be
trusted abroad again, unless he goes forth under the especial protection of the headsman."
"And where is the unfortunate being?" asked Renee.
"He is at my house."
"Come, come, my friend," interrupted the marquise, "do not neglect your duty to linger with us. You are
the king's servant, and must go wherever that service calls you."
"O Villefort!" cried Renee, clasping her hands, and looking towards her lover with piteous earnestness,
"be merciful on this the day of our betrothal."
The young man passed round to the side of the table where the fair pleader sat, and leaning over her

chair said tenderly, --
"To give you pleasure, my sweet Renee, I promise to show all the lenity in my power; but if the charges
brought against this Bonapartist hero prove correct, why, then, you really must give me leave to order his
head to be cut off." Renee shuddered.
"Never mind that foolish girl, Villefort," said the marquise. "She will soon get over these things." So saying,
Madame de Saint-Meran extended her dry bony hand to Villefort, who, while imprinting a son-in-law's
respectful salute on it, looked at Renee, as much as to say, "I must try and fancy 'tis your dear hand I kiss,
as it should have been."
"These are mournful auspices to accompany a betrothal," sighed poor Renee.
"Upon my word, child!" exclaimed the angry marquise, "your folly exceeds all bounds. I should be glad to
know what connection there can possibly be between your sickly sentimentality and the affairs of the
state!"
"O mother!" murmured Renee.
"Nay, madame, I pray you pardon this little traitor. I promise you that to make up for her want of loyalty, I
will be most inflexibly severe;" then casting an expressive glance at his betrothed, which seemed to say,
"Fear not, for your dear sake my justice shall be tempered with mercy," and receiving a sweet and
approving smile in return, Villefort quitted the room. -------------------- [email protected]

Chapter 7 The Examination.

No sooner had Villefort left the salon, than he assumed the grave air of a man who holds the balance of
life and death in his hands. Now, in spite of the mobility of his countenance, the command of which, like a
finished actor, he had carefully studied before the glass, it was by no means easy for him to assume an
air of judicial severity. Except the recollection of the line of politics his father had adopted, and which
might interfere, unless he acted with the greatest prudence, with his own career, Gerard de Villefort was
as happy as a man could be. Already rich, he held a high official situation, though only twenty-seven. He
was about to marry a young and charming woman, whom he loved, not passionately, but reasonably, as
became a deputy attorney of the king; and besides her personal attractions, which were very great,
Mademoiselle de Saint-Meran's family possessed considerable political influence, which they would, of
course, exert in his favor. The dowry of his wife amounted to fifty thousand crowns, and he had, besides,
the prospect of seeing her fortune increased to half a million at her father's death. These considerations
naturally gave Villefort a feeling of such complete felicity that his mind was fairly dazzled in its
contemplation.
At the door he met the commissary of police, who was waiting for him. The sight of this officer recalled
Villefort from the third heaven to earth; he composed his face, as we have before described, and said, "I
have read the letter, sir, and you have acted rightly in arresting this man; now inform me what you have
discovered concerning him and the conspiracy."
"We know nothing as yet of the conspiracy, monsieur; all the papers found have been sealed up and
placed on your desk. The prisoner himself is named Edmond Dantes, mate on board the three-master
the Pharaon, trading in cotton with Alexandria and Smyrna, and belonging to Morrel & Son, of
Marseilles."
"Before he entered the merchant service, had he ever served in the marines?"
"Oh, no, monsieur, he is very young."
"How old?"
"Nineteen or twenty at the most."

At this moment, and as Villefort had arrived at the corner of the Rue des Conseils, a man, who seemed to
have been waiting for him, approached; it was M. Morrel.
"Ah, M. de Villefort," cried he, "I am delighted to see you. Some of your people have committed the
strangest mistake -- they have just arrested Edmond Dantes, mate of my vessel."
"I know it, monsieur," replied Villefort, "and I am now going to examine him."
"Oh," said Morrel, carried away by his friendship, "you do not know him, and I do. He is the most
estimable, the most trustworthy creature in the world, and I will venture to say, there is not a better
seaman in all the merchant service. Oh, M. de Villefort, I beseech your indulgence for him."
Villefort, as we have seen, belonged to the aristocratic party at Marseilles, Morrel to the plebeian; the first
was a royalist, the other suspected of Bonapartism. Villefort looked disdainfully at Morrel, and replied, --
"You are aware, monsieur, that a man may be estimable and trustworthy in private life, and the best
seaman in the merchant service, and yet be, politically speaking, a great criminal. Is it not true?"
The magistrate laid emphasis on these words, as if he wished to apply them to the owner himself, while
his eyes seemed to plunge into the heart of one who, interceding for another, had himself need of
indulgence. Morrel reddened, for his own conscience was not quite clear on politics; besides, what
Dantes had told him of his interview with the grand-marshal, and what the emperor had said to him,
embarrassed him. He replied, however, --
"I entreat you, M. de Villefort, be, as you always are, kind and equitable, and give him back to us soon."
This give us sounded revolutionary in the deputy's ears.

"Ah, ah," murmured he, "is Dantes then a member of some Carbonari society, that his protector thus
employs the collective form? He was, if I recollect, arrested in a tavern, in company with a great many
others." Then he added, "Monsieur, you may rest assured I shall perform my duty impartially, and that if
he be innocent you shall not have appealed to me in vain; should he, however, be guilty, in this present
epoch, impunity would furnish a dangerous example, and I must do my duty."
As he had now arrived at the door of his own house, which adjoined the Palais de Justice, he entered,
after having, coldly saluted the shipowner, who stood, as if petrified, on the spot where Villefort had left
him. The ante-chamber was full of police agents and gendarmes, in the midst of whom, carefully watched,
but calm and smiling, stood the prisoner. Villefort traversed the ante-chamber, cast a side glance at
Dantes, and taking a packet which a gendarme offered him, disappeared, saying, "Bring in the prisoner."
Rapid as had been Villefort's glance, it had served to give him an idea of the man he was about to
interrogate. He had recognized intelligence in the high forehead, courage in the dark eye and bent brow,
and frankness in the thick lips that showed a set of pearly teeth. Villefort's first impression was favorable;
but he had been so often warned to mistrust first impulses, that he applied the maxim to the impression,
forgetting the difference between the two words. He stifled, therefore, the feelings of compassion that
were rising, composed his features, and sat down, grim and sombre, at his desk. An instant after Dantes
entered. He was pale, but calm and collected, and saluting his judge with easy politeness, looked round
for a seat, as if he had been in M. Morrel's salon. It was then that he encountered for the first time
Villefort's look, -- that look peculiar to the magistrate, who, while seeming to read the thoughts of others,
betrays nothing of his own.
"Who and what are you?" demanded Villefort, turning over a pile of papers, containing information
relative to the prisoner, that a police agent had given to him on his entry, and that, already, in an hour's
time, had swelled to voluminous proportions, thanks to the corrupt espionage of which "the accused" is
always made the victim.
"My name is Edmond Dantes," replied the young man calmly; "I am mate of the Pharaon, belonging to
Messrs. Morrel & Son."
"Your age?" continued Villefort.

"Nineteen," returned Dantes.
"What were you doing at the moment you were arrested?"
"I was at the festival of my marriage, monsieur," said the young man, his voice slightly tremulous, so
great was the contrast between that happy moment and the painful ceremony he was now undergoing;
so great was the contrast between the sombre aspect of M. de Villefort and the radiant face of Mercedes.
"You were at the festival of your marriage?" said the deputy, shuddering in spite of himself.
"Yes, monsieur; I am on the point of marrying a young girl I have been attached to for three years."
Villefort, impassive as he was, was struck with this coincidence; and the tremulous voice of Dantes,
surprised in the midst of his happiness, struck a sympathetic chord in his own bosom -- he also was on
the point of being married, and he was summoned from his own happiness to destroy that of another.
"This philosophic reflection," thought he, "will make a great sensation at M. de Saint-Meran's;" and he
arranged mentally, while Dantes awaited further questions, the antithesis by which orators often create a
reputation for eloquence. When this speech was arranged, Villefort turned to Dantes.
"Go on, sir," said he.
"What would you have me say?"
"Give all the information in your power."
"Tell me on which point you desire information, and I will tell all I know; only," added he, with a smile, "I
warn you I know very little."

"Have you served under the usurper?"
"I was about to be mustered into the Royal Marines when he fell."
"It is reported your political opinions are extreme," said Villefort, who had never heard anything of the kind,
but was not sorry to make this inquiry, as if it were an accusation.
"My political opinions!" replied Dantes. "Alas, sir, I never had any opinions. I am hardly nineteen; I know
nothing; I have no part to play. If I obtain the situation I desire, I shall owe it to M. Morrel. Thus all my
opinions -- I will not say public, but private -- are confined to these three sentiment, -- I love my father, I
respect M. Morrel, and I adore Mercedes. This, sir, is all I can tell you, and you see how uninteresting it
is." As Dantes spoke, Villefort gazed at his ingenuous and open countenance, and recollected the words
of Renee, who, without knowing who the culprit was, had besought his indulgence for him. With the
deputy's knowledge of crime and criminals, every word the young man uttered convinced him more and
more of his innocence. This lad, for he was scarcely a man, -- simple, natural, eloquent with that
eloquence of the heart never found when sought for; full of affection for everybody, because he was
happy, and because happiness renders even the wicked good -- extended his affection even to his judge,
spite of Villefort's severe look and stern accent. Dantes seemed full of kindness.
"Pardieu," said Villefort, "he is a noble fellow. I hope I shall gain Renee's favor easily by obeying the first
command she ever imposed on me. I shall have at least a pressure of the hand in public, and a sweet
kiss in private." Full of this idea, Villefort's face became so joyous, that when he turned to Dantes, the
latter, who had watched the change on his physiognomy, was smiling also.
"Sir," said Villefort, "have you any enemies, at least, that you know."
"I have enemies?" replied Dantes; "my position is not sufficiently elevated for that. As for my disposition,
that is, perhaps, somewhat too hasty; but I have striven to repress it. I have had ten or twelve sailors
under me, and if you question them, they will tell you that they love and respect me, not as a father, for I

am too young, but as an elder brother."
"But you may have excited jealousy. You are about to become captain at nineteen -- an elevated post;
you are about to marry a pretty girl, who loves you; and these two pieces of good fortune may have
excited the envy of some one."
"You are right; you know men better than I do, and what you say may possibly be the case, I confess; but
if such persons are among my acquaintances I prefer not to know it, because then I should be forced to
hate them."
"You are wrong; you should always strive to see clearly around you. You seem a worthy young man; I will
depart from the strict line of my duty to aid you in discovering the author of this accusation. Here is the
paper; do you know the writing?" As he spoke, Villefort drew the letter from his pocket, and presented it to
Dantes. Dantes read it. A cloud passed over his brow as he said, --
"No, monsieur, I do not know the writing, and yet it is tolerably plain. Whoever did it writes well. I am very
fortunate," added he, looking gratefully at Villefort, "to be examined by such a man as you; for this
envious person is a real enemy." And by the rapid glance that the young man's eyes shot forth, Villefort
saw how much energy lay hid beneath this mildness.
"Now," said the deputy, "answer me frankly, not as a prisoner to a judge, but as one man to another who
takes an interest in him, what truth is there in the accusation contained in this anonymous letter?" And
Villefort threw disdainfully on his desk the letter Dantes had just given back to him.
"None at all. I will tell you the real facts. I swear by my honor as a sailor, by my love for Mercedes, by the
life of my father" --
"Speak, monsieur," said Villefort. Then, internally, "If Renee could see me, I hope she would be satisfied,
and would no longer call me a decapitator."

"Well, when we quitted Naples, Captain Leclere was attacked with a brain fever. As we had no doctor on
board, and he was so anxious to arrive at Elba, that he would not touch at any other port, his disorder
rose to such a height, that at the end of the third day, feeling he was dying, he called me to him. `My dear
Dantes,' said he, `swear to perform what I am going to tell you, for it is a matter of the deepest
importance.'
"`I swear, captain,' replied I.
"`Well, as after my death the command devolves on you as mate, assume the command, and bear up for
the Island of Elba, disembark at Porto-Ferrajo, ask for the grand-marshal, give him this letter -- perhaps
they will give you another letter, and charge you with a commission. You will accomplish what I was to
have done, and derive all the honor and profit from it.'
"`I will do it, captain; but perhaps I shall not be admitted to the grand marshal's presence as easily as you
expect?'
"`Here is a ring that will obtain audience of him, and remove every difficulty,' said the captain. At these
words he gave me a ring. It was time -- two hours after he was delirious; the next day he died."
"And what did you do then?"
"What I ought to have done, and what every one would have done in my place. Everywhere the last
requests of a dying man are sacred; but with a sailor the last requests of his superior are commands. I
sailed for the Island of Elba, where I arrived the next day; I ordered everybody to remain on board, and
went on shore alone. As I had expected, I found some difficulty in obtaining access to the grand-marshal;
but I sent the ring I had received from the captain to him, and was instantly admitted. He questioned me
concerning Captain Leclere's death; and, as the latter had told me, gave me a letter to carry on to a
person in Paris. I undertook it because it was what my captain had bade me do. I landed here, regulated
the affairs of the vessel, and hastened to visit my affianced bride, whom I found more lovely than ever.
Thanks to M. Morrel, all the forms were got over; in a word I was, as I told you, at my marriage-feast; and

I should have been married in an hour, and to-morrow I intended to start for Paris, had I not been arrested
on this charge which you as well as I now see to be unjust."
"Ah," said Villefort, "this seems to me the truth. If you have been culpable, it was imprudence, and this
imprudence was in obedience to the orders of your captain. Give up this letter you have brought from
Elba, and pass your word you will appear should you be required, and go and rejoin your friends.
"I am free, then, sir?" cried Dantes joyfully.
"Yes; but first give me this letter."
"You have it already, for it was taken from me with some others which I see in that packet."
"Stop a moment," said the deputy, as Dantes took his hat and gloves. "To whom is it addressed?"
"To Monsieur Noirtier, Rue Coq-Heron, Paris." Had a thunderbolt fallen into the room, Villefort could not
have been more stupefied. He sank into his seat, and hastily turning over the packet, drew forth the fatal
letter, at which he glanced with an expression of terror.
"M. Noirtier, Rue Coq-Heron, No. 13," murmured he, growing still paler.
"Yes," said Dantes; "do you know him?"
"No," replied Villefort; "a faithful servant of the king does not know conspirators."

"It is a conspiracy, then?" asked Dantes, who after believing himself free, now began to feel a tenfold
alarm. "I have, however, already told you, sir, I was entirely ignorant of the contents of the letter."
"Yes; but you knew the name of the person to whom it was addressed," said Villefort.
"I was forced to read the address to know to whom to give it."
"Have you shown this letter to any one?" asked Villefort, becoming still more pale.
"To no one, on my honor."
"Everybody is ignorant that you are the bearer of a letter from the Island of Elba, and addressed to M.
Noirtier?"
"Everybody, except the person who gave it to me."
"And that was too much, far too much," murmured Villefort. Villefort's brow darkened more and more, his
white lips and clinched teeth filled Dantes with apprehension. After reading the letter, Villefort covered his
face with his hands.
"Oh," said Dantes timidly, "what is the matter?" Villefort made no answer, but raised his head at the
expiration of a few seconds, and again perused the letter.
"And you say that you are ignorant of the contents of this letter?"

"I give you my word of honor, sir," said Dantes; "but what is the matter? You are ill -- shall I ring for
assistance? -- shall I call?"
"No," said Villefort, rising hastily; "stay where you are. It is for me to give orders here, and not you."
"Monsieur," replied Dantes proudly, "it was only to summon assistance for you."
"I want none; it was a temporary indisposition. Attend to yourself; answer me." Dantes waited, expecting
a question, but in vain. Villefort fell back on his chair, passed his hand over his brow, moist with
perspiration, and, for the third time, read the letter.
"Oh, if he knows the contents of this!" murmured he, "and that Noirtier is the father of Villefort, I am lost!"
And he fixed his eyes upon Edmond as if he would have penetrated his thoughts.
"Oh, it is impossible to doubt it," cried he, suddenly.
"In heaven's name!" cried the unhappy young man, "if you doubt me, question me; I will answer you."
Villefort made a violent effort, and in a tone he strove to render firm, --
"Sir," said he, "I am no longer able, as I had hoped, to restore you immediately to liberty; before doing so,
I must consult the trial justice; what my own feeling is you already know."
"Oh, monsieur," cried Dantes, "you have been rather a friend than a judge."

"Well, I must detain you some time longer, but I will strive to make it as short as possible. The principal
charge against you is this letter, and you see" -- Villefort approached the fire, cast it in, and waited until it
was entirely consumed.
"You see, I destroy it?"
"Oh," exclaimed Dantes, "you are goodness itself."
"Listen," continued Villefort; "you can now have confidence in me after what I have done."
"Oh, command, and I will obey."
"Listen; this is not a command, but advice I give you."
"Speak, and I will follow your advice."
"I shall detain you until this evening in the Palais de Justice. Should any one else interrogate you, say to
him what you have said to me, but do not breathe a word of this letter."
"I promise." It was Villefort who seemed to entreat, and the prisoner who reassured him.
"You see," continued he, glancing toward the grate, where fragments of burnt paper fluttered in the
flames, "the letter is destroyed; you and I alone know of its existence; should you, therefore, be
questioned, deny all knowledge of it -- deny it boldly, and you are saved."

"Be satisfied; I will deny it."
"It was the only letter you had?"
"It was."
"Swear it."
"I swear it."
Villefort rang. A police agent entered. Villefort whispered some words in his ear, to which the officer
replied by a motion of his head.
"Follow him," said Villefort to Dantes. Dantes saluted Villefort and retired. Hardly had the door closed
when Villefort threw himself half-fainting into a chair.
"Alas, alas," murmured he, "if the procureur himself had been at Marseilles I should have been ruined.
This accursed letter would have destroyed all my hopes. Oh, my father, must your past career always
interfere with my successes?" Suddenly a light passed over his face, a smile played round his set mouth,
and his haggard eyes were fixed in thought.
"This will do," said he, "and from this letter, which might have ruined me, I will make my fortune. Now to
the work I have in hand." And after having assured himself that the prisoner was gone, the deputy
procureur hastened to the house of his betrothed.
-------------------- [email protected]

Chapter 8 The Chateau D'If.
The commissary of police, as he traversed the ante-chamber, made a sign to two gendarmes, who
placed themselves one on Dantes' right and the other on his left. A door that communicated with the
Palais de Justice was opened, and they went through a long range of gloomy corridors, whose
appearance might have made even the boldest shudder. The Palais de Justice communicated with the
prison, -- a sombre edifice, that from its grated windows looks on the clock-tower of the Accoules. After
numberless windings, Dantes saw a door with an iron wicket. The commissary took up an iron mallet and
knocked thrice, every blow seeming to Dantes as if struck on his heart. The door opened, the two
gendarmes gently pushed him forward, and the door closed with a loud sound behind him. The air he
inhaled was no longer pure, but thick and mephitic, -- he was in prison. He was conducted to a tolerably
neat chamber, but grated and barred, and its appearance, therefore, did not greatly alarm him; besides,
the words of Villefort, who seemed to interest himself so much, resounded still in his ears like a promise
of freedom. It was four o'clock when Dantes was placed in this chamber. It was, as we have said, the 1st
of March, and the prisoner was soon buried in darkness. The obscurity augmented the acuteness of his
hearing; at the slightest sound he rose and hastened to the door, convinced they were about to liberate
him, but the sound died away, and Dantes sank again into his seat. At last, about ten o'clock, and just as
Dantes began to despair, steps were heard in the corridor, a key turned in the lock, the bolts creaked, the
massy oaken door flew open, and a flood of light from two torches pervaded the apartment. By the
torchlight Dantes saw the glittering sabres and carbines of four gendarmes. He had advanced at first, but
stopped at the sight of this display of force.
"Are you come to fetch me?" asked he.
"Yes," replied a gendarme.
"By the orders of the deputy procureur?"
"I believe so." The conviction that they came from M. de Villefort relieved all Dantes' apprehensions; he
advanced calmly, and placed himself in the centre of the escort. A carriage waited at the door, the
coachman was on the box, and a police officer sat beside him.

"Is this carriage for me?" said Dantes.
"It is for you," replied a gendarme.
Dantes was about to speak; but feeling himself urged forward, and having neither the power nor the
intention to resist, he mounted the steps, and was in an instant seated inside between two gendarmes;
the two others took their places opposite, and the carriage rolled heavily over the stones.
The prisoner glanced at the windows -- they were grated; he had changed his prison for another that was
conveying him he knew not whither. Through the grating, however, Dantes saw they were passing
through the Rue Caisserie, and by the Rue Saint-Laurent and the Rue Taramis, to the port. Soon he saw
the lights of La Consigne.
The carriage stopped, the officer descended, approached the guardhouse, a dozen soldiers came out
and formed themselves in order; Dantes saw the reflection of their muskets by the light of the lamps on
the quay.
"Can all this force be summoned on my account?" thought he.
The officer opened the door, which was locked, and, without speaking a word, answered Dantes'
question; for he saw between the ranks of the soldiers a passage formed from the carriage to the port.
The two gendarmes who were opposite to him descended first, then he was ordered to alight and the
gendarmes on each side of him followed his example. They advanced towards a boat, which a
custom-house officer held by a chain, near the quay.
The soldiers looked at Dantes with an air of stupid curiosity. In an instant he was placed in the
stern-sheets of the boat, between the gendarmes, while the officer stationed himself at the bow; a shove
sent the boat adrift, and four sturdy oarsmen impelled it rapidly towards the Pilon. At a shout from the
boat, the chain that closes the mouth of the port was lowered and in a second they were, as Dantes knew,

in the Frioul and outside the inner harbor.
The prisoner's first feeling was of joy at again breathing the pure air -- for air is freedom; but he soon
sighed, for he passed before La Reserve, where he had that morning been so happy, and now through
the open windows came the laughter and revelry of a ball. Dantes folded his hands, raised his eyes to
heaven, and prayed fervently.
The boat continued her voyage. They had passed the Tete de Morte, were now off the Anse du Pharo,
and about to double the battery. This manoeuvre was incomprehensible to Dantes.
"Whither are you taking me?" asked he.
"You will soon know."
"But still" --
"We are forbidden to give you any explanation." Dantes, trained in discipline, knew that nothing would be
more absurd than to question subordinates, who were forbidden to reply; and so he remained silent.
The most vague and wild thoughts passed through his mind. The boat they were in could not make a long
voyage; there was no vessel at anchor outside the harbor; he thought, perhaps, they were going to leave
him on some distant point. He was not bound, nor had they made any attempt to handcuff him; this
seemed a good augury. Besides, had not the deputy, who had been so kind to him, told him that provided
he did not pronounce the dreaded name of Noirtier, he had nothing to apprehend? Had not Villefort in his
presence destroyed the fatal letter, the only proof against him?
He waited silently, striving to pierce through the darkness.

They had left the Ile Ratonneau, where the lighthouse stood, on the right, and were now opposite the
Point des Catalans. It seemed to the prisoner that he could distinguish a feminine form on the beach, for
it was there Mercedes dwelt. How was it that a presentiment did not warn Mercedes that her lover was
within three hundred yards of her?
One light alone was visible; and Dantes saw that it came from Mercedes' chamber. Mercedes was the
only one awake in the whole settlement. A loud cry could be heard by her. But pride restrained him and
he did not utter it. What would his guards think if they heard him shout like a madman?
He remained silent, his eyes fixed upon the light; the boat went on, but the prisoner thought only of
Mercedes. An intervening elevation of land hid the light. Dantes turned and perceived that they had got
out to sea. While he had been absorbed in thought, they had shipped their oars and hoisted sail; the boat
was now moving with the wind.
In spite of his repugnance to address the guards, Dantes turned to the nearest gendarme, and taking his
hand, --
"Comrade," said he, "I adjure you, as a Christian and a soldier, to tell me where we are going. I am
Captain Dantes, a loyal Frenchman, thought accused of treason; tell me where you are conducting me,
and I promise you on my honor I will submit to my fate."
The gendarme looked irresolutely at his companion, who returned for answer a sign that said, "I see no
great harm in telling him now," and the gendarme replied, --
"You are a native of Marseilles, and a sailor, and yet you do not know where you are going?"
"On my honor, I have no idea."

"Have you no idea whatever?"
"None at all."
"That is impossible."
"I swear to you it is true. Tell me, I entreat."
"But my orders."
"Your orders do not forbid your telling me what I must know in ten minutes, in half an hour, or an hour. You
see I cannot escape, even if I intended."
"Unless you are blind, or have never been outside the harbor, you must know."
"I do not."
"Look round you then." Dantes rose and looked forward, when he saw rise within a hundred yards of him
the black and frowning rock on which stands the Chateau d'If. This gloomy fortress, which has for more
than three hundred years furnished food for so many wild legends, seemed to Dantes like a scaffold to a
malefactor.
"The Chateau d'If?" cried he, "what are we going there for?" The gendarme smiled.

"I am not going there to be imprisoned," said Dantes; "it is only used for political prisoners. I have
committed no crime. Are there any magistrates or judges at the Chateau d'If?"
"There are only," said the gendarme, "a governor, a garrison, turnkeys, and good thick walls. Come,
come, do not look so astonished, or you will make me think you are laughing at me in return for my good
nature." Dantes pressed the gendarme's hand as though he would crush it.
"You think, then," said he, "that I am taken to the Chateau d'If to be imprisoned there?"
"It is probable; but there is no occasion to squeeze so hard."
"Without any inquiry, without any formality?"
"All the formalities have been gone through; the inquiry is already made."
"And so, in spite of M. de Villefort's promises?"
"I do not know what M. de Villefort promised you," said the gendarme, "but I know we are taking you to
the Chateau d'If. But what are you doing? Help, comrades, help!"
By a rapid movement, which the gendarme's practiced eye had perceived, Dantes sprang forward to
precipitate himself into the sea; but four vigorous arms seized him as his feet quitted the bottom of the
boat. He fell back cursing with rage.

