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The Count of Monte Cristo
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“In the name of Heaven,” cried Dantès, “speak again, though the sound of your voice terrifies me.”
“Who are you?” said the voice.
“An unhappy prisoner,” replied Dantès, who made no hesitation in answering.
“Of what country?”
“A Frenchman.”
“Your name?”
“Edmond Dantès.”
“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.”
“How 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.”
Dantès 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?” said Dantès.
“I am deceived, and the imperfection of my plans has ruined all. An error of a line in the plan has been equivalent to fifteen feet in reality, and I took the wall you are mining for the wall of the fortress.”
“But then you were close to the sea?”
“That is what I hoped.”
“And supposing you 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 was safe.”
“Could you have swam 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 Number 27.”
“You mistrust me, then?” said Dantès.
Edmond fancied he heard a bitter laugh proceed from the unknown.
“Oh! I am a Christian,” cried Dantès, guessing instinctively that this man meant to abandon him. “I swear to you by Him who died for us that nought shall induce me to breathe one syllable to my gaolers, but I conjure you do not abandon me. If you do, I swear to you 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 Dantès. “I swear to you again, rather than betray you they shall hew me to pieces!”
“You have done well to speak to me, and entreat me, for I was about to form another plan, and leave you; but your age reassures me. I will not forget you; expect me.”
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