AFTER HAVING PASSED with tolerable ease through the subterranean¹ passage, which, however, did not admit of their holding themselves erect², the two friends reached the further end of the corridorChapter 17 The Abbé's Chamber³

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 abbé'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 abbé'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 laborious⁴ task of which Dantès had witnessed the completion.

As he entered the chamber of his friend, Dantès cast around one eager and searching glance in quest of the expected marvels⁵, but nothing more than common met his view.

"It is well," said the abbé; "we have some hours before us--it is now just a quarter past twelve o'clock." Instinctively⁶ Dantès turned round to observe by what watch or clock the abbé had been able so accurately⁷ to specify⁸ the hour.

"Look at this ray of light which enters by my window," said the abbé, "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 ascertain⁹ the precise hour with more minuteness than if I possessed¹⁰ a watch; for that might be broken or deranged¹¹ in its movements, while the sun and earth never vary in their appointed paths."

This last explanation was wholly lost upon Dantès, who had always imagined, from seeing the sun rise from behind the mountains and set in the Mediterranean¹³, 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 perfectly¹⁴ impossible. Each word that fell from his companion's lips seemed fraught¹⁵ with the mysteries of science, as worthy¹⁶ of digging out as the gold and diamonds in the mines of Guzerat and Golconda, which he could just recollect¹⁷ having visited during a voyage made in his earliest youth.

"Come," said he to the abbé, "I am anxious to see your treasures."

The abbé smiled, and, proceeding¹⁸ to the disused fireplace, raised, by the help of his chisel¹⁹, a long stone, which had doubtless been the hearth²⁰, beneath which was a cavity of considerable depth, serving as a safe depository of the articles mentioned to Dantès.

"What do you wish to see first?" asked the abbé.

"Oh, your great work on the monarchy²¹ of Italy!"

Faria then drew forth²² from his hiding-place three or four rolls of linen²³, laid one over the other, like folds of papyrus²⁴. 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 Dantès could easily read it, as well as make out the sense--it being in Italian, a language he, as a Proven?al, 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 courageous²⁶ enough to publish what I have composed, my literary reputation is forever secured."

"I see," answered Dantès. "Now let me behold²⁷ 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 abbé had before spoken to Dantès; it was pointed¹², and divided at the nib²⁹ like an ordinary pen. Dantès examined it with intense admiration³⁰, 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.

Dantès examined the various articles shown to him with the same attention that he had bestowed³¹ on the curiosities and strange tools exhibited in the shops at Marseilles as the works of the savages³² in the South Seas from whence they had been brought by the different trading vessels³⁴.

"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 Dantès, "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 abbé 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 disorder³⁶ of the skin, and asked for a little sulphur, which was readily supplied." Dantès laid the different things he had been looking at on the table, and stood with his head drooping³⁷ on his breast, as though overwhelmed by the perseverance³⁸ 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 abbé sprinkled a little dust over it to conceal³⁹ 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 concealed⁴⁰ 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. Dantès 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' imprisonment⁴¹ at Fenestrelle; and when I was removed to the Chateau⁴² 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 hemmed⁴³ the edges over again."

"With what?"

"With this needle," said the abbé, as, opening his ragged⁴⁴ vestments, he showed Dantès 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 renounced⁴⁵ 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 spoke²⁸ just now, and which sudden chance frequently brings about." While affecting to be deeply engaged in examining the ladder, the mind of Dantès was, in fact, busily occupied by the idea that a person so intelligent, ingenious, and clear-sighted as the abbé 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 abbé smilingly, imputing⁴⁶ the deep abstraction in which his visitor was plunged⁴⁷ to the excess of his awe⁴⁸ and wonder.

"I was reflecting, in the first place," replied Dantès, "upon the enormous degree of intelligence and ability you must have employed to reach the high perfection to which you have attained⁴⁹. What would you not have accomplished⁵⁰ if you had been free?" "Possibly nothing at all; the overflow⁵¹ of my brain would probably, in a state of freedom, have evaporated in a thousand follies⁵²; misfortune is needed to bring to light the treasures of the human intellect. Compression is needed to explode gunpowder⁵³. Captivity⁵⁴ has brought my mental faculties⁵⁵ 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 Dantès. "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 abbé 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 inflict⁵⁷ on me a great and undeserved misfortune. I would fain fix the source of it on man that I may no longer vent⁵⁶ reproaches upon heaven."

"Then you profess⁵⁸ 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 Mercédès."

"Come," said the abbé, closing his hiding-place, and pushing the bed back to its original situation, "let me hear your story."

Dantès 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 recital⁵⁹ 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 Mercédès, and their nuptual feast--his arrest and subsequent examination, his temporary detention⁶⁰ at the Palais de Justice, and his final imprisonment in the Chateau d'If. From this point everything was a blank to Dantès--he knew nothing more, not even the length of time he had been imprisoned⁶¹. His recital finished, the abbé reflected long and earnestly.

"There is," said he, at the end of his meditations⁶³, "a clever maxim⁶⁴, 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 wholesome⁶⁵ state, revolts at crime. Still, from an artificial civilization have originated wants, vices⁶⁶, and false tastes, which occasionally become so powerful as to stifle⁶⁷ within us all good feelings, and ultimately to lead us into guilt⁶⁸ 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 advantageous⁶⁹. Now, to apply it in your case,--to whom could your disappearance⁷⁰ have been serviceable?"

"To no one, by heaven! I was a very insignificant⁷¹ person."

"Do not speak thus, for your reply evinces neither logic⁷² 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 beset⁷³ 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 defiance⁷⁴ of reason rests upon the apex⁷⁵ 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 accomplishment⁷⁶ 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 previously⁷⁷, 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 abbé; "now we are on the right scent⁷⁸. 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 portfolio⁷⁹."

"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 vessel³³?"

"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 formulated⁸⁰?"

"Oh yes, I read it over three times, and the words sank deeply into my memory."

"Repeat it to me."

Dantès 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 Dantès, 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 usurper⁸¹; again, by the usurper, with a letter for the Bonapartist Club in Paris. This proof of his guilt may be procured⁸² by his immediate⁸³ 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 abbé shrugged⁸⁴ his shoulders. "The thing is clear as day," said he; "and you must have had a very confiding⁸⁵ 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 infamous⁸⁶."

"How did Danglars usually write?"

"In a handsome, running hand."

"And how was the anonymous⁸⁷ letter written?"

"Backhanded." Again the abbé smiled. "Disguised."

"It was very boldly written, if disguised."

"Stop a bit," said the abbé, 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 accusation⁸⁸. Dantès drew back, and gazed on the abbé 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 Mercédès?"

"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 assassination⁸⁹ they will unhesitatingly commit, but an act of cowardice⁹⁰, never."

"Besides," said Dantès, "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 betrothed⁹¹."

"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 arbor⁹² at Père Pamphile's the evening before the day fixed⁹³ for my wedding. They were in earnest conversation. Danglars was joking in a friendly way, but Fernand looked pale and agitated⁹⁴."

"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, treacherous⁹⁵ scoundrels!" exclaimed Dantès, pressing his hand to his throbbing⁹⁶ brows.

"Is there anything else I can assist you in discovering, besides the villany of your friends?" inquired the abbé with a laugh.

"Yes, yes," replied Dantès 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 riddle⁹⁷, to explain to me how it was that I underwent no second examination, was never brought to trial, and, above all, was condemned⁹⁸ without ever having had sentence passed on me?"

"That is altogether a different and more serious matter," responded the abbé. "The ways of justice are frequently too dark and mysterious to be easily penetrated⁹⁹. 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 magistrate¹⁰⁰?"

"The deputy."

"Was he young or old?"

"About six or seven and twenty years of age, I should say."

"So," answered the abbé. "Old enough to be ambitions, but too young to be corrupt¹⁰¹. 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 deplored¹⁰²?"

