Chapter 15. Number 34 and Number 27
Dantès passed through all the stages of torture natural to prisoners insuspense. He was sustained at first by that pride of conscious innocencewhich is the sequence to hope; then he began to doubt his own innocence,which justified in some measure the governor’s belief in his mentalalienation; and then, relaxing his sentiment of pride, he addressed hissupplications, not to God, but to man. God is always the last resource.Unfortunates, who ought to begin with God, do not have any hope in himtill they have exhausted all other means of deliverance.
Dantès asked to be removed from his present dungeon into another, evenif it were darker and deeper, for a change, however disadvantageous, wasstill a change, and would afford him some amusement. He entreated to beallowed to walk about, to have fresh air, books, and writing materials.His requests were not granted, but he went on asking all the same. Heaccustomed himself to speaking to the new jailer, although the latterwas, if possible, more taciturn than the old one; but still, to speak toa man, even though mute, was something. Dantès spoke for the sake ofhearing his own voice; he had tried to speak when alone, but the soundof his voice terrified him.
Often, before his captivity, Dantès’ mind had revolted at the idea ofassemblages of prisoners, made up of thieves, vagabonds, and murderers.He now wished to be amongst them, in order to see some other facebesides that of his jailer; he sighed for the galleys, with the infamouscostume, the chain, and the brand on the shoulder. The galley-slavesbreathed the fresh air of heaven, and saw each other. They were veryhappy.
He besought the jailer one day to let him have a companion, were it eventhe mad abbé. The jailer, though rough and hardened by the constantsight of so much suffering, was yet a man. At the bottom of his heart hehad often had a feeling of pity for this unhappy young man who sufferedso; and he laid the request of number 34 before the governor; but thelatter sapiently imagined that Dantès wished to conspire or attempt anescape, and refused his request. Dantès had exhausted all humanresources, and he then turned to God.
All the pious ideas that had been so long forgotten, returned; herecollected the prayers his mother had taught him, and discovered a newmeaning in every word; for in prosperity prayers seem but a mere medleyof words, until misfortune comes and the unhappy sufferer firstunderstands the meaning of the sublime language in which he invokes thepity of heaven! He prayed, and prayed aloud, no longer terrified at thesound of his own voice, for he fell into a sort of ecstasy. He laidevery action of his life before the Almighty, proposed tasks toaccomplish, and at the end of every prayer introduced the entreatyoftener addressed to man than to God: “Forgive us our trespasses as weforgive them that trespass against us.” Yet in spite of his earnestprayers, Dantès remained a prisoner.
Then gloom settled heavily upon him. Dantès was a man of greatsimplicity of thought, and without education; he could not, therefore,in the solitude of his dungeon, traverse in mental vision the history ofthe ages, bring to life the nations that had perished, and rebuild theancient cities so vast and stupendous in the light of the imagination,and that pass before the eye glowing with celestial colors in Martin’sBabylonian pictures. He could not do this, he whose past life was soshort, whose present so melancholy, and his future so doubtful. Nineteenyears of light to reflect upon in eternal darkness! No distraction couldcome to his aid; his energetic spirit, that would have exalted in thusrevisiting the past, was imprisoned like an eagle in a cage. He clung toone idea—that of his happiness, destroyed, without apparent cause, by anunheard-of fatality; he considered and reconsidered this idea, devouredit (so to speak), as the implacable Ugolino devours the skull ofArchbishop Roger in the Inferno of Dante.
Rage supplanted religious fervor. Dantès uttered blasphemies that madehis jailer recoil with horror, dashed himself furiously against thewalls of his prison, wreaked his anger upon everything, and chiefly uponhimself, so that the least thing,—a grain of sand, a straw, or a breathof air that annoyed him, led to paroxysms of fury. Then the letter thatVillefort had showed to him recurred to his mind, and every line gleamedforth in fiery letters on the wall like the mene, mene, tekel upharsinof Belshazzar. He told himself that it was the enmity of man, and notthe vengeance of Heaven, that had thus plunged him into the deepestmisery. He consigned his unknown persecutors to the most horribletortures he could imagine, and found them all insufficient, becauseafter torture came death, and after death, if not repose, at least theboon of unconsciousness.
