They waited there for about ten minutes. Certain that Dantès could not escape, the gendarmes had released their hold on him. They appeared to be waiting for orders, which eventually came.
‘Where is the prisoner?’ asked a voice.
‘Here,’ one of the gendarmes replied.
‘Let him follow me, I’ll conduct him to his cell.’
‘Come on,’ the gendarmes said, shoving Dantès forward.
The prisoner followed his guide, who led him into a room that was nearly underground, its bare, dripping walls seemingly impregnated with a vapour of tears. A species of lamp, on a wooden stool, its wick drowning in fetid oil, lit the shining walls of this appalling abode and showed Dantès his guide, a sort of subordinate jailer, poorly dressed and coarse-featured.
‘Here is your room for tonight,’ he said. ‘It is late and the governor has gone to bed. Tomorrow, when he wakes up and can examine his instructions concerning you, he may move you elsewhere. Meanwhile, here is some bread, you have water in that jar and straw over there in the corner. That is all a prisoner can want. Good night to you.’
Before Dantès could open his mouth to reply, let alone see where the jailer was putting the bread or the place where the jar stood, and look over to the corner where the straw was waiting to make him a bed, the jailer had taken the lamp and, shutting the door, denied the prisoner even the dim light that had shown him, as though in a flash of lightning, the streaming walls of his prison. So he found himself alone in the silence and darkness, as black and noiseless as the icy cold of the vaults which he could feel pressing down on his feverish brow.
When the first rays of dawn started to bring a little light into this den, the jailer returned with orders to leave the prisoner where he was. Dantès had not moved. An iron hand seemed to have nailed him to the very spot where he had stopped the night before: only his deep-set eyes were now hidden behind the swelling caused by the moisture of his tears. He was motionless, staring at the floor. He had spent the whole night in this way, standing, and not sleeping for an instant.
The jailer came over to him and walked round him, but Dantès appeared not to notice. He tapped him on the shoulder, and Dantès shuddered and shook his head.
‘Haven’t you slept?’ asked the jailer.
‘I don’t know,’ Dantès replied. The jailer looked at him in astonishment.
‘Aren’t you hungry?’
‘I don’t know,’ Dantès replied again.
‘Do you want anything?’
‘I want to see the governor.’
The jailer shrugged his shoulders and went out. Dantès looked after him, stretched his hands out towards the half-open door, but it was closed again. At this his chest seemed to be torn apart by a profound sob. The tears that filled it burst out like two streams, he fell down, pressed his face to the ground and prayed for a long time, mentally going through the whole of his past life and wondering what crime he had committed in so brief a span that could merit such cruel punishment.
So the day was spent. He ate hardly more than a few mouthfuls of bread and drank a few drops of water. At times he remained seated, wrapped in thought; at others, he paced around his prison like a wild animal trapped in an iron cage.
One thought struck him with particular force. It was this: that during the crossing when, not knowing where they were taking him, he had remained so calm and docile, there had been a dozen times when he could have jumped overboard and, once in the water, thanks to an ability that made him one of the most skilful divers in Marseille, have vanished beneath the waves, evaded his captors, reached the shore, fled, hidden in some deserted bay, waited for a Genoese or Catalan ship, gone to Italy or Spain, and from there written to Mercédès to join him. As for a livelihood, he had no misgivings in any country: good sailors are everywhere in short supply. He spoke Italian like a Tuscan and Spanish like a son of Old Castile. He would have lived in freedom, happy, with Mercédès and with his father – because his father would come to join them. Yet here he was, a prisoner, shut up in this impregnable fortress, in the Château d’If, not knowing what had become of his father or what had become of Mercédès, and all because he had trusted Villefort’s word. Dantès thought he would go mad, and he rolled in fury on the fresh straw that his jailer had brought him.
The following day, at the same hour, the jailer came in.
‘Well,’ he asked, ‘are you in a more reasonable frame of mind than yesterday?’
Dantès did not answer.
