The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) (24 page)

‘I want to know what crime I have committed, I am asking for judges to be appointed to my case and for a trial to be held; finally, I am asking to be shot, if I am guilty; but equally to be set free if I am innocent.’

‘Are you well fed?’ asked the inspector.

‘Yes, I think so, I don’t know. It is of little importance. What is important, not only for me, a wretched prisoner, but also for all those officials who administer justice and for the king who rules us, is that an innocent man should not be the victim of an infamous denunciation and die behind bars, cursing his tormentors.’

‘You are very submissive today,’ said the governor. ‘You were not always like this. You spoke in quite a different manner, my good friend, the day when you tried to beat the life out of your warder.’

‘That is true, Monsieur,’ Dantès said, ‘and I humbly ask the forgiveness of this man, who has always been kind to me. But what do you expect? I was mad, I was raging.’

‘Not any longer?’

‘No, Monsieur, captivity has bowed me, broken me, demolished me. I have been here for so long!’

‘So long? When were you arrested?’ asked the inspector.

‘On the twenty-eighth of February, 1815, at two in the afternoon.’

The inspector made a calculation.

‘It is now July the thirtieth, 1816. So what do you mean? You have been a prisoner for only seventeen months.’

‘Only seventeen months!’ Dantès repeated. ‘Oh, Monsieur, you do not know what seventeen months are in prison: seventeen years, seventeen centuries; above all for a man like myself, who was on the brink of happiness, for a man like myself, who was about to marry a woman whom he loved, for a man who could see an honourable career ahead of him and who was deprived of it all in a moment; who, from the most glorious day, was plunged into the deepest night, who saw his career destroyed, who does not know if the woman who loved him does so still, who cannot tell if his old father is alive or dead. Seventeen months of prison, for a man accustomed to the sea air, to a sailor’s independence, to space, immensity, infinity! Monsieur, seventeen months of prison is more than enough punishment for all the crimes reviled by the most odious names known to the tongues of men. Have pity on me, Monsieur, and beg for me, not indulgence, but firmness; not a pardon, but a verdict. A judge, Monsieur, I ask only for a judge: an accused man cannot be refused a judge.’

‘Very well,’ the inspector said, ‘we shall see.’ Then, turning to the governor: ‘Truly, I feel sorry for the poor devil. When we go back upstairs, you must show me his detention order.’

‘Certainly,’ said the governor, ‘but I think that you will find some dreadful charges against him.’

‘Monsieur,’ Dantès continued, ‘I know that you cannot yourself make the decision to have me released, but you can pass on my request to the authorities, you can start an enquiry, you can have me brought to judgement: all I ask is to be judged; let me be told what crime I have committed and what sentence I have been given; because, you understand, uncertainty is the worst of torments.’

‘Enlighten me,’ said the inspector.

‘Monsieur,’ Dantès exclaimed, ‘I can see from the sound of your voice that you feel for me. Please tell me to hope.’

‘That I cannot do,’ the inspector replied. ‘All I can promise is that I shall examine your dossier.’

‘Oh! In that case, Monsieur, I am free, I am saved.’

‘Who ordered your arrest?’ the inspector asked.

‘Monsieur de Villefort,’ Dantès replied. ‘You may see him and consult with him.’

‘Monsieur de Villefort has not been in Marseille for the past year, but in Toulouse.’

‘Ah, that does not surprise me now,’ Dantès murmured. ‘My sole protector has left.’

‘Did Monsieur de Villefort have any reason to hate you?’ the inspector asked.

‘None at all, Monsieur; he was well-disposed towards me.’

‘So I can rely on any notes he may have left on your case, or which he may give me?’

‘Fully.’

‘Very well. Be patient.’

Dantès fell to his knees, raising his hands to heaven and asking God to protect this man who had descended into his prison like Our Saviour going down to deliver the damned from hell. The door closed, but the hope that the inspector had brought with him remained locked in Dantès’ dungeon.