"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 Dantès, "you make me shudder¹⁰³. 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 sublime¹⁰⁴ to be natural."

"You think so?"

"I am sure of it. To whom was this letter addressed?"

"To M. Noirtier, No. 13 Coq-Héron, 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 abbé; "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 abbé burst into a fit of laughter, while Dantès gazed on him in utter astonishment¹⁰⁵.

"What ails¹⁰⁶ 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 commiseration¹⁰⁷ 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 Dantès, or hell opened its yawning gulf¹⁰⁸ 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 abbé; "his right name was Noirtier de Villefort." At this instant a bright light shot through the mind of Dantès, 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 supplicating¹⁰⁹ tones of the magistrate, who seemed rather to implore¹¹⁰ mercy than to pronounce punishment,--all returned with a stunning¹¹¹ 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 abbé's cell to his own, and said, "I must be alone, to think over all this."

When he regained¹¹² his dungeon¹¹³, 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 meditation⁶², which to him had seemed only minutes, he had formed a fearful resolution, and bound himself to its fulfilment by a solemn oath.

Dantès 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 abbé 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 abbé had come to ask his young companion to share the luxuries with him. Dantès followed; his features were no longer contracted, and now wore their usual expression, but there was that in his whole appearance that bespoke¹¹⁴ one who had come to a fixed and desperate resolve. Faria bent¹¹⁵ on him his penetrating¹¹⁶ eye: "I regret now," said he, "having helped you in your late inquiries¹¹⁷, or having given you the information I did."

"Why so?" inquired Dantès.

"Because it has instilled¹¹⁸ a new passion in your heart--that of vengeance¹¹⁹."

Dantès smiled. "Let us talk of something else," said he.

Again the abbé looked at him, then mournfully shook his head; but in accordance with Dantès' 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 alluded¹²⁰ to his own sorrows. Dantès listened with admiring attention to all he said; some of his remarks corresponded with what he already knew, or applied¹²¹ to the sort of knowledge his nautical¹²² life had enabled him to acquire. A part of the good abbé's words, however, were wholly incomprehensible to him; but, like the aurora¹²³ which guides the navigator in northern latitudes¹²⁴, opened new vistas¹²⁵ 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 Dantès, "if only to prevent your growing weary of me. I can well believe that so learned a person as yourself would prefer absolute solitude¹²⁶ to being tormented¹²⁷ 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 abbé smiled. "Alas¹²⁸, 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 Dantès; "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 Dantès, "What shall you teach me first? I am in a hurry to begin. I want to learn."

"Everything," said the abbé. And that very evening the prisoners sketched¹³⁰ a plan of education, to be entered upon the following day. Dantès possessed a prodigious¹³¹ 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 poetical¹³² feelings threw a light and pleasing veil over the dry reality of arithmetical computation, or the rigid¹³³ 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 abbé, Dantès 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 Dantès was a new man. Dantès observed, however, that Faria, in spite of the relief his society afforded, daily grew sadder; one thought seemed incessantly¹³⁴ to harass¹³⁵ 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 Dantès, 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 abbé, "that I loathe¹³⁶ 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 abbé.

"And you have discovered a means of regaining¹³⁷ our freedom, have you not?" asked Dantès 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 abbé; "impossible!" Dantès endeavored to renew the subject; the abbé shook his head in token of disapproval¹³⁸, and refused to make any further response. Three months passed away.

"Are you strong?" the abbé asked one day of Dantès. 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 sentry¹³⁹, except as a last resort?"

"I promise on my honor."

"Then," said the abbé, "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 Dantès.

"Do you consider the last twelve months to have been wasted?" asked the abbé.

"Forgive me!" cried Edmond, blushing deeply.

"Tut, tut!" answered the abbé, "man is but man after all, and you are about the best specimen¹⁴⁰ of the genus I have ever known. Come, let me show you my plan." The abbé then showed Dantès the sketch¹²⁹ he had made for their escape. It consisted of a plan of his own cell and that of Dantès, 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 excavation¹⁴¹ 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, stunned¹⁴² by his fall, would be immediately bound and gagged by Dantès 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 abbé's ladder of cords. Dantès' eyes sparkled with joy, and he rubbed his hands with delight at the idea of a plan so simple, yet apparently¹⁴³ so certain to succeed.

That very day the miners began their labors¹⁴⁴, with a vigor¹⁴⁵ and alacrity¹⁴⁶ proportionate to their long rest from fatigue¹⁴⁷ 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 anticipation¹⁴⁸ of the turnkey's visits. They had learned to distinguish the almost imperceptible sound of his footsteps as he descended¹⁴⁹ towards their dungeons¹⁵⁰, and happily, never failed of being prepared for his coming. The fresh earth excavated¹⁵¹ during their present work, and which would have entirely¹⁵² blocked up the old passage, was thrown, by degrees and with the utmost precaution, out of the window in either Faria's or Dantès' cell, the rubbish being first pulverized¹⁵³ 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 undertaking¹⁵⁴, the only tools for which had been a chisel, a knife, and a wooden lever; Faria still continuing to instruct Dantès by conversing¹⁵⁵ 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 abbé was a man of the world, and had, moreover, mixed in the first society of the day; he wore an air of melancholy¹⁵⁶ dignity which Dantès, 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 intercourse¹⁵⁷ 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 sufficiently¹⁵⁸ dark to favor their flight, they were obliged to defer¹⁵⁹ their final attempt till that auspicious¹⁶⁰ moment should arrive; their greatest dread¹⁶¹ now was lest the stone through which the sentry was doomed¹⁶² to fall should give way before its right time, and this they had in some measure provided against by propping¹⁶³ it up with a small beam which they had discovered in the walls through which they had worked their way. Dantès 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 peg¹⁶⁴ to secure their rope-ladder, call to him in a tone indicative of great suffering. Dantès hastened to his dungeon, where he found him standing¹⁶⁵ in the middle of the room, pale as death, his forehead streaming with perspiration¹⁶⁶, and his hands clinched¹⁶⁷ tightly together.

"Gracious heavens!" exclaimed Dantès, "what is the matter? what has happened?"

"Quick! quick!" returned the abbé, "listen to what I have to say." Dantès looked in fear and wonder at the livid countenance¹⁶⁸ of Faria, whose eyes, already dull and sunken, were surrounded by purple circles, while his lips were white as those of a corpse¹⁶⁹, and his very hair seemed to stand on end.

"Tell me, I beseech¹⁷⁰ you, what ails you?" cried Dantès, letting his chisel fall to the floor.

"Alas," faltered¹⁷¹ out the abbé, "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 malady¹⁷² 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 frustrated¹⁷³ his hopes, Dantès 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 abbé's chamber, when he immediately laid the sufferer on his bed.

"Thanks," said the poor abbé, shivering as though his veins¹⁷⁴ 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 groan¹⁷⁵. On the other hand, the symptoms may be much more violent, and cause me to fall into fearful convulsions, foam¹⁷⁶ 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 Dantès in grief-stricken tones.

"Help! help!" cried the abbé, "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 sockets¹⁷⁷, his mouth was drawn¹⁷⁸ on one side, his cheeks became purple, he struggled, foamed¹⁷⁹, dashed himself about, and uttered the most dreadful cries, which, however, Dantès 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 trampled¹⁸⁰ 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 jaws¹⁸¹, 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 animation¹⁸². Dantès 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 tinged¹⁸³ 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 Dantès in a paroxysm of delight.

The sick man was not yet able to speak, but he pointed with evident anxiety towards the door. Dantès listened, and plainly distinguished¹⁸⁴ 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, darted¹⁸⁵ 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, Dantès, whose restless anxiety concerning his friend left him no desire to touch the food brought him, hurried back to the abbé's chamber, and raising the stone by pressing his head against it, was soon beside the sick man's couch. Faria had now fully²⁵ regained his consciousness, but he still lay helpless and exhausted¹⁸⁶.