"Good!" said the gendarme, placing his knee on his chest; "believe soft-spoken gentlemen again! Harkye,
my friend, I have disobeyed my first order, but I will not disobey the second; and if you move, I will blow
your brains out." And he levelled his carbine at Dantes, who felt the muzzle against his temple.
For a moment the idea of struggling crossed his mind, and of so ending the unexpected evil that had
overtaken him. But he bethought him of M. de Villefort's promise; and, besides, death in a boat from the
hand of a gendarme seemed too terrible. He remained motionless, but gnashing his teeth and wringing
his hands with fury.
At this moment the boat came to a landing with a violent shock. One of the sailors leaped on shore, a
cord creaked as it ran through a pulley, and Dantes guessed they were at the end of the voyage, and that
they were mooring the boat.
His guards, taking him by the arms and coat-collar, forced him to rise, and dragged him towards the steps
that lead to the gate of the fortress, while the police officer carrying a musket with fixed bayonet followed
behind.
Dantes made no resistance; he was like a man in a dream: he saw soldiers drawn up on the
embankment; he knew vaguely that he was ascending a flight of steps; he was conscious that he passed
through a door, and that the door closed behind him; but all this indistinctly as through a mist. He did not
even see the ocean, that terrible barrier against freedom, which the prisoners look upon with utter despair.
They halted for a minute, during which he strove to collect his thoughts. He looked around; he was in a
court surrounded by high walls; he heard the measured tread of sentinels, and as they passed before the
light he saw the barrels of their muskets shine.
They waited upwards of ten minutes. Certain Dantes could not escape, the gendarmes released him.
They seemed awaiting orders. The orders came.
"Where is the prisoner?" said a voice.

"Here," replied the gendarmes.
"Let him follow me; I will take him to his cell."
"Go!" said the gendarmes, thrusting Dantes forward.
The prisoner followed his guide, who led him into a room almost under ground, whose bare and reeking
walls seemed as though impregnated with tears; a lamp placed on a stool illumined the apartment faintly,
and showed Dantes the features of his conductor, an under-jailer, ill-clothed, and of sullen appearance.
"Here is your chamber for to-night," said he. "It is late, and the governor is asleep. To-morrow, perhaps,
he may change you. In the meantime there is bread, water, and fresh straw; and that is all a prisoner can
wish for. Goodnight." And before Dantes could open his mouth -- before he had noticed where the jailer
placed his bread or the water -- before he had glanced towards the corner where the straw was, the jailer
disappeared, taking with him the lamp and closing the door, leaving stamped upon the prisoner's mind
the dim reflection of the dripping walls of his dungeon.
Dantes was alone in darkness and in silence -- cold as the shadows that he felt breathe on his burning
forehead. With the first dawn of day the jailer returned, with orders to leave Dantes where he was. He
found the prisoner in the same position, as if fixed there, his eyes swollen with weeping. He had passed
the night standing, and without sleep. The jailer advanced; Dantes appeared not to perceive him. He
touched him on the shoulder. Edmond started.
"Have you not slept?" said the jailer.
"I do not know," replied Dantes. The jailer stared.

"Are you hungry?" continued he.
"I do not know."
"Do you wish for anything?"
"I wish to see the governor." The jailer shrugged his shoulders and left the chamber.
Dantes followed him with his eyes, and stretched forth his hands towards the open door; but the door
closed. All his emotion then burst forth; he cast himself on the ground, weeping bitterly, and asking
himself what crime he had committed that he was thus punished.
The day passed thus; he scarcely tasted food, but walked round and round the cell like a wild beast in its
cage. One thought in particular tormented him: namely, that during his journey hither he had sat so still,
whereas he might, a dozen times, have plunged into the sea, and, thanks to his powers of swimming, for
which he was famous, have gained the shore, concealed himself until the arrival of a Genoese or
Spanish vessel, escaped to Spain or Italy, where Mercedes and his father could have joined him. He had
no fears as to how he should live -- good seamen are welcome everywhere. He spoke Italian like a
Tuscan, and Spanish like a Castilian; he would have been free, and happy with Mercedes and his father,
whereas he was now confined in the Chateau d'If, that impregnable fortress, ignorant of the future
destiny of his father and Mercedes; and all this because he had trusted to Villefort's promise. The thought
was maddening, and Dantes threw himself furiously down on his straw. The next morning at the same
hour, the jailer came again.
"Well," said the jailer, "are you more reasonable to-day?" Dantes made no reply.
"Come, cheer up; is there anything that I can do for you?"

"I wish to see the governor."
"I have already told you it was impossible."
"Why so?"
"Because it is against prison rules, and prisoners must not even ask for it."
"What is allowed, then?"
"Better fare, if you pay for it, books, and leave to walk about."
"I do not want books, I am satisfied with my food, and do not care to walk about; but I wish to see the
governor."
"If you worry me by repeating the same thing, I will not bring you any more to eat."
"Well, then," said Edmond, "if you do not, I shall die of hunger -- that is all."
The jailer saw by his tone he would be happy to die; and as every prisoner is worth ten sous a day to his
jailer, he replied in a more subdued tone.

"What you ask is impossible; but if you are very well behaved you will be allowed to walk about, and
some day you will meet the governor, and if he chooses to reply, that is his affair."
"But," asked Dantes, "how long shall I have to wait?"
"Ah, a month -- six months -- a year."
"It is too long a time. I wish to see him at once."
"Ah," said the jailer, "do not always brood over what is impossible, or you will be mad in a fortnight."
"You think so?"
"Yes; we have an instance here; it was by always offering a million of francs to the governor for his liberty
that an abbe became mad, who was in this chamber before you."
"How long has he left it?"
"Two years."
"Was he liberated, then?"
"No; he was put in a dungeon."

"Listen!" said Dantes. "I am not an abbe, I am not mad; perhaps I shall be, but at present, unfortunately, I
am not. I will make you another offer."
"What is that?"
"I do not offer you a million, because I have it not; but I will give you a hundred crowns if, the first time you
go to Marseilles, you will seek out a young girl named Mercedes, at the Catalans, and give her two lines
from me."
"If I took them, and were detected, I should lose my place, which is worth two thousand francs a year; so
that I should be a great fool to run such a risk for three hundred."
"Well," said Dantes, "mark this; if you refuse at least to tell Mercedes I am here, I will some day hide
myself behind the door, and when you enter I will dash out your brains with this stool."
"Threats!" cried the jailer, retreating and putting himself on the defensive; "you are certainly going mad.
The abbe began like you, and in three days you will be like him, mad enough to tie up; but, fortunately,
there are dungeons here." Dantes whirled the stool round his head.
"All right, all right," said the jailer; "all right, since you will have it so. I will send word to the governor."
"Very well," returned Dantes, dropping the stool and sitting on it as if he were in reality mad. The jailer
went out, and
returned in an instant with a corporal and four soldiers.

"By the governor's orders," said he, "conduct the prisoner to the tier beneath."
"To the dungeon, then," said the corporal.
"Yes; we must put the madman with the madmen." The soldiers seized Dantes, who followed passively.
He descended fifteen steps, and the door of a dungeon was opened, and he was thrust in. The door
closed, and Dantes advanced with outstretched hands until he touched the wall; he then sat down in the
corner until his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. The jailer was right; Dantes wanted but little of
being utterly mad. -------------------- [email protected]

Chapter 9 The Evening of the Betrothal.
Villefort had, as we have said, hastened back to Madame de Saint-Meran's in the Place du Grand Cours,
and on entering the house found that the guests whom he had left at table were taking coffee in the salon.
Renee was, with all the rest of the company, anxiously awaiting him, and his entrance was followed by a
general exclamation.
"Well, Decapitator, Guardian of the State, Royalist, Brutus, what is the matter?" said one. "Speak out."
"Are we threatened with a fresh Reign of Terror?" asked another.
"Has the Corsican ogre broken loose?" cried a third.

"Marquise," said Villefort, approaching his future mother-in-law, "I request your pardon for thus leaving
you. Will the marquis honor me by a few moments' private conversation?"
"Ah, it is really a serious matter, then?" asked the marquis, remarking the cloud on Villefort's brow.
"So serious that I must take leave of you for a few days; so," added he, turning to Renee, "judge for
yourself if it be not important."
"You are going to leave us?" cried Renee, unable to hide her emotion at this unexpected announcement.
"Alas," returned Villefort, "I must!"
"Where, then, are you going?" asked the marquise.
"That, madame, is an official secret; but if you have any commissions for Paris, a friend of mine is going
there to-night, and will with pleasure undertake them." The guests looked at each other.
"You wish to speak to me alone?" said the marquis.
"Yes, let us go to the library, please." The marquis took his arm, and they left the salon.
"Well," asked he, as soon as they were by themselves, "tell me what it is?"
"An affair of the greatest importance, that demands my immediate presence in Paris. Now, excuse the

indiscretion, marquis, but have you any landed property?"
"All my fortune is in the funds; seven or eight hundred thousand francs."
"Then sell out -- sell out, marquis, or you will lose it all."
"But how can I sell out here?"
"You have it broker, have you not?"
"Yes."
"Then give me a letter to him, and tell him to sell out without an instant's delay, perhaps even now I shall
arrive too late."
"The deuce you say!" replied the marquis, "let us lose no time, then!"
And, sitting down, he wrote a letter to his broker, ordering him to sell out at the market price.
"Now, then," said Villefort, placing the letter in his pocketbook, "I must have another!"
"To whom?"

"To the king."
"To the king?"
"Yes."
"I dare not write to his majesty."
"I do not ask you to write to his majesty, but ask M. de Salvieux to do so. I want a letter that will enable me
to reach the king's presence without all the formalities of demanding an audience; that would occasion a
loss of precious time."
"But address yourself to the keeper of the seals; he has the right of entry at the Tuileries, and can procure
you audience at any hour of the day or night."
"Doubtless; but there is no occasion to divide the honors of my discovery with him. The keeper would
leave me in the background, and take all the glory to himself. I tell you, marquis, my fortune is made if I
only reach the Tuileries the first, for the king will not forget the service I do him."
"In that case go and get ready. I will call Salvieux and make him write the letter."
"Be as quick as possible, I must be on the road in a quarter of an hour."
"Tell your coachman to stop at the door."

"You will present my excuses to the marquise and Mademoiselle Renee, whom I leave on such a day
with great regret."
"You will find them both here, and can make your farewells in person."
"A thousand thanks -- and now for the letter."
The marquis rang, a servant entered.
"Say to the Comte de Salvieux that I would like to see him."
"Now, then, go," said the marquis.
"I shall be gone only a few moments."
Villefort hastily quitted the apartment, but reflecting that the sight of the deputy procureur running through
the streets would be enough to throw the whole city into confusion, he resumed his ordinary pace. At his
door he perceived a figure in the shadow that seemed to wait for him. It was Mercedes, who, hearing no
news of her lover, had come unobserved to inquire after him.
As Villefort drew near, she advanced and stood before him. Dantes had spoken of Mercedes, and
Villefort instantly recognized her. Her beauty and high bearing surprised him, and when she inquired what
had become of her lover, it seemed to him that she was the judge, and he the accused.

"The young man you speak of," said Villefort abruptly, "is a great criminal. and I can do nothing for him,
mademoiselle." Mercedes burst into tears, and, as Villefort strove to pass her, again addressed him.
"But, at least, tell me where he is, that I may know whether he is alive or dead," said she.
"I do not know; he is no longer in my hands," replied Villefort.
And desirous of putting an end to the interview, he pushed by her, and closed the door, as if to exclude
the pain he felt. But remorse is not thus banished; like Virgil's wounded hero, he carried the arrow in his
wound, and, arrived at the salon, Villefort uttered a sigh that was almost a sob, and sank into a chair.
Then the first pangs of an unending torture seized upon his heart. The man he sacrificed to his ambition,
that innocent victim immolated on the altar of his father's faults, appeared to him pale and threatening,
leading his affianced bride by the hand, and bringing with him remorse, not such as the ancients figured,
furious and terrible, but that slow and consuming agony whose pangs are intensified from hour to hour up
to the very moment of death. Then he had a moment's hesitation. He had frequently called for capital
punishment on criminals, and owing to his irresistible eloquence they had been condemned, and yet the
slightest shadow of remorse had never clouded Villefort's brow, because they were guilty; at least, he
believed so; but here was an innocent man whose happiness he had destroyed: in this case he was not
the judge, but the executioner.
As he thus reflected, he felt the sensation we have described, and which had hitherto been unknown to
him, arise in his bosom, and fill him with vague apprehensions. It is thus that a wounded man trembles
instinctively at the approach of the finger to his wound until it be healed, but Villefort's was one of those
that never close, or if they do, only close to reopen more agonizing than ever. If at this moment the sweet
voice of Renee had sounded in his ears pleading for mercy, or the fair Mercedes had entered and said,
"In the name of God, I conjure you to restore me my affianced husband," his cold and trembling hands
would have signed his release; but no voice broke the stillness of the chamber, and the door was opened
only by Villefort's valet, who came to tell him that the travelling carriage was in readiness.
Villefort rose, or rather sprang, from his chair, hastily opened one of the drawers of his desk, emptied all
the gold it contained into his pocket, stood motionless an instant, his hand pressed to his head, muttered

a few inarticulate sounds, and then, perceiving that his servant had placed his cloak on his shoulders, he
sprang into the carriage, ordering the postilions to drive to M. de Saint-Meran's. The hapless Dantes was
doomed.
As the marquis had promised, Villefort found the marquise and Renee in waiting. He started when he saw
Renee, for he fancied she was again about to plead for Dantes. Alas, her emotions were wholly personal:
she was thinking only of Villefort's departure.
She loved Villefort, and he left her at the moment he was about to become her husband. Villefort knew
not when he should return, and Renee, far from pleading for Dantes, hated the man whose crime
separated her from her lover.
Meanwhile what of Mercedes? She had met Fernand at the corner of the Rue de la Loge; she had
returned to the Catalans, and had despairingly cast herself on her couch. Fernand, kneeling by her side,
took her hand, and covered it with kisses that Mercedes did not even feel. She passed the night thus.
The lamp went out for want of oil, but she paid no heed to the darkness, and dawn came, but she knew
not that it was day. Grief had made her blind to all but one object -- that was Edmond.
"Ah, you are there," said she, at length, turning towards Fernand.
"I have not quitted you since yesterday," returned Fernand sorrowfully.
M. Morrel had not readily given up the fight. He had learned that Dantes had been taken to prison, and he
had gone to all his friends, and the influential persons of the city; but the report was already in circulation
that Dantes was arrested as a Bonapartist agent; and as the most sanguine looked upon any attempt of
Napoleon to remount the throne as impossible, he met with nothing but refusal, and had returned home
in despair, declaring that the matter was serious and that nothing more could be done.
Caderousse was equally restless and uneasy, but instead of seeking, like M. Morrel, to aid Dantes, he
had shut himself up with two bottles of black currant brandy, in the hope of drowning reflection. But he did

not succeed, and became too intoxicated to fetch any more drink, and yet not so intoxicated as to forget
what had happened. With his elbows on the table he sat between the two empty bottles, while spectres
danced in the light of the unsnuffed candle -- spectres such as Hoffmann strews over his punch-drenched
pages, like black, fantastic dust.
Danglars alone was content and joyous -- he had got rid of an enemy and made his own situation on the
Pharaon secure. Danglars was one of those men born with a pen behind the ear, and an inkstand in
place of a heart. Everything with him was multiplication or subtraction. The life of a man was to him of far
less value than a numeral, especially when, by taking it away, he could increase the sum total of his own
desires. He went to bed at his usual hour, and slept in peace.
Villefort, after having received M. de Salvieux' letter, embraced Renee, kissed the marquise's hand, and
shaken that of the marquis, started for Paris along the Aix road. Old Dantes was dying with anxiety to
know what had become of Edmond. But we know very well what had become of Edmond.
[color]Chapter 10 The King's Closet at the Tuileries.
We will leave Villefort on the road to Paris, travelling -- thanks to trebled fees -- with all speed, and
passing through two or three apartments, enter at the Tuileries the little room with the arched window, so
well known as having been the favorite closet of Napoleon and Louis XVIII., and now of Louis Philippe.
There, seated before a walnut table he had brought with him from Hartwell, and to which, from one of
those fancies not uncommon to great people, he was particularly attached, the king, Louis XVIII., was
carelessly listening to a man of fifty or fifty-two years of age, with gray hair, aristocratic bearing, and
exceedingly gentlemanly attire, and meanwhile making a marginal note in a volume of Gryphius's rather
inaccurate, but much sought-after, edition of Horace -- a work which was much indebted to the sagacious
observations of the philosophical monarch.
"You say, sir" -- said the king.

"That I am exceedingly disquieted, sire."
"Really, have you had a vision of the seven fat kine and the seven lean kine?"
"No, sire, for that would only betoken for us seven years of plenty and seven years of scarcity; and with a
king as full of foresight as your majesty, scarcity is not a thing to be feared."
"Then of what other scourge are you afraid, my dear Blacas?"
"Sire, I have every reason to believe that a storm is brewing in the south."
"Well, my dear duke," replied Louis XVIII., "I think you are wrongly informed, and know positively that, on
the contrary, it is very fine weather in that direction." Man of ability as he was, Louis XVIII. liked a pleasant
jest.
"Sire," continued M. de Blacas, "if it only be to reassure a faithful servant, will your majesty send into
Languedoc, Provence, and Dauphine, trusty men, who will bring you back a faithful report as to the
feeling in these three provinces?"
"Caninus surdis," replied the king, continuing the annotations in his Horace.
"Sire," replied the courtier, laughing, in order that he might seem to comprehend the quotation, "your
majesty may be perfectly right in relying on the good feeling of France, but I fear I am not altogether
wrong in dreading some desperate attempt."

"By whom?"
"By Bonaparte, or, at least, by his adherents."
"My dear Blacas," said the king, "you with your alarms prevent me from working."
"And you, sire, prevent me from sleeping with your security."
"Wait, my dear sir, wait a moment; for I have such a delightful note on the Pastor quum traheret -- wait,
and I will listen to you afterwards."
There was a brief pause, during which Louis XVIII. wrote, in a hand as small as possible, another note on
the margin of his Horace, and then looking at the duke with the air of a man who thinks he has an idea of
his own, while he is only commenting upon the idea of another, said, --
"Go on, my dear duke, go on -- I listen."
"Sire," said Blacas, who had for a moment the hope of sacrificing Villefort to his own profit, "I am
compelled to tell you that these are not mere rumors destitute of foundation which thus disquiet me; but a
serious-minded man, deserving all my confidence, and charged by me to watch over the south" (the duke
hesitated as he pronounced these words), "has arrived by post to tell me that a great peril threatens the
king, and so I hastened to you, sire."
"Mala ducis avi domum," continued Louis XVIII., still annotating.

"Does your majesty wish me to drop the subject?"
"By no means, my dear duke; but just stretch out your hand."
"Which?"
"Whichever you please -- there to the left."
"Here, sire?"
"l tell you to the left, and you are looking to the right; I mean on my left -- yes, there. You will find
yesterday's report of the minister of police. But here is M. Dandre himself;" and M. Dandre, announced by
the chamberlain-in-waiting, entered.
"Come in," said Louis XVIII., with repressed smile, "come in, Baron, and tell the duke all you know -- the
latest news of M. de Bonaparte; do not conceal anything, however serious, -- let us see, the Island of
Elba is a volcano, and we may expect to have issuing thence flaming and bristling war -- bella, horrida
bella." M. Dandre leaned very respectfully on the back of a chair with his two hands, and said, --
"Has your majesty perused yesterday's report?"
"Yes, yes; but tell the duke himself, who cannot find anything, what the report contains -- give him the
particulars of what the usurper is doing in his islet."
"Monsieur," said the baron to the duke, "all the servants of his majesty must approve of the latest

intelligence which we have from the Island of Elba. Bonaparte" -- M. Dandre looked at Louis XVIII., who,
employed in writing a note, did not even raise his head. "Bonaparte," continued the baron, "is mortally
wearied, and passes whole days in watching his miners at work at Porto-Longone."
"And scratches himself for amusement," added the king.
"Scratches himself?" inquired the duke, "what does your majesty mean?"
"Yes, indeed, my dear duke. Did you forget that this great man, this hero, this demigod, is attacked with a
malady of the skin which worries him to death, prurigo?"
"And, moreover, my dear duke," continued the minister of police, "we are almost assured that, in a very
short time, the usurper will be insane."
"Insane?"
"Raving mad; his head becomes weaker. Sometimes he weeps bitterly, sometimes laughs boisterously,
at other time he passes hours on the seashore, flinging stones in the water and when the flint makes
`duck-and-drake' five or six times, he appears as delighted as if he had gained another Marengo or
Austerlitz. Now, you must agree that these are indubitable symptoms of insanity."
"Or of wisdom, my dear baron -- or of wisdom," said Louis XVIII., laughing; "the greatest captains of
antiquity amused themselves by casting pebbles into the ocean -- see Plutarch's life of Scipio Africanus."
M. de Blacas pondered deeply between the confident monarch and the truthful minister. Villefort, who did
not choose to reveal the whole secret, lest another should reap all the benefit of the disclosure, had yet
communicated enough to cause him the greatest uneasiness.

"Well, well, Dandre," said Louis XVIII., "Blacas is not yet convinced; let us proceed, therefore, to the
usurper's conversion." The minister of police bowed.
"The usurper's conversion!" murmured the duke, looking at the king and Dandre, who spoke alternately,
like Virgil's shepherds. "The usurper converted!"
"Decidedly, my dear duke."
"In what way converted?"
"To good principles. Tell him all about it, baron."
"Why, this is the way of it," said the minister, with the gravest air in the world: "Napoleon lately had a
review, and as two or three of his old veterans expressed a desire to return to France, he gave them their
dismissal, and exhorted them to `serve the good king.' These were his own words, of that I am certain."
"Well, Blacas, what think you of this?" inquired the king triumphantly, and pausing for a moment from the
voluminous scholiast before him.
"I say, sire, that the minister of police is greatly deceived or I am; and as it is impossible it can be the
minister of police as he has the guardianship of the safety and honor of your majesty, it is probable that I
am in error. However, sire, if I might advise, your majesty will interrogate the person of whom I spoke to
you, and I will urge your majesty to do him this honor."
"Most willingly, duke; under your auspices I will receive any person you please, but you must not expect
me to be too confiding. Baron, have you any report more recent than this dated the 20th February. -- this

is the 4th of March?"
"No, sire, but I am hourly expecting one; it may have arrived since I left my office."
"Go thither, and if there be none -- well, well," continued Louis XVIII., "make one; that is the usual way, is
it not?" and the king laughed facetiously.
"Oh, sire," replied the minister, "we have no occasion to invent any; every day our desks are loaded with
most circumstantial denunciations, coming from hosts of people who hope for some return for services
which they seek to render, but cannot; they trust to fortune, and rely upon some unexpected event in
some way to justify their predictions."
"Well, sir, go"; said Louis XVIII., "and remember that I am waiting for you."
"I will but go and return, sire; I shall be back in ten minutes."
"And I, sire," said M. de Blacas, "will go and find my messenger."
"Wait, sir, wait," said Louis XVIII. "Really, M. de Blacas, I must change your armorial bearings; I will give
you an eagle with outstretched wings, holding in its claws a prey which tries in vain to escape, and
bearing this device -- Tenax."
"Sire, I listen," said De Blacas, biting his nails with impatience.
"I wish to consult you on this passage, `Molli fugiens anhelitu," you know it refers to a stag flying from a
wolf. Are you not a sportsman and a great wolf-hunter? Well, then, what do you think of the molli

anhelitu?"
"Admirable, sire; but my messenger is like the stag you refer to, for he has posted two hundred and
twenty leagues in scarcely three days."
"Which is undergoing great fatigue and anxiety, my dear duke, when we have a telegraph which transmits
messages in three or four hours, and that without getting in the least out of breath."
"Ah, sire, you recompense but badly this poor young man, who has come so far, and with so much ardor,
to give your majesty useful information. If only for the sake of M. de Salvieux, who recommends him to
me, I entreat your majesty to receive him graciously."
"M. de Salvieux, my brother's chamberlain?"
"Yes, sire."
"He is at Marseilles."
"And writes me thence."
"Does he speak to you of this conspiracy?"
"No; but strongly recommends M. de Villefort, and begs me to present him to your majesty."

"M. de Villefort!" cried the king, "is the messenger's name M. de Villefort?"
"Yes, sire."
"And he comes from Marseilles?"
"In person."
"Why did you not mention his name at once?" replied the king, betraying some uneasiness.
"Sire, I thought his name was unknown to your majesty."
"No, no, Blacas; he is a man of strong and elevated understanding, ambitious, too, and, pardieu, you
know his father's name!"
"His father?"
"Yes, Noirtier."
"Noirtier the Girondin? -- Noirtier the senator?"
"He himself."

"And your majesty has employed the son of such a man?"
"Blacas, my friend, you have but limited comprehension. I told you Villefort was ambitions, and to attain
this ambition Villefort would sacrifice everything, even his father."
"Then, sire, may I present him?"
"This instant, duke! Where is he?"
"Waiting below, in my carriage."
"Seek him at once."
"I hasten to do so." The duke left the royal presence with the speed of a young man; his really sincere
royalism made him youthful again. Louis XVIII. remained alone, and turning his eyes on his half-opened
Horace, muttered, --
"Justum et tenacem propositi virum."
M. de Blacas returned as speedily as he had departed, but in the ante-chamber he was forced to appeal
to the king's authority. Villefort's dusty garb, his costume, which was not of courtly cut, excited the
susceptibility of M. de Breze, who was all astonishment at finding that this young man had the audacity to
enter before the king in such attire. The duke, however, overcame all difficulties with a word -- his
majesty's order; and, in spite of the protestations which the master of ceremonies made for the honor of
his office and principles, Villefort was introduced.

The king was seated in the same place where the duke had left him. On opening the door, Villefort found
himself facing him, and the young magistrate's first impulse was to pause.
"Come in, M. de Villefort," said the king, "come in." Villefort bowed, and advancing a few steps, waited
until the king should interrogate him.
"M. de Villefort," said Louis XVIII., "the Duc de Blacas assures me you have some interesting information
to communicate.
"Sire, the duke is right, and I believe your majesty will think it equally important."
"In the first place, and before everything else, sir, is the news as bad in your opinion as I am asked to
believe?"
"Sire, I believe it to be most urgent, but I hope, by the speed I have used, that it is not irreparable."
"Speak as fully as you please, sir," said the king, who began to give way to the emotion which had
showed itself in Blacas's face and affected Villefort's voice. "Speak, sir, and pray begin at the beginning; I
like order in everything."
"Sire," said Villefort, "I will render a faithful report to your majesty, but I must entreat your forgiveness if
my anxiety leads to some obscurity in my language." A glance at the king after this discreet and subtle
exordium, assured Villefort of the benignity of his august auditor, and he went on: --
"Sire, I have come as rapidly to Paris as possible, to inform your majesty that I have discovered, in the
exercise of my duties, not a commonplace and insignificant plot, such as is every day got up in the lower
ranks of the people and in the army, but an actual conspiracy -- a storm which menaces no less than your

majesty's throne. Sire, the usurper is arming three ships, he meditates some project, which, however
mad, is yet, perhaps, terrible. At this moment he will have left Elba, to go whither I know not, but
assuredly to attempt a landing either at Naples, or on the coast of Tuscany, or perhaps on the shores of
France. Your majesty is well aware that the sovereign of the Island of Elba has maintained his relations
with Italy and France?"
"I am, sir," said the king, much agitated; "and recently we have had information that the Bonapartist clubs
have had meetings in the Rue Saint-Jacques. But proceed, I beg of you. How did you obtain these
details?"
"Sire, they are the results of an examination which I have made of a man of Marseilles, whom I have
watched for some time, and arrested on the day of my departure. This person, a sailor, of turbulent
character, and whom I suspected of Bonapartism, has been secretly to the Island of Elba. There he saw
the grand-marshal, who charged him with an oral message to a Bonapartist in Paris, whose name I could
not extract from him; but this mission was to prepare men's minds for a return (it is the man who says this,
sire) -- a return which will soon occur."
"And where is this man?"
"In prison, sire."
"And the matter seems serious to you?"
"So serious, sire, that when the circumstance surprised me in the midst of a family festival, on the very
day of my betrothal, I left my bride and friends, postponing everything, that I might hasten to lay at your
majesty's feet the fears which impressed me, and the assurance of my devotion."
"True," said Louis XVIII., "was there not a marriage engagement between you and Mademoiselle de
Saint-Meran?"

