"Leave the saucepan," said Dantes; "you can take it away when
you bring me my breakfast." This advice was to the jailer's taste,
as it spared him the necessity of making another trip. He left the
saucepan.
Dantes was beside himself with joy. He rapidly devoured his
food, and after waiting an hour, lest the jailer should change his
mind and return, he removed his bed, took the handle of the
saucepan, inserted the point between the hewn stone and rough
stones of the wall, and employed it as a lever. A slight
oscillation showed Dantes that all went well. At the end of an hour
the stone was extricated from the wall, leaving a cavity a foot and
a half in diameter.
Dantes carefully collected the plaster, carried it into the
corner of his cell, and covered it with earth. Then, wishing to
make the best use of his time while he had the means of labor, he
continued to work without ceasing. At the dawn of day he replaced
the stone, pushed his bed against the wall, and lay down. The
breakfast consisted of a piece of bread; the jailer entered and
placed the bread on the table.
"Well, don't you intend to bring me another plate?" said
Dantes.
"No," replied the turnkey; "you destroy everything. First you
break your jug, then you make me break your plate; if all the
prisoners followed your example, the government would be ruined. I
shall leave you the saucepan, and pour your soup into that. So for
the future I hope you will not be so destructive."
Dantes raised his eyes to heaven and clasped his hands beneath
the coverlet. He felt more gratitude for the possession of this
piece of iron than he had ever felt for anything. He had noticed,
however, that the prisoner on the other side had ceased to labor;
no matter, this was a 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 the evening he had succeeded in
extracting ten handfuls of plaster and fragments of stone. When the
hour for his jailer's visit arrived, Dantes straightened the handlehour for his jailer's visit arrived, Dantes straightened the handle
of the saucepan as well as he could, and placed it in its
accustomed place. The turnkey poured his ration of soup into it,
together with the fish — for thrice a week the prisoners were
deprived of meat. This would have been a method of reckoning time,
had not Dantes long ceased to do so. Having poured out the soup,
the turnkey retired. Dantes wished to ascertain whether his
neighbor had really ceased to work. He listened — all was silent,
as it had been for the last three days. Dantes sighed; it was
evident that his neighbor distrusted him. However, he toiled on all
the night without being discouraged; but after two or three hours
he encountered an obstacle. The iron made no impression, but met
with a smooth surface; Dantes touched it, and found that it was a
beam. This beam crossed, or rather blocked up, the hole Dantes had
made; it was necessary, therefore, to dig above or under it. The
unhappy young man had not thought of this. "O 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 my liberty,
after having deprived me of death, after having recalled me to
existence, my God, have pity on me, and do not let me die in
despair!"
"Who talks of God and despair at the same time?" said a voice
that seemed to come from beneath the earth, and, deadened by the
distance, sounded hollow and sepulchral in the young man's ears.
Edmond's hair stood on end, and he rose to his knees.
"Ah," said he, "I hear a human voice." Edmond had not heard any
one speak save his jailer for four or five years; and a jailer is
no man to a prisoner — he is a living door, a barrier of flesh and
blood adding strength to restraints of oak and iron.
"In the name of heaven," cried Dantes, "speak again, though the
sound of your voice terrifies me. Who are you?"
"Who are you?" said the voice.
"An unhappy prisoner," replied Dantes, who made no hesitation in
answering.
"Of what country?"
"A Frenchman."answering.
"Of what country?"
"A Frenchman."
"Your name?"
"Edmond Dantes."
"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 of Elba. But how long have you been here that you are
ignorant of all this?"
"Since 1811."
Dantes shuddered; this man had been four years longer than
himself in prison.
"Do not dig any more," said the voice; "only tell me how high up
is your excavation?"
"On a level with the floor."
"How is it concealed?"
"Behind my bed."
"Has your bed been moved since you have been a prisoner?"
"No."
"What does your chamber open on?"
"A corridor."
"And the corridor?"
"On a court."
"Alas!" murmured the voice.
"Oh, what is the matter?" cried Dantes.
"I have made a mistake owing to an error in my plans. I took the
wrong angle, and have come out fifteen feet from where I intended.
I took the wall you are mining for the outer wall of the
fortress."
"But then you would be close to the sea?"
"That is what I hoped."
"And supposing you had succeeded?"
"I should have thrown myself into the sea, gained one of the
islands near here — the Isle de Daume or the Isle de Tiboulen — and
then I should have 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 wait until you hear from me."
"Tell me, at least, who you are?"
"I am — I am No. 27."
"You mistrust me, then," said Dantes. Edmond fancied he heard a
bitter laugh resounding from the depths.
"Oh, I am a Christian," cried Dantes, guessing instinctively
that this man meant to abandon him. "I swear to you by him who died
for us that naught shall induce me to breathe one syllable to my