By dint of constantly dwelling on the idea that tranquillity was death,and if punishment were the end in view other tortures than death must beinvented, he began to reflect on suicide. Unhappy he, who, on the brinkof misfortune, broods over ideas like these!
Before him is a dead sea that stretches in azure calm before the eye;but he who unwarily ventures within its embrace finds himself strugglingwith a monster that would drag him down to perdition. Once thusensnared, unless the protecting hand of God snatch him thence, all isover, and his struggles but tend to hasten his destruction. This stateof mental anguish is, however, less terrible than the sufferings thatprecede or the punishment that possibly will follow. There is a sort ofconsolation at the contemplation of the yawning abyss, at the bottom ofwhich lie darkness and obscurity.
Edmond found some solace in these ideas. All his sorrows, all hissufferings, with their train of gloomy spectres, fled from his cell whenthe angel of death seemed about to enter. Dantès reviewed his past lifewith composure, and, looking forward with terror to his futureexistence, chose that middle line that seemed to afford him a refuge.
“Sometimes,” said he, “in my voyages, when I was a man and commandedother men, I have seen the heavens overcast, the sea rage and foam, thestorm arise, and, like a monstrous bird, beating the two horizons withits wings. Then I felt that my vessel was a vain refuge, that trembledand shook before the tempest. Soon the fury of the waves and the sightof the sharp rocks announced the approach of death, and death thenterrified me, and I used all my skill and intelligence as a man and asailor to struggle against the wrath of God. But I did so because I washappy, because I had not courted death, because to be cast upon a bed ofrocks and seaweed seemed terrible, because I was unwilling that I, acreature made for the service of God, should serve for food to the gullsand ravens. But now it is different; I have lost all that bound me tolife, death smiles and invites me to repose; I die after my own manner,I die exhausted and broken-spirited, as I fall asleep when I have pacedthree thousand times round my cell,—that is thirty thousand steps, orabout ten leagues.”
No sooner had this idea taken possession of him than he became morecomposed, arranged his couch to the best of his power, ate little andslept less, and found existence almost supportable, because he felt thathe could throw it off at pleasure, like a worn-out garment. Two methodsof self-destruction were at his disposal. He could hang himself with hishandkerchief to the window bars, or refuse food and die of starvation.But the first was repugnant to him. Dantès had always entertained thegreatest horror of pirates, who are hung up to the yard-arm; he wouldnot die by what seemed an infamous death. He resolved to adopt thesecond, and began that day to carry out his resolve.
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Nearly four years had passed away; at the end of the second he hadceased to mark the lapse of time. Dantès said, “I wish to die,” and hadchosen the manner of his death, and fearful of changing his mind, he hadtaken an oath to die. “When my morning and evening meals are brought,”thought he, “I will cast them out of the window, and they will thinkthat I have eaten them.”
He kept his word; twice a day he cast out, through the barred aperture,the provisions his jailer brought him—at first gayly, then withdeliberation, and at last with regret. Nothing but the recollection ofhis oath gave him strength to proceed. Hunger made viands oncerepugnant, now acceptable; he held the plate in his hand for an hour ata time, and gazed thoughtfully at the morsel of bad meat, of taintedfish, of black and mouldy bread. It was the last yearning for lifecontending with the
resolution of despair; then his dungeon seemed lesssombre, his prospects less desperate. He was still young—he was onlyfour or five-and-twenty—he had nearly fifty years to live. Whatunforseen events might not open his prison door, and restore him toliberty? Then he raised to his lips the repast that, like a voluntaryTantalus, he refused himself; but he thought of his oath, and he wouldnot break it. He persisted until, at last, he had not sufficientstrength to rise and cast his supper out of the loophole. The nextmorning he could not see or hear; the jailer feared he was dangerouslyill. Edmond hoped he was dying.
Thus the day passed away. Edmond felt a sort of stupor creeping over himwhich brought with it a feeling almost of content; the gnawing pain athis stomach had ceased; his thirst had abated; when he closed his eyeshe saw myriads of lights dancing before them like the will-o’-the-wispsthat play about the marshes. It was the twilight of that mysteriouscountry called Death!
Suddenly, about nine o’clock in the evening, Edmond heard a hollow soundin the wall against which he was lying.
