The Count of Monte-Cristo/Volume 1/Chapter 14
CHAPTER XIV
THE TWO PRISONERS
YEAR after Louis XVIII's restoration, a visit was made by the inspector-general of prisons. Dantès heard from the recesses of his cell the noises made by the preparations for receiving him, — sounds that at the depth where he lay would have been inaudible to any but the ear of a prisoner, who could distinguish 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 the cells and dungeons, one after another, of several of the prisoners whose good behavior or stupidity recommended them to the clemency of the government; the inspector inquired how they were fed, and if they had anything to demand.
The universal response was that the fare was detestable, and that they required their freedom.
The inspector asked if they had anything else to demand. 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. "I must fulfill my mission. Let us descend."
"Let us first send for two soldiers," said the governor. "The prisoners sometimes, through mere disgust 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 stair so foul, so humid, so dark, that the very sight affected the eye, the smell, and the 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."
"He is alone?"
"Certainly."
"How long has he been there?"
"Nearly a year."
"Was he placed here when he first arrived?"
"No, not until he attempted to kill the turnkey."
"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!" replied 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, to judge from our experience here, in another year he will be quite so."
"So much the better for him, — he will suffer less," said the inspector. He was, as this remark shows, a man full of philanthropy, and in every way fit for his office.
"You are right, sir," replied the governor; "and this remark proves that you have deeply considered the subject. Now, we have in a dungeon about twenty feet distant, and to which you descend by another stair, an old abbé, ancient 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.
"Willingly," replied the governor; and he signed to the turnkey to open the door. At the sound of the key turning in the lock, and the creaking of the hinges, Dantès, who was crouched in a corner of the dungeon, raised his head. At the sight of a stranger, lighted by two turnkeys, accompanied by two soldiers, and to whom the governor spoke bareheaded, Dantès, who guessed the truth, and that the moment to address himself to the superior authorities was come, sprang forward with clasped hands.
The soldiers presented their bayonets, for they thought he was about to attack the inspector, and the latter recoiled two or three steps. Dantès saw he was represented as a dangerous prisoner. 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 in a low tone:
"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 do you demand?" said he.
"I ask what crime I have committed — I ask to be tried before my judges; and I ask, 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 know not; but that matters little. What matters really, not only to me, but to every functionary of justice, every member of the government, is, that an innocent man should languish in prison, the victim of an infamous denunciation, cursing his murderers."
"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 has always been very good to me; but I was mad."
"And you are not so any longer?"
"No! captivity has subdued, broken, annihilated 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 June, 1816: why, it is but seventeen months."
"Only seventeen months!" replied Dantes. "Oh, you do not know what is seventeen months in prison! seventeen years, 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 open 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 air, the expanse, the immensity of the boundless ocean, is a worse punish ment than human crime ever merited. Have pity on me, then, and ask for me, not indulgence, but a trial — let me see my judges; I ask only for a judge; you cannot refuse to bring me before a judge."
"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 notes against him."
"Monsieur," continued Dantès, "I know it is not in your power to release me; but you can forward my petition, can obtain an inquiry, can plead for me — you can have me tried; and that is all I ask."
"Light me," said the inspector.
"Monsieur," cried Dantès, "I can tell by your voice you are touched with pity; tell me at least to hope."
"I cannot tell you that," replied the inspector; "I can only promise to examine into your case."
"Oh, I am free — then I am saved!"
"Who arrested you?"
"M. Villefort. See him, and hear what he says."
"M. Villefort is no longer at Marseilles; he is now at Toulouse."
"I am no longer surprised at my detention," murmured Dantès, "since my only protector is removed."
"Had M. de Villefort any cause of personal dislike to you?"
"None; on the contrary, he was very kind to me."
"I can, then, rely on the notes he has left concerning you?"
"Entirely."
"That is well; wait patiently, then."
Dantes fell on his knees, and prayed earnestly for the man who had descended to this Hades. 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 mounted the stairs, I should never have the courage to descend."
"Ah, this one is not like the other; and his madness is less affecting than the reason of his neighbor."
"What is his folly?"
"He fancies he possesses an immense treasure. The first year he offered government a million of francs ($200,000) 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?"
"L'Abbé Faria."
"No. 27," said the inspector.
"It is here; unlock the door, Antoine."
The turnkey obeyed, and the inspector gazed curiously into the chamber of the mad abbé, as the prisoner was usually called. In the center 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 when the soldier of Marcellus slew him. He did not move at the sound of the door, and continued his problem until the flash of the torches lighted up with an unwonted glare the somber walls of his cell; then, raising his head, he perceived with astonishment the number of persons in his cell. He hastily seized the coverlid of his bed, and wrapped it round him in order to appear in a more decent state to the strangers.
"What do you demand?" said the inspector.
"I, monsieur!" replied the abbé, with an air of surprise, — "I demand nothing."
"You do not understand," continued the inspector; "I am sent here by government to visit the prisoners, and hear the requests of the prisoners."
"Oh, that is different," cried the abbé; "and we shall understand each other, I hope."
"There, now," whispered the governor, "it is just as I told you,"
"Monsieur," continued the prisoner, "I am the Abbé Faria, born at Rome. I was for twenty years Cardinal Spada's secretary; I was arrested, why I know not, in 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."