‘Do you wish to see the committal records straightaway,’ the governor asked, ‘or to go on to the abbé’s dungeon?’

‘Let’s have done with the dungeons at once,’ the inspector replied. ‘If I were to go back into daylight, I might lose the resolve to carry on with this dreary task.’

‘This prisoner is not like the last one: you will find his folly makes you less melancholy than the other’s reason.’

‘What kind of folly is it?’

‘A rare one, indeed: he believes himself to be the owner of a vast fortune. In the first year of his imprisonment, he made the government an offer of a million francs, if they would set him free; the second year, it was two million; the third, three, and so on upwards. He is now in his fifth year of imprisonment, so he will ask to speak to you privately and offer you five million.’

‘Well, well, that certainly is curious,’ said the inspector. ‘What is the name of this millionaire?’

‘Abbé Faria.’

‘Number twenty-seven!’ said the inspector.

‘This is it. Open up, Antoine.’

The turnkey obeyed and the inspector strained to see into the dungeon of the ‘mad abbé’, as the prisoner was usually known.

A man was lying in the middle of the room, in a circle drawn on the ground with a piece of plaster from the wall, almost naked, his clothes having fallen into tatters. He was drawing very precise geometrical lines in the circle and appeared as absorbed in solving his problem as Archimedes when he was killed by one of Marcellus’ soldiers.
¹
He
did not even look up at the noise made by the opening of the cell door, but only appeared to become aware of something when the beams of the torches cast an unfamiliar light on the damp ground where he was working. Then he turned around and was astonished to see that a group of people had just come down into his dungeon.

He immediately leapt to his feet, took a blanket from the foot of his miserable bed and hurriedly wrapped it round him, to appear more decently dressed in front of these strangers.

‘What requests do you have?’ the inspector asked, not varying his set question.

‘I, Monsieur?’ the abbé replied in astonishment. ‘I have no requests.’

‘You do not understand,’ the inspector continued. ‘I am a representative of the government with responsibility for visiting prisons and listening to the prisoners’ demands.’

‘Ah! In that case, it’s another matter,’ the abbé exclaimed, livening up. ‘I hope we shall come to some understanding.’

‘You see,’ the governor whispered. ‘Isn’t it just as I predicted?’

‘Monsieur,’ the prisoner continued, ‘I am Abbé Faria,
²
born in Rome, twenty years secretary to Cardinal Rospigliosi. I was arrested early in 1811, I’m not quite sure why, and since then I have demanded my freedom from the Italian and French authorities.’

‘Why from the French authorities?’ the governor asked.

‘Because I was arrested in Piombino and I assume that, like Milan and Florence, Piombino is now the capital of some French
département
.’

The inspector and the governor looked at one another and laughed.

‘Well, I never!’ the inspector said. ‘My friend, your news of Italy is rather stale.’

‘It dates from the day of my arrest. But since His Majesty the Emperor had just created the kingdom of Rome for the son that heaven had sent him, I assume that he has pursued his conquests to realize the dream of Machiavelli and Cesare Borgia, and united the whole of Italy in one single kingdom.’

‘Fortunately,’ the inspector said, ‘providence has somewhat modified that ambitious plan, though you appear to me to support it quite enthusiastically.’

‘It is the only means by which Italy can become a strong, independent and prosperous state,’ the abbé replied.

‘Perhaps so,’ said the inspector. ‘But I have not come to debate ultramontane politics with you. I am here to ask, as I have already done, whether you have any complaints about your food and conditions.’

‘The food is like that in all prisons,’ the abbé answered. ‘In other words, vile. As for my lodging, you can see for yourself: it is damp and unhealthy, but nonetheless quite acceptable for a dungeon. However, all that is beside the point; I have something of the greatest significance and the most vital importance to reveal to the government.’

‘Here it comes,’ the governor whispered to the inspector.