"Daughter of one of your majesty's most faithful servants."
"Yes, yes; but let us talk of this plot, M. de Villefort."
"Sire, I fear it is more than a plot; I fear it is a conspiracy."
"A conspiracy in these times," said Louis XVIII., smiling, "is a thing very easy to meditate, but more
difficult to conduct to an end, inasmuch as, re-established so recently on the throne of our ancestors, we
have our eyes open at once upon the past, the present, and the future. For the last ten months my
ministers have redoubled their vigilance, in order to watch the shore of the Mediterranean. If Bonaparte
landed at Naples, the whole coalition would be on foot before he could even reach Piomoino; if he land in
Tuscany, he will be in an unfriendly territory; if he land in France, it must be with a handful of men, and the
result of that is easily foretold, execrated as he is by the population. Take courage, sir; but at the same
time rely on our royal gratitude."
"Ah, here is M. Dandre!" cried de Blacas. At this instant the minister of police appeared at the door, pale,
trembling, and as if ready to faint. Villefort was about to retire, but M. de Blacas, taking his hand,
restrained him. -------------------- [email protected]

Chapter 9 The Evening of the Betrothal.
Villefort had, as we have said, hastened back to Madame de Saint-Meran's in the Place du Grand Cours,
and on entering the house found that the guests whom he had left at table were taking coffee in the salon.
Renee was, with all the rest of the company, anxiously awaiting him, and his entrance was followed by a
general exclamation.
"Well, Decapitator, Guardian of the State, Royalist, Brutus, what is the matter?" said one. "Speak out."
"Are we threatened with a fresh Reign of Terror?" asked another.
"Has the Corsican ogre broken loose?" cried a third.

"Marquise," said Villefort, approaching his future mother-in-law, "I request your pardon for thus leaving
you. Will the marquis honor me by a few moments' private conversation?"
"Ah, it is really a serious matter, then?" asked the marquis, remarking the cloud on Villefort's brow.
"So serious that I must take leave of you for a few days; so," added he, turning to Renee, "judge for
yourself if it be not important."
"You are going to leave us?" cried Renee, unable to hide her emotion at this unexpected announcement.
"Alas," returned Villefort, "I must!"
"Where, then, are you going?" asked the marquise.
"That, madame, is an official secret; but if you have any commissions for Paris, a friend of mine is going
there to-night, and will with pleasure undertake them." The guests looked at each other.
"You wish to speak to me alone?" said the marquis.
"Yes, let us go to the library, please." The marquis took his arm, and they left the salon.
"Well," asked he, as soon as they were by themselves, "tell me what it is?"
"An affair of the greatest importance, that demands my immediate presence in Paris. Now, excuse the

indiscretion, marquis, but have you any landed property?"
"All my fortune is in the funds; seven or eight hundred thousand francs."
"Then sell out -- sell out, marquis, or you will lose it all."
"But how can I sell out here?"
"You have it broker, have you not?"
"Yes."
"Then give me a letter to him, and tell him to sell out without an instant's delay, perhaps even now I shall
arrive too late."
"The deuce you say!" replied the marquis, "let us lose no time, then!"
And, sitting down, he wrote a letter to his broker, ordering him to sell out at the market price.
"Now, then," said Villefort, placing the letter in his pocketbook, "I must have another!"
"To whom?"

"To the king."
"To the king?"
"Yes."
"I dare not write to his majesty."
"I do not ask you to write to his majesty, but ask M. de Salvieux to do so. I want a letter that will enable me
to reach the king's presence without all the formalities of demanding an audience; that would occasion a
loss of precious time."
"But address yourself to the keeper of the seals; he has the right of entry at the Tuileries, and can procure
you audience at any hour of the day or night."
"Doubtless; but there is no occasion to divide the honors of my discovery with him. The keeper would
leave me in the background, and take all the glory to himself. I tell you, marquis, my fortune is made if I
only reach the Tuileries the first, for the king will not forget the service I do him."
"In that case go and get ready. I will call Salvieux and make him write the letter."
"Be as quick as possible, I must be on the road in a quarter of an hour."
"Tell your coachman to stop at the door."

"You will present my excuses to the marquise and Mademoiselle Renee, whom I leave on such a day
with great regret."
"You will find them both here, and can make your farewells in person."
"A thousand thanks -- and now for the letter."
The marquis rang, a servant entered.
"Say to the Comte de Salvieux that I would like to see him."
"Now, then, go," said the marquis.
"I shall be gone only a few moments."
Villefort hastily quitted the apartment, but reflecting that the sight of the deputy procureur running through
the streets would be enough to throw the whole city into confusion, he resumed his ordinary pace. At his
door he perceived a figure in the shadow that seemed to wait for him. It was Mercedes, who, hearing no
news of her lover, had come unobserved to inquire after him.
As Villefort drew near, she advanced and stood before him. Dantes had spoken of Mercedes, and
Villefort instantly recognized her. Her beauty and high bearing surprised him, and when she inquired what
had become of her lover, it seemed to him that she was the judge, and he the accused.

"The young man you speak of," said Villefort abruptly, "is a great criminal. and I can do nothing for him,
mademoiselle." Mercedes burst into tears, and, as Villefort strove to pass her, again addressed him.
"But, at least, tell me where he is, that I may know whether he is alive or dead," said she.
"I do not know; he is no longer in my hands," replied Villefort.
And desirous of putting an end to the interview, he pushed by her, and closed the door, as if to exclude
the pain he felt. But remorse is not thus banished; like Virgil's wounded hero, he carried the arrow in his
wound, and, arrived at the salon, Villefort uttered a sigh that was almost a sob, and sank into a chair.
Then the first pangs of an unending torture seized upon his heart. The man he sacrificed to his ambition,
that innocent victim immolated on the altar of his father's faults, appeared to him pale and threatening,
leading his affianced bride by the hand, and bringing with him remorse, not such as the ancients figured,
furious and terrible, but that slow and consuming agony whose pangs are intensified from hour to hour up
to the very moment of death. Then he had a moment's hesitation. He had frequently called for capital
punishment on criminals, and owing to his irresistible eloquence they had been condemned, and yet the
slightest shadow of remorse had never clouded Villefort's brow, because they were guilty; at least, he
believed so; but here was an innocent man whose happiness he had destroyed: in this case he was not
the judge, but the executioner.
As he thus reflected, he felt the sensation we have described, and which had hitherto been unknown to
him, arise in his bosom, and fill him with vague apprehensions. It is thus that a wounded man trembles
instinctively at the approach of the finger to his wound until it be healed, but Villefort's was one of those
that never close, or if they do, only close to reopen more agonizing than ever. If at this moment the sweet
voice of Renee had sounded in his ears pleading for mercy, or the fair Mercedes had entered and said,
"In the name of God, I conjure you to restore me my affianced husband," his cold and trembling hands
would have signed his release; but no voice broke the stillness of the chamber, and the door was opened
only by Villefort's valet, who came to tell him that the travelling carriage was in readiness.
Villefort rose, or rather sprang, from his chair, hastily opened one of the drawers of his desk, emptied all
the gold it contained into his pocket, stood motionless an instant, his hand pressed to his head, muttered

a few inarticulate sounds, and then, perceiving that his servant had placed his cloak on his shoulders, he
sprang into the carriage, ordering the postilions to drive to M. de Saint-Meran's. The hapless Dantes was
doomed.
As the marquis had promised, Villefort found the marquise and Renee in waiting. He started when he saw
Renee, for he fancied she was again about to plead for Dantes. Alas, her emotions were wholly personal:
she was thinking only of Villefort's departure.
She loved Villefort, and he left her at the moment he was about to become her husband. Villefort knew
not when he should return, and Renee, far from pleading for Dantes, hated the man whose crime
separated her from her lover.
Meanwhile what of Mercedes? She had met Fernand at the corner of the Rue de la Loge; she had
returned to the Catalans, and had despairingly cast herself on her couch. Fernand, kneeling by her side,
took her hand, and covered it with kisses that Mercedes did not even feel. She passed the night thus.
The lamp went out for want of oil, but she paid no heed to the darkness, and dawn came, but she knew
not that it was day. Grief had made her blind to all but one object -- that was Edmond.
"Ah, you are there," said she, at length, turning towards Fernand.
"I have not quitted you since yesterday," returned Fernand sorrowfully.
M. Morrel had not readily given up the fight. He had learned that Dantes had been taken to prison, and he
had gone to all his friends, and the influential persons of the city; but the report was already in circulation
that Dantes was arrested as a Bonapartist agent; and as the most sanguine looked upon any attempt of
Napoleon to remount the throne as impossible, he met with nothing but refusal, and had returned home
in despair, declaring that the matter was serious and that nothing more could be done.
Caderousse was equally restless and uneasy, but instead of seeking, like M. Morrel, to aid Dantes, he
had shut himself up with two bottles of black currant brandy, in the hope of drowning reflection. But he did

not succeed, and became too intoxicated to fetch any more drink, and yet not so intoxicated as to forget
what had happened. With his elbows on the table he sat between the two empty bottles, while spectres
danced in the light of the unsnuffed candle -- spectres such as Hoffmann strews over his punch-drenched
pages, like black, fantastic dust.
Danglars alone was content and joyous -- he had got rid of an enemy and made his own situation on the
Pharaon secure. Danglars was one of those men born with a pen behind the ear, and an inkstand in
place of a heart. Everything with him was multiplication or subtraction. The life of a man was to him of far
less value than a numeral, especially when, by taking it away, he could increase the sum total of his own
desires. He went to bed at his usual hour, and slept in peace.
Villefort, after having received M. de Salvieux' letter, embraced Renee, kissed the marquise's hand, and
shaken that of the marquis, started for Paris along the Aix road. Old Dantes was dying with anxiety to
know what had become of Edmond. But we know very well what had become of Edmond.
[color]Chapter 10 The King's Closet at the Tuileries.
We will leave Villefort on the road to Paris, travelling -- thanks to trebled fees -- with all speed, and
passing through two or three apartments, enter at the Tuileries the little room with the arched window, so
well known as having been the favorite closet of Napoleon and Louis XVIII., and now of Louis Philippe.
There, seated before a walnut table he had brought with him from Hartwell, and to which, from one of
those fancies not uncommon to great people, he was particularly attached, the king, Louis XVIII., was
carelessly listening to a man of fifty or fifty-two years of age, with gray hair, aristocratic bearing, and
exceedingly gentlemanly attire, and meanwhile making a marginal note in a volume of Gryphius's rather
inaccurate, but much sought-after, edition of Horace -- a work which was much indebted to the sagacious
observations of the philosophical monarch.
"You say, sir" -- said the king.

"That I am exceedingly disquieted, sire."
"Really, have you had a vision of the seven fat kine and the seven lean kine?"
"No, sire, for that would only betoken for us seven years of plenty and seven years of scarcity; and with a
king as full of foresight as your majesty, scarcity is not a thing to be feared."
"Then of what other scourge are you afraid, my dear Blacas?"
"Sire, I have every reason to believe that a storm is brewing in the south."
"Well, my dear duke," replied Louis XVIII., "I think you are wrongly informed, and know positively that, on
the contrary, it is very fine weather in that direction." Man of ability as he was, Louis XVIII. liked a pleasant
jest.
"Sire," continued M. de Blacas, "if it only be to reassure a faithful servant, will your majesty send into
Languedoc, Provence, and Dauphine, trusty men, who will bring you back a faithful report as to the
feeling in these three provinces?"
"Caninus surdis," replied the king, continuing the annotations in his Horace.
"Sire," replied the courtier, laughing, in order that he might seem to comprehend the quotation, "your
majesty may be perfectly right in relying on the good feeling of France, but I fear I am not altogether
wrong in dreading some desperate attempt."

"By whom?"
"By Bonaparte, or, at least, by his adherents."
"My dear Blacas," said the king, "you with your alarms prevent me from working."
"And you, sire, prevent me from sleeping with your security."
"Wait, my dear sir, wait a moment; for I have such a delightful note on the Pastor quum traheret -- wait,
and I will listen to you afterwards."
There was a brief pause, during which Louis XVIII. wrote, in a hand as small as possible, another note on
the margin of his Horace, and then looking at the duke with the air of a man who thinks he has an idea of
his own, while he is only commenting upon the idea of another, said, --
"Go on, my dear duke, go on -- I listen."
"Sire," said Blacas, who had for a moment the hope of sacrificing Villefort to his own profit, "I am
compelled to tell you that these are not mere rumors destitute of foundation which thus disquiet me; but a
serious-minded man, deserving all my confidence, and charged by me to watch over the south" (the duke
hesitated as he pronounced these words), "has arrived by post to tell me that a great peril threatens the
king, and so I hastened to you, sire."
"Mala ducis avi domum," continued Louis XVIII., still annotating.

"Does your majesty wish me to drop the subject?"
"By no means, my dear duke; but just stretch out your hand."
"Which?"
"Whichever you please -- there to the left."
"Here, sire?"
"l tell you to the left, and you are looking to the right; I mean on my left -- yes, there. You will find
yesterday's report of the minister of police. But here is M. Dandre himself;" and M. Dandre, announced by
the chamberlain-in-waiting, entered.
"Come in," said Louis XVIII., with repressed smile, "come in, Baron, and tell the duke all you know -- the
latest news of M. de Bonaparte; do not conceal anything, however serious, -- let us see, the Island of
Elba is a volcano, and we may expect to have issuing thence flaming and bristling war -- bella, horrida
bella." M. Dandre leaned very respectfully on the back of a chair with his two hands, and said, --
"Has your majesty perused yesterday's report?"
"Yes, yes; but tell the duke himself, who cannot find anything, what the report contains -- give him the
particulars of what the usurper is doing in his islet."
"Monsieur," said the baron to the duke, "all the servants of his majesty must approve of the latest

intelligence which we have from the Island of Elba. Bonaparte" -- M. Dandre looked at Louis XVIII., who,
employed in writing a note, did not even raise his head. "Bonaparte," continued the baron, "is mortally
wearied, and passes whole days in watching his miners at work at Porto-Longone."
"And scratches himself for amusement," added the king.
"Scratches himself?" inquired the duke, "what does your majesty mean?"
"Yes, indeed, my dear duke. Did you forget that this great man, this hero, this demigod, is attacked with a
malady of the skin which worries him to death, prurigo?"
"And, moreover, my dear duke," continued the minister of police, "we are almost assured that, in a very
short time, the usurper will be insane."
"Insane?"
"Raving mad; his head becomes weaker. Sometimes he weeps bitterly, sometimes laughs boisterously,
at other time he passes hours on the seashore, flinging stones in the water and when the flint makes
`duck-and-drake' five or six times, he appears as delighted as if he had gained another Marengo or
Austerlitz. Now, you must agree that these are indubitable symptoms of insanity."
"Or of wisdom, my dear baron -- or of wisdom," said Louis XVIII., laughing; "the greatest captains of
antiquity amused themselves by casting pebbles into the ocean -- see Plutarch's life of Scipio Africanus."
M. de Blacas pondered deeply between the confident monarch and the truthful minister. Villefort, who did
not choose to reveal the whole secret, lest another should reap all the benefit of the disclosure, had yet
communicated enough to cause him the greatest uneasiness.

"Well, well, Dandre," said Louis XVIII., "Blacas is not yet convinced; let us proceed, therefore, to the
usurper's conversion." The minister of police bowed.
"The usurper's conversion!" murmured the duke, looking at the king and Dandre, who spoke alternately,
like Virgil's shepherds. "The usurper converted!"
"Decidedly, my dear duke."
"In what way converted?"
"To good principles. Tell him all about it, baron."
"Why, this is the way of it," said the minister, with the gravest air in the world: "Napoleon lately had a
review, and as two or three of his old veterans expressed a desire to return to France, he gave them their
dismissal, and exhorted them to `serve the good king.' These were his own words, of that I am certain."
"Well, Blacas, what think you of this?" inquired the king triumphantly, and pausing for a moment from the
voluminous scholiast before him.
"I say, sire, that the minister of police is greatly deceived or I am; and as it is impossible it can be the
minister of police as he has the guardianship of the safety and honor of your majesty, it is probable that I
am in error. However, sire, if I might advise, your majesty will interrogate the person of whom I spoke to
you, and I will urge your majesty to do him this honor."
"Most willingly, duke; under your auspices I will receive any person you please, but you must not expect
me to be too confiding. Baron, have you any report more recent than this dated the 20th February. -- this

is the 4th of March?"
"No, sire, but I am hourly expecting one; it may have arrived since I left my office."
"Go thither, and if there be none -- well, well," continued Louis XVIII., "make one; that is the usual way, is
it not?" and the king laughed facetiously.
"Oh, sire," replied the minister, "we have no occasion to invent any; every day our desks are loaded with
most circumstantial denunciations, coming from hosts of people who hope for some return for services
which they seek to render, but cannot; they trust to fortune, and rely upon some unexpected event in
some way to justify their predictions."
"Well, sir, go"; said Louis XVIII., "and remember that I am waiting for you."
"I will but go and return, sire; I shall be back in ten minutes."
"And I, sire," said M. de Blacas, "will go and find my messenger."
"Wait, sir, wait," said Louis XVIII. "Really, M. de Blacas, I must change your armorial bearings; I will give
you an eagle with outstretched wings, holding in its claws a prey which tries in vain to escape, and
bearing this device -- Tenax."
"Sire, I listen," said De Blacas, biting his nails with impatience.
"I wish to consult you on this passage, `Molli fugiens anhelitu," you know it refers to a stag flying from a
wolf. Are you not a sportsman and a great wolf-hunter? Well, then, what do you think of the molli

anhelitu?"
"Admirable, sire; but my messenger is like the stag you refer to, for he has posted two hundred and
twenty leagues in scarcely three days."
"Which is undergoing great fatigue and anxiety, my dear duke, when we have a telegraph which transmits
messages in three or four hours, and that without getting in the least out of breath."
"Ah, sire, you recompense but badly this poor young man, who has come so far, and with so much ardor,
to give your majesty useful information. If only for the sake of M. de Salvieux, who recommends him to
me, I entreat your majesty to receive him graciously."
"M. de Salvieux, my brother's chamberlain?"
"Yes, sire."
"He is at Marseilles."
"And writes me thence."
"Does he speak to you of this conspiracy?"
"No; but strongly recommends M. de Villefort, and begs me to present him to your majesty."

"M. de Villefort!" cried the king, "is the messenger's name M. de Villefort?"
"Yes, sire."
"And he comes from Marseilles?"
"In person."
"Why did you not mention his name at once?" replied the king, betraying some uneasiness.
"Sire, I thought his name was unknown to your majesty."
"No, no, Blacas; he is a man of strong and elevated understanding, ambitious, too, and, pardieu, you
know his father's name!"
"His father?"
"Yes, Noirtier."
"Noirtier the Girondin? -- Noirtier the senator?"
"He himself."

"And your majesty has employed the son of such a man?"
"Blacas, my friend, you have but limited comprehension. I told you Villefort was ambitions, and to attain
this ambition Villefort would sacrifice everything, even his father."
"Then, sire, may I present him?"
"This instant, duke! Where is he?"
"Waiting below, in my carriage."
"Seek him at once."
"I hasten to do so." The duke left the royal presence with the speed of a young man; his really sincere
royalism made him youthful again. Louis XVIII. remained alone, and turning his eyes on his half-opened
Horace, muttered, --
"Justum et tenacem propositi virum."
M. de Blacas returned as speedily as he had departed, but in the ante-chamber he was forced to appeal
to the king's authority. Villefort's dusty garb, his costume, which was not of courtly cut, excited the
susceptibility of M. de Breze, who was all astonishment at finding that this young man had the audacity to
enter before the king in such attire. The duke, however, overcame all difficulties with a word -- his
majesty's order; and, in spite of the protestations which the master of ceremonies made for the honor of
his office and principles, Villefort was introduced.

The king was seated in the same place where the duke had left him. On opening the door, Villefort found
himself facing him, and the young magistrate's first impulse was to pause.
"Come in, M. de Villefort," said the king, "come in." Villefort bowed, and advancing a few steps, waited
until the king should interrogate him.
"M. de Villefort," said Louis XVIII., "the Duc de Blacas assures me you have some interesting information
to communicate.
"Sire, the duke is right, and I believe your majesty will think it equally important."
"In the first place, and before everything else, sir, is the news as bad in your opinion as I am asked to
believe?"
"Sire, I believe it to be most urgent, but I hope, by the speed I have used, that it is not irreparable."
"Speak as fully as you please, sir," said the king, who began to give way to the emotion which had
showed itself in Blacas's face and affected Villefort's voice. "Speak, sir, and pray begin at the beginning; I
like order in everything."
"Sire," said Villefort, "I will render a faithful report to your majesty, but I must entreat your forgiveness if
my anxiety leads to some obscurity in my language." A glance at the king after this discreet and subtle
exordium, assured Villefort of the benignity of his august auditor, and he went on: --
"Sire, I have come as rapidly to Paris as possible, to inform your majesty that I have discovered, in the
exercise of my duties, not a commonplace and insignificant plot, such as is every day got up in the lower
ranks of the people and in the army, but an actual conspiracy -- a storm which menaces no less than your

majesty's throne. Sire, the usurper is arming three ships, he meditates some project, which, however
mad, is yet, perhaps, terrible. At this moment he will have left Elba, to go whither I know not, but
assuredly to attempt a landing either at Naples, or on the coast of Tuscany, or perhaps on the shores of
France. Your majesty is well aware that the sovereign of the Island of Elba has maintained his relations
with Italy and France?"
"I am, sir," said the king, much agitated; "and recently we have had information that the Bonapartist clubs
have had meetings in the Rue Saint-Jacques. But proceed, I beg of you. How did you obtain these
details?"
"Sire, they are the results of an examination which I have made of a man of Marseilles, whom I have
watched for some time, and arrested on the day of my departure. This person, a sailor, of turbulent
character, and whom I suspected of Bonapartism, has been secretly to the Island of Elba. There he saw
the grand-marshal, who charged him with an oral message to a Bonapartist in Paris, whose name I could
not extract from him; but this mission was to prepare men's minds for a return (it is the man who says this,
sire) -- a return which will soon occur."
"And where is this man?"
"In prison, sire."
"And the matter seems serious to you?"
"So serious, sire, that when the circumstance surprised me in the midst of a family festival, on the very
day of my betrothal, I left my bride and friends, postponing everything, that I might hasten to lay at your
majesty's feet the fears which impressed me, and the assurance of my devotion."
"True," said Louis XVIII., "was there not a marriage engagement between you and Mademoiselle de
Saint-Meran?"

"Daughter of one of your majesty's most faithful servants."
"Yes, yes; but let us talk of this plot, M. de Villefort."
"Sire, I fear it is more than a plot; I fear it is a conspiracy."
"A conspiracy in these times," said Louis XVIII., smiling, "is a thing very easy to meditate, but more
difficult to conduct to an end, inasmuch as, re-established so recently on the throne of our ancestors, we
have our eyes open at once upon the past, the present, and the future. For the last ten months my
ministers have redoubled their vigilance, in order to watch the shore of the Mediterranean. If Bonaparte
landed at Naples, the whole coalition would be on foot before he could even reach Piomoino; if he land in
Tuscany, he will be in an unfriendly territory; if he land in France, it must be with a handful of men, and the
result of that is easily foretold, execrated as he is by the population. Take courage, sir; but at the same
time rely on our royal gratitude."
"Ah, here is M. Dandre!" cried de Blacas. At this instant the minister of police appeared at the door, pale,
trembling, and as if ready to faint. Villefort was about to retire, but M. de Blacas, taking his hand,
restrained him. -------------------- [email protected]

Chapter 11 The Corsican Ogre.
At the sight of this agitation Louis XVIII. pushed from him violently the table at which he was sitting.
"What ails you, baron?" he exclaimed. "You appear quite aghast. Has your uneasiness anything to do
with what M. de Blacas has told me, and M. de Villefort has just confirmed?" M. de Blacas moved
suddenly towards the baron, but the fright of the courtier pleaded for the forbearance of the statesman;
and besides, as matters were, it was much more to his advantage that the prefect of police should
triumph over him than that he should humiliate the prefect.

"Sire" -- stammered the baron.
"Well, what is it?" asked Louis XVIII. The minister of police, giving way to an impulse of despair, was
about to throw himself at the feet of Louis XVIII., who retreated a step and frowned.
"Will you speak?" he said.
"Oh, sire, what a dreadful misfortune! I am, indeed, to be pitied. I can never forgive myself!"
"Monsieur," said Louis XVIII., "I command you to speak."
"Well, sire, the usurper left Elba on the 26th February, and landed on the 1st of March."
"And where? In Italy?" asked the king eagerly.
"In France, sire, -- at a small port, near Antibes, in the Gulf of Juan."
"The usurper landed in France, near Antibes, in the Gulf of Juan, two hundred and fifty leagues from
Paris, on the 1st of March, and you only acquired this information to-day, the 4th of March! Well, sir, what
you tell me is impossible. You must have received a false report, or you have gone mad."
"Alas, sire, it is but too true!" Louis made a gesture of indescribable anger and alarm, and then drew
himself up as if this sudden blow had struck him at the same moment in heart and countenance.

"In France!" he cried, "the usurper in France! Then they did not watch over this man. Who knows? they
were, perhaps, in league with him."
"Oh, sire," exclaimed the Duc de Blacas, "M. Dandre is not a man to be accused of treason! Sire, we
have all been blind, and the minister of police has shared the general blindness, that is all."
"But" -- said Villefort, and then suddenly checking himself, he was silent; then he continued, "Your pardon,
sire," he said, bowing, "my zeal carried me away. Will your majesty deign to excuse me?"
"Speak, sir, speak boldly," replied Louis. "You alone forewarned us of the evil; now try and aid us with the
remedy."
"Sire," said Villefort, "the usurper is detested in the south; and it seems to me that if he ventured into the
south, it would be easy to raise Languedoc and Provence against him."
"Yes, assuredly," replied the minister; "but he is advancing by Gap and Sisteron."
"Advancing -- he is advancing!" said Louis XVIII. "Is he then advancing on Paris?" The minister of police
maintained a silence which was equivalent to a complete avowal.
"And Dauphine, sir?" inquired the king, of Villefort. "Do you think it possible to rouse that as well as
Provence?"
"Sire, I am sorry to tell your majesty a cruel fact; but the feeling in Dauphine is quite the reverse of that in
Provence or Languedoc. The mountaineers are Bonapartists, sire."