The inspector and governor looked at each other with a smile.
"Ah!" said the inspector, "you have not the latest intelligence from Italy."
"They date from the day on which I was arrested," returned the Abbé Faria; "and as the emperor had created the kingdom of Rome for his infant son, I presume that he has realized the dream of Machiavel and Cassar Borgia, which was to make Italy one vast kingdom."
"Monsieur," returned the inspector, "Providence has fortunately changed this gigantic plan you advocate so warmly."
"It is the only means of rendering Italy happy and independent."
"Very possibly; only I am not come to discuss politics, but to inquire if you have anything to ask or complain of."
"The food is the same as in other prisons, — that is, very bad; the lodging is very unwholesome, but, on the whole, passable for a dungeon; but it is not that which I speak of, but of a secret I have to reveal of the greatest importance."
"We are coming to the point," whispered the governor.
"It is for that reason I am delighted to see you," continued the abbé, "although you have disturbed me in a most important calculation, which, if it succeeded, would possibly change Newton's system. Could you allow me a few words in private?"
"What did I tell you?" said the governor.
"You knew him," returned the inspector.
"What you ask is impossible, monsieur," continued he, addressing Faria.
"But" said the abbé, "I would speak to you of a large sum, amounting to five millions."
"The very figure you named," whispered, in his turn, the inspector.
"However" continued Faria, perceiving the inspector was about to depart, "it is not absolutely necessary we should be alone; monsieur 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.
"Doubtless," said he; "of what else should I speak?"
"Monsieur l'Inspecteur," continued the governor, "I can tell you the story as well, for it has been dinned in my ears for the last four or five years."
"That proves," returned the abbé, "that you are like the people of Holy Writ, who have eyes and see not, and who have ears and hear not."
"The government does not want your treasures," replied the inspector; "keep them until you are liberated." The abbé's eyes glistened; he seized the inspector's hand.
"But what if I am not liberated," cried he, "and am detained here, contrary to all justice, until my death? What, if I die without revealing my secret? the treasure will be lost. Had not government better profit by it? I will offer six millions, and I will content myself with the rest."
"On my word," said the inspector, in a low tone, "had I not been told beforehand 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 a treaty with you, by virtue of which you will take me to a spot I shall designate, you shall see the earth dug up under your own eyes, and if I lie, if nothing is found, if I am mad, as you call me, then bring me here again, and I shall die without asking more."
The governor laughed. "Is the spot far from here?"
"A hundred leagues."
"It is not a bad idea," said the governor. "If every prisoner took it into his head 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 M. l'Abbé has not even the merit of its invention."
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 whilst you go to the spot."
"Are you well fed?" repeated the inspector.
"Monsieur, you run no risk, for, as I told you, I will stay here; so there is no chance of my escaping."
"You do not reply to my question," replied the inspector impatiently.
"Nor you to mine," cried the abbé. "Accursed be you like the other 
fools who will not believe me! You will not accept my gold; I will keep it for myself. You refuse me my liberty; God will give it me. Go! I have no more to say." And the abbé, casting away his coverlid, 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 by a glance of profound contempt. They left the dungeon, and the door closed behind them.
"He has been wealthy once, perhaps," said the inspector.
"Or dreamed he was, and awoke mad."
"After all," said the inspector, with the candor of corruption, "if he had been rich, he would not have been here."
Thus finished the adventure of the Abbé Faria. He remained in his cell, and this visit only increased the belief of 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 and the air he so earnestly prayed for. But the kings of modern ages, retained within the limits of probability, have neither the courage nor the desire. They fear the ear that hears their orders, and the eye that scrutinizes their actions. They do not feel the divinity that hedges a king; they are men with crowns — that is all. 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 policy to re-appear. As the Inquisition rarely suffered 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 recognizes neither man nor mind in the mutilated being the jailer delivers to him. The very madness of the Abbé Faria, gone mad in prison, condemned him to perpetual captivity.
The inspector kept his word with Dantès: he examined the register, and found the following note concerning him:
 |
Violent Bonapartist; took an active part in the return | |
| Edmond Dantès. |  |
from Elba. |
 |
The greatest watchfulness and care to be exercised. |
This note was in a different hand from the rest, which proved it had been added since his confinement. The inspector could not contend against this accusation; he simply wrote, Nothing to be done.
This visit had infused new vigor into Dantès; he had, till then, forgotten the date; but now, with a fragment of plaster, he wrote the date, 30th July, 1816; and made a mark every day, in order not to lose his reckoning again. Days and weeks passed away, then months Dantès still waited; he at first expected to be freed in a fortnight. This fort night expired; he reflected 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. During these ten months no favorable change had taken place; no consoling news came, his jailer was dumb as usual, and Dantès began to fancy the inspector's visit was but a dream, an illusion of the brain.
At the expiration of a year the governor was changed; he had obtained the government of Ham. He took with him several of his subordinates, and amongst them Dantès' jailer. A fresh governor arrived. It would have been too tedious to acquire the names of the prisoners; he learned their numbers instead. This horrible boarding-house consisted of fifty chambers; their inhabitants were designated by the number of their chamber; and the unhappy young man was no longer called Edmond Dantès, — he was now No. 34.