So many loathsome animals inhabited the prison, that their noise didnot, in general, awake him; but whether abstinence had quickened hisfaculties, or whether the noise was really louder than usual, Edmondraised his head and listened. It was a continual scratching, as if madeby a huge claw, a powerful tooth, or some iron instrument attacking thestones.
Although weakened, the young man’s brain instantly responded to the ideathat haunts all prisoners—liberty! It seemed to him that heaven had atlength taken pity on him, and had sent this noise to warn him on thevery brink of the abyss. Perhaps one of those beloved ones he had sooften thought of was thinking of him, and striving to diminish thedistance that separated them.
No, no, doubtless he was deceived, and it was but one of those dreamsthat forerun death!
Edmond still heard the sound. It lasted nearly three hours; he thenheard a noise of something falling, and all was silent.
Some hours afterwards it began again, nearer and more distinct. Edmondwas intensely interested. Suddenly the jailer entered.
For a week since he had resolved to die, and during the four days thathe had been carrying out his purpose, Edmond had not spoken to theattendant, had not answered him when he inquired what was the matterwith him, and turned his face to the wall when he looked too curiouslyat him; but now the jailer might hear the noise and put an end to it,and so destroy a ray of something like hope that soothed his lastmoments.
The jailer brought him his breakfast. Dantès raised himself up and beganto talk about everything; about the bad quality of the food, about thecoldness of his dungeon, grumbling and complaining, in order to have anexcuse for speaking louder, and wearying the patience of his jailer, whoout of kindness of heart had brought broth and white bread for hisprisoner.
Fortunately, he fancied that Dantès was delirious; and placing the foodon the rickety table, he withdrew. Edmond listened, and the sound becamemore and more distinct.
“There can be no doubt about it,” thought he; “it is some prisoner whois striving to obtain his freedom. Oh, if I were only there to helphim!”
Suddenly another idea took possession of his mind, so used tomisfortune, that it was scarcely capable of hope—the idea that the noisewas made by workmen the governor had ordered to repair the neighboringdungeon.
It was easy to ascertain this; but how could he risk the question? Itwas easy to call his jailer’s attention to the noise, and watch hiscountenance as he listened; but might he not by this means destroy hopesfar more important than the short-lived satisfaction of his owncuriosity? Unfortunately, Edmond’s brain was still so feeble that hecould not bend his thoughts to anything in particular. He saw but onemeans of restoring lucidity and clearness to his judgment. He turned hiseyes towards the soup which the jailer had brought, rose, staggeredtowards it, raised the vessel to his lips, and drank off the contentswith a feeling of indescribable pleasure.
He had the resolution to stop with this. He had often heard thatshipwrecked persons had died through having eagerly devoured too muchfood. Edmond replaced on the table the bread he was about to devour, andreturned to his couch—he did not wish to die. He soon felt that hisideas became again collected—he could think, and strengthen his thoughtsby reasoning. Then he said to himself:
“I must put this to the test, but without compromising anybody. If it isa workman, I need but knock against the wall, and he will cease to work,in order to find out who is knocking, and why he does so; but as hisoccupation is sanctioned by the governor, he will soon resume it. If, onthe contrary, it is a prisoner, the noise I make will alarm him, he willcease, and not begin again until he thinks everyone is asleep.”
Edmond rose again, but this time his legs did not tremble, and his sightwas clear; he went to a corner of his dungeon, detached a stone, andwith it knocked against the wall where the sound came. He struck thrice.
At the first blow the sound ceased, as if by magic.
Edmond listened intently; an hour passed, two hours passed, and no soundwas heard from the wall—all was silent there.
Full of hope, Edmond swallowed a few mouthfuls of bread and water, and,thanks to the vigor of his constitution, found himself well-nighrecovered.
The day passed away in utter silence—night came without recurrence ofthe noise.
“It is a prisoner,” said Edmond joyfully. His brain was on fire, andlife and energy returned.
The night passed in perfect silence. Edmond did not close his eyes.
In the morning the jailer brought him fresh provisions—he had alreadydevoured those of the previous day; he ate these listening anxiously forthe sound, walking round and round his cell, shaking the iron bars ofthe loophole, restoring vigor and agility to his limbs by exercise, andso preparing himself for his future destiny. At intervals he listened tolearn if the noise had not begun again, and grew impatient at theprudence of the prisoner, who did not guess he had been disturbed by acaptive as anxious for liberty as himself.