"Then," murmured Louis, "he was well informed. And how many men had he with him?"
"I do not know, sire," answered the minister of police.
"What, you do not know! Have you neglected to obtain information on that point? Of course it is of no
consequence," he added, with a withering smile.
"Sire, it was impossible to learn; the despatch simply stated the fact of the landing and the route taken by
the usurper."
"And how did this despatch reach you?" inquired the king. The minister bowed his head, and while a
deep color overspread his cheeks, he stammered out, --
"By the telegraph, sire." -- Louis XVIII. advanced a step, and folded his arms over his chest as Napoleon
would have done.
"So then," he exclaimed, turning pale with anger, "seven conjoined and allied armies overthrew that man.
A miracle of heaven replaced me on the throne of my fathers after five-and-twenty years of exile. I have,
during those five-and-twenty years, spared no pains to understand the people of France and the interests
which were confided to me; and now, when I see the fruition of my wishes almost within reach, the power
I hold in my hands bursts, and shatters me to atoms!"
"Sire, it is fatality!" murmured the minister, feeling that the pressure of circumstances, however light a
thing to destiny, was too much for any human strength to endure.

"What our enemies say of us is then true. We have learnt nothing, forgotten nothing! If I were betrayed as
he was, I would console myself; but to be in the midst of persons elevated by myself to places of honor,
who ought to watch over me more carefully than over themselves, -- for my fortune is theirs -- before me
they were nothing -- after me they will be nothing, and perish miserably from incapacity -- ineptitude! Oh,
yes, sir, you are right -- it is fatality!"
The minister quailed before this outburst of sarcasm. M. de Blacas wiped the moisture from his brow.
Villefort smiled within himself, for he felt his increased importance.
"To fall," continued King Louis, who at the first glance had sounded the abyss on which the monarchy
hung suspended, -- "to fall, and learn of that fall by telegraph! Oh, I would rather mount the scaffold of my
brother, Louis XVI., than thus descend the staircase at the Tuileries driven away by ridicule. Ridicule, sir
-- why, you know not its power in France, and yet you ought to know it!"
"Sire, sire," murmured the minister, "for pity's" --
"Approach, M. de Villefort," resumed the king, addressing the young man, who, motionless and
breathless, was listening to a conversation on which depended the destiny of a kingdom. "Approach, and
tell monsieur that it is possible to know beforehand all that he has not known."
"Sire, it was really impossible to learn secrets which that man concealed from all the world."
"Really impossible! Yes -- that is a great word, sir. Unfortunately, there are great words, as there are great
men; I have measured them. Really impossible for a minister who has an office, agents, spies, and fifteen
hundred thousand francs for secret service money, to know what is going on at sixty leagues from the
coast of France! Well, then, see, here is a gentleman who had none of these resources at his disposal --
a gentleman, only a simple magistrate, who learned more than you with all your police, and who would
have saved my crown, if, like you, he had the power of directing a telegraph." The look of the minister of
police was turned with concentrated spite on Villefort, who bent his head in modest triumph.

"I do not mean that for you, Blacas," continued Louis XVIII.; "for if you have discovered nothing, at least
you have had the good sense to persevere in your suspicions. Any other than yourself would have
considered the disclosure of M. de Villefort insignificant, or else dictated by venal ambition," These words
were an allusion to the sentiments which the minister of police had uttered with so much confidence an
hour before.
Villefort understood the king's intent. Any other person would, perhaps, have been overcome by such an
intoxicating draught of praise; but he feared to make for himself a mortal enemy of the police minister,
although he saw that Dandre was irrevocably lost. In fact, the minister, who, in the plenitude of his power,
had been unable to unearth Napoleon's secret, might in despair at his own downfall interrogate Dantes
and so lay bare the motives of Villefort's plot. Realizing this, Villefort came to the rescue of the crest-fallen
minister, instead of aiding to crush him.
"Sire," said Villefort, "the suddenness of this event must prove to your majesty that the issue is in the
hands of Providence; what your majesty is pleased to attribute to me as profound perspicacity is simply
owing to chance, and I have profited by that chance, like a good and devoted servant -- that's all. Do not
attribute to me more than I deserve, sire, that your majesty may never have occasion to recall the first
opinion you have been pleased to form of me." The minister of police thanked the young man by an
eloquent look, and Villefort understood that he had succeeded in his design; that is to say, that without
forfeiting the gratitude of the king, he had made a friend of one on whom, in case of necessity, he might
rely.
"'Tis well," resumed the king. "And now, gentlemen," he continued, turning towards M. de Blacas and the
minister of police, "I have no further occasion for you, and you may retire; what now remains to do is in
the department of the minister of war."
"Fortunately, sire," said M. de Blacas, "we can rely on the army; your majesty knows how every report
confirms their loyalty and attachment."
"Do not mention reports, duke, to me, for I know now what confidence to place in them. Yet, speaking of
reports, baron, what have you learned with regard to the affair in the Rue Saint-Jacques?"

"The affair in the Rue Saint-Jacques!" exclaimed Villefort, unable to repress an exclamation. Then,
suddenly pausing, he added, "Your pardon, sire, but my devotion to your majesty has made me forget,
not the respect I have, for that is too deeply engraved in my heart, but the rules of etiquette."
"Go on, go on, sir," replied the king; "you have to-day earned the right to make inquiries here."
"Sire," interposed the minister of police, "I came a moment ago to give your majesty fresh information
which I had obtained on this head, when your majesty's attention was attracted by the terrible event that
has occurred in the gulf, and now these facts will cease to interest your majesty."
"On the contrary, sir, -- on the contrary," said Louis XVIII., "this affair seems to me to have a decided
connection with that which occupies our attention, and the death of General Quesnel will, perhaps, put us
on the direct track of a great internal conspiracy." At the name of General Quesnel, Villefort trembled.
"Everything points to the conclusion, sire," said the minister of police, "that death was not the result of
suicide, as we first believed, but of assassination. General Quesnel, it appears, had just left a Bonapartist
club when he disappeared. An unknown person had been with him that morning, and made an
appointment with him in the Rue Saint-Jacques; unfortunately, the general's valet, who was dressing his
hair at the moment when the stranger entered, heard the street mentioned, but did not catch the number."
As the police minister related this to the king, Villefort, who looked as if his very life hung on the speaker's
lips, turned alternately red and pale. The king looked towards him.
"Do you not think with me, M. de Villefort, that General Quesnel, whom they believed attached to the
usurper, but who was really entirely devoted to me, has perished the victim of a Bonapartist ambush?"
"It is probable, sire," replied Villefort. "But is this all that is known?"
"They are on the track of the man who appointed the meeting with him."

"On his track?" said Villefort.
"Yes, the servant has given his description. He is a man of from fifty to fifty-two years of age, dark, with
black eyes covered with shaggy eyebrows, and a thick mustache. He was dressed in a blue frock-coat,
buttoned up to the chin, and wore at his button-hole the rosette of an officer of the Legion of Honor.
Yesterday a person exactly corresponding with this description was followed, but he was lost sight of at
the corner of the Rue de la Jussienne and the Rue Coq-Heron." Villefort leaned on the back of an
arm-chair, for as the minister of police went on speaking he felt his legs bend under him; but when he
learned that the unknown had escaped the vigilance of the agent who followed him, he breathed again.
"Continue to seek for this man, sir," said the king to the minister of police; "for if, as I am all but convinced,
General Quesnel, who would have been so useful to us at this moment, has been murdered, his
assassins, Bonapartists or not, shall be cruelly punished." It required all Villefort's coolness not to betray
the terror with which this declaration of the king inspired him.
"How strange," continued the king, with some asperity; "the police think that they have disposed of the
whole matter when they say, `A murder has been committed,' and especially so when they can add, `And
we are on the track of the guilty persons.'"
"Sire, your majesty will, I trust, be amply satisfied on this point at least."
"We shall see. I will no longer detain you, M. de Villefort, for you must be fatigued after so long a journey;
go and rest. Of course you stopped at your father's?" A feeling of faintness came over Villefort.
"No, sire," he replied, "I alighted at the Hotel de Madrid, in the Rue de Tournon."
"But you have seen him?"

"Sire, I went straight to the Duc de Blacas."
"But you will see him, then?"
"I think not, sire."
"Ah, I forgot," said Louis, smiling in a manner which proved that all these questions were not made
without a motive; "I forgot you and M. Noirtier are not on the best terms possible, and that is another
sacrifice made to the royal cause, and for which you should be recompensed."
"Sire, the kindness your majesty deigns to evince towards me is a recompense which so far surpasses
my utmost ambition that I have nothing more to ask for."
"Never mind, sir, we will not forget you; make your mind easy. In the meanwhile" (the king here detached
the cross of the Legion of Honor which he usually wore over his blue coat, near the cross of St. Louis,
above the order of Notre-Dame-du-Mont-Carmel and St. Lazare, and gave it to Villefort) -- "in the
meanwhile take this cross."
"Sire," said Villefort, "your majesty mistakes; this is an officer's cross."
"Ma foi," said Louis XVIII., "take it, such as it is, for I have not the time to procure you another. Blacas, let
it be your care to see that the brevet is made out and sent to M. de Villefort." Villefort's eyes were filled
with tears of joy and pride; he took the cross and kissed it.
"And now," he said, "may I inquire what are the orders with which your majesty deigns to honor me?"

"Take what rest you require, and remember that if you are not able to serve me here in Paris, you may be
of the greatest service to me at Marseilles."
"Sire," replied Villefort, bowing, "in an hour I shall have quitted Paris."
"Go, sir," said the king; "and should I forget you (kings' memories are short), do not be afraid to bring
yourself to my recollection. Baron, send for the minister of war. Blacas, remain."
"Ah, sir," said the minister of police to Villefort, as they left the Tuileries, "you entered by luck's door --
your fortune is made."
"Will it be long first?" muttered Villefort, saluting the minister, whose career was ended, and looking about
him for a hackney-coach. One passed at the moment, which he hailed; he gave his address to the driver,
and springing in, threw himself on the seat, and gave loose to dreams of ambition.
Ten minutes afterwards Villefort reached his hotel, ordered horses to be ready in two hours, and asked to
have his breakfast brought to him. He was about to begin his repast when the sound of the bell rang
sharp and loud. The valet opened the door, and Villefort heard some one speak his name.
"Who could know that I was here already?" said the young man. The valet entered.
"Well," said Villefort, "what is it? -- Who rang? -- Who asked for me?"
"A stranger who will not send in his name."

"A stranger who will not send in his name! What can he want with me?"
"He wishes to speak to you."
"To me?"
"Yes."
"Did he mention my name?"
"Yes."
"What sort of person is he?"
"Why, sir, a man of about fifty."
"Short or tall?"
"About your own height, sir."
"Dark or fair?"

"Dark, -- very dark; with black eyes, black hair, black eyebrows."
"And how dressed?" asked Villefort quickly.
"In a blue frock-coat, buttoned up close, decorated with the Legion of Honor."
"It is he!" said Villefort, turning pale.
"Eh, pardieu," said the individual whose description we have twice given, entering the door, "what a great
deal of ceremony! Is it the custom in Marseilles for sons to keep their fathers waiting in their anterooms?"
"Father!" cried Villefort, "then I was not deceived; I felt sure it must be you."
"Well, then, if you felt so sure," replied the new-comer, putting his cane in a corner and his hat on a chair,
"allow me to say, my dear Gerard, that it was not very filial of you to keep me waiting at the door."
"Leave us, Germain," said Villefort. The servant quitted the apartment with evident signs of astonishment. -------------------- [email protected]

Chapter 12 Father and Son.
M. Noirtier -- for it was, indeed, he who entered -- looked after the servant until the door was closed, and
then, fearing, no doubt, that he might be overheard in the ante-chamber, he opened the door again, nor

was the precaution useless, as appeared from the rapid retreat of Germain, who proved that he was not
exempt from the sin which ruined our first parents. M. Noirtier then took the trouble to close and bolt the
ante-chamber door, then that of the bed-chamber, and then extended his hand to Villefort, who had
followed all his motions with surprise which he could not conceal.
"Well, now, my dear Gerard," said he to the young man, with a very significant look, "do you know, you
seem as if you were not very glad to see me?"
"My dear father," said Villefort, "I am, on the contrary, delighted; but I so little expected your visit, that it
has somewhat overcome me."
"But, my dear fellow," replied M. Noirtier, seating himself, "I might say the same thing to you, when you
announce to me your wedding for the 28th of February, and on the 3rd of March you turn up here in
Paris."
"And if I have come, my dear father," said Gerard, drawing closer to M. Noirtier, "do not complain, for it is
for you that I came, and my journey will be your salvation."
"Ah, indeed!" said M. Noirtier, stretching himself out at his ease in the chair. "Really, pray tell me all about
it, for it must be interesting."
"Father, you have heard speak of a certain Bonapartist club in the Rue Saint-Jacques?"
"No. 53; yes, I am vice-president."
"Father, your coolness makes me shudder."

"Why, my dear boy, when a man has been proscribed by the mountaineers, has escaped from Paris in a
hay-cart, been hunted over the plains of Bordeaux by Robespierre's bloodhounds, he becomes
accustomed to most things. But go on, what about the club in the Rue Saint-Jacques?"
"Why, they induced General Quesnel to go there, and General Quesnel, who quitted his own house at
nine o'clock in the evening, was found the next day in the Seine."
"And who told you this fine story?"
"The king himself."
"Well, then, in return for your story," continued Noirtier, "I will tell you another."
"My dear father, I think I already know what you are about to tell me."
"Ah, you have heard of the landing of the emperor?"
"Not so loud, father, I entreat of you -- for your own sake as well as mine. Yes, I heard this news, and
knew it even before you could; for three days ago I posted from Marseilles to Paris with all possible
speed, half-desperate at the enforced delay."
"Three days ago? You are crazy. Why, three days ago the emperor had not landed."
"No matter, I was aware of his intention."

"How did you know about it?"
"By a letter addressed to you from the Island of Elba."
"To me?"
"To you; and which I discovered in the pocket-book of the messenger. Had that letter fallen into the hands
of another, you, my dear father, would probably ere this have been shot." Villefort's father laughed.
"Come, come," said he, "will the Restoration adopt imperial methods so promptly? Shot, my dear boy?
What an idea! Where is the letter you speak of? I know you too well to suppose you would allow such a
thing to pass you."
"I burnt it, for fear that even a fragment should remain; for that letter must have led to your
condemnation."
"And the destruction of your future prospects," replied Noirtier; "yes, I can easily comprehend that. But I
have nothing to fear while I have you to protect me."
"I do better than that, sir -- I save you."
"You do? Why, really, the thing becomes more and more dramatic -- explain yourself."
"I must refer again to the club in the Rue Saint-Jacques."

"It appears that this club is rather a bore to the police. Why didn't they search more vigilantly? they would
have found" --
"They have not found; but they are on the track."
"Yes, that the usual phrase; I am quite familiar with it. When the police is at fault, it declares that it is on
the track; and the government patiently awaits the day when it comes to say, with a sneaking air, that the
track is lost."
"Yes, but they have found a corpse; the general has been killed, and in all countries they call that a
murder."
"A murder do you call it? why, there is nothing to prove that the general was murdered. People are found
every day in the Seine, having thrown themselves in, or having been drowned from not knowing how to
swim."
"Father, you know very well that the general was not a man to drown himself in despair, and people do
not bathe in the Seine in the month of January. No, no, do not be deceived; this was murder in every
sense of the word."
"And who thus designated it?"
"The king himself."
"The king! I thought he was philosopher enough to allow that there was no murder in politics. In politics,

my dear fellow, you know, as well as I do, there are no men, but ideas -- no feelings, but interests; in
politics we do not kill a man, we only remove an obstacle, that is all. Would you like to know how matters
have progressed? Well, I will tell you. It was thought reliance might be placed in General Quesnel; he
was recommended to us from the Island of Elba; one of us went to him, and invited him to the Rue
Saint-Jacques, where he would find some friends. He came there, and the plan was unfolded to him for
leaving Elba, the projected landing, etc. When he had heard and comprehended all to the fullest extent,
he replied that he was a royalist. Then all looked at each other, -- he was made to take an oath, and did
so, but with such an ill grace that it was really tempting Providence to swear him, and yet, in spite of that,
the general was allowed to depart free -- perfectly free. Yet he did not return home. What could that mean?
why, my dear fellow, that on leaving us he lost his way, that's all. A murder? really, Villefort, you surprise
me. You, a deputy procureur, to found an accusation on such bad premises! Did I ever say to you, when
you were fulfilling your character as a royalist, and cut off the head of one of my party, `My son, you have
committed a murder?' No, I said, `Very well, sir, you have gained the victory; to-morrow, perchance, it will
be our turn.'"
"But, father, take care; when our turn comes, our revenge will be sweeping."
"I do not understand you."
"You rely on the usurper's return?"
"We do."
"You are mistaken; he will not advance two leagues into the interior of France without being followed,
tracked, and caught like a wild beast."
"My dear fellow, the emperor is at this moment on the way to Grenoble; on the 10th or 12th he will be at
Lyons, and on the 20th or 25th at Paris."
"The people will rise."

"Yes, to go and meet him."
"He has but a handful of men with him, and armies will be despatched against him."
"Yes, to escort him into the capital. Really, my dear Gerard, you are but a child; you think yourself well
informed because the telegraph has told you, three days after the landing, `The usurper has landed at
Cannes with several men. He is pursued.' But where is he? what is he doing? You do not know at all, and
in this way they will chase him to Paris, without drawing a trigger."
"Grenoble and Lyons are faithful cities, and will oppose to him an impassable barrier."
"Grenoble will open her gates to him with enthusiasm -- all Lyons will hasten to welcome him. Believe me,
we are as well informed as you, and our police are as good as your own. Would you like a proof of it? well,
you wished to conceal your journey from me, and yet I knew of your arrival half an hour after you had
passed the barrier. You gave your direction to no one but your postilion, yet I have your address, and in
proof I am here the very instant you are going to sit at table. Ring, then, if you please, for a second knife,
fork, and plate, and we will dine together."
"Indeed!" replied Villefort, looking at his father with astonishment, "you really do seem very well
informed."
"Eh? the thing is simple enough. You who are in power have only the means that money produces -- we
who are in expectation, have those which devotion prompts."
"Devotion!" said Villefort, with a sneer.

"Yes, devotion; for that is, I believe, the phrase for hopeful ambition."
And Villefort's father extended his hand to the bell-rope, to summon the servant whom his son had not
called. Villefort caught his arm.
"Wait, my dear father," said the young man, "one word more."
"Say on."
"However stupid the royalist police may be, they do know one terrible thing."
"What is that?"
"The description of the man who, on the morning of the day when General Quesnel disappeared,
presented himself at his house."
"Oh, the admirable police have found that out, have they? And what may be that description?"
"Dark complexion; hair, eyebrows, and whiskers, black; blue frock-coat, buttoned up to the chin; rosette
of an officer of the Legion of Honor in his button-hole; a hat with wide brim, and a cane."
"Ah, ha, that's it, is it?" said Noirtier; "and why, then, have they not laid hands on him?"

"Because yesterday, or the day before, they lost sight of him at the corner of the Rue Coq-Heron."
"Didn't I say that your police were good for nothing?"
"Yes; but they may catch him yet."
"True," said Noirtier, looking carelessly around him, "true, if this person were not on his guard, as he is;"
and he added with a smile, "He will consequently make a few changes in his personal appearance." At
these words he rose, and put off his frock-coat and cravat, went towards a table on which lay his son's
toilet articles, lathered his face, took a razor, and, with a firm hand, cut off the compromising whiskers.
Villefort watched him with alarm not devoid of admiration.
His whiskers cut off, Noirtier gave another turn to his hair; took, instead of his black cravat, a colored
neckerchief which lay at the top of an open portmanteau; put on, in lieu of his blue and high-buttoned
frock-coat, a coat of Villefort's of dark brown, and cut away in front; tried on before the glass a
narrow-brimmed hat of his son's, which appeared to fit him perfectly, and, leaving his cane in the corner
where he had deposited it, he took up a small bamboo switch, cut the air with it once or twice, and walked
about with that easy swagger which was one of his principal characteristics.
"Well," he said, turning towards his wondering son, when this disguise was completed, "well, do you think
your police will recognize me now."
"No, father," stammered Villefort; "at least, I hope not."
"And now, my dear boy," continued Noirtier, "I rely on your prudence to remove all the things which I
leave in your care."
"Oh, rely on me," said Villefort.

"Yes, yes; and now I believe you are right, and that you have really saved my life; be assured I will return
the favor hereafter." Villefort shook his head.
"You are not convinced yet?"
"I hope at least, that you may be mistaken."
"Shall you see the king again?"
"Perhaps."
"Would you pass in his eyes for a prophet?"
"Prophets of evil are not in favor at the court, father."
"True, but some day they do them justice; and supposing a second restoration, you would then pass for a
great man."
"Well, what should I say to the king?"
"Say this to him: `Sire, you are deceived as to the feeling in France, as to the opinions of the towns, and
the prejudices of the army; he whom in Paris you call the Corsican ogre, who at Nevers is styled the
usurper, is already saluted as Bonaparte at Lyons, and emperor at Grenoble. You think he is tracked,

pursued, captured; he is advancing as rapidly as his own eagles. The soldiers you believe to be dying
with hunger, worn out with fatigue, ready to desert, gather like atoms of snow about the rolling ball as it
hastens onward. Sire, go, leave France to its real master, to him who acquired it, not by purchase, but by
right of conquest; go, sire, not that you incur any risk, for your adversary is powerful enough to show you
mercy, but because it would be humiliating for a grandson of Saint Louis to owe his life to the man of
Arcola, Marengo, Austerlitz.' Tell him this, Gerard; or, rather, tell him nothing. Keep your journey a secret;
do not boast of what you have come to Paris to do, or have done; return with all speed; enter Marseilles
at night, and your house by the back-door, and there remain, quiet, submissive, secret, and, above all,
inoffensive; for this time, I swear to you, we shall act like powerful men who know their enemies. Go, my
son -- go, my dear Gerard, and by your obedience to my paternal orders, or, if you prefer it, friendly
counsels, we will keep you in your place. This will be," added Noirtier, with a smile, "one means by which
you may a second time save me, if the political balance should some day take another turn, and cast you
aloft while hurling me down. Adieu, my dear Gerard, and at your next journey alight at my door." Noirtier
left the room when he had finished, with the same calmness that had characterized him during the whole
of this remarkable and trying conversation. Villefort, pale and agitated, ran to the window, put aside the
curtain, and saw him pass, cool and collected, by two or three ill-looking men at the corner of the street,
who were there, perhaps, to arrest a man with black whiskers, and a blue frock-coat, and hat with broad
brim.
Villefort stood watching, breathless, until his father had disappeared at the Rue Bussy. Then he turned to
the various articles he had left behind him, put the black cravat and blue frock-coat at the bottom of the
portmanteau, threw the hat into a dark closet, broke the cane into small bits and flung it in the fire, put on
his travelling-cap, and calling his valet, checked with a look the thousand questions he was ready to ask,
paid his bill, sprang into his carriage, which was ready, learned at Lyons that Bonaparte had entered
Grenoble, and in the midst of the tumult which prevailed along the road, at length reached Marseilles, a
prey to all the hopes and fears which enter into the heart of man with ambition and its first successes. -------------------- [email protected]

Chapter 13 The Hundred Days.
M. Noirtier was a true prophet, and things progressed rapidly, as he had predicted. Every one knows the
history of the famous return from Elba, a return which was unprecedented in the past, and will probably
remain without a counterpart in the future.

Louis XVIII. made but a faint attempt to parry this unexpected blow; the monarchy he had scarcely
reconstructed tottered on its precarious foundation, and at a sign from the emperor the incongruous
structure of ancient prejudices and new ideas fell to the ground. Villefort, therefore, gained nothing save
the king's gratitude (which was rather likely to injure him at the present time) and the cross of the Legion
of Honor, which he had the prudence not to wear, although M. de Blacas had duly forwarded the brevet.
Napoleon would, doubtless, have deprived Villefort of his office had it not been for Noirtier, who was all
powerful at court, and thus the Girondin of '93 and the Senator of 1806 protected him who so lately had
been his protector. All Villefort's influence barely enabled him to stifle the secret Dantes had so nearly
divulged. The king's procureur alone was deprived of his office, being suspected of royalism.
However, scarcely was the imperial power established -- that is, scarcely had the emperor re-entered the
Tuileries and begun to issue orders from the closet into which we have introduced our readers, -- he
found on the table there Louis XVIII.'s half-filled snuff-box, -- scarcely had this occurred when Marseilles
began, in spite of the authorities, to rekindle the flames of civil war, always smouldering in the south, and
it required but little to excite the populace to acts of far greater violence than the shouts and insults with
which they assailed the royalists whenever they ventured abroad.
Owing to this change, the worthy shipowner became at that moment -- we will not say all powerful,
because Morrel was a prudent and rather a timid man, so much so, that many of the most zealous
partisans of Bonaparte accused him of "moderation" -- but sufficiently influential to make a demand in
favor of Dantes.
Villefort retained his place, but his marriage was put off until a more favorable opportunity. If the emperor
remained on the throne, Gerard required a different alliance to aid his career; if Louis XVIII. returned, the
influence of M. de Saint-Meran, like his own, could be vastly increased, and the marriage be still more
suitable. The deputy-procureur was, therefore, the first magistrate of Marseilles, when one morning his
door opened, and M. Morrel was announced.
Any one else would have hastened to receive him; but Villefort was a man of ability, and he knew this
would be a sign of weakness. He made Morrel wait in the ante-chamber, although he had no one with
him, for the simple reason that the king's procureur always makes every one wait, and after passing a
quarter of an hour in reading the papers, he ordered M. Morrel to be admitted.

Morrel expected Villefort would be dejected; he found him as he had found him six weeks before, calm,
firm, and full of that glacial politeness, that most insurmountable barrier which separates the well-bred
from the vulgar man.
He had entered Villefort's office expecting that the magistrate would tremble at the sight of him; on the
contrary, he felt a cold shudder all over him when he saw Villefort sitting there with his elbow on his desk,
and his head leaning on his hand. He stopped at the door; Villefort gazed at him as if he had some
difficulty in recognizing him; then, after a brief interval, during which the honest shipowner turned his hat
in his hands, --
"M. Morrel, I believe?" said Villefort.
"Yes, sir."
"Come nearer," said the magistrate, with a patronizing wave of the hand, "and tell me to what
circumstance I owe the honor of this visit."
"Do you not guess, monsieur?" asked Morrel.
"Not in the least; but if I can serve you in any way I shall be delighted."
"Everything depends on you."
"Explain yourself, pray."