"I did not expect to see you again," said he feebly, to Dantès.

"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 suffused¹⁸⁷ the cheeks of Dantès.

"Without you? Did you really think me capable of that?"

"At least," said the abbé, "I now see how wrong such an opinion would have been. Alas, alas! I am fearfully exhausted and debilitated¹⁸⁸ by this attack."

"Be of good cheer," replied Dantès; "your strength will return." And as he spoke he seated himself near the bed beside Faria, and took his hands. The abbé 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 suffusion¹⁸⁹ of blood on the brain. The third attack will either carry me off, or leave me paralyzed for life."

"No, no," cried Dantès; "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 requisite¹⁹⁰ assistance."

"My good Edmond," answered the abbé, "be not deceived. The attack which has just passed away, condemns¹⁹¹ 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 abbé. "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 celebrated¹⁹² Cabanis, and he predicted a similar end for me."

"The physician may be mistaken!" exclaimed Dantès. "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 abbé, "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 Dantès. "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 confirmation¹⁹³ of the sincerity¹⁹⁴ of his devotion and the loyalty¹⁹⁵ of his purpose.

"Thanks," murmured the invalid¹⁹⁶, extending one hand. "I accept. You may one of these days reap the reward of your disinterested¹⁹⁷ 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 inevitably¹⁹⁸ 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."

Dantès took the hand of the abbé in his, and affectionately pressed it. Faria smiled encouragingly on him, and the young man retired¹⁹⁹ to his task, in the spirit of obedience²⁰⁰ and respect which he had sworn to show towards his aged³⁵ friend.

, into which the abbé'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 abbé'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 Dantès had witnessed the completion.

As he entered the chamber of his friend, Dantès 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 abbé; "we have some hours before us--it is now just a quarter past twelve o'clock." Instinctively Dantès turned round to observe by what watch or clock the abbé had been able so accurately to specify the hour.

"Look at this ray of light which enters by my window," said the abbé, "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 Dantès, 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 abbé, "I am anxious to see your treasures."

The abbé 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 Dantès.

"What do you wish to see first?" asked the abbé.

"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 Dantès could easily read it, as well as make out the sense--it being in Italian, a language he, as a Proven?al, 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 Dantès. "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 abbé had before spoken to Dantès; it was pointed, and divided at the nib like an ordinary pen. Dantès 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.

Dantès 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 Dantès, "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 abbé 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." Dantès 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 abbé 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. Dantès 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 abbé, as, opening his ragged vestments, he showed Dantès 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 Dantès was, in fact, busily occupied by the idea that a person so intelligent, ingenious, and clear-sighted as the abbé 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 abbé 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 Dantès, "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 Dantès. "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 abbé 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 Mercédès."

"Come," said the abbé, closing his hiding-place, and pushing the bed back to its original situation, "let me hear your story."

Dantès 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 Mercédès, 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 Dantès--he knew nothing more, not even the length of time he had been imprisoned. His recital finished, the abbé 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 abbé; "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."

Dantès 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 Dantès, 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 abbé 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 abbé smiled. "Disguised."

"It was very boldly written, if disguised."

"Stop a bit," said the abbé, 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. Dantès drew back, and gazed on the abbé 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 Mercédès?"

"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 Dantès, "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 Père 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 Dantès, 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 abbé with a laugh.

"Yes, yes," replied Dantès 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 abbé. "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 abbé. "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 Dantès, "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-Héron, 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 abbé; "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 abbé burst into a fit of laughter, while Dantès 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 Dantès, 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 abbé; "his right name was Noirtier de Villefort." At this instant a bright light shot through the mind of Dantès, 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 abbé'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.

Dantès 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 abbé 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 abbé had come to ask his young companion to share the luxuries with him. Dantès 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 Dantès.

"Because it has instilled a new passion in your heart--that of vengeance."

Dantès smiled. "Let us talk of something else," said he.

Again the abbé looked at him, then mournfully shook his head; but in accordance with Dantès' 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. Dantès 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 abbé'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 Dantès, "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 abbé 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 Dantès; "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 Dantès, "What shall you teach me first? I am in a hurry to begin. I want to learn."

"Everything," said the abbé. And that very evening the prisoners sketched a plan of education, to be entered upon the following day. Dantès 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 abbé, Dantès 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 Dantès was a new man. Dantès 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 Dantès, 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 abbé, "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 abbé.

"And you have discovered a means of regaining our freedom, have you not?" asked Dantès 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 abbé; "impossible!" Dantès endeavored to renew the subject; the abbé shook his head in token of disapproval, and refused to make any further response. Three months passed away.

"Are you strong?" the abbé asked one day of Dantès. 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 abbé, "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 Dantès.

"Do you consider the last twelve months to have been wasted?" asked the abbé.

"Forgive me!" cried Edmond, blushing deeply.

"Tut, tut!" answered the abbé, "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 abbé then showed Dantès the sketch he had made for their escape. It consisted of a plan of his own cell and that of Dantès, 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 Dantès 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 abbé's ladder of cords. Dantès' 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 Dantès' 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 Dantès 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 abbé 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 Dantès, 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. Dantès 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. Dantès 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 Dantès, "what is the matter? what has happened?"

"Quick! quick!" returned the abbé, "listen to what I have to say." Dantès 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 Dantès, letting his chisel fall to the floor.

"Alas," faltered out the abbé, "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, Dantès 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 abbé's chamber, when he immediately laid the sufferer on his bed.

"Thanks," said the poor abbé, 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 Dantès in grief-stricken tones.

"Help! help!" cried the abbé, "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, Dantès 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. Dantès 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 Dantès in a paroxysm of delight.

The sick man was not yet able to speak, but he pointed with evident anxiety towards the door. Dantès 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, Dantès, whose restless anxiety concerning his friend left him no desire to touch the food brought him, hurried back to the abbé'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 Dantès.

"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 Dantès.

"Without you? Did you really think me capable of that?"

"At least," said the abbé, "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 Dantès; "your strength will return." And as he spoke he seated himself near the bed beside Faria, and took his hands. The abbé 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 Dantès; "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 abbé, "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 abbé. "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 Dantès. "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 abbé, "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 Dantès. "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."

Dantès took the hand of the abbé 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.

那条通道虽容不下这两个人直着身子走路，但勉强还算宽敞，他们不久就到了通道的那一头，一出去便是神甫的牢房了。这儿，洞穴就渐渐地狭小起来，只有双手双膝都贴在地上才能爬过去。神甫房间的地面是用石块铺成的，法里亚在最隐的一个角落掘起一块石头以后才能开始艰巨的工作，这项工作，唐太斯已目证其完成了。唐太斯一进到他朋友的房间里，就用一种急切和搜索的目光环顾四周，想寻找意料中的奇迹，但目光所及之处，只是些平平常常的东西。

“很好，”神甫说，“现在是刚过十二点一刻，我们还有几个钟头可以利用。”唐太斯本能地转身去看究竟哪儿有钟表，以致神甫能这样准确地报出时间。

“你看到从我的窗口进来的这缕阳光了吧。”神甫说，“我就是根据它观察划在墙上的这些线条来推测时间的。这些线条是根据地球的自转和它绕着太阳公转的道理划成的，只要向它一看，我就可以断定是什么时间，比表还准确，因为表是会坏的，而且有时走快了，有时走慢了，但太阳和地球都决不会出乱子。”