Three days passed—seventy-two long tedious hours which he counted off byminutes!
At length one evening, as the jailer was visiting him for the last timethat night, Dantès, with his ear for the hundredth time at the wall,fancied he heard an almost imperceptible movement among the stones. Hemoved away, walked up and down his cell to collect his thoughts, andthen went back and listened.
The matter was no longer doubtful. Something was at work on the otherside of the wall; the prisoner had discovered the danger, and hadsubstituted a lever for a chisel.
Encouraged by this discovery, Edmond determined to assist theindefatigable laborer. He began by moving his bed, and looked around foranything with which he could pierce the wall, penetrate the moistcement, and displace a stone.
He saw nothing, he had no knife or sharp instrument, the window gratingwas of iron, but he had too often assured himself of its solidity. Allhis furniture consisted of a bed, a chair, a table, a pail, and a jug.The bed had iron clamps, but they were screwed to the wood, and it wouldhave required a screw-driver to take them off. The table and chair hadnothing, the pail had once possessed a handle, but that had beenremoved.
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Dantès had but one resource, which was to break the jug, and with one ofthe sharp fragments attack the wall. He let the jug fall on the floor,and it broke in pieces.
Dantès concealed two or three of the sharpest fragments in his bed,leaving the rest on the floor. The breaking of his jug was too naturalan accident to excite suspicion. Edmond had all the night to work in,but in the darkness he could not do much, and he soon felt that he wasworking against something very hard; he pushed back his bed, and waitedfor day.
All night he heard the subterranean workman, who continued to mine hisway. Day came, the jailer entered. Dantès told him that the jug hadfallen from his hands while he was drinking, and the jailer wentgrumblingly to fetch another, without giving himself the trouble toremove the fragments of the broken one. He returned speedily, advisedthe prisoner to be more careful,
and departed.
Dantès heard joyfully the key grate in the lock; he listened until thesound of steps died away, and then, hastily displacing his bed, saw bythe faint light that penetrated into his cell, that he had laboreduselessly the previous evening in attacking the stone instead ofremoving the plaster that surrounded it.
The damp had rendered it friable, and Dantès was able to break it off—insmall morsels, it is true, but at the end of half an hour he had scrapedoff a handful; a mathematician might have calculated that in two years,supposing that the rock was not encountered, a passage twenty feet longand two feet broad, might be formed.
The prisoner reproached himself with not having thus employed the hourshe had passed in vain hopes, prayer, and despondency. During the sixyears that he had been imprisoned, what might he not have accomplished?
This idea imparted new energy, and in three days he had succeeded, withthe utmost precaution, in removing the cement, and exposing the stone-work. The wall was built of rough stones, among which, to give strengthto the structure, blocks of hewn stone were at intervals imbedded. Itwas one of these he had uncovered, and which he must remove from itssocket.
Dantès strove to do this with his nails, but they were too weak. Thefragments of the jug broke, and after an hour of useless toil, Dantèspaused with anguish on his brow.
Was he to be thus stopped at the beginning, and was he to wait inactiveuntil his fellow workman had completed his task? Suddenly an ideaoccurred to him—he smiled, and the perspiration dried on his forehead.
The jailer always brought Dantès’ soup in an iron saucepan; thissaucepan contained soup for both prisoners, for Dantès had noticed thatit was either quite full, or half empty, according as the turnkey gaveit to him or to his companion first.
The handle of this saucepan was of iron; Dantès would have given tenyears of his life in exchange for it.
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The jailer was accustomed to pour the contents of the saucepan intoDantès’ plate, and Dantès, after eating his soup with a wooden spoon,washed the plate, which thus served for every day. Now when evening cameDantès put his plate on the ground near the door; the jailer, as heentered, stepped on it and broke it.
This time he could not blame Dantès. He was wrong to leave it there, butthe jailer was wrong not to have looked before him. The jailer,therefore, only grumbled. Then he looked about for something to pour thesoup into; Dantès’ entire dinner service consisted of one plate—therewas no alternative.
“Leave the saucepan,” said Dantès; “you can take it away when you bringme my breakfast.”
This advice was to the jailer’s taste, as it spared him the necessity ofmaking another trip. He left the saucepan.