‘Come now, pull yourself together! Is there anything you need that I can get you? Tell me.’
‘I want to speak to the Governor.’
‘Pah!’ the jailer said impatiently. ‘I’ve already told you that’s impossible.’
‘Why is it impossible?’
‘Because, under the prison regulations, a prisoner is not allowed to make that request.’
‘And what is allowed here?’ Dantès asked.
‘Better food, if you pay; walks; and sometimes books.’
‘I have no need of books, I have no desire to walk and my food suits me well; so there is only one thing I want, which is to see the Governor.’
‘If you get on my nerves by repeating the same thing over and over,’ said the jailer, ‘I shall stop bringing you any food at all.’
‘Well, then,’ said Dantès, ‘if you do not bring me anything to eat, I shall starve.’ The tone of Dantès’ voice as he said this showed the jailer that his prisoner would be happy to die; and, as every prisoner, when all is said and done, represents roughly ten sous a day for his jailer, the man considered the loss that he would suffer from Dantès’ death and continued in milder vein:
‘Listen, what you want is impossible, so don’t ask for it again: it is unheard of for the governor to come into a cell at a prisoner’s request. But behave well and you will be allowed to exercise; and one day, while you are in the exercise yard, the governor may go by. Then you can talk to him. It is his business whether he wishes to reply.’
‘But how long,’ Dantès asked, ‘am I likely to wait before this occurs?’
‘Who knows? A month, three months, six… perhaps a year.’
‘That’s too long,’ said Dantès. ‘I want to see him at once.’
‘Oh! Don’t get obsessed by one single thing that is impossible to obtain, otherwise in a fortnight you’ll be mad.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Quite mad. That is always how madness begins. We have an example right here: it was because he kept on offering a million francs to the Governor if he would set him free, that the abbé2 who occupied this cell before you went off his head.’
‘How long is it since he left this cell?’
‘Two years.’
‘And was he freed?’
‘No, put in a dungeon.’
‘Listen,’ Dantès said, ‘I am not an abbé, nor am I mad. Perhaps I shall become so, but alas for the moment I have all my wits. I want to make another suggestion to you.’
‘What?’
‘I won’t offer you a million because I could not give it to you; but if you want, I shall offer you a hundred écus so that, next time you cross to Marseille, you will go to the Catalans and give a letter to a young woman called Mercédès; not even a letter, just a couple of lines.’
‘If I were to carry two lines and I was caught, I should lose my job, which is worth a thousand livres a year, without food and bonuses. So you can see I would be a fine fool if I were to risk losing a thousand livres to make three hundred.’
‘Well,’ Dantès said, ‘listen to me, and mark what I say: if you refuse to carry two lines to Mercédès, or at least to let her know that I am here, I shall wait for you one day, hiding behind my door, and, as soon as you enter, crack your head open with this stool.’
‘Threats!’ the jailer exclaimed, taking a step back and putting himself on his guard. ‘You really are losing your mind. The abbé started the same way. In three days you will be raving mad, as he is. Luckily the
re are dungeons in the Château d’If.’
Dantès took the stool and swung it around his head.
‘Very well! Very well!’ said the jailer. ‘Since you insist, it will be reported to the governor.’
‘At last!’ Dantès said, putting the stool down on the floor and sitting on it, wild-eyed, hanging his head, as if he had truly become insane.
The jailer left and, a moment later, returned with three soldiers and a corporal.
‘By order of the governor,’ he said, ‘take this prisoner to the floor below.’
‘You mean to the dungeons,’ said the corporal.
‘To the dungeons. The mad must go with the mad.’
The four soldiers seized Dantès, who fell into a sort of catatonia and followed them without trying to resist. He was led down fifteen steps and they opened the door of a dungeon which he entered, muttering: ‘Quite correct: the mad must go with the mad.’
The door closed and Dantès walked straight ahead, his arms outstretched, until he touched the wall. Then he sat down in a corner and remained motionless, while his eyes, gradually becoming accustomed to the gloom, started to make out his surroundings.