"Monsieur," said Morrel, recovering his assurance as he proceeded, "do you recollect that a few days
before the landing of his majesty the emperor, I came to intercede for a young man, the mate of my ship,
who was accused of being concerned in correspondence with the Island of Elba? What was the other day
a crime is to-day a title to favor. You then served Louis XVIII., and you did not show any favor -- it was
your duty; to-day you serve Napoleon, and you ought to protect him -- it is equally your duty; I come,
therefore, to ask what has become of him?"
Villefort by a strong effort sought to control himself. "What is his name?" said he. "Tell me his name."
"Edmond Dantes."
Villefort would probably have rather stood opposite the muzzle of a pistol at five-and-twenty paces than
have heard this name spoken; but he did not blanch.
"Dantes," repeated he, "Edmond Dantes."
"Yes, monsieur." Villefort opened a large register, then went to a table, from the table turned to his
registers, and then, turning to Morrel, --
"Are you quite sure you are not mistaken, monsieur?" said he, in the most natural tone in the world.
Had Morrel been a more quick-sighted man, or better versed in these matters, he would have been
surprised at the king's procureur answering him on such a subject, instead of referring him to the
governors of the prison or the prefect of the department. But Morrel, disappointed in his expectations of
exciting fear, was conscious only of the other's condescension. Villefort had calculated rightly.

"No," said Morrel; "I am not mistaken. I have known him for ten years, the last four of which he was in my
service. Do not you recollect, I came about six weeks ago to plead for clemency, as I come to-day to
plead for justice. You received me very coldly. Oh, the royalists were very severe with the Bonapartists in
those days."
"Monsieur," returned Villefort, "I was then a royalist, because I believed the Bourbons not only the heirs to
the throne, but the chosen of the nation. The miraculous return of Napoleon has conquered me, the
legitimate monarch is he who is loved by his people."
"That's right!" cried Morrel. "I like to hear you speak thus, and I augur well for Edmond from it."
"Wait a moment," said Villefort, turning over the leaves of a register; "I have it -- a sailor, who was about
to marry a young Catalan girl. I recollect now; it was a very serious charge."
"How so?"
"You know that when he left here he was taken to the Palais de Justice."
"Well?"
"I made my report to the authorities at Paris, and a week after he was carried off."
"Carried off!" said Morrel. "What can they have done with him?"
"Oh, he has been taken to Fenestrelles, to Pignerol, or to the Sainte-Marguerite islands. Some fine
morning he will return to take command of your vessel."

"Come when he will, it shall be kept for him. But how is it he is not already returned? It seems to me the
first care of government should be to set at liberty those who have suffered for their adherence to it."
"Do not be too hasty, M. Morrel," replied Villefort. "The order of imprisonment came from high authority,
and the order for his liberation must proceed from the same source; and, as Napoleon has scarcely been
reinstated a fortnight, the letters have not yet been forwarded."
"But," said Morrel, "is there no way of expediting all these formalities -- of releasing him from arrest?"
"There has been no arrest."
"How?"
"It is sometimes essential to government to cause a man's disappearance without leaving any traces, so
that no written forms or documents may defeat their wishes."
"It might be so under the Bourbons, but at present" --
"It has always been so, my dear Morrel, since the reign of Louis XIV. The emperor is more strict in prison
discipline than even Louis himself, and the number of prisoners whose names are not on the register is
incalculable." Had Morrel even any suspicions, so much kindness would have dispelled them.
"Well, M. de Villefort, how would you advise me to act?" asked he.

"Petition the minister."
"Oh, I know what that is; the minister receives two hundred petitions every day, and does not read three."
"That is true; but he will read a petition countersigned and presented by me."
"And will you undertake to deliver it?"
"With the greatest pleasure. Dantes was then guilty, and now he is innocent, and it is as much my duty to
free him as it was to condemn him." Villefort thus forestalled any danger of an inquiry, which, however
improbable it might be, if it did take place would leave him defenceless.
"But how shall I address the minister?"
"Sit down there," said Villefort, giving up his place to Morrel, "and write what I dictate."
"Will you be so good?"
"Certainly. But lose no time; we have lost too much already."
"That is true. Only think what the poor fellow may even now be suffering." Villefort shuddered at the
suggestion; but he had gone too far to draw back. Dantes must be crushed to gratify Villefort's ambition.

Villefort dictated a petition, in which, from an excellent intention, no doubt, Dantes' patriotic services were
exaggerated, and he was made out one of the most active agents of Napoleon's return. It was evident
that at the sight of this document the minister would instantly release him. The petition finished, Villefort
read it aloud.
"That will do," said he; "leave the rest to me."
"Will the petition go soon?"
"To-day."
"Countersigned by you?"
"The best thing I can do will be to certify the truth of the contents of your petition." And, sitting down,
Villefort wrote the certificate at the bottom.
"What more is to be done?"
"I will do whatever is necessary." This assurance delighted Morrel, who took leave of Villefort, and
hastened to announce to old Dantes that he would soon see his son.
As for Villefort, instead of sending to Paris, he carefully preserved the petition that so fearfully
compromised Dantes, in the hopes of an event that seemed not unlikely, -- that is, a second restoration.
Dantes remained a prisoner, and heard not the noise of the fall of Louis XVIII.'s throne, or the still more
tragic destruction of the empire.

Twice during the Hundred Days had Morrel renewed his demand, and twice had Villefort soothed him
with promises. At last there was Waterloo, and Morrel came no more; he had done all that was in his
power, and any fresh attempt would only compromise himself uselessly.
Louis XVIII. remounted the throne; Villefort, to whom Marseilles had become filled with remorseful
memories, sought and obtained the situation of king's procureur at Toulouse, and a fortnight afterwards
he married Mademoiselle de Saint-Meran, whose father now stood higher at court than ever.
And so Dantes, after the Hundred Days and after Waterloo, remained in his dungeon, forgotten of earth
and heaven. Danglars comprehended the full extent of the wretched fate that overwhelmed Dantes; and,
when Napoleon returned to France, he, after the manner of mediocre minds, termed the coincidence, "a
decree of Providence." But when Napoleon returned to Paris, Danglars' heart failed him, and he lived in
constant fear of Dantes' return on a mission of vengeance. He therefore informed M. Morrel of his wish to
quit the sea, and obtained a recommendation from him to a Spanish merchant, into whose service he
entered at the end of March, that is, ten or twelve days after Napoleon's return. He then left for Madrid,
and was no more heard of.
Fernand understood nothing except that Dantes was absent. What had become of him he cared not to
inquire. Only, during the respite the absence of his rival afforded him, he reflected, partly on the means of
deceiving Mercedes as to the cause of his absence, partly on plans of emigration and abduction, as from
time to time he sat sad and motionless on the summit of Cape Pharo, at the spot from whence Marseilles
and the Catalans are visible, watching for the apparition of a young and handsome man, who was for him
also the messenger of vengeance. Fernand's mind was made up; he would shoot Dantes, and then kill
himself. But Fernand was mistaken; a man of his disposition never kills himself, for he constantly hopes.
During this time the empire made its last conscription, and every man in France capable of bearing arms
rushed to obey the summons of the emperor. Fernand departed with the rest, bearing with him the
terrible thought that while he was away, his rival would perhaps return and marry Mercedes. Had
Fernand really meant to kill himself, he would have done so when he parted from Mercedes. His devotion,
and the compassion he showed for her misfortunes, produced the effect they always produce on noble
minds -- Mercedes had always had a sincere regard for Fernand, and this was now strengthened by
gratitude.
"My brother," said she as she placed his knapsack on his shoulders, "be careful of yourself, for if you are

killed, I shall be alone in the world." These words carried a ray of hope into Fernand's heart. Should
Dantes not return, Mercedes might one day be his.
Mercedes was left alone face to face with the vast plain that had never seemed so barren, and the sea
that had never seemed so vast. Bathed in tears she wandered about the Catalan village. Sometimes she
stood mute and motionless as a statue, looking towards Marseilles, at other times gazing on the sea, and
debating as to whether it were not better to cast herself into the abyss of the ocean, and thus end her
woes. It was not want of courage that prevented her putting this resolution into execution; but her
religious feelings came to her aid and saved her. Caderousse was, like Fernand, enrolled in the army, but,
being married and eight years older, he was merely sent to the frontier. Old Dantes, who was only
sustained by hope, lost all hope at Napoleon's downfall. Five months after he had been separated from
his son, and almost at the hour of his arrest, he breathed his last in Mercedes' arms. M. Morrel paid the
expenses of his funeral, and a few small debts the poor old man had contracted.
There was more than benevolence in this action; there was courage; the south was aflame, and to assist,
even on his death-bed, the father of so dangerous a Bonapartist as Dantes, was stigmatized as a crime. -------------------- [email protected]

Chapter 14 The Two Prisoners.
A year after Louis XVIII.'s restoration, a visit was made by the inspector-general of prisons. Dantes 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 plash 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 his 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 abbe, 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, Dantes, 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, Dantes, 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. Dantes 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 to-day," 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 his always been very good to me, but I was mad."
"And you are not so any longer?"
"No; captivity his 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."
"To-day is the 30th of July, 1816, -- why it is but seventeen months."
"Only seventeen months," replied Dantes. "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 Dantes, "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 Dantes, "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 Dantes, "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." Dantes fell on his knees, and prayed earnestly. The door closed; but
this time a fresh inmate was left with Dantes -- 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 Abbe 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 abbe."
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 abbe 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 abbe; "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 Abbe 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 Abbe 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 Caesar 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 abbe, "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 abbe, "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 any
one 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 abbe, "that you are like those of Holy Writ, who having ears hear not, and
having eyes see not."
"My dear sir, the government is rich and does not want your treasures," replied the inspector; "keep them
until you are liberated." The abbe'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 abbe'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 abbe. "You will not accept my gold; I will keep it for myself. You refuse me my
liberty; God will give it me." And the abbe, 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 Abbe 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 Abbe Faria, gone mad in prison, condemned
him to perpetual captivity.
The inspector kept his word with Dantes; he examined the register, and found the following note
concerning him: --
Edmond Dantes:
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 Dantes; 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 -- Dantes 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 Dantes 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 Dantes' 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 Dantes -- he was now number 34.
[ 2004-07-22 14:33:26 slw4qd 修改 ]

Chapter 15 Number 34 and Number 27.
Dantes passed through all the stages of torture natural to prisoners in suspense. He was sustained at
first by that pride of conscious innocence which is the sequence to hope; then he began to doubt his own
innocence, which justified in some measure the governor's belief in his mental alienation; and then,
relaxing his sentiment of pride, he addressed his supplications, not to God, but to man. God is always the
last resource. Unfortunates, who ought to begin with God, do not have any hope in him till they have
exhausted all other means of deliverance.
Dantes asked to be removed from his present dungeon into another; for a change, however
disadvantageous, was still a change, and would afford him some amusement. He entreated to be allowed
to walk about, to have fresh air, books, and writing materials. His requests were not granted, but he went
on asking all the same. He accustomed himself to speaking to the new jailer, although the latter was, if
possible, more taciturn than the old one; but still, to speak to a man, even though mute, was something.
Dantes spoke for the sake of hearing his own voice; he had tried to speak when alone, but the sound of
his voice terrified him. Often, before his captivity, Dantes, mind had revolted at the idea of assemblages
of prisoners, made up of thieves, vagabonds, and murderers. He now wished to be amongst them, in
order to see some other face besides that of his jailer; he sighed for the galleys, with the infamous

costume, the chain, and the brand on the shoulder. The galley-slaves breathed the fresh air of heaven,
and saw each other. They were very happy. He besought the jailer one day to let him have a companion,
were it even the mad abbe.
The jailer, though rough and hardened by the constant sight of so much suffering, was yet a man. At the
bottom of his heart he had often had a feeling of pity for this unhappy young man who suffered so; and he
laid the request of number 34 before the governor; but the latter sapiently imagined that Dantes wished to
conspire or attempt an escape, and refused his request. Dantes had exhausted all human resources, and
he then turned to God.
All the pious ideas that had been so long forgotten, returned; he recollected the prayers his mother had
taught him, and discovered a new meaning in every word; for in prosperity prayers seem but a mere
medley of words, until misfortune comes and the unhappy sufferer first understands the meaning of the
sublime language in which he invokes the pity of heaven! He prayed, and prayed aloud, no longer
terrified at the sound of his own voice, for he fell into a sort of ecstasy. He laid every action of his life
before the Almighty, proposed tasks to accomplish, and at the end of every prayer introduced the
entreaty oftener addressed to man than to God: "Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that
trespass against us." Yet in spite of his earnest prayers, Dantes remained a prisoner.
Then gloom settled heavily upon him. Dantes was a man of great simplicity of thought, and without
education; he could not, therefore, in the solitude of his dungeon, traverse in mental vision the history of
the ages, bring to life the nations that had perished, and rebuild the ancient cities so vast and stupendous
in the light of the imagination, and that pass before the eye glowing with celestial colors in Martin's
Babylonian pictures. He could not do this, he whose past life was so short, whose present so melancholy,
and his future so doubtful. Nineteen years of light to reflect upon in eternal darkness! No distraction could
come to his aid; his energetic spirit, that would have exalted in thus revisiting the past, was imprisoned
like an eagle in a cage. He clung to one idea -- that of his happiness, destroyed, without apparent cause,
by an unheard-of fatality; he considered and reconsidered this idea, devoured it (so to speak), as the
implacable Ugolino devours the skull of Archbishop Roger in the Inferno of Dante.
Rage supplanted religious fervor. Dantes uttered blasphemies that made his jailer recoil with horror,
dashed himself furiously against the walls of his prison, wreaked his anger upon everything, and chiefly
upon himself, so that the least thing, -- a grain of sand, a straw, or a breath of air that annoyed him, led to
paroxysms of fury. Then the letter that Villefort had showed to him recurred to his mind, and every line
gleamed forth in fiery letters on the wall like the mene tekel upharsin of Belshazzar. He told himself that it
was the enmity of man, and not the vengeance of heaven, that had thus plunged him into the deepest

misery. He consigned his unknown persecutors to the most horrible tortures he could imagine, and found
them all insufficient, because after torture came death, and after death, if not repose, at least the boon of
unconsciousness.
By dint of constantly dwelling on the idea that tranquillity was death, and if punishment were the end in
view other tortures than death must be invented, he began to reflect on suicide. Unhappy he, who, on the
brink of misfortune, broods over ideas like these!
Before him is a dead sea that stretches in azure calm before the eye; but he who unwarily ventures within
its embrace finds himself struggling with a monster that would drag him down to perdition. Once thus
ensnared, unless the protecting hand of God snatch him thence, all is over, and his struggles but tend to
hasten his destruction. This state of mental anguish is, however, less terrible than the sufferings that
precede or the punishment that possibly will follow. There is a sort of consolation at the contemplation of
the yawning abyss, at the bottom of which lie darkness and obscurity.
Edmond found some solace in these ideas. All his sorrows, all his sufferings, with their train of gloomy
spectres, fled from his cell when the angel of death seemed about to enter. Dantes reviewed his past life
with composure, and, looking forward with terror to his future existence, chose that middle line that
seemed to afford him a refuge.
"Sometimes," said he, "in my voyages, when I was a man and commanded other men, I have seen the
heavens overcast, the sea rage and foam, the storm arise, and, like a monstrous bird, beating the two
horizons with its wings. Then I felt that my vessel was a vain refuge, that trembled and shook before the
tempest. Soon the fury of the waves and the sight of the sharp rocks announced the approach of death,
and death then terrified me, and I used all my skill and intelligence as a man and a sailor to struggle
against the wrath of God. But I did so because I was happy, because I had not courted death, because to
be cast upon a bed of rocks and seaweed seemed terrible, because I was unwilling that I, a creature
made for the service of God, should serve for food to the gulls and ravens. But now it is different; I have
lost all that bound me to life, death smiles and invites me to repose; I die after my own manner, I die
exhausted and broken-spirited, as I fall asleep when I have paced three thousand times round my cell."
No sooner had this idea taken possession of him than he became more composed, arranged his couch
to the best of his power, ate little and slept less, and found existence almost supportable, because he felt
that he could throw it off at pleasure, like a worn-out garment. Two methods of self-destruction were at his

disposal. He could hang himself with his handkerchief to the window bars, or refuse food and die of
starvation. But the first was repugnant to him. Dantes had always entertained the greatest horror of
pirates, who are hung up to the yard-arm; he would not die by what seemed an infamous death. He
resolved to adopt the second, and began that day to carry out his resolve. Nearly four years had passed
away; at the end of the second he had ceased to mark the lapse of time.
Dantes said, "I wish to die," and had chosen the manner of his death, and fearful of changing his mind, he
had taken an oath to die. "When my morning and evening meals are brought," thought he, "I will cast
them out of the window, and they will think that I have eaten them."
He kept his word; twice a day he cast out, through the barred aperture, the provisions his jailer brought
him -- at first gayly, then with deliberation, and at last with regret. Nothing but the recollection of his oath
gave him strength to proceed. Hunger made viands once repugnant, now acceptable; he held the plate in
his hand for an hour at a time, and gazed thoughtfully at the morsel of bad meat, of tainted fish, of black
and mouldy bread. It was the last yearning for life contending with the resolution of despair; then his
dungeon seemed less sombre, his prospects less desperate. He was still young -- he was only four or
five and twenty -- he had nearly fifty years to live. What unforseen events might not open his prison door,
and restore him to liberty? Then he raised to his lips the repast that, like a voluntary Tantalus, he refused
himself; but he thought of his oath, and he would not break it. He persisted until, at last, he had not
sufficient strength to rise and cast his supper out of the loophole. The next morning he could not see or
hear; the jailer feared he was dangerously ill. Edmond hoped he was dying.
Thus the day passed away. Edmond felt a sort of stupor creeping over him which brought with it a feeling
almost of content; the gnawing pain at his stomach had ceased; his thirst had abated; when he closed his
eyes he saw myriads of lights dancing before them like the will-o'-the-wisps that play about the marshes.
It was the twilight of that mysterious country called Death!
Suddenly, about nine o'clock in the evening, Edmond heard a hollow sound in the wall against which he
was lying.
So many loathsome animals inhabited the prison, that their noise did not, in general, awake him; but
whether abstinence had quickened his faculties, or whether the noise was really louder than usual,
Edmond raised his head and listened. It was a continual scratching, as if made by a huge claw, a
powerful tooth, or some iron instrument attacking the stones.

Although weakened, the young man's brain instantly responded to the idea that haunts all prisoners --
liberty! It seemed to him that heaven had at length taken pity on him, and had sent this noise to warn him
on the very brink of the abyss. Perhaps one of those beloved ones he had so often thought of was
thinking of him, and striving to diminish the distance that separated them.
No, no, doubtless he was deceived, and it was but one of those dreams that forerun death!
Edmond still heard the sound. It lasted nearly three hours; he then heard a noise of something falling,
and all was silent.
Some hours afterwards it began again, nearer and more distinct. Edmond was intensely interested.
Suddenly the jailer entered.
For a week since he had resolved to die, and during the four days that he had been carrying out his
purpose, Edmond had not spoken to the attendant, had not answered him when he inquired what was
the matter with him, and turned his face to the wall when he looked too curiously at him; but now the jailer
might hear the noise and put an end to it, and so destroy a ray of something like hope that soothed his
last moments.
The jailer brought him his breakfast. Dantes raised himself up and began 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 Dantes 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 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 every one 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. 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, Dantes, 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.
Dantes 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.
Dantes 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. Dantes told him that the jug had fallen from his hands while he was drinking, and the jailer went
grumblingly to fetch another, without giving himself the trouble to remove the fragments of the broken one.
He returned speedily, advised the prisoner to be more careful, and departed.
Dantes heard joyfully the key grate in the lock; he listened until the sound of steps died away, and then,
hastily displacing his bed, saw by the faint light that penetrated into his cell, that he had labored uselessly
the previous evening in attacking the stone instead of removing the plaster that surrounded it.
The damp had rendered it friable, and Dantes was able to break it off -- in small morsels, it is true, but at
the end of half an hour he had scraped off a handful; a mathematician might have calculated that in two
years, supposing that the rock was not encountered, a passage twenty feet long and two feet broad,
might be formed.
The prisoner reproached himself with not having thus employed the hours he had passed in vain hopes,
prayer, and despondency. During the six years that he had been imprisoned, what might he not have
accomplished?
In three days he had succeeded, with the utmost precaution, in removing the cement, and exposing the
stone-work. The wall was built of rough stones, among which, to give strength to the structure, blocks of

hewn stone were at intervals imbedded. It was one of these he had uncovered, and which he must
remove from its socket.
Dantes strove to do this with his nails, but they were too weak. The fragments of the jug broke, and after
an hour of useless toil, he paused.
Was he to be thus stopped at the beginning, and was he to wait inactive until his fellow workman had
completed his task? Suddenly an idea occurred to him -- he smiled, and the perspiration dried on his
forehead.
The jailer always brought Dantes' soup in an iron saucepan; this saucepan contained soup for both
prisoners, for Dantes had noticed that it was either quite full, or half empty, according as the turnkey gave
it to him or to his companion first.
The handle of this saucepan was of iron; Dantes would have given ten years of his life in exchange for it.
The jailer was accustomed to pour the contents of the saucepan into Dantes' plate, and Dantes, after
eating his soup with a wooden spoon, washed the plate, which thus served for every day. Now when
evening came Dantes put his plate on the ground near the door; the jailer, as he entered, stepped on it
and broke it.
This time he could not blame Dantes. He was wrong to leave it there, but the jailer was wrong not to have
looked before him.
The jailer, therefore, only grumbled. Then he looked about for something to pour the soup into; Dantes'
entire dinner service consisted of one plate -- there was no alternative.
"Leave the saucepan," said Dantes; "you can take it away when you bring me my breakfast." This advice

was to the jailer's taste, as it spared him the necessity of making another trip. He left the saucepan.
Dantes was beside himself with joy. He rapidly devoured his food, and after waiting an hour, lest the jailer
should change his mind and return, he removed his bed, took the handle of the saucepan, inserted the
point between the hewn stone and rough stones of the wall, and employed it as a lever. A slight oscillation
showed Dantes that all went well. At the end of an hour the stone was extricated from the wall, leaving a
cavity a foot and a half in diameter.
Dantes carefully collected the plaster, carried it into the corner of his cell, and covered it with earth. Then,
wishing to make the best use of his time while he had the means of labor, he continued to work without
ceasing. At the dawn of day he replaced the stone, pushed his bed against the wall, and lay down. The
breakfast consisted of a piece of bread; the jailer entered and placed the bread on the table.
"Well, don't you intend to bring me another plate?" said Dantes.
"No," replied the turnkey; "you destroy everything. First you break your jug, then you make me break your
plate; if all the prisoners followed your example, the government would be ruined. I shall leave you the
saucepan, and pour your soup into that. So for the future I hope you will not be so destructive."
Dantes raised his eyes to heaven and clasped his hands beneath the coverlet. He felt more gratitude for
the possession of this piece of iron than he had ever felt for anything. He had noticed, however, that the
prisoner on the other side had ceased to labor; no matter, this was a greater reason for proceeding -- if
his neighbor would not come to him, he would go to his neighbor. All day he toiled on untiringly, and by
the evening he had succeeded in extracting ten handfuls of plaster and fragments of stone. When the
hour for his jailer's visit arrived, Dantes straightened the handle of the saucepan as well as he could, and
placed it in its accustomed place. The turnkey poured his ration of soup into it, together with the fish --
for thrice a week the prisoners were deprived of meat. This would have been a method of reckoning
time, had not Dantes long ceased to do so. Having poured out the soup, the turnkey retired. Dantes
wished to ascertain whether his neighbor had really ceased to work. He listened -- all was silent, as it had
been for the last three days. Dantes sighed; it was evident that his neighbor distrusted him. However, he
toiled on all the night without being discouraged; but after two or three hours he encountered an obstacle.
The iron made no impression, but met with a smooth surface; Dantes touched it, and found that it was a
beam. This beam crossed, or rather blocked up, the hole Dantes had made; it was necessary, therefore,
to dig above or under it. The unhappy young man had not thought of this. "O my God, my God!"

murmured he, "I have so earnestly prayed to you, that I hoped my prayers had been heard. After having
deprived me of my liberty, after having deprived me of death, after having recalled me to existence, my
God, have pity on me, and do not let me die in despair!"
"Who talks of God and despair at the same time?" said a voice that seemed to come from beneath the
earth, and, deadened by the distance, sounded hollow and sepulchral in the young man's ears.
Edmond's hair stood on end, and he rose to his knees.
"Ah," said he, "I hear a human voice." Edmond had not heard any one speak save his jailer for four or five
years; and a jailer is no man to a prisoner -- he is a living door, a barrier of flesh and blood adding
strength to restraints of oak and iron.
"In the name of heaven," cried Dantes, "speak again, though the sound of your voice terrifies me. Who
are you?"
"Who are you?" said the voice.
"An unhappy prisoner," replied Dantes, who made no hesitation in answering.
"Of what country?"
"A Frenchman."
"Your name?"
"Edmond Dantes."

"Your profession?"
"A sailor."
"How long have you been here?"
"Since the 28th of February, 1815."
"Your crime?"
"I am innocent."
"But of what are you accused?"
"Of having conspired to aid the emperor's return."
"What! For the emperor's return? -- the emperor is no longer on the throne, then?"
"He abdicated at Fontainebleau in 1814, and was sent to the Island of Elba. But how long have you been
here that you are ignorant of all this?"

"Since 1811."
Dantes shuddered; this man had been four years longer than himself in prison.
"Do not dig any more," said the voice; "only tell me how high up is your excavation?"
"On a level with the floor."
"How is it concealed?"
"Behind my bed."
"Has your bed been moved since you have been a prisoner?"
"No."
"What does your chamber open on?"
"A corridor."
"And the corridor?"

"On a court."
"Alas!" murmured the voice.
"Oh, what is the matter?" cried Dantes.
"I have made a mistake owing to an error in my plans. I took the wrong angle, and have come out fifteen
feet from where I intended. I took the wall you are mining for the outer wall of the fortress."
"But then you would be close to the sea?"
"That is what I hoped."
"And supposing you had succeeded?"
"I should have thrown myself into the sea, gained one of the islands near here -- the Isle de Daume or the
Isle de Tiboulen -- and then I should have been safe."
"Could you have swum so far?"
"Heaven would have given me strength; but now all is lost."
"All?"