Dantès was beside himself with joy. He rapidly devoured his food, andafter waiting an hour, lest the jailer should change his mind andreturn, he removed his bed, took the handle of the saucepan, insertedthe point between the hewn stone and rough stones of the wall, andemployed it as a lever. A slight oscillation showed Dantès that all wentwell. At the end of an hour the stone was extricated from the wall,leaving a cavity a foot and a half in diameter.
Dantès carefully collected the plaster, carried it into the corner ofhis cell, and covered it with earth. Then, wishing to make the best useof his time while he had the means of labor, he continued to workwithout ceasing. At the dawn of day he replaced the stone, pushed hisbed against the wall, and lay down. The breakfast consisted of a pieceof bread; the jailer entered and placed the bread on the table.
“Well, don’t you intend to bring me another plate?” said Dantès.
“No,” replied the turnkey; “you destroy everything. First you break yourjug, then you make me break your plate; if all the prisoners followedyour example, the government would be ruined. I shall leave you thesaucepan, and pour your soup into that. So for the future I hope youwill not be so destructive.”
Dantès raised his eyes to heaven and clasped his hands beneath thecoverlet. He felt more gratitude for the possession of this piece ofiron than he had ever felt for anything. He had noticed, however, thatthe prisoner on the other side had ceased to labor; no matter, this wasa greater reason for proceeding—if his neighbor would not come to him,he would go to his neighbor. All day he toiled on untiringly, and by theevening he had succeeded in extracting ten handfuls of plaster andfragments of stone. When the hour for his jailer’s visit arrived, Dantèsstraightened the handle of the saucepan as well as he could, and placedit in its accustomed place. The turnkey poured his ration of soup intoit, together with the fish—for thrice a week the prisoners were deprivedof meat. This would have been a method of reckoning time, had not Dantèslong ceased to do so. Having poured out the soup, the turnkey retired.
Dantès wished to ascertain whether his neighbor had really ceased towork. He listened—all was silent, as it had been for the last threedays. Dantès sighed; it was evident that his neighbor distrusted him.However, he toiled on all the night without being discouraged; but aftertwo or three hours he encountered an obstacle. The iron made noimpression, but met with a smooth surface; Dantès touched it, and foundthat it was a beam. This beam crossed, or rather blocked up, the holeDantès had made; it was necessary, therefore, to dig above or under it.The unhappy young man had not thought of this.
“Oh, my God, my God!” murmured he, “I have so earnestly prayed to you,that I hoped my prayers had been heard. After having deprived me of myliberty, after having deprived me of death, after having recalled me toexistence, my God, have pity on me, and do not let me die in despair!”
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“Who talks of God and despair at the same time?” said a voice thatseemed to come from beneath the earth, and, deadened by the distance,sounded hollow and sepulchral in the young man’s ears. Edmond’s hairstood on end, and he rose to his knees.
“Ah,” said he, “I hear a human voice.” Edmond had not heard anyone speaksave his jailer for four or five years; and a jailer is no man to aprisoner—he is a living door, a barrier of flesh and blood addingstrength to restraints of oak and iron.
“In the name of Heaven,” cried Dantès, “speak again, though the sound ofyour voice terrifies me. Who are you?”
“Who are you?” said the voice.
“An unhappy prisoner,” replied Dantès, who made no hesitation inanswering.
“Of what country?”
“A Frenchman.”
“Your name?”
“Edmond Dantès.”
“Your profession?”
“A sailor.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Since the 28th of February, 1815.”
“Your crime?”
“I am innocent.”
“But of what are you accused?”
“Of having conspired to aid the emperor’s return.”
“What! For the emperor’s return?—the emperor is no longer on the throne,then?”
“He abdicated at Fontainebleau in 1814, and was sent to the Island ofElba. But how long have you been here that you are ignorant of allthis?”
“Since 1811.”
Dantès shuddered; this man had been four years longer than himself inprison.
“Do not dig any more,” said the voice; “only tell me how high up is yourexcavation?”
“On a level with the floor.”
“How is it concealed?”
“Behind my bed.”
“Has your bed been moved since you have been a prisoner?”
“No.”
“What does your chamber open on?”
“A corridor.”
“And the corridor?”
“On a court.”
“Alas!” murmured the voice.
“Oh, what is the matter?” cried Dantès.
“I have made a mistake owing to an error in my plans. I took the wrongangle, and have come out fifteen feet from where I intended. I took thewall you are mining for the outer wall of the fortress.”