The jailer had been right: Dantès was very close to madness.
IX
THE EVENING OF THE BETROTHAL
Villefort, as we mentioned, had set out to return to the Place du Grand-Cours and, on arriving back at the house of Mme de Saint-Méran, discovered that the guests he had left at table were now taking coffee in the drawing-room. Renée was waiting for him with an impatience shared by the rest of the company and he was greeted with general acclaim.
‘How now, head-cutter, pillar of the state, royalist Brutus!’ cried one. ‘Tell us what’s up!’
‘Yes, are we threatened with a new Reign of Terror?’ asked another.
‘Has the Corsican Ogre come forth from his cave?’ asked a third.
‘Madame la Marquise,’ said Villefort, going over to his future mother-in-law, ‘I have come to ask you to excuse me for being obliged to leave you in this way… Marquis, could I beg the favour of a word or two in private?’
‘Oh! So it really is serious?’ the marquise asked, seeing the cloud that had settled on Villefort’s brow.
‘So much so that I have to take leave of you for a few days.’ He turned towards Renée. ‘So you can understand that the matter must be serious indeed.’
‘You’re going away?’ Renée exclaimed, unable to hide her feelings at this unexpected news.
‘Alas, Mademoiselle, I must,’ Villefort replied.
‘And where are you going?’ the marquise asked.
‘That, Madame, must remain a secret under the law. However, if anyone here has some message for Paris, one of my friends is leaving for there tonight and will be delighted to undertake the errand.’
Everybody exchanged glances.
‘You asked for a moment of my time?’ the marquis said.
‘Yes. If you please, let us go to your study.’
The marquis took Villefort’s arm and they went out.
‘Now, tell me what this is about,’ he asked when they reached the study.
‘Something that I believe to be of the utmost importance, which requires my immediate departure for Paris. Marquis, excuse my bluntness and indiscretion, but do you have any government stock?’
‘My whole fortune is in bonds, around six or seven hundred thousand francs.’
‘Then sell them, Marquis, sell them, or you are ruined.’
‘But how can I sell them from here?’
‘You have a broker, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Give me a letter for him, so that he can sell without losing a minute or even a second. Even so, I may be too late.’
‘Damn!’ the marquis exclaimed. ‘Let’s not waste time.’
He sat down at a table and wrote a letter to his broker, instructing him to sell at any price.
‘Now that I have this letter,’ Villefort said, folding it and putting it carefully into his pocket-book, ‘I need another.’
‘For whom?’
‘For the king.’
‘The king?’
‘Yes.’
‘But I dare not take it upon myself to write to His Majesty.’
‘I am not asking you to do so yourself, but to request it of Monsieur de Salvieux. He must give me a letter that will allow me to approach His Majesty without having to go through all the formalities of requesting an audience, which might waste valuable time.’
‘What about the Lord Chancellor, who has free access to the Tuileries? Through him, you could contact the king at any time of the day or night.’
‘No doubt, but why should someone else share the credit for the news that I carry? Do you follow me? The chancellor would naturally relegate me to a subordinate role and deprive me of any benefit I might obtain in the matter. I can tell you only one thing, Marquis: my career is guaranteed if I can arrive first at the Tuileries, because I shall have done the king a service that he will be unable to forget.’
‘In that case, dear boy, go and pack. I shall call de Salvieux and ask him to write a letter that will act as your passport to His Majesty.’
‘Pray lose no time, for I must be in my chaise within a quarter of an hour.’
‘Have the carriage draw up in front of the door.’
‘Of course. Please make my excuses to the marquise. And to Mademoiselle de Saint-Méran – from whom, today of all days, I part with the profoundest regret.’
‘They will both be waiting in the study for you to make your own farewells.’
‘Thank you a hundred times. Look after my letter.’
The marquis rang and a servant appeared.
‘Tell the Comte de Salvieux that I am expecting him… Now, you must go,’ he added, to Villefort.
‘I shall be back immediately.’