唐太斯一点儿也听不懂他的这番解释，他以前只看到太阳在山背后升起，又落入地中海，所以在他的想象中，始终以为动的是太阳，而不是地球。要说他所在的这个地球竟会自转和绕太阳公转，在他看来，那几乎是不可能的，因为他一点都感觉不到有什么转动。可是，尽管无法理解他的同伴所说的话，但从他的嘴里说出的每一个字，似乎都充满了科学的神秘，就象早年他在航行中，从古齐拉到戈尔康达［印度的两个地方。前者产黄金，后者产金刚石。］所见到的那些宝物一样闪闪发光，很值得好好地琢磨和体味。

“来，”他对神甫说，“把你对我讲的那些奇妙的发明给我看看，我简直等不及啦。”

神甫微笑了一下，走到废弃的壁炉前面，用凿子撬起一块长石头，这块长石头无疑是炉床，下面有一个相当深的洞，这是一个安全的贮藏室，里面藏着向唐太斯提到过的所有东西。

“你想先看什么？”神甫问。

“把你那篇《论意大利王国》的巨著给我看看吧。”

法里亚从他那藏东西的地方抽出了三四卷一叠一叠，象木乃伊棺材里所找到的草纸那样的布片。这几卷布片都是四寸宽，十八寸长，都仔细地编着号，上面密密麻麻的写满了字，字写得很清楚，唐太斯读起来一点也不费力，意思也不难懂，是用意大利文写成的，由于唐太斯是普罗旺斯省人，所以他完全懂得这种文字。

“你看！”他说，“这篇文章已经写完了，我大概在一星期前才在第六十八页的末尾写上了‘完’这个字。我撕碎了两件衬衣和我所有的手帕。假如我一旦出狱，能找到一个出版商敢把我所写的文章印出来，我就成名了。”

“那是肯定的，”唐太斯答道。“现在让我看一下你写文章的笔吧”。

“瞧！”法里亚一边说，一边拿出了一支长约六寸左右的细杆子给那青年看，那细杆的样子极象一画笔的笔杆，末端用线绑着一片神甫对唐太斯说过的那种软骨，它的头很尖，也象普通的笔那样笔尖上分成了两半。唐太斯仔细地看了一番，然后又四下里瞧了瞧，想寻找那件把它削得这样整齐的工具。

“对了，”法里亚说，“你是在奇怪我从哪儿弄来的削笔刀是不是？这是我的杰作，也是我自制的，这把刀是用旧的铁蜡烛台做的，”那削笔刀锋利得象一把剃刀，它有两种用处，可以当匕首用，也可以当小刀用。

唐太斯仔细地观看着神甫拿出来的每一样东西，其全神贯注的神态，犹如他在欣赏船长从南半球海域带回来陈列在马赛商店里的南海野人所用的那些稀奇古怪的工具一样。

“墨水嘛，”法里亚说，“我已经告诉过你是怎么做的了。我是在需要的时候现做现用的。”

“有一件事我还不明白，”唐太斯说，“就是这么多工作你单凭白天怎么做得完呢？”

“我晚上也工作。”法里亚答道。

 

 

“晚上！难道你有着猫一样眼睛，在黑暗中也能看得见？”

“不是的，但上帝赐人以智慧，借此弥补感官的不足。我给自己弄到了光。”

“是吗？请告诉我是怎么回事”

在他所给我送来的肉中，我把肥肉割下来，把它熬一熬，就炼成了一种最上等的油，你看我这盏灯，”说着，神甫拿出一只容器，样子极象公共场所照明用的油灯。

“但你怎么引火呢？”

“喏，这儿有两片火石，还有一团烧焦的棉布。”

“火柴呢？”

“那不难弄到。我假装患了皮肤病，向他们要一点硫磺，那是随要随有的。”

唐太斯把他所看过的东西轻轻地放到了桌子上，垂下了头，完全被这个人的坚忍和毅力所折服了。

“你还没看完全部的东西呢，”法里亚继续说“因为我认为把我的全部宝物都放在一个贮藏处未免有点太不聪明了。我们先来把这个洞盖上吧。”

唐太斯帮助他把那块石头放回了原处，神甫洒了一点尘土在上面，以掩盖那移动的痕迹，又用脚把它擦了几下，使它确实与其他的部分一样，然后，他走到床边，把床移开。床头后面又有一个洞。这个洞是用一块石头非常严密地盖着的，所以绝不会引起人的怀疑。洞里面有一根绳梯，长约二十五尺到三十尺之间。邓蒂斯仔细看了看，发觉它非常结实坚固。

“你做出这个奇迹所需用的绳子是谁给你的？”

“没有谁给我，还是我自己做的。我撕破了几件衬衣，又拆散了我的床单，这都是我被关在费尼斯德里堡的三年期间做的。当我被转到伊夫堡来的时候，我就设法把那些拆散了的纱线带了来，所以我就在这儿完成了我的工作。”

“难道没有被人发觉你的床单没有缝边吗？”

“噢，不！因为当我把需要的线抽出来以后，我又把边缝了起来。”

“用什么东西缝呢？”

“用这枚针，”神甫说着就掀开他那破衣烂衫，拔出了一根又长又尖的鱼骨给邓蒂斯看，鱼骨上有一个小小的针眼以备穿线之用，那上面还留有一小段线在那儿。“我一度曾想拆掉这些铁栅，”法利亚继续说，“从这个窗口里钻出去，你看，这个窗口比你那个多少要宽一点，虽然为了更易于逃走，应该把它挖得大一些。但我发现，我只能从这里落到一个象内院那样的地方，所以我就打消了这个念头，因为所冒的危险太大了。但尽管如此，我依然很小心地保存了我的绳梯，以备万一意想不到的机会来临时可以派上用场，我已经对你讲过了，机会是常常会突然降临的。”

唐太斯一面出神地注视着绳梯，一面在脑子里转着另一个念头。他想：象神甫这样聪明，灵巧和深思熟虑的人，或许能够替他解开那个迷，找出他遭祸的原因，尽管他自己曾努力去分析过，但始终找不到原因。

“你在想什么？”神甫看到年轻人露出那种出神的表情，就含笑问他原因。

“我在想，”唐太斯答道，“首先，你所取得的这一切都是你经过很多努力并凭借你的才能得以实现的。将来一旦你自由了，还有什么事办不成呢？”

“或许会一事无成。我的精力过剩也许会泛滥成灾。要想开发人类的神秘智慧，必需要经过挫折或遭遇不幸，要想火药引爆就需要有压力。是囚禁的生活把我所分散的浮动的能力都集中到了一个焦点上。在一个狭隘的空间里，它们就有了密切的接触，而你知道，云相互挫击而生成电，由电生成火花，由火花生成了光。”

“不，我一无所知，”唐太斯说，他因自己的无知而感到遗憾，“你所说的话在我听来是如天书。你如此博学，一定很快乐吧。”

神甫微笑了一下。说道，“你刚才不是说在想两件事吗？”

“是的。”

“两件事中你只告诉了我一件，让我再来听听另一件吧。”

“是这么回事：你已经把你的身世都讲给我听了，但你还不知道我的吧。”

“我的年青朋友，你的生命太短了，会经历什么重要的大事的。”

“它却遇到了一场极大的灾难，”唐太斯说，“我根本不该遇上这场灾难，我很想找出究竟是谁给我造成的痛苦，以使我不再去咒骂上帝。”

“那么，你肯定那对你的指控是冤枉了你吗？”

“绝对的无中生有，我可以向世界上我最亲爱的两个人来发誓，即我的父亲和美茜蒂丝。”

“请谈吧，”神甫说，他堵上了他藏东西的洞口，又把床推回到了原处，“让我来听听你的故事。”

于是唐太斯开始讲他自己的身世了，实际上只包含了一次到印度和几次到勒旺的航行，接着就讲到了他最后这次航行；讲到了莱克勒船长是如何死的；如何从他那儿接过一包东西并交给了大元帅；又如何谒见了那位大人物，交了那包东西，并转交了一封致诺瓦蒂埃先生的信；然后又如何到达了马赛，见到了父亲；他还讲了自己是如何与美塞苔丝相爱，如何举行他们的婚宴；如何被捕，受审和暂时押在法院的监牢里；最后，又如何被关到伊夫堡来。在未遇到神甫的那一阶段中，一切对唐太斯来说都是一片空白，他什么都不知道，连他入狱有多长时间了也不清楚。他讲完以后，神甫沉思了良久。