‘That is why I am pleased to see you,’ the abbé went on, ‘even though you have disturbed me in a most important calculation which, if it were to succeed, might alter the Newtonian system. Could you grant me the favour of a private interview?’

‘There! What did I tell you?’ the governor asked the inspector.

‘You know your man,’ the latter answered, smiling. Then, turning to Faria, he said: ‘Monsieur, what you ask is impossible.’

‘Even so, Monsieur,’ the abbé insisted, ‘what if it were a matter of the government gaining a huge sum of money; a sum of five million francs, for example?’

‘Well, well!’ the inspector said, turning to the governor. ‘You even guessed the amount!’

‘One moment,’ the abbé went on, seeing the inspector make a movement towards the door. ‘It is not necessary for us to be entirely alone. The governor could hear what I have to say.’

‘My dear friend,’ the governor said, ‘unfortunately we already know by heart what you will tell us. You are thinking of your treasure, aren’t you?’

Faria looked at the scornful man with eyes in which any disinterested observer would surely have seen the light of reason and truth.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘What else should I talk about, if not that?’

‘My dear inspector,’ the governor continued, ‘I can tell you the story as well as the abbé himself, after hearing it over and over during the past four or five years.’

‘That only goes to show, governor,’ the abbé said, ‘that you are like those men in the Scriptures who have eyes, but see not, and who have ears, but will not hear.’

‘Monsieur,’ the inspector said, ‘the government is rich and, thank
heavens, has no need of your money. Keep it for the day when you get out of prison.’

The abbé’s eyes dilated and he grasped the inspector’s hand: ‘But if I don’t get out of prison… Suppose that, contrary to all notions of justice, they should keep me in this dungeon and I should die here without bequeathing my secret to anyone, then the treasure will be lost! Isn’t it better for the government to profit by it, and for me to do so? I shall go up to six million, Monsieur. Yes, I would give away six million and be satisfied with the remainder, if they would set me free.’

‘I swear that if one did not know this man was mad,’ the inspector said, under his breath, ‘he speaks with such conviction that you would believe he was telling the truth.’

‘I am not mad, Monsieur, and I am telling the truth,’ Faria replied, having picked up every word that the governor said, with that acuteness of hearing that is peculiar to prisoners. ‘The treasure I mention really does exist and I am ready to sign an agreement with you, under which you will take me to a place that I shall designate, have the earth dug up in our presence and, if I am lying, if nothing is found, if I am mad, as you say, then you can bring me back to this same dungeon where I shall remain for ever, and die without asking for anything further from you or from anyone else.’

The governor burst out laughing.

‘Is it a long way to your treasure?’ he asked.

‘About a hundred leagues from here,’ Faria said.

‘It’s a clever idea,’ said the governor. ‘If every prisoner was to take his warders on a wild-goose chase for a hundred leagues, supposing the warders agreed to it, there is a good chance that the prisoner would manage to take to his heels as soon as he had the opportunity, which would no doubt occur in the course of such a journey.’

‘It’s an old trick,’ said the inspector, ‘and this gentleman cannot even claim to have invented it for himself.’

Then he turned back to the abbé. ‘I asked you if you were well fed?’

‘Monsieur,’ Faria replied, ‘swear to me in Christ’s name to set me free if what I have told you is the truth, and I shall tell you the place where the treasure is buried.’

‘Are you well fed?’ the inspector insisted.

‘But in this way, you take no risk: you can see that it is not in
order to contrive some opportunity to escape, since I shall remain in prison while the journey is made.’

‘You haven’t replied to my question,’ the inspector repeated impatiently.

‘And you haven’t replied to my request!’ cried the abbé. ‘Then be damned, like the other idiots who refused to believe me. You don’t want my gold, then I shall keep it. You deny me my freedom, then God will give it to me. Go, I have nothing more to say.’

Throwing off his blanket, he picked up his scrap of plaster and once more sat down in the middle of his circle, where he went back to his lines and his sums.