Villefort ran out but, on reaching the door, realized that the sight of a deputy crown prosecutor in such a hurry could upset the tranquillity of an entire town, so he slowed to his normal pace, which was quite magisterial.
At his front door he saw a pale, ghost-like figure waiting for him, upright and motionless in the shadows. It was the lovely young Catalan who, having no news of Edmond, had slipped out of the district around the Pharo at nightfall to come in person and see if she could discover the reasons for her lover’s arrest.
When Villefort approached, she stepped out of the shadow of the wall against which she was leaning and barred his path. Dantès had told the prosecutor about his fiancée, and Villefort recognized Mercédès without her giving her name. He was surprised at the beauty and dignity of the woman and, when she asked him what had become of her lover, he felt as though he was the defendant and she was the judge.
‘The man of whom you speak,’ he replied brusquely, ‘is a major criminal and I can do nothing for him, Mademoiselle.’
Mercédès could not repress a sob and, as Villefort tried to go past, stopped him again.
‘At least tell me where he is, so that I can find out if he is alive or dead.’
‘I don’t know, he is no longer my responsibility,’ Villefort replied. And, embarrassed by her keen look and attitude of entreaty, he pushed Mercédès aside and went in, slamming the door as though to shut out the sorrow that she had brought him.
But sorrow is not so easily put aside. The stricken man carried it with him like the fatal stamp of which Virgil speaks.1 Villefort went in and closed the door, but when he reached the living-room, his legs too gave way beneath him, he let out a sigh that was more like a sob, and slumped into a chair.
Now, in the depths of that sick heart the first seeds of a mortal abscess began to spread. That man whom he was sacrificing to his own ambition, that innocent man who was paying the price for the guilt of Villefort’s father, appeared before him, pale and menacing, clasping the hand of a fiancée who was no less pale, and bearing remorse in his train: not the remorse that makes its victims leap up like a Roman raging a
gainst his fate, but that bitter, muffled blow that intermittently chimes on the soul and sears it with the memory of some past action, an agonizing wound that lacerates, deeper and deeper until death.
Even now, there was a moment’s hesitation in his heart. Many times before he had called for the death penalty, with no more emotion than that aroused by the contest between the accuser and the accused; and these convicts, who had gone to their deaths because of the thundering eloquence with which he had convinced the judges or the jury, had left no shadow on his brow: they had been guilty; or, at least, so Villefort believed.
This time, however, it was a different matter. He had just condemned a man to perpetual incarceration, but an innocent man, poised on the brink of good fortune, depriving him not only of freedom, but also of happiness. He was not a judge this time, but an executioner. And when he thought of that, he felt the muffled blow that we described, something that he had not previously experienced, sounding in the depths of his heart and filling his breast with a vague feeling of apprehension. Thus a wounded man will be put on his guard by a powerful and instinctive prescience of pain and tremble whenever his finger approaches the site of an open, bleeding wound, for as long as it remains unhealed.
But the wound that Villefort had suffered was one that would not heal; or one that would close, only to re-open, more bloody and painful than before.
If at that moment Renée’s sweet voice had sounded in his ear calling for clemency, or if the lovely Mercédès had come in and said: ‘In the name of the God who sees us and judges us, give me back my betrothed,’ then, surely, that brow, already half prepared to submit to the inevitable, would have bent altogether, and he would no doubt have taken the pen in his numbed fingers and, despite the risk to himself, signed the order to set Dantès free. But no voice spoke in the silence and the door opened only to Villefort’s valet de chambre, who had come to tell him that the post-horses were harnessed to his barouche.
He got up or, rather, leapt up, like a man resolving some inner struggle, ran across to his writing desk, emptied the gold from one of its drawers into his pockets, paced distractedly around his room for a moment, with his hand on his forehead, muttering incomprehensibly, then at last, feeling the coat which his valet had just put across his shoulders, went out, sprang into his carriage and snapped out the order to stop off at M. de Saint-Méran’s in the Rue du Grand-Cours.