“有一句格言说得很妙，”他想完了以后说道，“这句格言和我刚刚不久前讲过的话是相互联系的，即，虽然乱世易作恶，但人类的天性是不愿犯罪的。可是，文明使我们产生了欲望，恶习和不良的嗜好，这种种因素有时会扼杀我们善良的本性，最终引导我们走上犯罪之路。所以那句格言是：不论何种坏事，欲抓那作恶之人。先得去找出能从那件坏事中得利之人。你不在了能对谁有利呢？”

“我的天！谁都没什么好处。我不过是一个无足轻重的人。”

“别这么说，因为你的回答是既不合逻辑又缺乏哲理。我的好朋友，世上万事万物，从国王和他的继承人到小官和他的接替者，都是相互有关连的。假如国王死了，他的继承人就可继承王位。假如小官死了，那接替他的人就可以接替他的位置，并拿到他每年一千二百里弗的薪水。这一千二百里弗作为他的官俸，在他看来，这笔钱就如同国王拥有一千二百万里弗一样的重要。每一个人，从最高阶级到最低阶级，在社会的各个阶层都有他的位置，在他的周围，聚集着一个利害相关的小世界，是由许多乱跳乱蹦的原子组成的，就象笛卡儿的世界一样。但这些小世界会随着本人地位的提高，越张越大，就象一个倒金字塔，其低部是尖的，全凭运动的平衡力来支撑它。我们来看一下你的小世界吧。你自己说你当时快要升任法老号的船长了，是不是？”

“是的。”

“而且快要成为一位既年轻又美貌可爱的姑娘的丈夫了？”

“不错。”

“假如这两件事不能成功，谁可以从中得到女人呢？谁不愿意你当法老号的船长呢？”

“没有，船员们都很喜欢我，要是他们有权可以自己选举船长的话，我相信他们一定会选我的。只有一个人对我有点恶感。我以前曾和他吵过一次架，甚至向他挑战过，要他和我决斗，但他拒绝了。”

“现在有点头绪了。这个人叫什么名字？”

“腾格拉尔。”

“他在船上是什么职务？”

“押运员。”

“假如你当了船长，你会不会留他继续任职？”

“如我有决定权的话，我不会留任他的，因为我常常发现他的帐目不清。”

“好极了！那么现在告诉我，当你和莱克勒船长作最后那次谈话的时候，有别人在场吗？”

“没有，只有我们两个人。”

“你们的谈话会不会被别人偷听到了呢？”

“那是可能的，因为舱门是开着的，而且ｋｋ等一下，现在我想起来当莱克勒船长把那包给大元帅的东西托付给我的时候，腾格拉尔正巧经过那里。”

“那就对了，”神甫喊道，“我们说到正题上。你在厄尔巴岛停泊的时候，有没有带谁一同上岸？”

“没有。”

“那儿有人给了你一封信？”

“是的，是大元帅给的。”

“你把那封信放在哪儿了？”

“我把它夹在我的笔记本里。”

“那么，你是带着笔记本去的罗？但是，一本大得能够夹得下公事信的笔记本，怎么能装进一个水手的口袋里呢？”

“你说得不错，我把笔记本留在船上了。”

“那么，你是在回到船上以后才把那封信夹进笔记本里的？”

“是的。”

“你从费拉约回到船上以前，这封信你放在哪儿了？”

“我一直把它拿在手里。”

“那么当你回到法老号上的时候，谁都可以看到你手里拿着一封信了？”

“他们当然看得见。”

“腾格拉尔也象其它的人一样看得见吗？”

“是的，他也象其它的人一样看得见。”

“现在，且听我说，你仔细想一下被捕时的各种情景。你还记得那封告发信上的内容吗？”

“噢，记得！我把它读了三遍，那些字都深深地刻在了我的脑子里。”

“请背给我听吧。”唐太斯沉思地想了一会儿，象是在集中他的思想似的，然后说道：“是这样的，我把它一个字一个字的背给你听：‘敝人系拥护王室及教会之人士，兹向您报告，有爱德蒙·唐太斯其人，系法老号之大副，今晨自士麦拿经那不勒斯抵埠，中途曾停靠费拉约港。此人受缪拉之命送信与逆贼，并受逆贼命送信与巴黎拿破仑党委员会。犯罪证据在将其逮捕时即可获得，该信件不是在其身上，就是在其父家中，或者在法老号上他的船舱。”

神甫耸耸肩。“这件事现在一清二楚了，”他说道，“你一定是天性极不会怀疑人，而且心地太善良了，以致不能猜出这是怎么回事。”

“你真以为是这样吗？唐太斯禁不住说道，啊！那真太卑鄙了。”

“腾格拉尔平常的笔迹是怎么样的？”

“一手很漂亮流利的字。”

“那封匿名信的笔迹是怎么样的？”

“稍微有点向后倒。”

神甫又微笑了一下。“哦，伪装过的是吗？”

“我不知道！但即使是伪装过的，也写得极其流利。”

“等一下。”神甫说。他拿起他那自己称之为的笔，在墨水里蘸了蘸，然后用他的左手在一小片布片上写下了那封告密信开头的三个字。唐太斯退后了几步，不胜惊恐地看着神甫。

“啊！真是不可思议！”他惊叫道。“你的笔迹和那封告密信上的简直一模一样呀！”

“这就是说那封告密信是用左手写的，我注意到了这一点。”

“什么？”

“就是用右手写出来的笔迹人人不同，而那些用左手写的却都是大同小异的。”

“你显然是无事不知，无事不晓的了。”

“接着往下说吧。”

“噢，好的，好的！”

“现在要提到第二个问题了。有谁不愿意看到你和美塞苔丝的结婚呢？”

“有一个人，是一个也爱着她的年青人。”

“他叫什么名字？”

“弗尔南多。”

“那是一个西班牙人的名字呀。”

“他是迦太罗尼亚人。”

“你认为他会写那封信吗？”

“噢，不！假如他想除掉我，他会宁愿捅我一刀的。”

“西班牙人的性格倒也确实如此，他们宁可当杀人犯，也不当懦夫。”

“再说，”唐太斯说，“信中所涉及到的各种情节他也是完全不知道的。”

“你自己绝没有向任何人讲过吗？”

“没有。”

“甚至没有对你的情妇说过吗？”

“没有，甚至连我的未婚妻都没有告诉过。”

“那么就是腾格拉尔写的了，毫无疑问。”

“我现在也觉得一定是他了。”

“等一下。腾格拉尔认识弗尔南多吗？”

“不。是，他认识的。现在我想起来了。”

“想起来什么？”

“在我订婚的前一天，我看到他们两个人一同坐在邦费勒老爹的凉棚里。他们态度很亲热。腾格拉尔在善意地开着玩笑，但弗尔南多却脸色苍白，看上去很恼怒。”

“就他们两个人吗？”

“还有另外一个人和他们在一起，那个人我很熟悉，而且多半还是他介绍他们俩认识的，他叫卡德鲁斯，是个裁缝，不过当时他已喝醉了。等一下，等一下，真怪，我以前怎么就没想到呢！在他们中间的桌子上，有笔，墨水和纸。噢，这些没心肝的坏蛋！”唐太斯用手敲着自己的脑袋喊道。

“你还想知道什么别的事吗？神甫微笑着问。”

“想，想，”唐太斯急切地回答说，“既然你一眼就能完全把事情看透，对你来说，凡事你都心明眼亮，我求你给我解释一下，为什么我只被审讯过一次，为什么我没有上法庭，而最重要的为什么我没经过正规的手续就被判了罪？”

