"Oh! no; of course not. You can understand that one of two things must have happened: he must either have fallen flat, in which case the blow, from a height of ninety feet, must have killed him instantly, or he must have fallen upright, and then the weight would have dragged him to the bottom, where he remained—poor fellow!"
"Then you pity him?" said the count.
"Ma foi! yes; though he was in his own element."
"What do you mean?"
"A report ran that he had been a naval officer, who had been confined for plotting with the Bonapartists."
"Truth!" muttered the count, "thou art made to rise above the waves and flames! Thus the poor sailor lives in the recollection of those who narrate his history; his terrible story is recited in the chimney-corner, and a shudder is felt at the description of his transit through the air to be swallowed by the deep." Then, the count added aloud, "Was his name ever known?"
"How?" said the keeper, "he was known only as No. 34."
"Oh! Villefort, Villefort!" murmured the count, "my specter must often have haunted thy sleepless hours!"
"Do you wish to see anything more, sir?" said the concierge.
"Yes; especially if you will show me the poor abbé's room."
"Ah! No. 27."
"Yes; No. 27," repeated the count, who seemed to hear the voice of the abbé answering him in those very words through the wall when asked his name.
"Come, sir."
"Wait," said Monte-Cristo, "I wish to take one final glance around this room."
"This is fortunate," said the guide; "I have forgotten the other key."
"Go and fetch it."
"I will leave you the torch, sir."
"No, take it away; I can see in the dark."
"Why, you are like No. 34. They said he was so accustomed to darkness, that he could see a pin in the darkest corner of his dungeon."
"He spent fourteen years to arrive at that," muttered the count.
The guide carried away the torch. The count had spoken correctly. Scarcely had a few seconds elapsed, ere he saw everything as distinctly as by daylight. Then he looked around him, and really recognized his dungeon.
"Yes," he said, "there is the stone upon which I used to sit; there is the impression made by my shoulders on the wall; there is the mark of my blood made when I, one day, dashed my head against the wall. Oh! those figures! how well I remember them! I made them one day