"Yes; stop up your excavation carefully, do not work any more, and wait until you hear from me."
"Tell me, at least, who you are?"
"I am -- I am No. 27."
"You mistrust me, then," said Dantes. Edmond fancied he heard a bitter laugh resounding from the
depths.
"Oh, I am a Christian," cried Dantes, guessing instinctively that this man meant to abandon him. "I swear
to you by him who died for us that naught shall induce me to breathe one syllable to my jailers; but I
conjure you do not abandon me. If you do, I swear to you, for I have got to the end of my strength, that I
will dash my brains out against the wall, and you will have my death to reproach yourself with."
"How old are you? Your voice is that of a young man."
"I do not know my age, for I have not counted the years I have been here. All I do know is, that I was just
nineteen when I was arrested, the 28th of February, 1815."
"Not quite twenty-six!" murmured the voice; "at that age he cannot be a traitor."
"Oh, no, no," cried Dantes. "I swear to you again, rather than betray you, I would allow myself to be
hacked in pieces!"

"You have done well to speak to me, and ask for my assistance, for I was about to form another plan, and
leave you; but your age reassures me. I will not forget you. Wait."
"How long?"
"I must calculate our chances; I will give you the signal."
"But you will not leave me; you will come to me, or you will let me come to you. We will escape, and if we
cannot escape we will talk; you of those whom you love, and I of those whom I love. You must love
somebody?"
"No, I am alone in the world."
"Then you will love me. If you are young, I will be your comrade; if you are old, I will be your son. I have a
father who is seventy if he yet lives; I only love him and a young girl called Mercedes. My father has not
yet forgotten me, I am sure, but God alone knows if she loves me still; I shall love you as I loved my
father."
"It is well," returned the voice; "to-morrow."
These few words were uttered with an accent that left no doubt of his sincerity; Dantes rose, dispersed
the fragments with the same precaution as before, and pushed his bed back against the wall. He then
gave himself up to his happiness. He would no longer be alone. He was, perhaps, about to regain his
liberty; at the worst, he would have a companion, and captivity that is shared is but half captivity. Plaints
made in common are almost prayers, and prayers where two or three are gathered together invoke the
mercy of heaven.
All day Dantes walked up and down his cell. He sat down occasionally on his bed, pressing his hand on

his heart. At the slightest noise he bounded towards the door. Once or twice the thought crossed his mind
that he might be separated from this unknown, whom he loved already; and then his mind was made up
-- when the jailer moved his bed and stooped to examine the opening, he would kill him with his water jug.
He would be condemned to die, but he was about to die of grief and despair when this miraculous noise
recalled him to life.
The jailer came in the evening. Dantes was on his bed. It seemed to him that thus he better guarded the
unfinished opening. Doubtless there was a strange expression in his eyes, for the jailer said, "Come, are
you going mad again?"
Dantes did not answer; he feared that the emotion of his voice would betray him. The jailer went away
shaking his head. Night came; Dantes hoped that his neighbor would profit by the silence to address him,
but he was mistaken. The next morning, however, just as he removed his bed from the wall, he heard
three knocks; he threw himself on his knees.
"Is it you?" said he; "I am here."
"Is your jailer gone?"
"Yes," said Dantes; "he will not return until the evening; so that we have twelve hours before us."
"I can work, then?" said the voice.
"Oh, yes, yes; this instant, I entreat you."
In a moment that part of the floor on which Dantes was resting his two hands, as he knelt with his head in
the opening, suddenly gave way; he drew back smartly, while a mass of stones and earth disappeared in
a hole that opened beneath the aperture he himself had formed. Then from the bottom of this passage,

the depth of which it was impossible to measure, he saw appear, first the head, then the shoulders, and
lastly the body of a man, who sprang lightly into his cell.

--------------------
[email protected] -------------------- [email protected]

Chapter 16 A Learned Italian.
Seizing in his arms the friend so long and ardently desired, Dantes almost carried him towards the
window, in order to obtain a better view of his features by the aid of the imperfect light that struggled
through the grating.
He was a man of small stature, with hair blanched rather by suffering and sorrow than by age. He had a
deep-set, penetrating eye, almost buried beneath the thick gray eyebrow, and a long (and still black)
beard reaching down to his breast. His thin face, deeply furrowed by care, and the bold outline of his
strongly marked features, betokened a man more accustomed to exercise his mental faculties than his
physical strength. Large drops of perspiration were now standing on his brow, while the garments that
hung about him were so ragged that one could only guess at the pattern upon which they had originally
been fashioned.
The stranger might have numbered sixty or sixty-five years; but a certain briskness and appearance of
vigor in his movements made it probable that he was aged more from captivity than the course of time.
He received the enthusiastic greeting of his young acquaintance with evident pleasure, as though his
chilled affections were rekindled and invigorated by his contact with one so warm and ardent. He thanked
him with grateful cordiality for his kindly welcome, although he must at that moment have been suffering
bitterly to find another dungeon where he had fondly reckoned on discovering a means of regaining his
liberty.
"Let us first see," said he, "whether it is possible to remove the traces of my entrance here -- our future
tranquillity depends upon our jailers being entirely ignorant of it." Advancing to the opening, he stooped
and raised the stone easily in spite of its weight; then, fitting it into its place, he said, --

"You removed this stone very carelessly; but I suppose you had no tools to aid you."
"Why," exclaimed Dantes, with astonishment, "do you possess any?"
"I made myself some; and with the exception of a file, I have all that are necessary, -- a chisel, pincers,
and lever."
"Oh, how I should like to see these products of your industry and patience."
"Well, in the first place, here is my chisel." So saying, he displayed a sharp strong blade, with a handle
made of beechwood.
"And with what did you contrive to make that?" inquired Dantes.
"With one of the clamps of my bedstead; and this very tool has sufficed me to hollow out the road by
which I came hither, a distance of about fifty feet."
"Fifty feet!" responded Dantes, almost terrified.
"Do not speak so loud, young man -- don't speak so loud. It frequently occurs in a state prison like this,
that persons are stationed outside the doors of the cells purposely to overhear the conversation of the
prisoners."
"But they believe I am shut up alone here."

"That makes no difference."
"And you say that you dug your way a distance of fifty feet to get here?"
"I do; that is about the distance that separates your chamber from mine; only, unfortunately, I did not
curve aright; for want of the necessary geometrical instruments to calculate my scale of proportion,
instead of taking an ellipsis of forty feet, I made it fifty. I expected, as I told you, to reach the outer wall,
pierce through it, and throw myself into the sea; I have, however, kept along the corridor on which your
chamber opens, instead of going beneath it. My labor is all in vain, for I find that the corridor looks into a
courtyard filled with soldiers."
"That's true," said Dantes; "but the corridor you speak of only bounds one side of my cell; there are three
others -- do you know anything of their situation?"
"This one is built against the solid rock, and it would take ten experienced miners, duly furnished with the
requisite tools, as many years to perforate it. This adjoins the lower part of the governor's apartments,
and were we to work our way through, we should only get into some lock-up cellars, where we must
necessarily be recaptured. The fourth and last side of your cell faces on -- faces on -- stop a minute, now
where does it face?"
The wall of which he spoke was the one in which was fixed the loophole by which light was admitted to
the chamber. This loophole, which gradually diminished in size as it approached the outside, to an
opening through which a child could not have passed, was, for better security, furnished with three iron
bars, so as to quiet all apprehensions even in the mind of the most suspicious jailer as to the possibility of
a prisoner's escape. As the stranger asked the question, he dragged the table beneath the window.
"Climb up," said he to Dantes. The young man obeyed, mounted on the table, and, divining the wishes of
his companion, placed his back securely against the wall and held out both hands. The stranger, whom
as yet Dantes knew only by the number of his cell, sprang up with an agility by no means to be expected
in a person of his years, and, light and steady on his feet as a cat or a lizard, climbed from the table to the
outstretched hands of Dantes, and from them to his shoulders; then, bending double, for the ceiling of the

dungeon prevented him from holding himself erect, he managed to slip his head between the upper bars
of the window, so as to be able to command a perfect view from top to bottom.
An instant afterwards he hastily drew back his head, saying, "I thought so!" and sliding from the shoulders
of Dantes as dextrously as he had ascended, he nimbly leaped from the table to the ground.
"What was it that you thought?" asked the young man anxiously, in his turn descending from the table.
The elder prisoner pondered the matter. "Yes," said he at length, "it is so. This side of your chamber looks
out upon a kind of open gallery, where patrols are continually passing, and sentries keep watch day and
night."
"Are you quite sure of that?"
"Certain. I saw the soldier's shape and the top of his musket; that made me draw in my head so quickly,
for I was fearful he might also see me."
"Well?" inquired Dantes.
"You perceive then the utter impossibility of escaping through your dungeon?"
"Then," pursued the young man eagerly --
"Then," answered the elder prisoner, "the will of God be done!" and as the old man slowly pronounced
those words, an air of profound resignation spread itself over his careworn countenance. Dantes gazed
on the man who could thus philosophically resign hopes so long and ardently nourished with an

astonishment mingled with admiration.
"Tell me, I entreat of you, who and what you are?" said he at length; "never have I met with so remarkable
a person as yourself."
"Willingly," answered the stranger; "if, indeed, you feel any curiosity respecting one, now, alas, powerless
to aid you in any way."
"Say not so; you can console and support me by the strength of your own powerful mind. Pray let me
know who you really are?"
The stranger smiled a melancholy smile. "Then listen," said he. "l am the Abbe Faria, and have been
imprisoned as you know in this Chateau d'If since the year 1811; previously to which I had been confined
for three years in the fortress of Fenestrelle. In the year 1811 I was transferred to Piedmont in France. It
was at this period I learned that the destiny which seemed subservient to every wish formed by Napoleon,
had bestowed on him a son, named king of Rome even in his cradle. I was very far then from expecting
the change you have just informed me of; namely, that four years afterwards, this colossus of power
would be overthrown. Then who reigns in France at this moment -- Napoleon II.?"
"No, Louis XVIII."
"The brother of Louis XVII.! How inscrutable are the ways of providence -- for what great and mysterious
purpose has it pleased heaven to abase the man once so elevated, and raise up him who was so
abased?"
Dantes, whole attention was riveted on a man who could thus forget his own misfortunes while occupying
himself with the destinies of others.

"Yes, yes," continued he, "'Twill be the same as it was in England. After Charles I., Cromwell; after
Cromwell, Charles II., and then James II., and then some son-in-law or relation, some Prince of Orange,
a stadtholder who becomes a king. Then new concessions to the people, then a constitution, then liberty.
Ah, my friend!" said the abbe, turning towards Dantes, and surveying him with the kindling gaze of a
prophet, "you are young, you will see all this come to pass."
"Probably, if ever I get out of prison!"
"True," replied Faria, "we are prisoners; but I forget this sometimes, and there are even moments when
my mental vision transports me beyond these walls, and I fancy myself at liberty."
"But wherefore are you here?"
"Because in 1807 I dreamed of the very plan Napoleon tried to realize in 1811; because, like Machiavelli,
I desired to alter the political face of Italy, and instead of allowing it to be split up into a quantity of petty
principalities, each held by some weak or tyrannical ruler, I sought to form one large, compact, and
powerful empire; and, lastly, because I fancied I had found my Caesar Borgia in a crowned simpleton,
who feigned to enter into my views only to betray me. It was the plan of Alexander VI. and Clement VII.,
but it will never succeed now, for they attempted it fruitlessly, and Napoleon was unable to complete his
work. Italy seems fated to misfortune." And the old man bowed his head.
Dantes could not understand a man risking his life for such matters. Napoleon certainly he knew
something of, inasmuch as he had seen and spoken with him; but of Clement VII. and Alexander VI. he
knew nothing.
"Are you not," he asked, "the priest who here in the Chateau d'If is generally thought to be -- ill?"
"Mad, you mean, don't you?"

"I did not like to say so," answered Dantes, smiling.
"Well, then," resumed Faria with a bitter smile, "let me answer your question in full, by acknowledging
that I am the poor mad prisoner of the Chateau d'If, for many years permitted to amuse the different
visitors with what is said to be my insanity; and, in all probability, I should be promoted to the honor of
making sport for the children, if such innocent beings could be found in an abode devoted like this to
suffering and despair."
Dantes remained for a short time mute and motionless; at length he said, -- "Then you abandon all hope
of escape?"
"I perceive its utter impossibility; and I consider it impious to attempt that which the Almighty evidently
does not approve."
"Nay, be not discouraged. Would it not be expecting too much to hope to succeed at your first attempt?
Why not try to find an opening in another direction from that which has so unfortunately failed?"
"Alas, it shows how little notion you can have of all it has cost me to effect a purpose so unexpectedly
frustrated, that you talk of beginning over again. In the first place, I was four years making the tools I
possess, and have been two years scraping and digging out earth, hard as granite itself; then what toil
and fatigue has it not been to remove huge stones I should once have deemed impossible to loosen.
Whole days have I passed in these Titanic efforts, considering my labor well repaid if, by night-time I had
contrived to carry away a square inch of this hard-bound cement, changed by ages into a substance
unyielding as the stones themselves; then to conceal the mass of earth and rubbish I dug up, I was
compelled to break through a staircase, and throw the fruits of my labor into the hollow part of it; but the
well is now so completely choked up, that I scarcely think it would be possible to add another handful of
dust without leading to discovery. Consider also that I fully believed I had accomplished the end and aim
of my undertaking, for which I had so exactly husbanded my strength as to make it just hold out to the
termination of my enterprise; and now, at the moment when I reckoned upon success, my hopes are
forever dashed from me. No, I repeat again, that nothing shall induce me to renew attempts evidently at
variance with the Almighty's pleasure."

Dantes held down his head, that the other might not see how joy at the thought of having a companion
outweighed the sympathy he felt for the failure of the abbe's plans.
The abbe sank upon Edmond's bed. while Edmond himself remained standing. Escape had never once
occurred to him. There are, indeed, some things which appear so impossible that the mind does not dwell
on them for an instant. To undermine the ground for fifty feet -- to devote three years to a labor which, if
successful, would conduct you to a precipice overhanging the sea -- to plunge into the waves from the
height of fifty, sixty, perhaps a hundred feet, at the risk of being dashed to pieces against the rocks,
should you have been fortunate enough to have escaped the fire of the sentinels; and even, supposing
all these perils past, then to have to swim for your life a distance of at least three miles ere you could
reach the shore -- were difficulties so startling and formidable that Dantes had never even dreamed of
such a scheme, resigning himself rather to death. But the sight of an old man clinging to life with so
desperate a courage, gave a fresh turn to his ideas, and inspired him with new courage. Another, older
and less strong than he, had attempted what he had not had sufficient resolution to undertake, and had
failed only because of an error in calculation. This same person, with almost incredible patience and
perseverance, had contrived to provide himself with tools requisite for so unparalleled an attempt.
Another had done all this; why, then, was it impossible to Dantes? Faria had dug his way through fifty feet,
Dantes would dig a hundred; Faria, at the age of fifty, had devoted three years to the task; he, who was
but half as old, would sacrifice six; Faria, a priest and savant, had not shrunk from the idea of risking his
life by trying to swim a distance of three miles to one of the islands -- Daume, Rattonneau, or Lemaire;
should a hardy sailer, an experienced diver, like himself, shrink from a similar task; should he, who had so
often for mere amusement's sake plunged to the bottom of the sea to fetch up the bright coral branch,
hesitate to entertain the same project? He could do it in an hour, and how many times had he, for pure
pastime, continued in the water for more than twice as long! At once Dantes resolved to follow the brave
example of his energetic companion, and to remember that what has once been done may be done
again.
After continuing some time in profound meditation, the young man suddenly exclaimed, "I have found
what you were in search of!"
Faria started: "Have you, indeed?" cried he, raising his head with quick anxiety; "pray, let me know what it
is you have discovered?"
"The corridor through which you have bored your way from the cell you occupy here, extends in the same
direction as the outer gallery, does it not?"

"It does."
"And is not above fifteen feet from it?"
"About that."
"Well, then, I will tell you what we must do. We must pierce through the corridor by forming a side
opening about the middle, as it were the top part of a cross. This time you will lay your plans more
accurately; we shall get out into the gallery you have described; kill the sentinel who guards it, and make
our escape. All we require to insure success is courage, and that you possess, and strength, which I am
not deficient in; as for patience, you have abundantly proved yours -- you shall now see me prove mine."
"One instant, my dear friend," replied the abbe; "it is clear you do not understand the nature of the
courage with which I am endowed, and what use I intend making of my strength. As for patience, I
consider that I have abundantly exercised that in beginning every morning the task of the night before,
and every night renewing the task of the day. But then, young man (and I pray of you to give me your full
attention), then I thought I could not be doing anything displeasing to the Almighty in trying to set an
innocent being at liberty -- one who had committed no offence, and merited not condemnation."
"And have your notions changed?" asked Dantes with much surprise; "do you think yourself more guilty
in making the attempt since you have encountered me?"
"No; neither do I wish to incur guilt. Hitherto I have fancied myself merely waging war against
circumstances, not men. I have thought it no sin to bore through a wall, or destroy a staircase; but I
cannot so easily persuade myself to pierce a heart or take away a life." A slight movement of surprise
escaped Dantes.

"Is it possible," said he, "that where your liberty is at stake you can allow any such scruple to deter you
from obtaining it?"
"Tell me," replied Faria, "what has hindered you from knocking down your jailer with a piece of wood torn
from your bedstead, dressing yourself in his clothes, and endeavoring to escape?"
"Simply the fact that the idea never occurred to me," answered Dantes.
"Because," said the old man, "the natural repugnance to the commission of such a crime prevented you
from thinking of it; and so it ever is because in simple and allowable things our natural instincts keep us
from deviating from the strict line of duty. The tiger, whose nature teaches him to delight in shedding
blood, needs but the sense of smell to show him when his prey is within his reach, and by following this
instinct he is enabled to measure the leap necessary to permit him to spring on his victim; but man, on
the contrary, loathes the idea of blood -- it is not alone that the laws of social life inspire him with a
shrinking dread of taking life; his natural construction and physiological formation" --
Dantes was confused and silent at this explanation of the thoughts which had unconsciously been
working in his mind, or rather soul; for there are two distinct sorts of ideas, those that proceed from the
head and those that emanate from the heart.
"Since my imprisonment," said Faria, "I have thought over all the most celebrated cases of escape on
record. They have rarely been successful. Those that have been crowned with full success have been
long meditated upon, and carefully arranged; such, for instance, as the escape of the Duc de Beaufort
from the Chateau de Vincennes, that of the Abbe Dubuquoi from For l'Eveque; of Latude from the Bastille.
Then there are those for which chance sometimes affords opportunity, and those are the best of all. Let
us, therefore, wait patiently for some favorable moment, and when it presents itself, profit by it."
"Ah," said Dantes, "you might well endure the tedious delay; you were constantly employed in the task
you set yourself, and when weary with toil, you had your hopes to refresh and encourage you."

"I assure you," replied the old man, "I did not turn to that source for recreation or support."
"What did you do then?"
"I wrote or studied."
"Were you then permitted the use of pens, ink, and paper?"
"Oh, no," answered the abbe; "I had none but what I made for myself."
"You made paper, pens and ink?"
"Yes."
Dantes gazed with admiration, but he had some difficulty in believing. Faria saw this.
"When you pay me a visit in my cell, my young friend," said he, "I will show you an entire work, the fruits
of the thoughts and reflections of my whole life; many of them meditated over in the shades of the
Coloseum at Rome, at the foot of St. Mark's column at Venice, and on the borders of the Arno at Florence,
little imagining at the time that they would be arranged in order within the walls of the Chateau d'If. The
work I speak of is called `A Treatise on the Possibility of a General Monarchy in Italy,' and will make one
large quarto volume."
"And on what have you written all this?"

"On two of my shirts. I invented a preparation that makes linen as smooth and as easy to write on as
parchment."
"You are, then, a chemist?"
"Somewhat; I know Lavoisier, and was the intimate friend of Cabanis."
"But for such a work you must have needed books -- had you any?"
"I had nearly five thousand volumes in my library at Rome; but after reading them over many times, I
found out that with one hundred and fifty well-chosen books a man possesses, if not a complete
summary of all human knowledge, at least all that a man need really know. I devoted three years of my
life to reading and studying these one hundred and fifty volumes, till I knew them nearly by heart; so that
since I have been in prison, a very slight effort of memory has enabled me to recall their contents as
readily as though the pages were open before me. I could recite you the whole of Thucydides, Xenophon,
Plutarch, Titus Livius, Tacitus, Strada, Jornandes, Dante, Montaigne, Shakspeare, Spinoza, Machiavelli,
and Bossuet. I name only the most important."
"You are, doubtless, acquainted with a variety of languages, so as to have been able to read all these?"
"Yes, I speak five of the modern tongues -- that is to say, German, French, Italian, English, and Spanish;
by the aid of ancient Greek I learned modern Greek -- I don't speak it so well as I could wish, but I am still
trying to improve myself."
"Improve yourself!" repeated Dantes; "why, how can you manage to do so?"
"Why, I made a vocabulary of the words I knew; turned, returned, and arranged them, so as to enable me

to express my thoughts through their medium. I know nearly one thousand words, which is all that is
absolutely necessary, although I believe there are nearly one hundred thousand in the dictionaries. I
cannot hope to be very fluent, but I certainly should have no difficulty in explaining my wants and wishes;
and that would be quite as much as I should ever require."
Stronger grew the wonder of Dantes, who almost fancied he had to do with one gifted with supernatural
powers; still hoping to find some imperfection which might bring him down to a level with human beings,
he added, "Then if you were not furnished with pens, how did you manage to write the work you speak
of?"
"I made myself some excellent ones, which would be universally preferred to all others if once known.
You are aware what huge whitings are served to us on maigre days. Well, I selected the cartilages of the
heads of these fishes, and you can scarcely imagine the delight with which I welcomed the arrival of each
Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday, as affording me the means of increasing my stock of pens; for I will
freely confess that my historical labors have been my greatest solace and relief. While retracing the past,
I forget the present; and traversing at will the path of history I cease to remember that I am myself a
prisoner."
"But the ink," said Dantes; "of what did you make your ink?"
"There was formerly a fireplace in my dungeon," replied Faria, "but it was closed up long ere I became an
occupant of this prison. Still, it must have been many years in use, for it was thickly covered with a
coating of soot; this soot I dissolved in a portion of the wine brought to me every Sunday, and I assure
you a better ink cannot be desired. For very important notes, for which closer attention is required, I
pricked one of my fingers, and wrote with my own blood."
"And when," asked Dantes, "may I see all this?"
"Whenever you please," replied the abbe.

"Oh, then let it be directly!" exclaimed the young man.
"Follow me, then," said the abbe, as he re-entered the subterranean passage, in which he soon
disappeared, followed by Dantes. -------------------- [email protected]

Chapter 17 The Abbe'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 abbe'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 abbe'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 Dantes had witnessed the completion.
As he entered the chamber of his friend, Dantes 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 abbe; "we have some hours before us -- it is now just a quarter past twelve o'clock."
Instinctively Dantes turned round to observe by what watch or clock the abbe had been able so
accurately to specify the hour.
"Look at this ray of light which enters by my window," said the abbe, "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 Dantes, 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 abbe, "I am anxious to see your treasures."
The abbe 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 Dantes.
"What do you wish to see first?" asked the abbe.
"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 Dantes could easily read it, as well as
make out the sense -- it being in Italian, a language he, as a Provencal, 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 Dantes. "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 abbe had before spoken to Dantes; it was pointed, and divided at the nib
like an ordinary pen. Dantes examined it with intense admiration, then looked around to see the
instrument with which it had been shaped so correctly into form.
"Ah, yes," said Faria; "the penknife. That's my masterpiece. I made it, as well as this larger knife, out of
an old iron candlestick." The penknife was sharp and keen as a razor; as for the other knife, it would
serve a double purpose, and with it one could cut and thrust.
Dantes examined the various articles shown to him with the same attention that he had bestowed on the
curiosities and strange tools exhibited in the shops at Marseilles as the works of the savages in the South
Seas from whence they had been brought by the different trading vessels.
"As for the ink," said Faria, "I told you how I managed to obtain that -- and I only just make it from time to
time, as I require it."
"One thing still puzzles me," observed Dantes, "and that is how you managed to do all this by daylight?"
"I worked at night also," replied Faria.
"Night! -- why, for heaven's sake, are your eyes like cats', that you can see to work in the dark?"
"Indeed they are not; but God his supplied man with the intelligence that enables him to overcome the
limitations of natural conditions. I furnished myself with a light."

"You did? Pray tell me how."
"l separated the fat from the meat served to me, melted it, and so made oil -- here is my lamp." So saying,
the abbe exhibited a sort of torch very similar to those used in public illuminations.
"But light?"
"Here are two flints and a piece of burnt linen."
"And matches?"
"I pretended that I had a disorder of the skin, and asked for a little sulphur, which was readily supplied."
Dantes laid the different things he had been looking at on the table, and stood with his head drooping on
his breast, as though overwhelmed by the perseverance and strength of Faria's mind.
"You have not seen all yet," continued Faria, "for I did not think it wise to trust all my treasures in the
same hiding-place. Let us shut this one up." They put the stone back in its place; the abbe sprinkled a
little dust over it to conceal the traces of its having been removed, rubbed his foot well on it to make it
assume the same appearance as the other, and then, going towards his bed, he removed it from the spot
it stood in. Behind the head of the bed, and concealed by a stone fitting in so closely as to defy all
suspicion, was a hollow space, and in this space a ladder of cords between twenty-five and thirty feet in
length. Dantes closely and eagerly examined it; he found it firm, solid, and compact enough to bear any
weight.
"Who supplied you with the materials for making this wonderful work?"
"I tore up several of my shirts, and ripped out the seams in the sheets of my bed, during my three years'
imprisonment at Fenestrelle; and when I was removed to the Chateau d'If, I managed to bring the

ravellings with me, so that I have been able to finish my work here."
"And was it not discovered that your sheets were unhemmed?"
"Oh, no, for when I had taken out the thread I required, I hemmed the edges over again."
"With what?"
"With this needle," said the abbe, as, opening his ragged vestments, he showed Dantes a long, sharp
fish-bone, with a small perforated eye for the thread, a small portion of which still remained in it. "I once
thought," continued Faria, "of removing these iron bars, and letting myself down from the window, which,
as you see, is somewhat wider than yours, although I should have enlarged it still more preparatory to my
flight; however, I discovered that I should merely have dropped into a sort of inner court, and I therefore
renounced the project altogether as too full of risk and danger. Nevertheless, I carefully preserved my
ladder against one of those unforeseen opportunities of which I spoke just now, and which sudden
chance frequently brings about." While affecting to be deeply engaged in examining the ladder, the mind
of Dantes was, in fact, busily occupied by the idea that a person so intelligent, ingenious, and
clear-sighted as the abbe might probably be able to solve the dark mystery of his own misfortunes, where
he himself could see nothing.
"What are you thinking of?" asked the abbe smilingly, imputing the deep abstraction in which his visitor
was plunged to the excess of his awe and wonder.
"I was reflecting, in the first place," replied Dantes, "upon the enormous degree of intelligence and ability
you must have employed to reach the high perfection to which you have attained. What would you not
have accomplished if you had been free?"
"Possibly nothing at all; the overflow of my brain would probably, in a state of freedom, have evaporated
in a thousand follies; misfortune is needed to bring to light the treasures of the human intellect.
Compression is needed to explode gunpowder. Captivity has brought my mental faculties to a focus; and

you are well aware that from the collision of clouds electricity is produced -- from electricity, lightning,
from lightning, illumination."
"No," replied Dantes. "I know nothing. Some of your words are to me quite empty of meaning. You must
be blessed indeed to possess the knowledge you have."
The abbe smiled. "Well," said he, "but you had another subject for your thoughts; did you not say so just
now?"
"I did!"
"You have told me as yet but one of them -- let me hear the other."
"It was this, -- that while you had related to me all the particulars of your past life, you were perfectly
unacquainted with mine."
"Your life, my young friend, has not been of sufficient length to admit of your having passed through any
very important events."
"It has been long enough to inflict on me a great and undeserved misfortune. I would fain fix the source of
it on man that I may no longer vent reproaches upon heaven."
"Then you profess ignorance of the crime with which you are charged?"
"I do, indeed; and this I swear by the two beings most dear to me upon earth, -- my father and Mercedes."