“这事可就完全不同了，而且要严重得多了，”神甫答道。

“司法界的内幕常常是太黑暗，太神秘，难以捉摸的。到目前为止，我们对你那两个朋友的分析还算是容易的。假如你要我来分析这件事，你就必须再给我提供更详细的情况。”

“这我当然是很乐意的。请开始吧，我亲爱的神甫，随便你问我什么问题好了，因为说老实话，你对于我的生活看得比我自己还要清楚。”

“那么首先，是谁审问你的，是检察官，代理检察官，还是推事？”

“是代理检查官。”

“他是年轻人还是老年人？”

“大约有二十七八岁左右。”

“好！”神甫回答道，“虽然还没有腐化，但已有野心了。他对你的态度如何？”

“宽容多于严厉。”

“你把你的事全都告诉他了吗？”

“是的。”

“在审问的过程中，他的态度有什么变化吗？”

“有的，当他阅读那封陷害我的信的时候，显得很激动。他似乎难以忍受我所遭遇的不幸。”

“你的不幸遭遇。”

“是的。”

“那么你肯定他很同情你的不幸了？”

“至少有一点可以证明他对我的同情。”

“是什么？”

“他把那封能陷害我的唯一的信烧毁了。”

“你是指那封告密信吗？”

“噢，不！是那封要我转交的信。”

“你肯定他把它烧了吗？”

“他是当着我的面烧的。”

“啊，真的！那就不同了。那个人可能是一个你想象不到的最阴险、毒辣的家伙。”

“说真话，”唐太斯说，“你使我太寒心了。难道世界上真的遍地是老虎和鳄鱼吗？”

“是的，但两只脚的老虎和鳄鱼比四只脚的更危险。”

“请继续说下去吧。”

“好！你告诉我他是当着你的面烧掉那封信的吗？”

“是的，当时他还说，‘你看，我把唯一可以攻击你的证据毁掉啦’”“这样做太过份了。”

“你这样以为吗？”

“我可以肯定。这封信是给谁的？”

“给诺瓦蒂埃先生的，地址是巴黎高海隆路十三号。”

“你能想象得出代理检察官烧毁了那封信以后对他有什么好处吗？”

“很可能对他有好处的，因为他嘱咐了我好几次，叫我千万不要把那封信的事讲给别人听，还再三对我说，他这样忠告我，完全是为了我好，不仅如此，他还硬要我郑重发誓，决不吐露信封上所写的那个人名。”

“诺瓦蒂埃！”神甫把那个名字反复念道，“诺瓦蒂埃，我知道在伊特罗丽亚女王那个时代有一个人叫这个名字大革命时期也有一个梯埃，他是个吉伦特党人！代理检查官姓什么？”

“维尔福！”

神甫爆发出一阵大笑，唐太斯惊异万分地望着他。

“你怎么了？”他问道。

“你看到这一缕阳光吗？”神甫问道。

“看到了。”

“好！这件事的全部来龙去脉，我现在看得清清楚楚，甚至比你看见的这缕阳光还清楚。可怜的孩子！可怜的小伙子呵！

你还告诉我这位法官对你深表同情，大发恻隐之心？”

“是呀。”

“那位可敬的代理官还烧毁了你那封信？”

“是呀。”

“那位道貌岸然的刽子手还要你发誓决不吐露诺瓦蒂埃这个名字？”

“是呀。”

“你这个可怜的傻瓜，你知不知道这个诺瓦蒂埃是谁？”

“我不知道！”

“这个诺瓦蒂埃就是他的父亲呀！”

这时，即使一个霹雳在唐太斯的脚下响起，或地狱在他的面前张开它那无底的大口，也不会比听到这完全出乎意料的几个字使他吓得呆若木鸡的了。这几个字揭发了只有鬼才做得出的不义行为，而他就因此被葬送在一个监狱的黑地牢里，慢慢地熬着他的日子，简直如同把他埋入了一个坟墓。而他此时才惊醒过来，用双手紧紧地抱住头，象是要防止他的脑袋爆裂开似的，同时用一种窒息的，几乎听不清楚的声音喊道：“他的父亲，他的父亲。”

“他的亲生父亲，”神甫答道，“他的名字就叫诺瓦蒂埃·维尔福。”

刹那间，一缕明亮的光射进了唐太斯的脑子里，照亮了以前模糊的一切。维尔福在审问时态度的改变，那封信的销毁，硬要他作的许诺，法官那种几乎象是恳求的口吻，他那简直不象是宣布罪状倒象是恳求宽恕的语气，一切都回到他的记忆里来了。唐太斯的嘴里发出了一声来自心灵深处的痛苦的喊声，他踉踉跄跄地靠到墙上，几乎象个醉汉一样。然后，当那一阵激烈的感情过去以后，他急忙走到从神甫的地牢通到他自己地牢的洞口，说：“噢，我要一个人呆着把这一切再想一想。”

他回到自己的牢房以后，就倒在了床上。晚上，狱卒来的时候，发现他两眼发直，板着脸孔，象一尊石像似的，一动不动地坐在那儿。这几小时的默想，在唐太斯看来似乎只是几分钟，在这期间，他下了一个可怕的决心，并立下了令人生畏的誓言。一个声音把他从恍惚迷离的状态中唤醒，是法利亚神甫。法利亚在狱卒查看过以后过来邀请他共进晚餐了。由于他是一个疯子，尤其是一个很有趣的疯子，所以他享受着某些特权。他可以得到一点儿白面色。甚至每星期日还可以享受少量的酒。这一天碰巧是星期日，神甫特地来邀请他的年轻伙伴去分享他的面包和酒。唐太斯跟着他去了。他脸上那种紧张的表情已经消失了，现在已恢复了常态，但仍带着一种刚强坚毅的神色，可以看得出，他的决心不可动遥法利亚用他尖锐的目光盯住他。

“我现在很后悔刚才帮助你寻根问底，给你查明了那些事情。”

“为什么？”唐太斯问道。

“因为这在你的心里又注入了一种新的情感，那就是复仇。”

年轻人的脸上闪过一个痛苦的微笑。“我们来谈些别的事吧。”他说。

神甫又望了望他，然后悲哀地摇了摇头，但为了顺从唐太斯的请求，他开始谈起其他的事来。这个老犯人同那些饱经沧桑的人一样，他的谈话里包含着许多重要的启示和有价值的知识，但却毫不自夸自负，这个不幸的人从不提及他伤心事。

唐太斯钦佩地倾听着他所说的一切。他所说的有些话和他已经知道的事相符的，和他从航海生活中所得来的知识相一致的；当然，有些是他所不知道的事情，但就象那黎明时的北风给在赤道附近航行的航海者以指示一样，这些话给他这孜孜求教的听者打开了新的眼界，犹如流星一般一瞬间照亮了新天地。他明白了，一个假如能在道德上，哲学上，或社会上追随这种高尚的精神，他将会感到多么的快乐。

“你一定要把你所知道的教给我一点，”唐太斯说，“哪怕只是为了跟我在一起时解解闷也好。我似乎觉得象你这样一位有学问的人，是宁愿独处也不愿同我这样一个无知无训的人作伴的。只要你能答应我的要求，我保证决不再提逃走这两个字了。”

神甫微笑了一下。“唉，我的孩子！”他说，“人类的知识是很有限的。当我教会了你数学，物理，和三四种我知道的现代语言以后，你的学问就会和我的相等了。我所知道的基本知识传授给你。”

“两年！”唐太斯惊叫起来，“你真的认为我能在这样短的时间内，学会这一切吗？”

“当然不是指它们的应用，但它们的原理你是可以学到的，学习并不等于认识。有学问的人和能认识的人是不同的。

记忆造就了前者，哲学造就了后者。”