“But then you would be close to the sea?”
r /> “That is what I hoped.”
“And supposing you had succeeded?”
“I should have thrown myself into the sea, gained one of the islandsnear here—the Isle de Daume or the Isle de Tiboulen—and then I shouldhave been safe.”
“Could you have swum so far?”
“Heaven would have given me strength; but now all is lost.”
“All?”
“Yes; stop up your excavation carefully, do not work any more, and waituntil you hear from me.”
“Tell me, at least, who you are?”
“I am—I am No. 27.”
“You mistrust me, then,” said Dantès. Edmond fancied he heard a bitterlaugh resounding from the depths.
“Oh, I am a Christian,” cried Dantès, guessing instinctively that thisman meant to abandon him. “I swear to you by him who died for us thatnaught shall induce me to breathe one syllable to my jailers; but Iconjure you do not abandon me. If you do, I swear to you, for I have gotto the end of my strength, that I will dash my brains out against thewall, and you will have my death to reproach yourself with.”
“How old are you? Your voice is that of a young man.”
“I do not know my age, for I have not counted the years I have beenhere. All I do know is, that I was just nineteen when I was arrested,the 28th of February, 1815.”
“Not quite twenty-six!” murmured the voice; “at that age he cannot be atraitor.”
“Oh, no, no,” cried Dantès. “I swear to you again, rather than betrayyou, I would allow myself to be hacked in pieces!”
“You have done well to speak to me, and ask for my assistance, for I wasabout to form another plan, and leave you; but your age reassures me. Iwill not forget you. Wait.”
“How long?”
“I must calculate our chances; I will give you the signal.”
“But you will not leave me; you will come to me, or you will let me cometo you. We will escape, and if we cannot escape we will talk; you ofthose whom you love, and I of those whom I love. You must lovesomebody?”
“No, I am alone in the world.”
“Then you will love me. If you are young, I will be your comrade; if youare old, I will be your son. I have a father who is seventy if he yetlives; I only love him and a young girl called Mercédès. My father hasnot yet forgotten me, I am sure, but God alone knows if she loves mestill; I shall love you as I loved my father.”
“It is well,” returned the voice; “tomorrow.”
These few words were uttered with an accent that left no doubt of hissincerity; Dantès rose, dispersed the fragments with the same precautionas before, and pushed his bed back against the wall. He then gavehimself up to his happiness. He would no longer be alone. He was,perhaps, about to regain his liberty; at the worst, he would have acompanion, and captivity that is shared is but half captivity. Plaintsmade in common are almost prayers, and prayers where two or three aregathered together invoke the mercy of heaven.
All day Dantès walked up and down his cell. He sat down occasionally onhis bed, pressing his hand on his heart. At the slightest noise hebounded towards the door. Once or twice the thought crossed his mindthat he might be separated from this unknown, whom he loved already; andthen his mind was made up—when the jailer moved his bed and stooped toexamine the opening, he would kill him with his water jug. He would becondemned to die, but he was about to die of grief and despair when thismiraculous noise recalled him to life.
The jailer came in the evening. Dantès was on his bed. It seemed to himthat thus he better guarded the unfinished opening. Doubtless there wasa strange expression in his eyes, for the jailer said, “Come, are yougoing mad again?”
Dantès did not answer; he feared that the emotion of his voice wouldbetray him. The jailer went away shaking his head. Night came; Dantèshoped that his neighbor would profit by the silence to address him, buthe was mistaken. The next morning, however, just as he removed his bedfrom the wall, he heard three knocks; he threw himself on his knees.
“Is it you?” said he; “I am here.”
“Is your jailer gone?”
“Yes,” said Dantès; “he will not return until the evening; so that wehave twelve hours before us.”
“I can work, then?” said the voice.
“Oh, yes, yes; this instant, I entreat you.”
In a moment that part of the floor on which Dantès was resting his twohands, as he knelt with his head in the opening, suddenly gave way; hedrew back smartly, while a mass of stones and earth disappeared in ahole that opened beneath the aperture he himself had formed. Then fromthe bottom of this passage, the depth of which it was impossible tomeasure, he saw appear, first the head, then the shoulders, and lastlythe body of a man, who sprang lightly into his cell.
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