"Come," said the abbe, closing his hiding-place, and pushing the bed back to its original situation, "let me
hear your story."
Dantes obeyed, and commenced what he called his history, but which consisted only of the account of a
voyage to India, and two or three voyages to the Levant until he arrived at the recital of his last cruise,
with the death of Captain Leclere, and the receipt of a packet to be delivered by himself to the grand
marshal; his interview with that personage, and his receiving, in place of the packet brought, a letter
addressed to a Monsieur Noirtier -- his arrival at Marseilles, and interview with his father -- his affection
for Mercedes, and their nuptual feast -- his arrest and subsequent examination, his temporary detention
at the Palais de Justice, and his final imprisonment in the Chateau d'If. From this point everything was a
blank to Dantes -- he knew nothing more, not even the length of time he had been imprisoned. His recital
finished, the abbe reflected long and earnestly.
"There is," said he, at the end of his meditations, "a clever maxim, which bears upon what I was saying to
you some little while ago, and that is, that unless wicked ideas take root in a naturally depraved mind,
human nature, in a right and wholesome state, revolts at crime. Still, from an artificial civilization have
originated wants, vices, and false tastes, which occasionally become so powerful as to stifle within us all
good feelings, and ultimately to lead us into guilt and wickedness. From this view of things, then, comes
the axiom that if you visit to discover the author of any bad action, seek first to discover the person to
whom the perpetration of that bad action could be in any way advantageous. Now, to apply it in your case,
-- to whom could your disappearance have been serviceable?"
"To no one, by heaven! I was a very insignificant person."
"Do not speak thus, for your reply evinces neither logic nor philosophy; everything is relative, my dear
young friend, from the king who stands in the way of his successor, to the employee who keeps his rival
out of a place. Now, in the event of the king's death, his successor inherits a crown, -- when the employee
dies, the supernumerary steps into his shoes, and receives his salary of twelve thousand livres. Well,
these twelve thousand livres are his civil list, and are as essential to him as the twelve millions of a king.
Every one, from the highest to the lowest degree, has his place on the social ladder, and is beset by
stormy passions and conflicting interests, as in Descartes' theory of pressure and impulsion. But these
forces increase as we go higher, so that we have a spiral which in defiance of reason rests upon the apex
and not on the base. Now let us return to your particular world. You say you were on the point of being
made captain of the Pharaon?"

"Yes."
"And about to become the husband of a young and lovely girl?"
"Yes."
"Now, could any one have had any interest in preventing the accomplishment of these two things? But let
us first settle the question as to its being the interest of any one to hinder you from being captain of the
Pharaon. What say you?"
"I cannot believe such was the case. I was generally liked on board, and had the sailors possessed the
right of selecting a captain themselves, I feel convinced their choice would have fallen on me. There was
only one person among the crew who had any feeling of ill-will towards me. I had quarelled with him
some time previously, and had even challenged him to fight me; but he refused."
"Now we are getting on. And what was this man's name?"
"Danglars."
"What rank did he hold on board?"
"He was supercargo."

"And had you been captain, should you have retained him in his employment?"
"Not if the choice had remained with me, for I had frequently observed inaccuracies in his accounts."
"Good again! Now then, tell me, was any person present during your last conversation with Captain
Leclere?"
"No; we were quite alone."
"Could your conversation have been overheard by any one?"
"It might, for the cabin door was open -- and -- stay; now I recollect, -- Danglars himself passed by just as
Captain Leclere was giving me the packet for the grand marshal."
"That's better," cried the abbe; "now we are on the right scent. Did you take anybody with you when you
put into the port of Elba?"
"Nobody."
"Somebody there received your packet, and gave you a letter in place of it, I think?"
"Yes; the grand marshal did."
"And what did you do with that letter?"

"Put it into my portfolio."
"You had your portfolio with you, then? Now, how could a sailor find room in his pocket for a portfolio
large enough to contain an official letter?"
"You are right; it was left on board."
"Then it was not till your return to the ship that you put the letter in the portfolio?"
"No."
"And what did you do with this same letter while returning from Porto-Ferrajo to the vessel?"
"I carried it in my hand."
"So that when you went on board the Pharaon, everybody could see that you held a letter in your hand?"
"Yes."
"Danglars, as well as the rest?"

"Danglars, as well as others."
"Now, listen to me, and try to recall every circumstance attending your arrest. Do you recollect the words
in which the information against you was formulated?"
"Oh yes, I read it over three times, and the words sank deeply into my memory."
"Repeat it to me."
Dantes paused a moment, then said, "This is it, word for word: `The king's attorney is informed by a friend
to the throne and religion, that one Edmond Dantes, mate on board the Pharaon, this day arrived from
Smyrna, after having touched at Naples and Porto-Ferrajo, has been intrusted by Murat with a packet for
the usurper; again, by the usurper, with a letter for the Bonapartist Club in Paris. This proof of his guilt
may be procured by his immediate arrest, as the letter will be found either about his person, at his father's
residence, or in his cabin on board the Pharaon.'" The abbe shrugged his shoulders. "The thing is clear
as day," said he; "and you must have had a very confiding nature, as well as a good heart, not to have
suspected the origin of the whole affair."
"Do you really think so? Ah, that would indeed be infamous."
"How did Danglars usually write?"
"In a handsome, running hand."
"And how was the anonymous letter written?"

"Backhanded." Again the abbe smiled. "Disguised."
"It was very boldly written, if disguised."
"Stop a bit," said the abbe, taking up what he called his pen, and, after dipping it into the ink, he wrote on
a piece of prepared linen, with his left hand, the first two or three words of the accusation. Dantes drew
back, and gazed on the abbe with a sensation almost amounting to terror.
"How very astonishing!" cried he at length. "Why your writing exactly resembles that of the accusation."
"Simply because that accusation had been written with the left hand; and I have noticed that" --
"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 Mercedes?"
"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 Dantes, "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 Pere 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
Dantes, 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
abbe with a laugh.
"Yes, yes," replied Dantes 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 abbe. "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 abbe. "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 Dantes, "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-Heron, 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 abbe; "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 abbe burst into a fit of laughter, while Dantes 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 Dantes, 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 abbe; "his right name was Noirtier de Villefort." At this instant a bright light
shot through the mind of Dantes, 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 abbe'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.
Dantes 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 abbe 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 abbe had come to ask his young
companion to share the luxuries with him. Dantes 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 Dantes.
"Because it has instilled a new passion in your heart -- that of vengeance."

Dantes smiled. "Let us talk of something else," said he.
Again the abbe looked at him, then mournfully shook his head; but in accordance with Dantes' 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.
Dantes 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 abbe'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 Dantes, "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 abbe 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 Dantes; "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 Dantes, "What shall you teach me first? I am in a hurry to begin. I want to learn."
"Everything," said the abbe. And that very evening the prisoners sketched a plan of education, to be
entered upon the following day. Dantes 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 abbe, Dantes
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 Dantes was a new man. Dantes 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 Dantes, 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 abbe, "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 abbe.
"And you have discovered a means of regaining our freedom, have you not?" asked Dantes 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 abbe; "impossible!" Dantes endeavored to renew the subject; the abbe shook his head
in token of disapproval, and refused to make any further response. Three months passed away.
"Are you strong?" the abbe asked one day of Dantes. 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 abbe, "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 Dantes.
"Do you consider the last twelve months to have been wasted?" asked the abbe.
"Forgive me!" cried Edmond, blushing deeply.
"Tut, tut!" answered the abbe, "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 abbe then showed Dantes the sketch he
had made for their escape. It consisted of a plan of his own cell and that of Dantes, 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 Dantes 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 abbe's ladder of cords. Dantes' 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 Dantes' 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 Dantes 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 abbe 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 Dantes, 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. Dantes 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. Dantes 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 Dantes, "what is the matter? what has happened?"
"Quick! quick!" returned the abbe, "listen to what I have to say." Dantes 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 Dantes, letting his chisel fall to the floor.
"Alas," faltered out the abbe, "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, Dantes 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 abbe's chamber, when he immediately
laid the sufferer on his bed.
"Thanks," said the poor abbe, 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 Dantes in grief-stricken tones.
"Help! help!" cried the abbe, "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, Dantes 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. Dantes
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 Dantes in a paroxysm of delight.
The sick man was not yet able to speak, but he pointed with evident anxiety towards the door. Dantes
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, Dantes, whose restless anxiety concerning his friend left him no
desire to touch the food brought him, hurried back to the abbe'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 Dantes.
"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 Dantes.

"Without you? Did you really think me capable of that?"
"At least," said the abbe, "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 Dantes; "your strength will return." And as he spoke he seated himself near
the bed beside Faria, and took his hands. The abbe 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 Dantes; "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 abbe, "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 abbe. "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 Dantes. "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 abbe, "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 Dantes. "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."

Dantes took the hand of the abbe 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.
Chapter 18 The Treasure.
When Dantes returned next morning to the chamber of his companion in captivity, he found Faria seated
and looking composed. In the ray of light which entered by the narrow window of his cell, he held open in
his left hand, of which alone, it will be recollected, he retained the use, a sheet of paper, which, from
being constantly rolled into a small compass, had the form of a cylinder, and was not easily kept open. He
did not speak, but showed the paper to Dantes.
"What is that?" he inquired.
"Look at it," said the abbe with a smile.
"I have looked at it with all possible attention," said Dantes, "and I only see a half-burnt paper, on which
are traces of Gothic characters inscribed with a peculiar kind of ink."
"This paper, my friend," said Faria, "I may now avow to you, since I have the proof of your fidelity -- this
paper is my treasure, of which, from this day forth, one-half belongs to you."
The sweat started forth on Dantes brow. Until this day and for how long a time! -- he had refrained from
talking of the treasure, which had brought upon the abbe the accusation of madness. With his instinctive

delicacy Edmond had preferred avoiding any touch on this painful chord, and Faria had been equally
silent. He had taken the silence of the old man for a return to reason; and now these few words uttered by
Faria, after so painful a crisis, seemed to indicate a serious relapse into mental alienation.
"Your treasure?" stammered Dantes. Faria smiled.
"Yes," said he. "You have, indeed, a noble nature, Edmond, and I see by your paleness and agitation
what is passing in your heart at this moment. No, be assured, I am not mad. This treasure exists, Dantes,
and if I have not been allowed to possess it, you will. Yes -- you. No one would listen or believe me,
because everyone thought me mad; but you, who must know that I am not, listen to me, and believe me
so afterwards if you will."
"Alas," murmured Edmond to himself, "this is a terrible relapse! There was only this blow wanting." Then
he said aloud, "My dear friend, your attack has, perhaps, fatigued you; had you not better repose awhile?
To-morrow, if you will, I will hear your narrative; but to-day I wish to nurse you carefully. Besides," he said,
"a treasure is not a thing we need hurry about."
"On the contrary, it is a matter of the utmost importance, Edmond!" replied the old man. "Who knows if
to-morrow, or the next day after, the third attack may not come on? and then must not all be over? Yes,
indeed, I have often thought with a bitter joy that these riches, which would make the wealth of a dozen
families, will be forever lost to those men who persecute me. This idea was one of vengeance to me, and
I tasted it slowly in the night of my dungeon and the despair of my captivity. But now I have forgiven the
world for the love of you; now that I see you, young and with a promising future, -- now that I think of all
that may result to you in the good fortune of such a disclosure, I shudder at any delay, and tremble lest I
should not assure to one as worthy as yourself the possession of so vast an amount of hidden wealth."
Edmond turned away his head with a sigh.
"You persist in your incredulity, Edmond," continued Faria. "My words have not convinced you. I see you
require proofs. Well, then, read this paper, which I have never shown to any one."
"To-morrow, my dear friend," said Edmond, desirous of not yielding to the old man's madness. "I thought
it was understood that we should not talk of that until to-morrow."

"Then we will not talk of it until to-morrow; but read this paper to-day."
"I will not irritate him," thought Edmond, and taking the paper, of which half was wanting, -- having been
burnt, no doubt, by some accident, -- he read: --
"This treasure, which may amount to two...
of Roman crowns in the most distant a...
of the second opening wh...
declare to belong to him alo...
heir.
"25th April, l49"
"Well!" said Faria, when the young man had finished reading it.
"Why," replied Dantes, "I see nothing but broken lines and unconnected words, which are rendered
illegible by fire."
"Yes, to you, my friend, who read them for the first time; but not for me, who have grown pale over them
by many nights' study, and have reconstructed every phrase, completed every thought."
"And do you believe you have discovered the hidden meaning?"

"I am sure I have, and you shall judge for yourself; but first listen to the history of this paper."
"Silence!" exclaimed Dantes. "Steps approach -- I go -- adieu."
And Dantes, happy to escape the history and explanation which would be sure to confirm his belief in his
friend's mental instability, glided like a snake along the narrow passage; while Faria, restored by his
alarm to a certain amount of activity, pushed the stone into place with his foot, and covered it with a mat
in order the more effectually to avoid discovery.
It was the governor, who, hearing of Faria's illness from the jailer, had come in person to see him.
Faria sat up to receive him, avoiding all gestures in order that he might conceal from the governor the
paralysis that had already half stricken him with death. His fear was lest the governor, touched with pity,
might order him to be removed to better quarters, and thus separate him from his young companion. But
fortunately this was not the case, and the governor left him, convinced that the poor madman, for whom
in his heart he felt a kind of affection, was only troubled with a slight indisposition.
During this time, Edmond, seated on his bed with his head in his hands, tried to collect his scattered
thoughts. Faria, since their first acquaintance, had been on all points so rational and logical, so
wonderfully sagacious, in fact, that he could not understand how so much wisdom on all points could be
allied with madness. Was Faria deceived as to his treasure, or was all the world deceived as to Faria?
Dantes remained in his cell all day, not daring to return to his friend, thinking thus to defer the moment
when he should be convinced, once for all, that the abbe was mad -- such a conviction would be so
terrible!
But, towards the evening after the hour for the customary visit had gone by, Faria, not seeing the young
man appear, tried to move and get over the distance which separated them. Edmond shuddered when he
heard the painful efforts which the old man made to drag himself along; his leg was inert, and he could no
longer make use of one arm. Edmond was obliged to assist him, for otherwise he would not have been

able to enter by the small aperture which led to Dantes' chamber.
"Here I am, pursuing you remorselessly," he said with a benignant smile. "You thought to escape my
munificence, but it is in vain. Listen to me."
Edmond saw there was no escape, and placing the old man on his bed, he seated himself on the stool
beside him.
"You know," said the abbe, "that I was the secretary and intimate friend of Cardinal Spada, the last of the
princes of that name. I owe to this worthy lord all the happiness I ever knew. He was not rich, although
the wealth of his family had passed into a proverb, and I heard the phrase very often, `As rich as a
Spada.' But he, like public rumor, lived on this reputation for wealth; his palace was my paradise. I was
tutor to his nephews, who are dead; and when he was alone in the world, I tried by absolute devotion to
his will, to make up to him all he had done for me during ten years of unremitting kindness. The cardinal's
house had no secrets for me. I had often seen my noble patron annotating ancient volumes, and eagerly
searching amongst dusty family manuscripts. One day when I was reproaching him for his unavailing
searches, and deploring the prostration of mind that followed them, he looked at me, and, smiling bitterly,
opened a volume relating to the History of the City of Rome. There, in the twentieth chapter of the Life of
Pope Alexander VI., were the following lines, which I can never forget: --
"`The great wars of Romagna had ended; Caesar Borgia, who had completed his conquest, had need of
money to purchase all Italy. The pope had also need of money to bring matters to an end with Louis XII.
King of France, who was formidable still in spite of his recent reverses; and it was necessary, therefore,
to have recourse to some profitable scheme, which was a matter of great difficulty in the impoverished
condition of exhausted Italy. His holiness had an idea. He determined to make two cardinals.'
"By choosing two of the greatest personages of Rome, especially rich men -- this was the return the holy
father looked for. In the first place, he could sell the great appointments and splendid offices which the
cardinals already held; and then he had the two hats to sell besides. There was a third point in view,
which will appear hereafter. The pope and Caesar Borgia first found the two future cardinals; they were
Giovanni Rospigliosi, who held four of the highest dignities of the Holy See, and Caesar Spada, one of
the noblest and richest of the Roman nobility; both felt the high honor of such a favor from the pope. They
were ambitious, and Caesar Borgia soon found purchasers for their appointments. The result was, that
Rospigliosi and Spada paid for being cardinals, and eight other persons paid for the offices the cardinals

held before their elevation, and thus eight hundred thousand crowns entered into the coffers of the
speculators.
"It is time now to proceed to the last part of the speculation. The pope heaped attentions upon Rospigliosi
and Spada, conferred upon them the insignia of the cardinalate, and induced them to arrange their affairs
and take up their residence at Rome. Then the pope and Caesar Borgia invited the two cardinals to
dinner. This was a matter of dispute between the holy father and his son. Caesar thought they could
make use of one of the means which he always had ready for his friends, that is to say, in the first place,
the famous key which was given to certain persons with the request that they go and open a designated
cupboard. This key was furnished with a small iron point, -- a negligence on the part of the locksmith.
When this was pressed to effect the opening of the cupboard, of which the lock was difficult, the person
was pricked by this small point, and died next day. Then there was the ring with the lion's head, which
Caesar wore when he wanted to greet his friends with a clasp of the hand. The lion bit the hand thus
favored, and at the end of twenty-four hours, the bite was mortal. Caesar proposed to his father, that they
should either ask the cardinals to open the cupboard, or shake hands with them; but Alexander VI.,
replied: `Now as to the worthy cardinals, Spada and Rospigliosi, let us ask both of them to dinner,
something tells me that we shall get that money back. Besides, you forget, Caesar, an indigestion
declares itself immediately, while a prick or a bite occasions a delay of a day or two.' Caesar gave way
before such cogent reasoning, and the cardinals were consequently invited to dinner.
"The table was laid in a vineyard belonging to the pope, near San Pierdarena, a charming retreat which
the cardinals knew very well by report. Rospigliosi, quite set up with his new dignities, went with a good
appetite and his most ingratiating manner. Spada, a prudent man, and greatly attached to his only
nephew, a young captain of the highest promise, took paper and pen, and made his will. He then sent
word to his nephew to wait for him near the vineyard; but it appeared the servant did not find him.
"Spada knew what these invitations meant; since Christianity, so eminently civilizing, had made progress
in Rome, it was no longer a centurion who came from the tyrant with a message, `Caesar wills that you
die.' but it was a legate a latere, who came with a smile on his lips to say from the pope, `His holiness
requests you to dine with him.'
"Spada set out about two o'clock to San Pierdarena. The pope awaited him. The first sight that attracted
the eyes of Spada was that of his nephew, in full costume, and Caesar Borgia paying him most marked
attentions. Spada turned pale, as Caesar looked at him with an ironical air, which proved that he had
anticipated all, and that the snare was well spread. They began dinner and Spada was only able to
inquire of his nephew if he had received his message. The nephew replied no; perfectly comprehending

the meaning of the question. It was too late, for he had already drunk a glass of excellent wine, placed for
him expressly by the pope's butler. Spada at the same moment saw another bottle approach him, which
he was pressed to taste. An hour afterwards a physician declared they were both poisoned through
eating mushrooms. Spada died on the threshold of the vineyard; the nephew expired at his own door,
making signs which his wife could not comprehend.
"Then Caesar and the pope hastened to lay hands on the heritage, under presence of seeking for the
papers of the dead man. But the inheritance consisted in this only, a scrap of paper on which Spada had
written: -- `I bequeath to my beloved nephew my coffers, my books, and, amongst others, my breviary
with the gold corners, which I beg he will preserve in remembrance of his affectionate uncle.'
"The heirs sought everywhere, admired the breviary, laid hands on the furniture, and were greatly
astonished that Spada, the rich man, was really the most miserable of uncles -- no treasures -- unless
they were those of science, contained in the library and laboratories. That was all. Caesar and his father
searched, examined, scrutinized, but found nothing, or at least very little; not exceeding a few thousand
crowns in plate, and about the same in ready money; but the nephew had time to say to his wife before
he expired: `Look well among my uncle's papers; there is a will.'
"They sought even more thoroughly than the august heirs had done, but it was fruitless. There were two
palaces and a vineyard behind the Palatine Hill; but in these days landed property had not much value,
and the two palaces and the vineyard remained to the family since they were beneath the rapacity of the
pope and his son. Months and years rolled on. Alexander VI. died, poisoned, -- you know by what
mistake. Caesar, poisoned at the same time, escaped by shedding his skin like a snake; but the new skin
was spotted by the poison till it looked like a tiger's. Then, compelled to quit Rome, he went and got
himself obscurely killed in a night skirmish, scarcely noticed in history. After the pope's death and his
son's exile, it was supposed that the Spada family would resume the splendid position they had held
before the cardinal's time; but this was not the case. The Spadas remained in doubtful ease, a mystery
hung over this dark affair, and the public rumor was, that Caesar, a better politician than his father, had
carried off from the pope the fortune of the two cardinals. I say the two, because Cardinal Rospigliosi,
who had not taken any precaution, was completely despoiled.
"Up to this point," said Faria, interrupting the thread of his narrative, "this seems to you very meaningless,
no doubt, eh?"

"Oh, my friend," cried Dantes, "on the contrary, it seems as if I were reading a most interesting narrative;
go on, I beg of you."
"I will."
"The family began to get accustomed to their obscurity. Years rolled on, and amongst the descendants
some were soldiers, others diplomatists; some churchmen, some bankers; some grew rich, and some
were ruined. I come now to the last of the family, whose secretary I was -- the Count of Spada. I had often
heard him complain of the disproportion of his rank with his fortune; and I advised him to invest all he had
in an annuity. He did so, and thus doubled his income. The celebrated breviary remained in the family,
and was in the count's possession. It had been handed down from father to son; for the singular clause of
the only will that had been found, had caused it to be regarded as a genuine relic, preserved in the family
with superstitious veneration. It was an illuminated book, with beautiful Gothic characters, and so weighty
with gold, that a servant always carried it before the cardinal on days of great solemnity.
"At the sight of papers of all sorts, -- titles, contracts, parchments, which were kept in the archives of the
family, all descending from the poisoned cardinal, I in my turn examined the immense bundles of
documents, like twenty servitors, stewards, secretaries before me; but in spite of the most exhaustive
researches, I found -- nothing. Yet I had read, I had even written a precise history of the Borgia family, for
the sole purpose of assuring myself whether any increase of fortune had occurred to them on the death
of the Cardinal Caesar Spada; but could only trace the acquisition of the property of the Cardinal
Rospigliosi, his companion in misfortune.
" I was then almost assured that the inheritance had neither profited the Borgias nor the family, but had
remained unpossessed like the treasures of the Arabian Nights, which slept in the bosom of the earth
under the eyes of the genie. I searched, ransacked, counted, calculated a thousand and a thousand
times the income and expenditure of the family for three hundred years. It was useless. I remained in my
ignorance, and the Count of Spada in his poverty. My patron died. He had reserved from his annuity his
family papers, his library, composed of five thousand volumes, and his famous breviary. All these he
bequeathed to me, with a thousand Roman crowns, which he had in ready money, on condition that I
would have anniversary masses said for the repose of his soul, and that I would draw up a genealogical
tree and history of his house. All this I did scrupulously. Be easy, my dear Edmond, we are near the
conclusion.

"In 1807, a month before I was arrested, and a fortnight after the death of the Count of Spada, on the 25th
of December (you will see presently how the date became fixed in my memory), I was reading, for the
thousandth time, the papers I was arranging, for the palace was sold to a stranger, and I was going to
leave Rome and settle at Florence, intending to take with me twelve thousand francs I possessed, my
library, and the famous breviary, when, tired with my constant labor at the same thing, and overcome by a
heavy dinner I had eaten, my head dropped on my hands, and I fell asleep about three o'clock in the
afternoon. I awoke as the clock was striking six. I raised my head; I was in utter darkness. I rang for a
light, but as no one came, I determined to find one for myself. It was indeed but anticipating the simple
manners which I should soon be under the necessity of adopting. I took a wax-candle in one hand, and
with the other groped about for a piece of paper (my match-box being empty), with which I proposed to
get a light from the small flame still playing on the embers. Fearing, however, to make use of any
valuable piece of paper, I hesitated for a moment, then recollected that I had seen in the famous breviary,
which was on the table beside me, an old paper quite yellow with age, and which had served as a marker
for centuries, kept there by the request of the heirs. I felt for it, found it, twisted it up together, and putting
it into the expiring flame, set light to it.
"But beneath my fingers, as if by magic, in proportion as the fire ascended, I saw yellowish characters
appear on the paper. I grasped it in my hand, put out the flame as quickly as I could, lighted my taper in
the fire itself, and opened the crumpled paper with inexpressible emotion, recognizing, when I had done
so, that these characters had been traced in mysterious and sympathetic ink, only appearing when
exposed to the fire; nearly one-third of the paper had been consumed by the flame. It was that paper you
read this morning; read it again, Dantes, and then I will complete for you the incomplete words and
unconnected sense."
Faria, with an air of triumph, offered the paper to Dantes, who this time read the following words, traced
with an ink of a reddish color resembling rust: --
"This 25th day of April, 1498, be...
Alexander VI., and fearing that not...
he may desire to become my heir, and re...
and Bentivoglio, who were poisoned,...
my sole

Chapter 19 The Third Attack.