“但是人难道不能学哲学吗？”

“哲学是学不到的，这是科学的综合，是能善用科学的天才所求得的。哲学，它是基督踏在脚下升上天去的五色彩云。”

“好吧那么，”唐太斯说，“你先教我什么？我真想快点开始，我太渴望知识了。”

“好吧！”神甫说道。

当天晚上，两个犯人就拟定了一个学习计划，决定从第二天就开始。唐太斯有着惊人的记忆力和极强的理解力，一学就会。他很有数学头脑，能适应各种各样的计算方法，而他的想象力又能使枯燥的数学公式和严密呆板的线条变得有趣起来。他原先就懂得意大利语，希腊语是他在到地中海东部航行时零零碎碎的学会了一点，凭借这两种语言的帮助，了解其他各种语言的结构就容易多了。所以六个月以后，他已经能讲西班牙语，英语和德语了。唐太斯严格遵守着他对神甫许下的诺言，从不提及逃走的事。或许是他的学习兴趣代替了渴望自由的要求，或许是由于他牢记自己的诺言，（关于这一点，我们已经知道，他是十分注意的）总之，他再也不提逃走的事。时间在学习中飞速地流逝，一年之后，唐太斯已变成了另一个人。

至于法利亚神甫，尽管有他作伴，唐太斯却注意到他愈来愈忧郁了。有一个想法似乎不断地在困扰着他的思想。有时，他会长时间的陷入沉思，不由自主地，深深地叹息，然后，突然站起身来，交叉着两臂开始在牢房里踱来踱去。有一天，他突然在这种习惯性的散步中停下来，感叹道：“唉，如果没有哨兵该多好啊！”

“只要你愿意，立刻就可以一个都没有。”唐太斯说，他本来就在探究他的思想，像透过水晶球一般一下就看透了他脑子里的想法。

“啊！我已经说过了，”神甫说道，“我是厌恶谋杀。”

“但，即使犯下了谋杀罪，也是我们的生存和自立的本能所引起的呀。”

“无论如可，我决不赞成。”

“但你老想着这事，对吗？”

“愈来愈想得厉害啦，唉！”神甫说道。

“你已经想出了可以使我们获得自由的办法了，对吗？”唐太斯急切地问。

“是的，假如他们碰巧派了一个又聋又瞎的哨兵守在我们外面这条走廊就好了。”

“他又瞎又聋的！”年轻人用一种极坚定的口气说道，神甫不禁打了一个寒颤。

“不，不！”神甫说道，“这是不可能的！”唐太斯竭力想把话题拉回来，但神甫摇了摇头，拒绝再谈这方面的事了。

又过去了三个月。

“你觉得自己力气大吗？”神甫问唐太斯。年轻人的回答是拿起了那凿子，把它弯成了一个马蹄形，然后又轻易地把它扳直了。

“你能答应我不到万不得以不伤害那个哨兵吗？”

“我以人格担保。”

“那么，”神甫说，“我们或许可以实现我们的计划。”

“我们要多久才能完成那必须的工作？”

“至少一年。”

“我们立刻就开始吗？”

“马上就开始。”

“我们已白白地耗费了一年的时间！”唐太斯说道。

“你认为那过去的十二个月是浪费了吗？”神甫用一种温和的责备的口吻问道。

“啊！对不起！”爱德蒙涨红了脸说道。

“算了，算了！”神甫说道，“人终究是人，你大概还可算是我生平所见的人之中最优秀的呢。来，我来把我的计划给你看看。”说着神甫拿出了一张他所画的设计图给唐太斯看。这张图上画有唐太斯的和他自己的地牢，中间以那条地道连接着。

在这条地道里，他提议再挖一条地道，就如同矿工使用的巷道可使他俩通到哨兵站岗的那条走廊的下面。一旦通到了那儿，就掘开一个大洞，同时要把走廊上所铺的大石头挖松一块，以便在需要的时候，哨兵的脚一踏上去就会塌陷下来，而那个哨兵也就会一下子跌到洞底下，那样他俩就把他捆上，并堵住他的嘴，他经此一跌，一定会吓呆了的，所以决不会有力量作任何反抗的。于是他们便就从走廊的窗口里逃出去用神甫的绳梯爬出外墙。唐太斯一听完这个简单并显然有把握成功的计划，眼睛里就射出喜悦的光彩，高兴得连连拍手。

当天这两名挖掘工就一起干了起来，由于长期间休息已使他们从疲劳中恢复了过来，而且他们这种希望多半命中注定了会实现的，所以工作干得非常起劲。除了在规定的时间里必须回到他们各自的牢房里去等待狱卒的查看以外，再没有别的事来打扰他们的工作了。狱卒从楼梯上下到他们牢房里来的时候，脚步声原是极轻的，但他们已学会了辨别这种几乎觉察不到的声音，狱卒一直没有发觉。他们在做这件事他们这次所挖出的新土本来可把那条旧地道完全塞没的，但他们以极其小心的态度，一点一点的从法利亚或唐太斯牢房的窗口抛了出去至于那些挖出来的杂物，他们就把它碾成粉末，让夜风把它吹到远处，不留下任何的痕迹。

一年多的时间就在这项工程里消磨过去了，他们所有的工具仅是一只凿子，一把小刀和一条木棒。法利亚边干活边给唐太斯上课，时而说这种语言，时而说那种语言；有时向他讲述各国历史，和那些身后留下了所谓的“光荣”的灿烂的足迹的一代又一代伟人的传记。神甫是一个饱经沧桑的人，曾多少混入过当时的上流社会。他的外表抑郁而严肃，这一点，天性善于模仿的唐太斯很快学了过来，同时还吸收了他那种高雅温文的风度，这种风度正是他以前所欠缺的，除非能有机会经常和那些出身高贵、有教养的人来往，否则是很难获得的。

十五个月之后，地道挖成了，走廊下面的洞穴也完工了，每当哨兵在这两个挖掘者的头上踱来踱去的时候，他们可以清晰地听到那均匀的脚步声。他们在等待一个漆黑无月的夜晚来掩护他们的逃亡。他们现在最害怕的是深恐那块石头，就是那哨兵命中注定该从那儿跌下来的那块石头，会在时机未成熟以前掉下来。为了防止这一点，他们不得不又采取了一种措施，用支柱撑在它的下面，这条支柱是他们在掘地道时在墙基中发现的。这一天，唐太斯正在撑起这根木头，法利亚则在爱德蒙的牢房里削一个预备挂绳梯用的搭扣。突然间，唐太斯听到法利亚在用一种痛苦的声音呼唤他，他急忙回到自己的牢房里，发现后者正站在房间中央，脸色苍白，额头上冒着冷汗，两手紧紧地握在一起。

“哦！天哪！”唐太斯惊叫道，“出了什么事？你怎么啦？”

“快！快！”神甫说道，“听我说！”

唐太斯惊恐地望着面无人色的法利亚，法利亚眼睛的四周现出了一圈青黑色，嘴唇发白，头发竖起，他惊呆了，握在手里的凿子一下子落到了地上。“什什么事？”他惊叫道。

“我完啦！”神甫说。“我得了一种可怕的病，或许会死的，我觉得马上就要发作了。我在入狱的前一年也这样发作过一次。对付这种病只有一种药，我告诉你是什么东西。赶快到我的牢房里，拆下一只床脚。你可以看到床脚上有一个洞，洞里面藏着一只小瓶子，里面有半瓶红色的液体。把它拿来给我，或者，不，不！我在这儿也许会被人发觉的，趁我现在还有一点力气，扶我回我的房间里去吧。谁知道我发病的时候会发生什么事呢？”

这飞来的横祸对唐太斯那一腔热血是个极沉重的打击，但唐太斯并没因此被打蒙了头。他拉着他那不幸的同伴艰难地钻过地道，把他半拖半扶的弄回到了自己的房间，立刻把他放到了床上。

“谢谢！”神甫说道，他好象血管里满是冰那样的四肢直哆嗦。“我得的是癫痫病，当它发作很厉害的时候，我或许会一动不动地躺着，象死了一样，并发出一种既不象叹息又不象呻吟那样的喊声。但是，说不定病症会比这剧烈得多，我也许会出现可怕地痉挛，口吐白沫，而且不由自主地发出最尖厉的叫声。这一点至关重要，因为我的喊声要是被人听到了，他们就会把我转移到别处去那样我们就会永远分离的。当我变得一动不动，冷冰冰，硬磞磞的，象一具死尸那样的时候，你要记住，要及时地，但千万不要过早地，用凿子撬开我的牙齿，把瓶子里的药水滴八滴至十滴到我的喉咙里，也许我还会恢复过来。”

“也许？”唐太斯痛苦地问道。

“救命！救命！”神甫突然喊道，“我我死我”病发作得如此突然和剧烈，以致那不幸的犯人连那句话都没能讲完。他全身开始猛烈地抽搐颤抖起来，他的眼睛向外突出，嘴巴歪斜，两颊变成紫色，他扭动着身子，口吐白沫，翻来复去，并发出极可怕的叫声，唐太斯赶紧用被单蒙住他的头，免得被人听见。这一发作继续了两个钟头，然后他最后抽搐一次，便面无人色昏厥了过去简直比一块朽木更无声无息，比大理石更冷更白，比一根踩在脚下的芦苇更软弱无力。

爱德蒙直等到生命似乎已在他朋友的身体里完全消失了的时候，才拿起凿子，很费劲的撬开那紧闭的牙关，小心翼翼地把那红色液体按预定的滴数滴入那僵硬的喉咙里，然后便焦急地等待着结果。一个钟头过去了，老人毫无复苏的迹象。

唐太斯开始感到害怕了，他担心下药或许下得过迟了，他两手插在自己的头发里，痛苦而绝望地凝视着他朋友那毫无生气的脸。终于那铁青色的脸颊上出现了一丝红晕，知觉又回到了那双迟钝的、张开着的眼睛上，一声轻微的叹息从嘴里发了出来，病人有气无力地挣扎了一下，想动一下他的身体。

“救活了！救活了！”唐太斯禁不住大叫起来。

病人虽还不能说话，但他用手指了指门口，显得非常着急。唐太斯听了一下，辨别出狱卒的脚步声正在渐渐靠近。那时快近七点钟了，爱德蒙在焦急之中竟完全忘记了时间。年轻人急忙奔向洞口，钻了进去然后小心地用石块将洞口遮住，回到了自己的牢房里。他刚把一切弄妥，门就开了，狱卒随随便便地看了一眼，看到犯人象平常一样坐在他的床边上。唐太斯一心挂记着他的朋友，根本不想吃东西。他不等钥匙在锁里转动，也不等狱卒的脚步声在那条长廊上消失，就急忙回到神甫的房间里，用头顶开石头，一下子奔到病人的床边。法利亚现在神志已完全恢复了，但他仍然十分虚弱，四肢无力地躺在床上。

“我想不到还能看见你。”他有气无力地对唐太斯说道。

“怎么这样说呢？”年轻人问道。“难道你以为会去死吗？”

“这倒不是，不过逃走的条件全都具备了，我以为你先逃走了呢。”

唐太斯生气了，脸涨得通红。“你真的把我想象得那么坏，”他大声说，“竟以为我会不顾你而跑掉吧？”

“现在，”神甫说，“现在我知道我看错了。唉，唉！这一次发病可把我折腾得精疲力尽了。”

“振作一点，”唐太斯说道，“你会恢复的。”他一面说，一面在床边上坐下，贴近法里亚，温柔地抚摸着他那冰冷的双手。

神甫摇了摇头。“上一次发作的时候只有半个钟头，发作完以后，我除了觉得很饥饿以外，并没有什么别的感觉，我可以不用人扶就能自己起床。可现在我的右手右脚都不能动了，我的脑袋发涨，这说明我的脑血管在渗血。这种病如果再发作一次，就会使我全身瘫痪或是死的。”

“不，不！”唐太斯大叫道，“你不会死的！你第三次发病的时候，（假如你真的还要发一次的话）你就早已自由啦。我们到那时还会把你救回来的，就象这一次一样，而且只会比这次更容易，因为那时必须的药品和医生我们就都有了。”

“我的爱德蒙，”神甫回答说，“别糊涂了。刚才这次发病已把我判处了无期徒刑啦。不能走路的人是无法逃走的。”

“好吧，我们可以再等一个星期，或等上一个月，假如需要的话，就是等上两个月也无妨。这期间，你的体力就可以恢复了！我们现在所要做的事情，就是确定逃走的时间，只要一旦你感到能够游泳了，我们就选定那个时间来实行我们的计划好了。”

“我永远也游不了了，”法利亚说道。“这只胳膊已经麻木，不是暂时的，而是永久性的了。你来拍一下它，从它落下来的情形就可以判断我说的有没有错。”

年轻人抬起那只胳膊，胳膊沉甸甸地落了下来，看不出有一丝生气。他不由自主地叹了一口气。

“现在你相信了吧，爱德蒙？”神甫问道。“信了吧，我知道我在说些什么。自从我得了这种病第一次发作以来我就不断地想到它。真的，我料到它会再次发作的，因为这是一种家庭遗传玻我的父亲和祖父都是死在这种病上的。这种药已经两次救了我的命，它就是那驰名的‘卡巴尼斯’。这是医生早就给我预备好了的，他预言我也会在这种病上丧命的。”

“医生或许错了呢！”唐太斯说道，“至于你这条瘫痪的胳膊，这难不倒我，你不能游泳也没关系，我可以把你背在我的身上游，我们两个一起逃走。”

“我的孩子，”神甫说道“你是一个水手，一个游泳好手，你一定和我知道得一样清楚的，一个人背着这样重的分量，在海里游不到五十吗就会沉下去的。所以，别再欺骗自己了吧，你的心地虽好，但这种虚妄的希望连你自己也不会相信的。我应该留下来，等待着我的解脱，凡人皆有死，我的死也就是我的解放。至于你，你还年轻，别为了我的缘故而耽搁了快走吧！我把你所许的诺言退给你。”

“好吧，”唐太斯说道。“现在也来听听我的决心吧。”说着他站起来带着庄严的神色，在神甫的头上伸出一只手，慢慢地说，“我以基督的血发誓，只要你活着，我就决不离开你！”

法利亚望着这个年轻人，他是这样的高尚，这样的朴实，又有着这样崇高的精神，从他那忠厚坦诚的脸上，可以充分看出信心，诚恳，挚爱和真诚的情意。

“谢谢，”那病人伸出了那只还能移动的手轻声地说道。

“谢谢你的好意，你既然这样说，我也就接受了。”歇了一会儿，他又说道，“你那无私的诚意，将来有一天，或许会得到报偿的。但既然我无法离开这个地方了，你又不愿马上离开，那就必须把哨兵站岗的走廊底下的那个洞填上，说不定碰巧会踩着那块有洞的地面，因而注意到那空洞的声音，然后去报告狱官来查看的。那样我们的事就会败露的，从而使我们彼此分离。去吧，去做这项工作吧，不幸我不能帮你的忙了。假如必要的话，就连夜工作，明天早晨狱卒没来之前，不必回来。我有一件重要的事情要讲给你听。”

唐太斯拿起神甫的手，亲热地紧握了一下。法利亚给了他一个鼓励的微笑，于是年轻人就去干他的工作去了，他已下定了决心，一定要忠诚地，绝不动摇地去实现他对他那受苦的朋友所作的誓言。

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