Now that this treasure, which had so long been the object of the abbe's meditations, could insure the
future happiness of him whom Faria really loved as a son, it had doubled its value in his eyes, and every
day he expatiated on the amount, explaining to Dantes all the good which, with thirteen or fourteen
millions of francs, a man could do in these days to his friends; and then Dantes' countenance became
gloomy, for the oath of vengeance he had taken recurred to his memory, and he reflected how much ill, in
these times, a man with thirteen or fourteen millions could do to his enemies.
The abbe did not know the Island of Monte Cristo; but Dantes knew it, and had often passed it, situated
twenty-five miles from Pianosa, between Corsica and the Island of Elba, and had once touched there.
This island was, always had been, and still is, completely deserted. It is a rock of almost conical form,
which looks as though it had been thrust up by volcanic force from the depth to the surface of the ocean.
Dantes drew a plan of the island for Faria, and Faria gave Dantes advice as to the means he should
employ to recover the treasure. But Dantes was far from being as enthusiastic and confident as the old
man. It was past a question now that Faria was not a lunatic, and the way in which he had achieved the
discovery, which had given rise to the suspicion of his madness, increased Edmond's admiration of him;
but at the same time Dantes could not believe that the deposit, supposing it had ever existed, still existed;
and though he considered the treasure as by no means chimerical, he yet believed it was no longer there.
However, as if fate resolved on depriving the prisoners of their last chance, and making them understand
that they were condemned to perpetual imprisonment, a new misfortune befell them; the gallery on the
sea side, which had long been in ruins, was rebuilt. They had repaired it completely, and stopped up with
vast masses of stone the hole Dantes had partly filled in. But for this precaution, which, it will be
remembered, the abbe had made to Edmond, the misfortune would have been still greater, for their
attempt to escape would have been detected, and they would undoubtedly have been separated. Thus a
new, a stronger, and more inexorable barrier was interposed to cut off the realization of their hopes.
"You see," said the young man, with an air of sorrowful resignation, to Faria, "that God deems it right to
take from me any claim to merit for what you call my devotion to you. I have promised to remain forever
with you, and now I could not break my promise if I would. The treasure will be no more mine than yours,
and neither of us will quit this prison. But my real treasure is not that, my dear friend, which awaits me
beneath the sombre rocks of Monte Cristo, it is your presence, our living together five or six hours a day,
in spite of our jailers; it is the rays of intelligence you have elicited from my brain, the languages you have
implanted in my memory, and which have taken root there with all their philological ramifications. These
different sciences that you have made so easy to me by the depth of the knowledge you possess of them,
and the clearness of the principles to which you have reduced them -- this is my treasure, my beloved

friend, and with this you have made me rich and happy. Believe me, and take comfort, this is better for
me than tons of gold and cases of diamonds, even were they not as problematical as the clouds we see
in the morning floating over the sea, which we take for terra firma, and which evaporate and vanish as we
draw near to them. To have you as long as possible near me, to hear your eloquent speech, -- which
embellishes my mind, strengthens my soul, and makes my whole frame capable of great and terrible
things, if I should ever be free, -- so fills my whole existence, that the despair to which I was just on the
point of yielding when I knew you, has no longer any hold over me; and this -- this is my fortune -- not
chimerical, but actual. I owe you my real good, my present happiness; and all the sovereigns of the earth,
even Caesar Borgia himself, could not deprive me of this."
Thus, if not actually happy, yet the days these two unfortunates passed together went quickly. Faria, who
for so long a time had kept silence as to the treasure, now perpetually talked of it. As he had prophesied
would be the case, he remained paralyzed in the right arm and the left leg, and had given up all hope of
ever enjoying it himself. But he was continually thinking over some means of escape for his young
companion, and anticipating the pleasure he would enjoy. For fear the letter might be some day lost or
stolen, he compelled Dantes to learn it by heart; and Dantes knew it from the first to the last word. Then
he destroyed the second portion, assured that if the first were seized, no one would be able to discover
its real meaning. Whole hours sometimes passed while Faria was giving instructions to Dantes, --
instructions which were to serve him when he was at liberty. Then, once free, from the day and hour and
moment when he was so, he could have but one only thought, which was, to gain Monte Cristo by some
means, and remain there alone under some pretext which would arouse no suspicions; and once there,
to endeavor to find the wonderful caverns, and search in the appointed spot, -- the appointed spot, be it
remembered, being the farthest angle in the second opening.
In the meanwhile the hours passed, if not rapidly, at least tolerably. Faria, as we have said, without having
recovered the use of his hand and foot, had regained all the clearness of his understanding, and had
gradually, besides the moral instructions we have detailed, taught his youthful companion the patient and
sublime duty of a prisoner, who learns to make something from nothing. They were thus perpetually
employed, -- Faria, that he might not see himself grow old; Dantes, for fear of recalling the almost extinct
past which now only floated in his memory like a distant light wandering in the night. So life went on for
them as it does for those who are not victims of misfortune and whose activities glide along mechanically
and tranquilly beneath the eye of providence.
But beneath this superficial calm there were in the heart of the young man, and perhaps in that of the old
man, many repressed desires, many stifled sighs, which found vent when Faria was left alone, and when
Edmond returned to his cell. One night Edmond awoke suddenly, believing that he heard some one
calling him. He opened his eyes upon utter darkness. His name, or rather a plaintive voice which essayed
to pronounce his name, reached him. He sat up in bed and a cold sweat broke out upon his brow.

Undoubtedly the call came from Faria's dungeon. "Alas," murmured Edmond; "can it be?"
He moved his bed, drew up the stone, rushed into the passage, and reached the opposite extremity; the
secret entrance was open. By the light of the wretched and wavering lamp, of which we have spoken,
Dantes saw the old man, pale, but yet erect, clinging to the bedstead. His features were writhing with
those horrible symptoms which he already knew, and which had so seriously alarmed him when he saw
them for the first time.
"Alas, my dear friend," said Faria in a resigned tone, "you understand, do you not, and I need not attempt
to explain to you?"
Edmond uttered a cry of agony, and, quite out of his senses, rushed towards the door, exclaiming, "Help,
help!" Faria had just sufficient strength to restrain him.
"Silence," he said, "or you are lost. We must now only think of you, my dear friend, and so act as to
render your captivity supportable or your flight possible. It would require years to do again what I have
done here, and the results would be instantly destroyed if our jailers knew we had communicated with
each other. Besides, be assured, my dear Edmond, the dungeon I am about to leave will not long remain
empty; some other unfortunate being will soon take my place, and to him you will appear like an angel of
salvation. Perhaps he will be young, strong, and enduring, like yourself, and will aid you in your escape,
while I have been but a hindrance. You will no longer have half a dead body tied to you as a drag to all
your movements. At length providence has done something for you; he restores to you more than he
takes away, and it was time I should die."
Edmond could only clasp his hands and exclaim, "Oh, my friend, my friend, speak not thus!" and then
resuming all his presence of mind, which had for a moment staggered under this blow, and his strength,
which had failed at the words of the old man, he said, "Oh, I have saved you once, and I will save you a
second time!" And raising the foot of the bed, he drew out the phial, still a third filled with the red liquor.
"See," he exclaimed, "there remains still some of the magic draught. Quick, quick! tell me what I must do
this time; are there any fresh instructions? Speak, my friend; I listen."

"There is not a hope," replied Faria, shaking his head, "but no matter; God wills it that man whom he has
created, and in whose heart he has so profoundly rooted the love of life, should do all in his power to
preserve that existence, which, however painful it may be, is yet always so dear."
"Oh, yes, yes!" exclaimed Dantes; "and I tell you that I will save you yet."
"Well, then, try. The cold gains upon me. I feel the blood flowing towards my brain. These horrible chills,
which make my teeth chatter and seem to dislocate my bones, begin to pervade my whole frame; in five
minutes the malady will reach its height, and in a quarter of an hour there will be nothing left of me but a
corpse."
"Oh!" exclaimed Dantes, his heart wrung with anguish.
"Do as you did before, only do not wait so long, all the springs of life are now exhausted in me, and
death," he continued, looking at his paralyzed arm and leg, "has but half its work to do. If, after having
made me swallow twelve drops instead of ten, you see that I do not recover, then pour the rest down my
throat. Now lift me on my bed, for I can no longer support myself."
Edmond took the old man in his arms, and laid him on the bed.
"And now, my dear friend," said Faria, "sole consolation of my wretched existence, -- you whom heaven
gave me somewhat late, but still gave me, a priceless gift, and for which I am most grateful, -- at the
moment of separating from you forever, I wish you all the happiness and all the prosperity you so well
deserve. My son, I bless thee!" The young man cast himself on his knees, leaning his head against the
old man's bed.
"Listen, now, to what I say in this my dying moment. The treasure of the Spadas exists. God grants me
the boon of vision unrestricted by time or space. I see it in the depths of the inner cavern. My eyes pierce

the inmost recesses of the earth, and are dazzled at the sight of so much riches. If you do escape,
remember that the poor abbe, whom all the world called mad, was not so. Hasten to Monte Cristo -- avail
yourself of the fortune -- for you have indeed suffered long enough." A violent convulsion attacked the old
man. Dantes raised his head and saw Faria's eyes injected with blood. It seemed as if a flow of blood had
ascended from the chest to the head.
"Adieu, adieu!" murmured the old man, clasping Edmond's hand convulsively -- "adieu!"
"Oh, no, -- no, not yet," he cried; "do not forsake me! Oh, succor him! Help -- help -- help!"
"Hush -- hush!" murmured the dying man, "that they may not separate us if you save me!"
"You are right. Oh, yes, yes; be assured I shall save you! Besides, although you suffer much, you do not
seem to be in such agony as you were before."
"Do not mistake. I suffer less because there is in me less strength to endure. At your age we have faith in
life; it is the privilege of youth to believe and hope, but old men see death more clearly. Oh, 'tis here -- 'tis
here -- 'tis over -- my sight is gone -- my senses fail! Your hand, Dantes! Adieu -- adieu!" And raising
himself by a final effort, in which he summoned all his faculties, he said, -- "Monte Cristo, forget not
Monte Cristo!" And he fell back on the bed. The crisis was terrible, and a rigid form with twisted limbs,
swollen eyelids, and lips flecked with bloody foam, lay on the bed of torture, in place of the intellectual
being who so lately rested there.
Dantes took the lamp, placed it on a projecting stone above the bed, whence its tremulous light fell with
strange and fantastic ray on the distorted countenance and motionless, stiffened body. With steady gaze
he awaited confidently the moment for administering the restorative.
When he believed that the right moment had arrived, he took the knife, pried open the teeth, which
offered less resistance than before, counted one after the other twelve drops, and watched; the phial
contained, perhaps, twice as much more. He waited ten minutes, a quarter of an hour, half an hour, -- no

change took place. Trembling, his hair erect, his brow bathed with perspiration, he counted the seconds
by the beating of his heart. Then he thought it was time to make the last trial, and he put the phial to the
purple lips of Faria, and without having occasion to force open his jaws, which had remained extended,
he poured the whole of the liquid down his throat.
The draught produced a galvanic effect, a violent trembling pervaded the old man's limbs, his eyes
opened until it was fearful to gaze upon them, he heaved a sigh which resembled a shriek, and then his
convulsed body returned gradually to its former immobility, the eyes remaining open.
Half an hour, an hour, an hour and a half elapsed, and during this period of anguish, Edmond leaned over
his friend, his hand applied to his heart, and felt the body gradually grow cold, and the heart's pulsation
become more and more deep and dull, until at length it stopped; the last movement of the heart ceased,
the face became livid, the eyes remained open, but the eyeballs were glazed. It was six o'clock in the
morning, the dawn was just breaking, and its feeble ray came into the dungeon, and paled the ineffectual
light of the lamp. Strange shadows passed over the countenance of the dead man, and at times gave it
the appearance of life. While the struggle between day and night lasted, Dantes still doubted; but as soon
as the daylight gained the pre-eminence, he saw that he was alone with a corpse. Then an invincible and
extreme terror seized upon him, and he dared not again press the hand that hung out of bed, he dared no
longer to gaze on those fixed and vacant eyes, which he tried many times to close, but in vain -- they
opened again as soon as shut. He extinguished the lamp, carefully concealed it, and then went away,
closing as well as he could the entrance to the secret passage by the large stone as he descended.
It was time, for the jailer was coming. On this occasion he began his rounds at Dantes' cell, and on
leaving him he went on to Faria's dungeon, taking thither breakfast and some linen. Nothing betokened
that the man know anything of what had occurred. He went on his way.
Dantes was then seized with an indescribable desire to know what was going on in the dungeon of his
unfortunate friend. He therefore returned by the subterraneous gallery, and arrived in time to hear the
exclamations of the turnkey, who called out for help. Other turnkeys came, and then was heard the
regular tramp of soldiers. Last of all came the governor.
Edmond heard the creaking of the bed as they moved the corpse, heard the voice of the governor, who
asked them to throw water on the dead man's face; and seeing that, in spite of this application, the
prisoner did not recover, they sent for the doctor. The governor then went out, and words of pity fell on

Dantes' listening ears, mingled with brutal laughter.
"Well, well," said one, "the madman has gone to look after his treasure. Good journey to him!"
"With all his millions, he will not have enough to pay for his shroud!" said another.
"Oh," added a third voice, "the shrouds of the Chateau d'If are not dear!"
"Perhaps," said one of the previous speakers, "as he was a churchman, they may go to some expense in
his behalf."
"They may give him the honors of the sack."
Edmond did not lose a word, but comprehended very little of what was said. The voices soon ceased,
and it seemed to him as if every one had left the cell. Still he dared not to enter, as they might have left
some turnkey to watch the dead. He remained, therefore, mute and motionless, hardly venturing to
breathe. At the end of an hour, he heard a faint noise, which increased. It was the governor who returned,
followed by the doctor and other attendants. There was a moment's silence, -- it was evident that the
doctor was examining the dead body. The inquiries soon commenced.
The doctor analyzed the symptoms of the malady to which the prisoner had succumbed, and declared
that he was dead. Questions and answers followed in a nonchalant manner that made Dantes indignant,
for he felt that all the world should have for the poor abbe a love and respect equal to his own.
"I am very sorry for what you tell me," said the governor, replying to the assurance of the doctor, "that the
old man is really dead; for he was a quiet, inoffensive prisoner, happy in his folly, and required no
watching."

"Ah," added the turnkey, "there was no occasion for watching him: he would have stayed here fifty years,
I'll answer for it, without any attempt to escape."
"Still," said the governor, "I believe it will be requisite, notwithstanding your certainty, and not that I doubt
your science, but in discharge of my official duty, that we should be perfectly assured that the prisoner is
dead." There was a moment of complete silence, during which Dantes, still listening, knew that the doctor
was examining the corpse a second time.
"You may make your mind easy," said the doctor; "he is dead. I will answer for that."
"You know, sir," said the governor, persisting, "that we are not content in such cases as this with such a
simple examination. In spite of all appearances, be so kind, therefore, as to finish your duty by fulfilling
the formalities described by law."
"Let the irons be heated," said the doctor; "but really it is a useless precaution." This order to heat the
irons made Dantes shudder. He heard hasty steps, the creaking of a door, people going and coming, and
some minutes afterwards a turnkey entered, saying, --
"Here is the brazier, lighted." There was a moment's silence, and then was heard the crackling of burning
flesh, of which the peculiar and nauseous smell penetrated even behind the wall where Dantes was
listening in horror. The perspiration poured forth upon the young man's brow, and he felt as if he should
faint.
"You see, sir, he is really dead," said the doctor; "this burn in the heel is decisive. The poor fool is cured of
his folly, and delivered from his captivity."
"Wasn't his name Faria?" inquired one of the officers who accompanied the governor.

"Yes, sir; and, as he said, it was an ancient name. He was, too, very learned, and rational enough on all
points which did not relate to his treasure; but on that, indeed, he was intractable."
"It is the sort of malady which we call monomania," said the doctor.
"You had never anything to complain of?" said the governor to the jailer who had charge of the abbe.
"Never, sir," replied the jailer, "never; on the contrary, he sometimes amused me very much by telling me
stories. One day, too, when my wife was ill, he gave me a prescription which cured her."
"Ah, ah!" said the doctor, "I did not know that I had a rival; but I hope, governor, that you will show him all
proper respect."
"Yes, yes, make your mind easy, he shall be decently interred in the newest sack we can find. Will that
satisfy you?"
"Must this last formality take place in your presence, sir?" inquired a turnkey.
"Certainly. But make haste -- I cannot stay here all day." Other footsteps, going and coming, were now
heard, and a moment afterwards the noise of rustling canvas reached Dantes' ears, the bed creaked, and
the heavy footfall of a man who lifts a weight sounded on the floor; then the bed again creaked under the
weight deposited upon it.
"This evening," said the governor.

"Will there be any mass?" asked one of the attendants.
"That is impossible," replied the governor. "The chaplain of the chateau came to me yesterday to beg for
leave of absence, in order to take a trip to Hyeres for a week. I told him I would attend to the prisoners in
his absence. If the poor abbe had not been in such a hurry, he might have had his requiem."
"Pooh, pooh;" said the doctor, with the impiety usual in persons of his profession; "he is a churchman.
God will respect his profession, and not give the devil the wicked delight of sending him a priest." A shout
of laughter followed this brutal jest. Meanwhile the operation of putting the body in the sack was going on.
"This evening," said the governor, when the task was ended.
"At what hour?" inquired a turnkey.
"Why, about ten or eleven o'clock."
"Shall we watch by the corpse?"
"Of what use would it be? Shut the dungeon as if he were alive -- that is all." Then the steps retreated,
and the voices died away in the distance; the noise of the door, with its creaking hinges and bolts ceased,
and a silence more sombre than that of solitude ensued, -- the silence of death, which was all-pervasive,
and struck its icy chill to the very soul of Dantes. Then he raised the flag-stone cautiously with his head,
and looked carefully around the chamber. It was empty, and Dantes emerged from the tunnel.
-------------------- [email protected]

Chapter 20 The Cemetery of the Chateau D'If.
On the bed, at full length, and faintly illuminated by the pale light that came from the window, lay a sack of
canvas, and under its rude folds was stretched a long and stiffened form; it was Faria's last winding-sheet,
-- a winding-sheet which, as the turnkey said, cost so little. Everything was in readiness. A barrier had
been placed between Dantes and his old friend. No longer could Edmond look into those wide-open eyes
which had seemed to be penetrating the mysteries of death; no longer could he clasp the hand which had
done so much to make his existence blessed. Faria, the beneficent and cheerful companion, with whom
he was accustomed to live so intimately, no longer breathed. He seated himself on the edge of that
terrible bed, and fell into melancholy and gloomy revery.
Alone -- he was alone again -- again condemned to silence -- again face to face with nothingness! Alone!
-- never again to see the face, never again to hear the voice of the only human being who united him to
earth! Was not Faria's fate the better, after all -- to solve the problem of life at its source, even at the risk
of horrible suffering? The idea of suicide, which his friend had driven away and kept away by his cheerful
presence, now hovered like a phantom over the abbe's dead body.
"If I could die," he said, "I should go where he goes, and should assuredly find him again. But how to die?
It is very easy," he went on with a smile; "I will remain here, rush on the first person that opens the door,
strangle him, and then they will guillotine me." But excessive grief is like a storm at sea, where the frail
bark is tossed from the depths to the top of the wave. Dantes recoiled from the idea of so infamous a
death, and passed suddenly from despair to an ardent desire for life and liberty.
"Die? oh, no," he exclaimed -- "not die now, after having lived and suffered so long and so much! Die?
yes, had I died years ago; but now to die would be, indeed, to give way to the sarcasm of destiny. No, I
want to live; I shall struggle to the very last; I will yet win back the happiness of which I have been
deprived. Before I die I must not forget that I have my executioners to punish, and perhaps, too, who
knows, some friends to reward. Yet they will forget me here, and I shall die in my dungeon like Faria." As
he said this, he became silent and gazed straight before him like one overwhelmed with a strange and
amazing thought. Suddenly he arose, lifted his hand to his brow as if his brain wore giddy, paced twice or
thrice round the dungeon, and then paused abruptly by the bed.
"Just God!" he muttered, "whence comes this thought? Is it from thee? Since none but the dead pass

freely from this dungeon, let me take the place of the dead!" Without giving himself time to reconsider his
decision, and, indeed, that he might not allow his thoughts to be distracted from his desperate resolution,
he bent over the appalling shroud, opened it with the knife which Faria had made, drew the corpse from
the sack, and bore it along the tunnel to his own chamber, laid it on his couch, tied around its head the
rag he wore at night around his own, covered it with his counterpane, once again kissed the ice-cold brow,
and tried vainly to close the resisting eyes, which glared horribly, turned the head towards the wall, so
that the jailer might, when he brought the evening meal, believe that he was asleep, as was his frequent
custom; entered the tunnel again, drew the bed against the wall, returned to the other cell, took from the
hiding-place the needle and thread, flung off his rags, that they might feel only naked flesh beneath the
coarse canvas, and getting inside the sack, placed himself in the posture in which the dead body had
been laid, and sewed up the mouth of the sack from the inside.
He would have been discovered by the beating of his heart, if by any mischance the jailers had entered at
that moment. Dantes might have waited until the evening visit was over, but he was afraid that the
governor would change his mind, and order the dead body to be removed earlier. In that case his last
hope would have been destroyed. Now his plans were fully made, and this is what he intended to do. If
while he was being carried out the grave-diggers should discover that they were bearing a live instead of
a dead body, Dantes did not intend to give them time to recognize him, but with a sudden cut of the knife,
he meant to open the sack from top to bottom, and, profiting by their alarm, escape; if they tried to catch
him, he would use his knife to better purpose.
If they took him to the cemetery and laid him in a grave, he would allow himself to be covered with earth,
and then, as it was night, the grave-diggers could scarcely have turned their backs before he would have
worked his way through the yielding soil and escaped. He hoped that the weight of earth would not be so
great that he could not overcome it. If he was detected in this and the earth proved too heavy, he would
be stifled, and then -- so much the better, all would be over. Dantes had not eaten since the preceding
evening, but he had not thought of hunger, nor did he think of it now. His situation was too precarious to
allow him even time to reflect on any thought but one.
The first risk that Dantes ran was, that the jailer, when he brought him his supper at seven o'clock, might
perceive the change that had been made; fortunately, twenty times at least, from misanthropy or fatigue,
Dantes had received his jailer in bed, and then the man placed his bread and soup on the table, and went
away without saying a word. This time the jailer might not be as silent as usual, but speak to Dantes, and
seeing that he received no reply, go to the bed, and thus discover all.
When seven o'clock came, Dantes' agony really began. His hand placed upon his heart was unable to

redress its throbbings, while, with the other he wiped the perspiration from his temples. From time to time
chills ran through his whole body, and clutched his heart in a grasp of ice. Then he thought he was going
to die. Yet the hours passed on without any unusual disturbance, and Dantes knew that he had escaped
the first peril. It was a good augury. At length, about the hour the governor had appointed, footsteps were
heard on the stairs. Edmond felt that the moment had arrived, summoned up all his courage, held his
breath, and would have been happy if at the same time he could have repressed the throbbing of his
veins. The footsteps -- they were double -- paused at the door -- and Dantes guessed that the two
grave-diggers had come to seek him -- this idea was soon converted into certainty, when he heard the
noise they made in putting down the hand-bier. The door opened, and a dim light reached Dantes' eyes
through the coarse sack that covered him; he saw two shadows approach his bed, a third remaining at
the door with a torch in its hand. The two men, approaching the ends of the bed, took the sack by its
extremities.
"He's heavy though for an old and thin man," said one, as he raised the head.
"They say every year adds half a pound to the weight of the bones," said another, lifting the feet.
"Have you tied the knot?" inquired the first speaker.
"What would be the use of carrying so much more weight?" was the reply, "I can do that when we get
there."
"Yes, you're right," replied the companion.
"What's the knot for?" thought Dantes.
They deposited the supposed corpse on the bier. Edmond stiffened himself in order to play the part of a
dead man, and then the party, lighted by the man with the torch, who went first, ascended the stairs.
Suddenly he felt the fresh and sharp night air, and Dantes knew that the mistral was blowing. It was a
sensation in which pleasure and pain were strangely mingled. The bearers went on for twenty paces,

then stopped, putting the bier down on the ground. One of them went away, and Dantes heard his shoes
striking on the pavement.
"Where am I?" he asked himself.
"Really, he is by no means a light load!" said the other bearer, sitting on the edge of the hand-barrow.
Dantes' first impulse was to escape, but fortunately he did not attempt it.
"Give us a light," said the other bearer, "or I shall never find what I am looking for." The man with the torch
complied, although not asked in the most polite terms.
"What can he be looking for?" thought Edmond. "The spade, perhaps." An exclamation of satisfaction
indicated that the grave-digger had found the object of his search. "Here it is at last," he said, "not without
some trouble though."
"Yes," was the answer, "but it has lost nothing by waiting."
As he said this, the man came towards Edmond, who heard a heavy metallic substance laid down beside
him, and at the same moment a cord was fastened round his feet with sudden and painful violence.
"Well, have you tied the knot?" inquired the grave-digger, who was looking on.
"Yes, and pretty tight too, I can tell you," was the answer.
"Move on, then." And the bier was lifted once more, and they proceeded.

They advanced fifty paces farther, and then stopped to open a door, then went forward again. The noise
of the waves dashing against the rocks on which the chateau is built, reached Dantes' ear distinctly as
they went forward.
"Bad weather!" observed one of the bearers; "not a pleasant night for a dip in the sea."
"Why, yes, the abbe runs a chance of being wet," said the other; and then there was a burst of brutal
laughter. Dantes did not comprehend the jest, but his hair stood erect on his head.
"Well, here we are at last," said one of them. "A little farther -- a little farther," said the other. "You know
very well that the last was stopped on his way, dashed on the rocks, and the governor told us next day
that we were careless fellows."
They ascended five or six more steps, and then Dantes felt that they took him, one by the head and the
other by the heels, and swung him to and fro. "One!" said the grave-diggers, "two! three!" And at the
same instant Dantes felt himself flung into the air like a wounded bird, falling, falling, with a rapidity that
made his blood curdle. Although drawn downwards by the heavy weight which hastened his rapid
descent, it seemed to him as if the fall lasted for a century.
At last, with a horrible splash, he darted like an arrow into the ice-cold water, and as he did so he uttered
a shrill cry, stifled in a moment by his immersion beneath the waves.
Dantes had been flung into the sea, and was dragged into its depths by a thirty-six pound shot tied to his
feet. The sea is the cemetery of the Chateau d'If.
-------------------- [email protected]

so long a novel ~        great!        nice going~~
but l doubt whether it  counts your good will and labor
to just post them  here  with few readers... -------------------- ~不说了~

just do it~~~

-------------------- [email protected]

hehe~
up~ -------------------- ~不说了~